Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 3).djvu/487

 now be a man who is friendless and alone through my fault. Every fresh face I see I think may be his. Every morning I wake with the thought that I may see it before night."

I looked at him with intense interest. My woman's instinct, which so seldom errs, told me that he had never spoken of this to anyone before, and that it was a great relief to speak of it now.

I longed to hear more. He seemed to read the sympathy expressed in my face, and went on more quietly.

"I had a younger brother. There were only the two of us. I was older by three years, and both in appearance and character we were totally unlike. He had been spoilt by my father, who always let him have his own way, chiefly, I fancy, on account of the strong likeness he bore to our mother, who died when we were quite young. I was at Oxford, reading for a degree previous to entering the hospital, when my father died, and I—but do I bore you? I have no right to inflict all this on you; but somehow you always look as if you were used to hearing other people's troubles, I notice everyone comes to you."

"Please, go on;" I could not say more.

"My father had had a nasty fall in the hunting field, and was almost at the last before I got to him. All his affairs were in perfect order, but he was anxious about Jack—always his first thought.

"You will look after him, Tom," he said: "promise me you will look after him. If you promise, I know you won't go back; a promise is a promise with you, Tom; I could always trust you."

I did promise again and again, and, God knows, I meant to keep my word, and my old father died quite happy, with my promise still sounding in his ears, and his eyes resting to the last on his darling Jack. He never doubted me for a moment. How could he forsee? I am thankful he died happy. Do you think he knows now, Sister, how I kept my word?

I shook my head, but did not speak.

"I went back to Oxford and Jack entered the same college. That was the mistake. At a distance—if I had only seen him now and then—we might have got on well enough; but at my elbow, always bursting into my room when I wanted to read, filling his room with friends as noisy and light-hearted as himself, spending money recklessly on all sides, and turning everything I said into a joke—all this was a daily annoyance to me. It grew intolerable. I had no sympathy at all with any of his pursuits, and I grew more cold and more reserved, until one day, exasperated more than usual, I told him that if he wanted to go to the dogs he might go by himself. His temper was as quick as mine. His sharp answer drew a sharper one from me, which roused him to a fury. 'You won't see me again, so you need not trouble your head about it. I can work for myself,' and he was gone. Even then, Sister, if I had gone after him, I might have stopped him; but I was mad with him, and was glad that he was gone. As glad then to hear that he was gone as I should be glad now to hear that once again on this earth I might hope to see his face. I live for that, and one day it may come."

"And you never heard of him again?"

"No sound from that day to this. He went without money, and he could draw none except through me."