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Page 11
"Dis is Santy Claus's friend, papa," said the little boy. "We were doin'
to su'prise him. He said be very still and we minded."
"So this is what you have come to, John," said the elder man, but there
was an unwonted gentleness in his voice.
"I swear to God I didn't know it was your house. I just came in here
because the window was open."
The other pointed to the safe.
"But you were--"
"Of course I was. You don't suppose I wandered in for fun, do you? I've
got a little girl of my own, and her name's Helen, too; our mother's
name."
The other brother nodded.
"She's hungry and cold and there's no Christmas for her or her mother."
"Oh, Santy has been here already," cried Master John Williams, running
toward the great fireplace, having just that moment discovered the
bulging stockings and piles of gifts. His sister made a move in the same
direction, for at the other corner hung her stocking and beneath it her
pile, but the man's hand unconsciously tightened upon her hand and she
stopped.
"I'll stay with you," she said, after a moment of hesitation. "Tell me
more about your Helen."
"There's nothing to tell." He released her hand roughly. "You musn't
touch me," he added harshly. "Go."
"You needn't go, my dear," said her father quickly. "Indeed, I think,
perhaps--"
"Is your Helen very poor?" quietly asked the little girl, possessing
herself of his hand again, "because if she is she can have"--she looked
over at the pile of toys--"Well, I'll see. I'll give her lots of things,
and--"
"What's this?" broke out the younger man harshly, extending his hand
with the letter in it toward the other.
"It is a letter to you from our father."
"And you kept it from me?" cried the other.
"Read it," said William Carstairs.
With trembling hands "Crackerjack" tore it open. It was a message of
love and forgiveness penned by a dying hand.
"If I had had this then I might have been a different man," said the
poor wretch.
"There is another paper under it, or there should be, in the same
drawer," went on William Carstairs, imperturbably. "Perhaps you would
better read that."
John Carstairs needed no second invitation. He turned to the open
drawer and took out the next paper. It was a copy of a will. The farm
and business had been left to William, but one half of it was to be held
in trust for his brother. The man read it and then he crushed the paper
in his hand.
"And that, too, might have saved me. My God!" he cried, "I've been a
drunken blackguard. I've gone down to the very depths. I have been in
State's prison. I was, I am, a thief, but I never would have withheld a
dying man's forgiveness from his son. I never would have kept a poor
wretch who was crazy with shame and who drank himself into crime out of
his share of the property."
Animated by a certain fell purpose, he leaped across the room and seized
the pistol.
"Yes, and I have you now!" he cried. "I'll make you pay."
He levelled the weapon at his brother with a steady hand.
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