aunt elsie was true to her word, and on the evening following her long talk with her nephew, derrick, came her opportunity.
mr. forman was on the couch in the little sitting-room resting from a day of hard work, while his wife read the evening papers aloud. his sister was the only other listener.
in the midst of the reading mrs. forman was summoned to the aid of a neighbor who was ill, and aunt elsie offered to read in her stead. this was done with such acceptance that mr. forman was moved to compliment. "it isn't often i find a reader who is as satisfactory as louise," he added. "most of the young people read too fast, and those who don't, mumble their words."
"i had a long apprenticeship," his sister said. "i used to read to father by the hour. through that long illness of his it seemed as though i was always reading to him. we began reading aloud when we were little children, you know. don't you know how father used to have derrick in to read to him every night after supper? derrick was a good reader for a boy, wasn't he?"
mr. forman made a sound as of assent, and she went on sturdily: "you don't remember those evenings as well as i do, i suppose; you went away from home so early. derrick was naturally a stay-at-home boy; he never seemed to care to run with the other boys, evenings, as evarts did, and he seemed to understand just what parts of the paper father wanted, without being told. i have always been thankful that father had so much comfort with his boy."
if she hoped to awaken sympathetic response she was disappointed. mr. forman remained silent, with his face shaded from view.
but aunt elsie's resolve was strong within her, and although she stood somewhat in awe of this grave brother, of whom she had seen very little since her childhood, she went bravely on:
"doesn't it seem almost too bad that derrick's whole life should have been shadowed and he separated from all the people he loved just through a mistake?"
forced to speak, mr. forman made his words few:
"i should have to call it by a graver name than 'mistake.'"
"for horace beach, you mean? yes, of course, his part was sin; though i don't think even that was premeditated; it was just a sudden temptation that he was too flabby to resist. but i was thinking of father, and—" there was a second's hesitation, then she added, bravely: "and mother. it was such a dreadful mistake on their part not to trust a boy who had never deceived them. of course, he was wrong, as well as foolish, in hurrying away without confiding in them, but even that grew out of the natural nobility of his nature, and he never would have done it in the world if father had shown confidence in him. i heard your derrick say, last night: 'my father would take my word in spite of all the evidence against me that could be trumped up,' and i'm sure you would. if our father could only have seen it his duty to trust the boy in spite of appearances, all these wasted years need not have been."
mr. forman pushed aside his hand-screen and came to a sitting posture, with a quick motion and an incisive question:
"elsie, what in the world are you talking about?"
despite the boy derrick's strongly expressed belief, that ought to have prepared her, she was startled; what she had thought all through the years still had her in possession. on thinking it over after her talk with derrick, she had decided that he was mistaken. joseph simply had not credited his brother's tardy explanation, and so had chosen to say nothing about it to his children. she had hoped for a chance to ask him if he thought this was fair to his dead brother; but if he really was ignorant of the facts all that she had said must have been hard for him to hear. now she must do as derrick said: "begin at the beginning." she gave the story in more minute detail than she had for the boy, adding little illuminating incidents gathered from various sources through the years. after the first few minutes mr. forman asked no more questions; he dropped back among the cushions and again shaded his eyes from the light. when he finally spoke it was in a voice husky with emotion:
"i would have given my life for that boy. i thought of him as my special charge; my mother gave him into my care with almost her last breath; i was to 'look after him for her.' and i tried, i tried hard, as long as i had a chance. when the stepmother was—well, never mind that; i did my best, and i thought he trusted me fully. when he disappeared in that terrible way, making no sign, and giving me no chance to help him all through the years, it broke my heart."
the silence of years had been broken now; the rush of words that followed, and the strong excitement under which they were spoken, would have amazed those who knew mr. forman only as a reserved, silent man, who looked much older than he really was. his half-sister seemed to understand.
"i know—" she said, sympathetically; "it was hard; and it seems too hard that you have never until now known the truth!"
"why didn't he write to me?" mr. forman broke out again. "why didn't he confide in me? he might have known that i—" his voice broke and he stopped abruptly. his sister's voice was very gentle:
"he made mistakes, joseph; it was a mistake to go away as he did, with all the appearance of running from discovery; he realized it all, afterwards; but he was very young; he said he was 'young and foolish and proud.' i suppose it would be hard for you to imagine just how you would feel or act if people should suddenly refuse to believe your word! i think it sort of stunned him."
but mr. forman had already dropped into silence, his face almost entirely hidden. his sister had never felt a stronger desire to bestow comfort than she did at that moment. also, there struggled within her another feeling, that of fierce indignation. memory had taken her suddenly back to an afternoon of long ago when she and her brother evarts were walking home together from sunset rock. a chance word had reminded her of the lost brother, and she had said how strange it was that he had never written to joseph, his own brother, who used always to be looking out for him. she could almost hear evarts' words in quick response:
"it's a mighty good thing he didn't. joe had a terribly soft streak in him where dick was concerned; the scamp would have been sure to pull the wool over his eyes; it is a great wonder, though, that he didn't try it. he really did the only decent thing left for him to do after disgracing us all. i didn't expect it of him. i was looking for years to see him come whining back, by letter, at least, asking for help, and wheedling father out of more money than he spent in searching for him."
every word evarts spoke seemed to have burned into her memory. she recalled how angry he had made her, and how eagerly she tried to say something in derrick's favor.
it was years after that talk before she knew of derrick's letter to his one brother, and his failure to answer it. that memory also was connected with evarts, speaking volubly. he was making one of his flying visits to her at the old home and she told him of it.
"i am very glad to hear it," he said. "if joe ever received a letter from dick—which i doubt—and failed to answer it, he showed more sense than i ever gave him credit for having. silence was the best possible answer. there is no use in raking up an old disgrace and trying to smooth it over at this late day; that's a piece of wisdom you would do well to take to heart yourself; silence is golden in such affairs."
as the sentences came back to her through the years with startling clearness, they came fraught with new significance in the light of mr. forman's words just now spoken; could it be possible that—she must know.
"joseph," she broke the silence abruptly, "didn't you once, a long time ago, have a letter from your brother derrick about the—his trouble?"
"not a line," came huskily from behind the shielding hand. "never a single word or sign from him since the night he disappeared. i believed that i should; i watched for it through years; i told myself that if dick were in the land of the living he would surely write to me, some time. i kept hoping for it against all odds, until—" his voice dropped again. his sister struggled with her dismay and indignation, and spoke earnestly:
"joseph, he did write you two letters at different times, long ones, and told you everything."
mr. forman sat erect again. "where are they?" he demanded.
"that i do not know; i wish i did. oh, i should be glad to feel certain that they were lost in the mails!"
if he followed her thought, he made no sign, but thrust at her another question:
"how do you know this to be so?"
"he told me, himself. no, i don't mean that i saw him," she added, quickly, in response to the look on the questioner's face. "he wrote to me. he wrote very often; after everything was made plain by that young man's confession, we corresponded for years. the reason he did not write to you during that time was because he thought you did not credit the story of the stolen money, and did not want to have anything to do with him. i shall have to confess, joseph, that i thought the same. i am afraid i have thought of you all these years as a hard man. if i had imagined for a moment how it was, of course you would have been told long ago all that i knew; and i should have begged you to write to him."
after that the stillness in the room grew oppressive to elsie. her heart seemed to be beating too fast, and her head throbbed with pain. it seemed to her that she had done no good at all and had been very cruel. joseph was not in any sense of the word a "hard" man, she assured herself; she had been a member of his household long enough to be sure of that. a reserved, silent man he might be; a disappointed man in many ways, and one harassed by daily anxieties; all this was plain enough; she ought to have been doing something to help him, instead of telling him what would open old wounds and set them to bleeding. yet how could she avoid it? derrick forman's name ought to be cleared of reproach, and who could desire this more than his own brother? even while he groaned over the thought of all that might have been had he known the truth, would he not be glad over the fact that his brother had never forgotten him for an hour, but had loved him to the end? suddenly a new fear struck her, and she spoke, abruptly:
"joseph, you know, don't you, that he—died?"
"yes," came after a moment of tense silence, "evarts told me that."
the emphasis on the last word was strong; it was plain that he suspected their brother evarts of unfair dealing; she could not blame him for that; her own indignation was almost beyond control. it appeared that mr. forman had no intention of hiding his belief.
"what possible object could evarts have had in keeping me in ignorance of all this?" was his next word.
she found it easier to reply from this standpoint than to try to keep up the pretence that evarts was not in it; yet she felt the need for caution. nothing was to be gained by widening unnecessarily the chasm that already separated the half-brothers. she began timidly:
"long ago, before derrick's reputation had been cleared, for others, i know evarts was afraid your brother would appeal to you, some time, for help that he—that evarts did not think he deserved; and that you, because you were tenderhearted, would cripple yourself and injure him, by sending him money. then afterwards—i don't think evarts ever placed as full confidence in that young man's confession as the facts warranted—he never wrote a line himself to derrick; he just lived along through the years, half distrusting him. joseph, i hope you can forgive me, but that is what i honestly thought you were doing, yourself. remember, i did not know that you had not been told the facts. evarts must have judged you by himself, and decided that the less said about it the better. i don't uphold him in it, though; and i can hardly realize even yet that any of this is new to you."
"if i could only tell him!" this was the cry that suddenly broke from the man who was crushed under the feeling that he had been untrue to the trust imposed on him by his dying mother, and he could never explain to any of them.
later there would undoubtedly be room for fierce indignation; later he would think of those two letters that would have changed everything, and that ought to have reached him. his sister felt sure that he would try to ferret out the truth. she knew that one letter had been directed to the old home, and that joseph was not there, and that evarts had charge of the daily mail. could he possibly have—and then she shut her lips firmly, as if by so doing she could shut out thought; she must not think further in that direction; she must remember that evarts at the time was only a head-strong, self-sufficient boy. and yet joseph could not be blamed for being determined to know the truth. it was all beyond her management.
but after all, the uppermost feeling of her heart at the moment was the longing to comfort joseph. he was more stricken than she had supposed he could be after all these years. that bitter cry, "if i could only tell him!" had thrilled her soul. wasn't there something she could say to help him? she began timidly:
