A LOST BROTHER
How long it may have been before the man, eager as he was to hear the
full explanation of the seeming miracle through which his happiness had
been made possible, was ready to urge Rose to tell the story which she
had promised, and what whispered words the cricket heard in the interim,
concern only the three of them.
When, at last, he was able to bring his winging thoughts down from the
clouds to earth, it was to discover still another unsuspected trait in
the woman who had become his all; for Smiles, eager and excited, was
still dwelling in a world of romance, and she insisted upon recounting
what had happened, almost verbatim, and in a dramatic manner quite
unlike the simplicity which naturally characterized her speech.
Nor could Donald's commonplace interruptions, during the course of which
he affirmed that fact _was_ stranger than fiction and that the world
_was_ a small place after all, check her narrative.
"I don't know whether I can make you understand why I acted as I did,
when Philip asked me for my answer, dear. Indeed, I hardly know,
myself," she began. "It wasn't that I didn't know what I had got to
tell him, for I had made up my mind long ago--at least, it seems long
ago, although it was only this morning, when I got his letter. Much as I
cared for him, my heart knew that there was only one man in the world
for me--even though he appeared not to want me!"
The digression caused a further and wholly natural delay.
"Perhaps it was because I hated to hurt him, and wanted desperately to
postpone the evil moment; but, at any rate, I begged him to wait, and
said that he didn't know all the facts about me. I told him that I
wasn't sure that I ought to marry any one. And that was true, Donald.
I've often worried about it, for I didn't know anything about my
parents, and heredity counts for so much, doesn't it?
"Of course he replied, just as I might have expected, that he didn't
know what I meant, but that nothing else could possibly matter to him,
if only I ... I cared.
"But I said that I had to explain,--I guess that I was a little
panic-stricken, he seemed so deadly in earnest,--and then I told him
that I wasn't Big Jerry's grandchild really, but only a little waif whom
he had taken in. 'So, you see, I am a nameless girl, Philip,' I said. 'I
don't mean it in a bad sense, for I know that I had a dear father and
mother, whom I just barely remember, but....'
"I don't know exactly what I was going to add, but he broke in with,
'What earthly difference do you think that could make to me, dear?' And
then he told me that he _knew_ I was ... was good and pure, that _any
one_ who was acquainted with me could see that I must have come from
sterling stock, even if my parents were simple mountaineers.
"'But they weren't, Phil,' I answered. 'I was a poor little city waif,
who had lost her parents and didn't know where she came from, or even
her name.' And then I told him the story which Big Jerry told you that
first night on the mountain.
"And then, Donald, then it was my turn to be surprised, for Philip
grasped my arm until he hurt me, and cried, 'I can't believe it, Rose. I
_won't_ believe it!'
"I didn't know what to say, and somehow I felt both hurt and a little
angry that it should make any difference in his love--yes, I did, in
spite of the fact that I couldn't marry him anyway. Yet, at the same
time, I had an impression that it wasn't that, but something quite
different, which was troubling his heart. So I said, 'What is it,
Philip? I do not understand why you are acting so strangely.'
"His only reply was to ask me, in an odd voice, when it happened; how
long ago.
"I told him 'eighteen years, when I was a baby about three years old.'
Don, I can't tell you how I felt then, for he looked so peculiar--almost
as though he were stunned. And he could not seem to say anything. I was
frightened. I begged him to speak to me, and told him that he looked as
though he had seen a ghost. 'I have ... at least I have if my suspicion
is true. But it can't be; oh, it is unbelievable, impossible,' he broke
out.
"I didn't know what to say or do, he looked almost as though he were ...
were not in his right mind; and, when I put my hand on his arm and
begged him to tell me what the trouble was, he shook it off, and began
to speak ... oh, I cannot tell you how. It sounded as though some one
else were speaking, and uttering the words hesitatingly.
"'Try and remember, Smiles. Call on your memory of the long ago, if
there is a single spark of it still lingering in your mind. Oh, it means
so much, dear, so much that I am almost afraid to ask the question, but
I have got to, I have got to!'
"He waited until I thought I should go mad, Don, and then said, in
little more than a whisper, 'Did you ever, back in your babyhood, hear
the name, Anna Rose Young? Think, Smiles, think hard.'
"Perhaps you will not believe it; but it seemed as though something long
forgotten were actually stirring in my heart, and as though it were
groping blindly in the mists of memory. I could not be sure, yet
something forced me to answer, uncertainly, 'Yes, I think, I believe
that I do remember that name; but I don't know where I could have heard
it. What do you mean, Philip?'
"His answer surprised me as much as the first question, for he said,
'Was it in ... Louisville?'
"'Louisville? I have never been there, Philip. And yet....' There was
the strange stir in my memory again. Oh, it was all so puzzling.
"'Anna Rose Young,' he repeated insistently. 'They called her Rose,
because ... because her mother's name was the same.'
"'They called _her_ ... Philip, I do remember, now. It's my own name!
Oh, Philip, you know who I am! But how, Phil?' I was clinging to him as
though I must draw the truth from him physically; but he went on, almost
mechanically, and his breath came hard, I could feel him tremble, Don."
Now her own low voice was trembling excitedly.
"'A tall, slender man, who stooped a little, Smiles,' he said. 'His face
was thoughtful and kindly. He had a close-clipped, pointed beard, and
wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyes were very blue, as blue as
your own, Rose. Tell me, does the picture mean anything to you?'
"I tried to visualize it, Don, and I could, as though it were some one
far, far off whom I could see through the mist.
"'My daddy, Philip,' I whispered; I could hardly speak at all, for my
throat was aching and I was crying."
She was crying, now, but did not realize it.
"'A sweet-faced woman, with wavy brown hair in which were golden glints
like yours,' he went on, monotonously; but this time I could not answer
at all."
Smiles stopped, and, for an instant, sobbed without restraint, with her
head against Donald's arm, and he ran his hand tenderly and unsteadily
over her hair.
Then she lifted her face, bathed in tears, and whispered, "You
understand, don't you, Don? After all the years, to remember, ever so
vaguely; but, still, to remember my former life, and to know my own
name! Oh, I can't help it ... I couldn't when he told me."
"Yes, yes. I understand, dearest."
"Philip went on, desperately, it seemed to me. 'Another picture, Smiles.
Can you see a spindle-legged, mischievous boy of ten, who loved his
little sister dearly; but teased her from morning until night. His name
was ...'
"'Tilly! Oh, I remember. At least, that was what baby Rose called him.'
"'Yes, she called him Tilly. She called him that because ... because she
couldn't say ... "Philip." Oh, little Rose, don't you understand? I came
to find a wife, and I have found ... a sister!'"
"But, his name ..." interrupted Donald.
"I know. I will tell you. But first, Donald, my poor father and mother.
I thought that perhaps I was to find them, too; but God willed
otherwise. Big Jerry was right. They ... they were both drowned."
Eager as he was to hear the rest of the story, the man could not but
keep silent, in understanding sympathy, until she was ready to proceed
of her own accord. It was once more as Smiles herself had written in her
letter to him, after Big Jerry's death. Happiness was tinged with grief,
for the night's strange disclosures had re-opened an old wound, long
since closed.
Finally she went on.
"I won't try to tell you the explanation in Philip's words; but it seems
that we used to live in Louisville. Philip's own father was a well-to-do
physician, named, of course, Dr. Bentley. He died when Phil was a baby,
and, when he was seven years old, mother married Mr. Robert Young, a
mining engineer. I was born a year later--I am really his half-sister,
you see."
"But," interrupted Donald, "I should think that the name Philip Bentley
might have stirred a responsive chord in your memory before this--no, I
don't suppose that it would have, after all, for you were so small that
you didn't remember your own last name."
"Yes, and not only that, but Philip was always called 'Young'--when he
was a boy, anyway. Well, it seems that, when he was ten, and I was
three, he was sent all alone to visit an uncle, a brother of his own
father, who lived in Richmond. It was while he was away for the summer
that my dear father was sent into the Cumberland Mountains between
Kentucky and Virginia, prospecting for coal on behalf of the company in
the employ of which he was. He took mother and me with him for a
camping vacation, and ... and you know as much as I about the tragedy
which separated us, and made such changes in our lives."
Rose paused again, a prey to memory.
"And then?" prompted Donald, gently.
"Then, Philip said, when no word came from his parents for several
weeks, his uncle left no stone unturned to find them, and at length the
Federal Revenue authorities located the bodies of my dear mother and
father, and part of their wrecked canoe, in the swift river, almost at
the foot of the mountains. Of course every one assumed that I had ...
had been drowned, too."
"Oh, thank God that you were not, my dear," breathed Donald, so softly
that she could not hear him.
"Then Philip went to live permanently with his uncle, who raised and
educated him as one of his own sons. Of course he took his real name
again. Oh, Donald, isn't it too wonderful?"
"Yes, dear heart, wonderful, indeed." There was a long silence. Then
Donald asked, softly, "And Philip? How does he feel?"
"He ... he is happy, too," came her reply, somewhat haltingly. "Of
course, just at first ... oh, please don't ask me, Don. But now he is
content, for he knows that I ... I couldn't ever have been anything else
to him, because I loved ano.... I loved _you_."
"He knows that? Rose, you didn't tell him?"
"Yes, I did," she answered, bravely. "And let me tell _you_, sir, that
it is lucky for you that ... that you asked me; for, if you hadn't, you
would have had my big brother to deal with!"
And what the cricket heard _then_, has nothing to do with this story.