'Smiles' - Eliot H. Robinson (uplifting books for women .txt) 📗

How long it may have been before the man, eager as he was to hear the full explanation of the seeming miracle through which his happiness had been made possible, was ready to urge Rose to tell the story which she had promised, and what whispered words the cricket heard in the interim, concern only the three of them.

When, at last, he was able to bring his winging thoughts down from the clouds to earth, it was to discover still another unsuspected trait in the woman who had become his all; for Smiles, eager and excited, was still dwelling in a world of romance, and she insisted upon recounting what had happened, almost verbatim, and in a dramatic manner quite unlike the simplicity which naturally characterized her speech.

Nor could Donald's commonplace interruptions, during the course of which he affirmed that fact was stranger than fiction and that the world was a small place after all, check her narrative.

"I don't know whether I can make you understand why I acted as I did, when Philip asked me for my answer, dear. Indeed, I hardly know, myself," she began. "It wasn't that I didn't know what I had got to tell him, for I had made up my mind long ago—at least, it seems long ago, although it was only this morning, when I got his letter. Much as I cared for him, my heart knew that there was only one man in the world for me—even though he appeared not to want me!"

The digression caused a further and wholly natural delay.

"Perhaps it was because I hated to hurt him, and wanted desperately to postpone the evil moment; but, at any rate, I begged him to wait, and said that he didn't know all the facts about me. I told him that I wasn't sure that I ought to marry any one. And that was true, Donald. I've often worried about it, for I didn't know anything about my parents, and heredity counts for so much, doesn't it?

"Of course he replied, just as I might have expected, that he didn't know what I meant, but that nothing else could possibly matter to him, if only I ... I cared.

"But I said that I had to explain,—I guess that I was a little panic-stricken, he seemed so deadly in earnest,—and then I told him that I wasn't Big Jerry's grandchild really, but only a little waif whom he had taken in. 'So, you see, I am a nameless girl, Philip,' I said. 'I don't mean it in a bad sense, for I know that I had a dear father and mother, whom I just barely remember, but....'

"I don't know exactly what I was going to add, but he broke in with, 'What earthly difference do you think that could make to me, dear?' And then he told me that he knew I was ... was good and pure, that any one who was acquainted with me could see that I must have come from sterling stock, even if my parents were simple mountaineers.

"'But they weren't, Phil,' I answered. 'I was a poor little city waif, who had lost her parents and didn't know where she came from, or even her name.' And then I told him the story which Big Jerry told you that first night on the mountain.

"And then, Donald, then it was my turn to be surprised, for Philip grasped my arm until he hurt me, and cried, 'I can't believe it, Rose. I won't believe it!'

"I didn't know what to say, and somehow I felt both hurt and a little angry that it should make any difference in his love—yes, I did, in spite of the fact that I couldn't marry him anyway. Yet, at the same time, I had an impression that it wasn't that, but something quite different, which was troubling his heart. So I said, 'What is it, Philip? I do not understand why you are acting so strangely.'

"His only reply was to ask me, in an odd voice, when it happened; how long ago.

"I told him 'eighteen years, when I was a baby about three years old.' Don, I can't tell you how I felt then, for he looked so peculiar—almost as though he were stunned. And he could not seem to say anything. I was frightened. I begged him to speak to me, and told him that he looked as though he had seen a ghost. 'I have ... at least I have if my suspicion is true. But it can't be; oh, it is unbelievable, impossible,' he broke out.

"I didn't know what to say or do, he looked almost as though he were ... were not in his right mind; and, when I put my hand on his arm and begged him to tell me what the trouble was, he shook it off, and began to speak ... oh, I cannot tell you how. It sounded as though some one else were speaking, and uttering the words hesitatingly.

"'Try and remember, Smiles. Call on your memory of the long ago, if there is a single spark of it still lingering in your mind. Oh, it means so much, dear, so much that I am almost afraid to ask the question, but I have got to, I have got to!'

"He waited until I thought I should go mad, Don, and then said, in little more than a whisper, 'Did you ever, back in your babyhood, hear the name, Anna Rose Young? Think, Smiles, think hard.'

"Perhaps you will not believe it; but it seemed as though something long forgotten were actually stirring in my heart, and as though it were groping blindly in the mists of memory. I could not be sure, yet something forced me to answer, uncertainly, 'Yes, I think, I believe that I do remember that name; but I don't know where I could have heard it. What do you mean, Philip?'

"His answer surprised me as much as the first question, for he said, 'Was it in ... Louisville?'

"'Louisville? I have never been there, Philip. And yet....' There was the strange stir in my memory again. Oh, it was all so puzzling.

"'Anna Rose Young,' he repeated insistently. 'They called her Rose, because ... because her mother's name was the same.'

"'They called her ... Philip, I do remember, now. It's my own name! Oh, Philip, you know who I am! But how, Phil?' I was clinging to him as though I must draw the truth from him physically; but he went on, almost mechanically, and his breath came hard, I could feel him tremble, Don."

Now her own low voice was trembling excitedly.

"'A tall, slender man, who stooped a little, Smiles,' he said. 'His face was thoughtful and kindly. He had a close-clipped, pointed beard, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyes were very blue, as blue as your own, Rose. Tell me, does the picture mean anything to you?'

"I tried to visualize it, Don, and I could, as though it were some one far, far off whom I could see through the mist.

"'My daddy, Philip,' I whispered; I could hardly speak at all, for my throat was aching and I was crying."

She was crying, now, but did not realize it.

"'A sweet-faced woman, with wavy brown hair in which were golden glints like yours,' he went on, monotonously; but this time I could not answer at all."

Smiles stopped, and, for an instant, sobbed without restraint, with her head against Donald's arm, and he ran his hand tenderly and unsteadily over her hair.

Then she lifted her face, bathed in tears, and whispered, "You understand, don't you, Don? After all the years, to remember, ever so vaguely; but, still, to remember my former life, and to know my own name! Oh, I can't help it ... I couldn't when he told me."

"Yes, yes. I understand, dearest."

"Philip went on, desperately, it seemed to me. 'Another picture, Smiles. Can you see a spindle-legged, mischievous boy of ten, who loved his little sister dearly; but teased her from morning until night. His name was ...'

"'Tilly! Oh, I remember. At least, that was what baby Rose called him.'

"'Yes, she called him Tilly. She called him that because ... because she couldn't say ... "Philip." Oh, little Rose, don't you understand? I came to find a wife, and I have found ... a sister!'"

"But, his name ..." interrupted Donald.

"I know. I will tell you. But first, Donald, my poor father and mother. I thought that perhaps I was to find them, too; but God willed otherwise. Big Jerry was right. They ... they were both drowned."

Eager as he was to hear the rest of the story, the man could not but keep silent, in understanding sympathy, until she was ready to proceed of her own accord. It was once more as Smiles herself had written in her letter to him, after Big Jerry's death. Happiness was tinged with grief, for the night's strange disclosures had re-opened an old wound, long since closed.

Finally she went on.

"I won't try to tell you the explanation in Philip's words; but it seems that we used to live in Louisville. Philip's own father was a well-to-do physician, named, of course, Dr. Bentley. He died when Phil was a baby, and, when he was seven years old, mother married Mr. Robert Young, a mining engineer. I was born a year later—I am really his half-sister, you see."

"But," interrupted Donald, "I should think that the name Philip Bentley might have stirred a responsive chord in your memory before this—no, I don't suppose that it would have, after all, for you were so small that you didn't remember your own last name."

"Yes, and not only that, but Philip was always called 'Young'—when he was a boy, anyway. Well, it seems that, when he was ten, and I was three, he was sent all alone to visit an uncle, a brother of his own father, who lived in Richmond. It was while he was away for the summer that my dear father was sent into the Cumberland Mountains between Kentucky and Virginia, prospecting for coal on behalf of the company in the employ of which he was. He took mother and me with him for a camping vacation, and ... and you know as much as I about the