“That’s all right. Don’t worry about me, Jo. He’s my brother, but I know him—I know him through and through. He’s done everything that a man can do and not be hanged. A thief, a drunkard, and a brute—and he killed a man out here,” he added, hoarsely. “I found it out myself—myself. It was murder.”
Suddenly, as he looked at her, an idea seemed to flash into his mind. He came very near and looked at her closely. Then he reached over and almost touched the scar on her forehead.
“Did he do that, Jo?”
For an instant she was silent and looked down at the floor. Presently she raised her eyes, her face suffused. Once or twice she tried to speak, but failed. At last she gained courage, and said:
“After Cynthy’s death I kept house for him for a year, taking care of little Bobby. I loved Bobby so—he has Cynthy’s eyes. One day Dorland—oh, Nett, of course I oughtn’t to have stayed there—I know it now; but I was only sixteen, and what did I understand! And my mother was dead. One day—oh, please, Nett, you can guess. He said something to me. I made him leave the house. Before I could make plans what to do, he came back mad with drink. I went for Bobby, to get out of the house, but he caught hold of me. I struck him in the face, and he threw me against the edge of the open door. It made the scar.”
Foyle’s face was white. “Why did you never write and tell me that, Jo? You know that I—” He stopped suddenly.
“You had gone out of our lives down there. I didn’t know where you were for a long time; and then—then it was all right about Bobby and me, except that Bobby didn’t get the money that was his. But now—”
Foyle’s voice was hoarse and low. “He made that scar, and he—and you only sixteen—Oh, my God!”
Suddenly his face reddened, and he choked with shame and anger. “And he’s my brother!” was all that he could say.
“Do you see him up here ever?” she asked, pityingly.