"Tut! tut!" said Mr. Underwood, gruffly; "don't talk to me of gratitude;
I don't want any; but, my God! boy, I had come to look on you almost as
my own son!" And, turning abruptly, he left the room before either of
the others could speak.
"He is a man of very strong feelings," said Mr. Britton, leading the way
to Mr. Underwood's room; "and, to tell the truth, this is a pretty hard
blow to each of us, although we should have prepared ourselves for it.
Be seated, my son."
Seating himself beside the young man and again looking into his face, he
said,-"I see that the day has dawned; when did the light come, and how?"
Briefly the other related his awakening on the rocks and the events
which followed down to his finding and reading the journal which
recorded so faithfully the history of the missing years, Mr. Britton
listening with intense interest. At last the young man said,-"Of all the records of that journal, there was nothing that interested
me so greatly or moved me so deeply as did the story of your own life.
That is what brought me here to-day. I have come to tell you my
story,--the story of John Darrell, as you have known him,--and possibly
you may find it in some ways a counterpart to your own."
"I was drawn towards you in some inexplicable way from our first
meeting," Mr. Britton replied, slowly; "you became as dear to me as a
son, so that I gave you in confidence the story that no other human
being has ever heard. It is needless to say that I appreciate this mark
of your confidence in return, and that you can rest assured of my
deepest interest in anything concerning yourself."
The younger man drew his chair nearer his companion. "As you already
know," he said, "I am a mine expert. I came out here on a commission for
a large eastern syndicate, and as there was likely to be lively
competition and I wished to remain incognito, I took the name of John
Darrell, which in reality was a part of my own name. My home is in New
York State. I was a country-bred boy, brought up on one of those great
farms which abound a little north of the central part of the State; but,
though country-bred, I was not a rustic, for my mother, who was my
principal instructor until I was about fourteen years of age, was a
woman of refinement and culture. My mother and I lived at her father's
house--a beautiful country home; but even while a mere child I became
aware that there was some kind of an unpleasant secret in our family. My
grandfather would never allow my father's name mentioned, and he had
little love for me as his child; but my earliest recollections of my
mother are of her kneeling with me night after night in prayer, teaching
me to love and revere the father I had never known, who, she told me,
was 'gone away,' and to pray always for his welfare and for his return.
At fourteen I was sent away to a preparatory school, and afterwards to
college. Then, as I developed a taste for mineralogy and metallurgy, I
took a course in the Columbian School of Mines. By this time I had
learned that while it was generally supposed my mother was a widow,
there were those, my grandfather among them, who believed that my father
had deserted her. My first intimation of this was an insinuation to that
effect by my grandfather himself, soon after my graduation. I was an
athlete and already had a good position at a fair salary, and so great
was my love and reverence for my father's name that I told the old
gentleman that nothing but his white hairs saved him from a sound
thrashing, and that at the first repetition of any such insinuation I
would take my mother from under his roof and provide a home for her
myself. That sufficed to silence him effectually, for he idolized her.
After this little episode I went to my mother and begged her to tell me
the secret regarding my father."