“Written on purpose for him; a kind of diary I think, from what he told me; he said he wrote a little or a good deal, every day according as the mood seized him. Of course, I have never read a line of it; you see, it was meant for no eye but the boy’s.”
“Do you mean that my boy has such a book in his possession?”
It was the first word Mr. Forman had spoken since the story began, and the restrained eagerness in his question was almost pitiful to hear. His sister made haste to answer:
“Oh, no; not yet; he knows nothing about it. You see, it was sent to me after Derrick went to heaven, with the direction that I was to keep it for his name-boy until he was seventeen, or somewhere about that age; then, if I had come to know him well and judged that he would care to have a book written for him alone, by his Uncle Derrick, I was to give it to him; or if, at that time, or later, it should seem to me that his Uncle Derrick would better not be mentioned to him, I was just to burn the book and say no word. It puts a great responsibility on me, doesn’t it? I was a good deal worried about it for a while. That was the chief reason why I persisted in wanting to come here this winter, instead of spending the winter at some Old Ladies’ Retreat, as Evarts thought might be best. I felt that I would have to get well acquainted with the boy, in order to fulfill my trust; but I hadn’t been here a week before I began to feel satisfied that he would get the book and prize it, too. I did not mean to tell anybody about it, and I don’t hardly know why I have done so now, only I felt moved to; but you will keep my secret, of course.”
“I will, Elsie, God bless you.”
It was every word that the poor man felt able to utter. It seemed to him that he could not make her understand, even if he had been willing to try, what it would be to him to have one line of his very own from the brother whom he had missed and mourned all his life. Yet she understood better than he thought. When she spoke again her voice was tremulous.
“Joseph, I think it must be hard for you to forgive me for not telling you some of these things before. You can see how I misjudged you when I confess that I did not think you would care to hear them, and I shrank from the thought of trying to talk everything over with you. I know now that I was a coward. I have a package of letters that you will be sure to want. Every other line is about you, and you will see how true and steady and strong was his love for you. One of the letters was written but a few days before his death. It was sent to me by one of his dear boys, a miner who was with him during all that last night and who added a few misspelled lines straight from his own sad heart. ‘The Commander was right there beside him, ma’am, all night long’; that was the way he told it. ‘We boys couldn’t see him, but he did; he told me so; and I knew it was so; and after a spell he took him away; and we boys know he has got him safe, and we’ll see him again.’”
She stopped abruptly; there were other portions of that letter which she knew heart; but she was crying softly, and could not have added another word.
“How much of all this does Evarts know?” Mr. Forman asked, at last. “Why did he die? Evarts said they called it an accident, but he had no doubt that it was a drunken spree of some sort.”
Aunt Elsie’s tears were suddenly dried; indignation came to help steady her voice.