"I--I don't know's I'd better, dearie," he answered. "I think I do know the truth, but you might think I was hard on 'Bije--on your father. I ain't. And I sympathize with the way he felt, too. But Jim did right, as I see it. He acted just as I'd want a son of mine to do. And . . . Well, I cal'late we'd better not rake up old times, had we?""I want you to tell me. Please do."
"I don't know's I'd better. You have been told the story different, and--""I know I have. That is the reason why I ask you to tell it. Oh,"with a flash of scorn, "I was told many stories, and I want to forget them. And," sadly, "I can bear whatever you may tell me, even about father. Since I learned that he was a--a--""S-sh, Caroline; don't!"
"After that, I can bear anything, I think. This cannot be worse.""Worse! No, not! This ain't very bad. I will tell you, dearie.
This is just what happened."
He told her the exact truth concerning the Trolley Combine, his brother's part in it, and Pearson's. She listened without comment.
"I see," she said when he had finished. "I think I see. Mr.
Pearson felt that, as a newspaper man, an honest one, he must go on. He knew that the thing was wrong and that innocent people might lose money in it. It was his duty to expose it, and he did it, even though it meant the loss of influence and of father's friendship. I see.""That was about it, Caroline. I think the hardest part for him was when 'Bije called him ungrateful. 'Bije had been mighty kind to him, that's a fact.""Yes. Father was kind; I know that better than anyone else. But Mr. Pearson was right. Yes, he was right, and brave.""So I size it up. And I do sympathize with your father, too. This wa'n't such an awful lot worse than a good many stock deals. And poor 'Bije was perfectly desp'rate, I guess. If it had gone through he'd have been able to square accounts with the Rubber Company; and just think what that would have meant to him. Poor feller! poor feller!" He sighed. She reached for his hand and stroked it gently with her own.
After another interval she said: "How I insulted and wronged him!
How he must despise me!"
"Who? Jim? No, no! he don't do any such thing. He knows you didn't understand, and who was responsible. Jim's got sense, lots of it.""But it is my misunderstanding and my insulting treatment of him which have kept you two apart--here, at any rate.""Don't let that worry you, Caroline. I see him every once in a while, up to the city.""It does worry me; and it will, until it is made right. And," in a lower tone, but with decision, "it shall be."She rose and, bending over, kissed him on the forehead. "Good night, Uncle," she said.
Captain Elisha was disappointed. "What!" he exclaimed. "Goin'
aloft so soon? We ain't had our readin' yet. Pretty early to turn in, seems to me. Stay a little longer, do.""Not to-night, dear. I'm going to my room. Please excuse me this time." She turned to go and then, turning back again, asked a final question.
"You're sure," she said, hesitatingly; "you're quite sure he will not come here--to you--if you tell him I understand, and--and you ask him?""Well, Caroline, I don't know. You see, I was responsible for his comin' before. He had some scruples against it then, but I talked him down. He's sort of proud, Jim is, and he might--might not want to--to--""I see. Good night, Uncle."
The next morning, after breakfast, she came to him again.
"Uncle Elisha," she said, "I have written him.""What? You've written? Written who?"
"Mr. Pearson. I wrote him, telling him I had learned the true story of his disagreement with father and that he was right and Iwas wrong. I apologized for my behavior toward him. Now, I think, perhaps, if you ask him, he will come."The captain looked at her. He realized the sacrifice of her pride which writing that letter must have meant, and that she had done it for him. He was touched and almost sorry she had done it. He took both her hands in his.
"Dearie," he said, "you shouldn't have done that. I didn't expect you to. I know you did it just for my sake. I won't say I ain't glad; I am, in one way. But 'twa'n't necessary, and 'twas too much, too hard for you altogether.""Don't say that," she begged. "Too much! I never can do enough.
Compared to what you have done for me it--it . . . Oh, please let me do what little I can. But, Uncle Elisha, promise me one thing;promise that you will not ask me to meet him, if he should come.
That I couldn't do, even for you."
