"Yes, he did!" flashed Alicia. "Only your life is so much better. He
was so absorbed in himself, Alastor, that he died in his loneliness.
And you--you are simply surrounded by people who love you. You--!"
And then, I regret to record, self-consciousness overtook Alicia. She
became aware of her own vehemence and blushing furiously made as if to
run out of the room.
My position of vantage near the door enabled me to stop her.
"Wait, my dear," I endeavored to lift her lowered chin. "Enthusiasm is
nothing to be ashamed of. It's one of the finest things in life. And
I'll tell you more--we are always applying to ourselves everything we
read in books."
"Isn't that," murmured Alicia shamefacedly, "why people love books?"
Foolish girl--to wake the sleeping pedant in me!
"Not altogether, Alicia. When we get older we become less personal. I
love books because they hold the truth and the wisdom of men's minds.
And aside from life and love, Alicia, wisdom and truth are the greatest
realities in the world. There is death, of course, but who cares to
dwell upon death?"
"I always did think that life and--and--love were greater than books,"
stammered Alicia earnestly. "And now that you yourself say so, I am
sure of it!"
Astonishing child! When has she had the time to speculate upon the
magnitude of life and love? Always that young thing keeps revealing
herself to me afresh. I looked at her in silence for a moment. Here was
a better counselor than any one, Dibdin excepted, with whom I might
discuss the impending return of Pendleton.
"Alicia," I began in another tone, "there is something I should like to
talk to you about. It's criminally late, I know, and you ought to be in
bed, but since you will dissipate on the catalogue, I'll keep you up a
little longer." I led her back to a chair and she gazed at me
wide-eyed.
"Is it anything about--the--children?" she whispered, somewhat
frightened.
"Yes--in a way--it is about the children. But more particularly it is
about their father. Have you ever heard of him?"
"Their father!--I thought he was dead!" she murmured, awe-struck.
"There were times when we all thought so. He disappeared some years
ago. But he's alive, Alicia. I've just heard from Dibdin, who found
him in Japan." Her eyes grew wider.
"How terrible!" she breathed. "Does he know all--that has happened?"
"He does now--of course he didn't until Mr. Dibdin told him." And then
this occurred to me. Ought I to shield Pendleton to the extent of
telling her positively that he had lost his memory or identity? No. A
confidant deserves scrupulous honesty, even if that confidant be as
young as Alicia. "He told Dibdin," I went on, "that he lost his memory
of the past and found himself one day stranded in Manila. Led rather a
wild and worthless life afterwards--people who lose their memories seem
to do that."
"Do you think that's true?" she queried.
"I don't know, Alicia, but when he comes back I suppose we'll have to
accept that version. Dibdin will have some advice on that point, I feel
sure."
Alicia remained silent for a time lost in reflection. Her child's face
in her perturbation was the face of a grown woman.
"Do you think he'll want to take back the children, Uncle Ranny?"
"That's the crux of the whole matter, Alicia. I don't know. But if he
does, he'll have a right to do so, of course; they are his."
"Oh, oh!" and her hands flew up to her face in a gesture of poignant
despair. "Turn them over to such a man! Is that the way the world's
arranged?"
I smiled gloomily. I saw that there was no need of comment upon the
arrangement of the world. This girl young in her teens understood it as
well as any one.
"Then I'd have to go, too," she uttered hoarsely with a dry sob of
bitterness in her throat.
"Not necessarily," I interposed.
"Oh, yes, I should," she insisted doggedly, as though driving something
painful into her flesh. "But it doesn't matter about me. But, Uncle
Ranny, you won't--you can't give them up! They're all so happy here.
Little Jimmie and Laura and Randolph! What chance would they have of
growing up fine--away from you---with a man like that? You won't let
them go--you won't, you won't! Oh, it would be horrible, horrible!" she
ended passionately.
"Listen, my dear," I tried to calm her. "I had no wish to harrow your
feelings. I told you because you love the children--and we must face
all this together. I shall want your help, your support." She flashed a
sweet look mingled of pride and gratitude.
"After all you--have been through," she murmured incoherently. "But why
don't you do this, Uncle Ranny!" and with the quick transition possible
to youth, she was again alive, eager, excited, this little fellow
conspirator of mine. "Why don't you let him come here and live right in
this house for a while? We'll be awfully crowded," she ran on with
flushed energy, "but we'll find room for him. And let's be awfully nice
to him--and believe everything he says. Then we could watch him, and I
just know we'll find out whether he's all right or not!"