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The Colossus: A Novel

by Opie Percival Read · English · Gutenberg #15073 · 373,567 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Colossus: A Novel

Author: Opie Percival Read


        
Release date: February 15, 2005 [eBook #15073]
                Most recently updated: December 14, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15073

Credits: Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia, and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLOSSUS: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.





THE COLOSSUS


A NOVEL
BY
OPIE READ


Author of "The Carpetbagger," "Old Ebenezer," "The Jucklins," "My
Young Master," "On The Suwanee River," "A Kentucky Colonel," "Emmett
Bonlore," "A Tennessee Judge," "The Wives of the Prophet," "Len
Gansett," "The Tear in the Cup and Other Stories".


CHICAGO
LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS
1893.


[Illustration]


CONTENTS.


Chapter.

     I. LOOKING BACK AT EARLY LIFE
    II. A SLEEPY VILLAGE AND A FUSSY OLD MAN
   III. ALL WAS DARKNESS
    IV. A STRANGE REQUEST
     V. DISSECTING A MOTIVE
    VI. WAITING AT THE STATION
   VII. A MOTHER'S AFFECTION
  VIII. THE DOMAIN OF A GREAT MERCHANT
    IX. THE INTERVIEWERS
     X. ROMPED WITH THE GIRL
    XI. ACKNOWLEDGED BY SOCIETY
   XII. A DEMOCRACY
  XIII. BUTTING AGAINST A WALL
   XIV. A DIFFERENT HANDWRITING
    XV. TOLD HIM HER STORY
   XVI. AN AROUSER OF THE SLEEPY
  XVII. AN OLD MAN WOULD INVEST
 XVIII. THE INVESTMENT
   XIX. ARRESTED EVERYWHERE
    XX. CRIED A SENSATION
   XXI. A HELPLESS OLD WOMAN
  XXII. TO GO ON A VISIT
 XXIII. HENRY'S INCONSISTENCY
  XXIV. WORE A ROSE ON HIS COAT
   XXV. IMPATIENTLY WAITING
  XXVI. TOLD IT ALL
 XXVII. POINTS OUT HER BROTHER'S DUTY
XXVIII. THE VERDICT
  XXIX. A DAY OF REST
   XXX. A MOTHER'S REQUEST
  XXXI. A MOMENT OF ARROGANCE
 XXXII. A MOST PECULIAR FELLOW
XXXIII. THE TIME WAS DRAWING NEAR
 XXXIV. TOLD HIM A STORY
  XXXV. CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I.

LOOKING BACK AT EARLY LIFE.


When the slow years of youth were gone and the hastening time of
manhood had come, the first thing that Henry DeGolyer, looking back,
could call from a mysterious darkness into the dawn of memory was that
he awoke one night in the cold arms of his dead mother. That was in
New Orleans. The boy's father had aspired to put the face of man upon
lasting canvas, but appetite invited whisky to mix with his art, and
so upon dead walls he painted the trade-mark bull, and in front of
museums he exaggerated the distortion of the human freak.

After the death of his mother, the boy was taken to the Foundlings'
Home, where he was scolded by women and occasionally knocked down by a
vagabond older than himself. Here he remembered to have seen his
father but once. It was a Sunday when he came, years after the gentle
creature, holding her child in her arms, had died at midnight. The
painter laughed and cried and begged an old woman for a drink of
brandy. He went away, and after an age had seemed to pass the matron
of the place took the boy on her lap and told him that his father was
dead, and then, putting him down, she added: "Run along, now, and be
good."

The boy was taken by an old Italian woman. In after years he could not
determine the length of time that he had lived in her wretched home,
but with vivid brightness dwelled in his memory the morning when he
ran away and found a free if not an easy life in the newsboys'
lodging-house. He sold newspapers, he went to a night school, and as
he grew older he picked up "river items" for an afternoon newspaper.
His hope was that he might become a "professional journalist," as
certain young men termed themselves; and study, which in an
ill-lighted room, tuned to drowsiness by the buzzing of youthful
mumblers, might have been a chafing task to one who felt not the rowel
of a spurring ambition, was to him a pleasure full of thrilling
promises. To him the reporter stood at the high-water mark of
ambition's "freshet." But when years had passed and he had scrambled
to that place he looked down and saw that his height was not a dizzy
one. And instead of viewing a conquered province, he saw, falling from
above, the shadows of trials yet to be endured. He worked faithfully,
and at one time held the place of city editor, but a change in the
management of the paper not only reduced him to the ranks, but, as the
saying went, set him on the sidewalk. Then he wrote "specials." His
work was bright, original and strong, and was reproduced throughout
the country, but as it was not signed, the paper alone received the
credit. Year after year he lived in this unsettled way--reading in the
public library, musing at his own fireside, catching glimpses of an
important work which the future seemed to hold, and waiting for the
outlines of that work to become more distinct; but the months went by
and the plan of the work remained in the shadow of the coming years.

DeGolyer had now reached that time of life when a wise man begins
strongly to suspect that the past is but a future stripped of its
delusions. He was a man of more than ordinary appearance; indeed,
people who knew him, and who believed that size grants the same
advantages to all vocations, wondered why he was not more successful.
He was tall and strong, and in his bearing there was an ease which, to
one who recognizes not a sleeping nerve force, would have suggested
the idea of laziness. His complexion was rather dark, his eyes were
black, and his hair was a dark brown. He was not handsome, but his sad
face was impressive, and his smile, a mere melancholy recognition that
something had been said, did not soon fade from memory.

One afternoon DeGolyer called at the office of a morning newspaper,
and was told that the managing editor wanted to see him. When he was
shown in he found an aspiring politician laughing with forced
heartiness at something which the editor had said. To the Southern
politician the humor of an influential editor is full of a delirious
mellowness.

When the politician went out the editor invited DeGolyer to take a
seat. "Mr. DeGolyer, a number of your sketches have been well
received."

"Yes, sir; they have made me a few encouraging enemies."

The editor smiled. "And you regard enemies as an encouragement, eh?"

"Yes, as a proof of success. Our friends mark out a course for us, and
if we depart from it and do something better than their
specifications call for, they become our enemies."

"I don't know but you are right." After a short silence the editor
continued: "Mr. DeGolyer, we have been thinking of sending a man down
into Costa Rica. Our merchants believe that if we were to pay more
attention to that country we might thereby improve our trade. What we
want is a number of letters intended to familiarize us with those
people--want to show, you understand, that we are interested in them."

They talked during an hour. The nest day DeGolyer was on board a
steamer bound for Punta Arenas. On the vessel he met a young man who
said that his name was Henry Sawyer; and this young man was so blithe
and light-hearted that DeGolyer, yielding to the persuasion of
contrast, was drawn toward him. Young Sawyer was accompanied by his
uncle, a short, fat, and at times a crusty old fellow. DeGolyer did
not think that the uncle was wholly sound of mind. One evening, just
before reaching port, and while the two young men were standing on
deck, looking landward, young Sawyer said:

"Do you know, I think more of you than of any fellow I ever met?"

"I don't know it," DeGolyer answered, "but I am tempted to hope so."

"Good. I do, and that's a fact. You see, I've led a most peculiar sort
of life. I never had any home--that is, any real home. I don't
remember a thing about my father and mother. They died when I was very
young, and then my uncle took me. Uncle never married and never was
particularly attached to any one place. We have traveled a good deal;
have lived quite a while in New Orleans, but for the past two years we
have lived in a little bit of a place called Ulmata, in central Costa
Rica. Uncle's got an interest in some mines not far from there. Say,
why wouldn't it be a good idea for you to go to Ulmata and write your
letters from there? Ain't any railroad, but there's a mule line
running to the coast. How does it strike you?"

"I'd like to, but I'm afraid that it would take my letters too long to
reach New Orleans; still, I don't know what difference that would
make, as I'm not going to write news. After all," he added, as though
he were arguing with himself, "I should think that the interior is
more interesting than the coast, for people don't hang their
characteristics over the coast line."

"There, you've hit the nail the very first lick. You go out there with
us, and I'll bet we have a magnificent time."

"But your uncle might object."

"How can he? It ain't any of his business where you go."

"Of course not."

"Well, then, that settles it. But really, he'd like to have you.
You'll like him; little peculiar at times, but you'll find him all
right. You'll get a good deal of money for those letters, won't you?"

"No; a hired mail on a newspaper doesn't get much money."

"But it must take a good deal of brains to do your work."

"Presumably, but there stands a long row of brains ready to take the
engagement--to take it, in fact, at a cut rate. The market is full of
brains."

"How old did you say you were?"

"I am nearly thirty," DeGolyer answered.

"I'm only twenty-five, but that don't make any difference; we'll have
a splendid time all the same. You read a good deal, I notice. Uncle's
got a whole raft of books, and you can read to me when you get tired
of reading to yourself. I've gone to school a good deal, but I'm not
much of a hand with a book; but I tell you what I believe--I believe I
could run a business to the queen's taste if I had a chance, and I'm
going to try it one of these days. Uncle tells me that after awhile I
may be worth some money, and if I am I'll get rich as sure as you're
born. Business was born in me, but I've never had a chance to do
anything, I have traded around a little, and I've made some money,
too, but the trouble is that I've never been settled down long enough
to do much of anything, I've scarcely any chance at all out at Ulmata.
What would you rather be than anything else?"

"I don't know. It doesn't seem that nature has exerted herself in
fitting me for anything, and I am a strong believer in natural
fitness. We may learn to do a thing in an average sort of way, but
excellence requires instinct, and instinct, of course, can't be
learned."

"I guess that's so. I can see hundreds of ways to make money. I'd
rather be a big merchant than anything else. Old fellow," he suddenly
broke off, "I am as happy as can be to have you go out yonder with us;
and mark what I tell you--we're going to have a splendid time."




CHAPTER II.

A SLEEPY VILLAGE AND A FUSSY OLD MAN.


In the village of Ulmata there was just enough of life to picture the
dreamy indolence of man. Rest was its complexion, and freedom from all
marks of care its most pleasing aspect.

Old Sawyer was so demonstrably gratified to have a companion for his
nephew that he invited DeGolyer to take a room in his house, and
DeGolyer gratefully accepted this kindness. Young Sawyer was delighted
when the household had thus been arranged, and with many small
confidences and unstudied graces of boyish friendship, he kept his
guest in the refreshing atmosphere of welcome. And in the main the
uncle was agreeable and courteous, but there were times when he flew
out of his orbit of goodfellowship.

Once he came puffing into the room where DeGolyer was writing, and
blusteringly flounced upon a sofa. He remained quiet for a few
moments, and then he blew so strong a spout of annoyance that DeGolyer
turned to him and asked:

"Has anything gone wrong?"

The old fellow's eyes bulged out as if he were straining under a heavy
load. "Yes," he puffed, "the devil's gone wrong."

"But isn't that of ancient date?" DeGolyer asked.

"Here, now, young fellow, don't try to saw me!" And then he broke off
with this execration: "Oh, this miserable world--this infernal pot
where men are boiled!" He rolled his eyes like a choking ox, and after
a short silence, asked: "Young fellow, do you know what I'd do if I
were of your age?"

"If you were of my temperament as well as of my age I don't think
you'd do much of anything."

"Yes, I would; I would confer a degree of high favor on myself. I
would cut my throat, sir."

"Pardon me, but is it too late at your time of life?"

"Yes, for my nerve is diseased and I am a coward, an infamous,
doddering old coward, sir. Good God! to live for years in darkness,
bumping against the sharp corners of conscience. I have never told
Henry, but I don't mind telling you that at times I am almost mad. For
years I have sought to read myself out of it, but to an unsettled mind
a book is a sly poison--the greatest of books are but the records of
trouble. Don't you say a word to Henry. He thinks that my mind is as
sound as a new acorn, but it isn't."

"I won't--but, by the way, he is young; why don't you advise him to
kill himself?"

The old fellow flounced off the sofa and stood bulging his eyes at
DeGolyer.

"Don't you ever say such a thing as that again!" he snorted. "Why,
confound your hide! would you have that boy dead?"

DeGolyer threw down his pen. "No, I would have him live forever in his
thoughtless and beautiful paradise; I would not pull him down to the
thoughtful man's hell of self-communion."

"Look here, young man, you must have a history."

"No, simply an ill-written essay."

"Who was your father?"

"A fool."

"Ah, I grant you. And who was your mother?"

"An angel."

"No, sir, she--I beg your pardon," the old man quickly added. "You are
sensitive, sir."

DeGolyer, sadly smiling, replied: "He who suffered in childhood, and
who in after life has walked hand in hand with disappointment, and is
then not sensitive, is a brute."

"How well do I know the truth of that! DeGolyer, I have been
acquainted with you but a short time, but you appeal to me strongly,
sir. And I could almost tell you something, but it is something that I
ought to keep to myself. I could make you despise me and then offer me
your regard as a compromise. Oh, that American republic of ours,
fought for by men who scorned the romance of kingly courts, is not so
commonplace a country after all. Many strange things happen there, and
some of them are desperately foul. Is that Henry coming? Hush."

The young man bounded into the room. "Say," he cried, "I've bargained
for six of the biggest monkeys you ever saw. That old fellow "--

"Henry," the uncle interrupted, taking up a hat and fanning his
purplish face, "you are getting too old for that sort of foolishness.
You are a man, you must remember, and it may not be long until you'll
be called upon to exercise the judgment of a man."

"Oh, I was going to buy the monkeys and sell them again for three
times as much as I gave for them, but you bet that when I'm called on
to exercise the judgment, of a man I'll be there. And do you think
that I'd fool with mines or anything else in this country? I
wouldn't. I'd go to some American city and make money. Say, DeGolyer,
when are you going to start off on that jaunt?"

"What jaunt?" the old man asked.

"I am going to make a tour of the country," DeGolyer answered. "I'm
going to visit nearly every community of interest and gather material
for my letters, and shall be gone a month or so, I should think."

"And I'm going with him," said Henry.

"No," the old man replied, "you are not going to leave me here all
that time alone. I'm old, and I want you near me."

"All right, uncle; whatever you say goes."

When DeGolyer mounted a mule and set out on his journey, young Sawyer,
as if clinging to his friendship, walked beside him for some distance
into the country.

"Well, I'd better turn back here," said the young man, halting. "Say,
Hank, don't stay away any longer than you can help. It's devilish
lonesome here, you know."

"I won't, my boy."

"All right. And say, if you can't do the thing up as well as you want
to, throw up the job and come back here, for I'll turn loose, the
first thing you know, and make enough money for both of us."

"God bless you, I hope that you may always make enough for yourself."

"And you bet I will, and for you, too. I hate like the mischief to see
you go away. Couldn't think any more of you if we were twin brothers.
And you think a good deal of me, too, don't you, Hank?"

"My boy," said DeGolyer, leaning over and placing his hand on the
young fellow's shoulder, "I have never speculated with my friendship,
and I don't know how valuable it is, but all of it that is worth
having is yours. You make friends everywhere; I don't. You have
nothing to conceal, and I have nothing to make known. To tell you the
truth, you are the only real friend I ever had."

"Look out, now. That sort of talk knocks me; but say, don't be away
any longer than you can help."

"I won't!" He rode a short distance, turned in his saddle, waved his
hand and cried: "God bless you, my boy."




CHAPTER III.

ALL WAS DARKNESS.


Delays and difficulties of traveling, together with his own
determination to do the work thoroughly, prolonged DeGolyer's absence.
Nearly three months had passed. Evening was come, and from a distant
hill-top the returning traveler saw the steeple of Ulmata's church--a
black mark on the fading blush of lingering twilight. A chilly
darkness crept out of the valley. Hungry dogs barked in the dreary
village. DeGolyer could see but a single light. It burned in the
priest's house--a dark age, and as of yore, with all the light held by
the church. The weary man liberated his mule on a common, where its
former companions were grazing, and sought the house of his friends.
The house was dark and the doors were fastened. He knocked, and a
startling echo, an audible darkness, came from the valley. He knocked
again, and a voice cried from the street:

"Who's that?"

"Helloa, is that you, my boy?"

There was no answer, but a figure rushed through the darkness, seized
DeGolyer, and in a hoarse whisper said:

"Come where there's a light."

"Why, what's the matter, Henry?"

"Come where there's a light."

DeGolyer followed him to a wretched place that bore the name of a
public-house, and went with him into a room. A lamp sputtered on a
shelf. Young Sawyer caught DeGolyer's hands.

"I have waited so long for you to come back to this dreadful place. I
am all alone. Uncle is dead."

DeGolyer sat down without saying a word. He sat in silence, and then
he asked:

"When did he die?"

"About two weeks after you left."

"Did he kill himself?"

"Good God, no! Why did you think that?"

"Oh, I didn't really think it--don't know why I said it."

"He was sick only a few days, and the strangest thing has come to
light! He seemed to know before he was taken sick that he was going to
die, and he spent nearly a whole day in writing--writing something for
me--and the strangest thing has come to light. I can hardly realize
it. Here it is; read it. Don't say a word till you have read every
line of it. Strangest thing I ever heard of."

And this is what DeGolyer read by the light of the sputtering lamp:

"Years ago there lived in Salem, Mass., two brothers, George and
Andrew Witherspoon. Their parents had passed away when the boys were
quite young, but the youngsters had managed to get a fair start in
life. Without ado let me say that I am Andrew Witherspoon. My brother
and I were of different temperaments. He had graces of mind, but was
essentially a business man. I prided myself that I was born to be a
thinker. I worshiped Emerson. I know now that a man who would
willingly become a thinker is a fool. When I was twenty-three--and
George nearly twenty-one--I fell in love with Caroline Springer. There
was just enough of poetry in my nature to throw me into a devotion
that was almost wild in its intensity, and after my first meeting with
her I knew no peace. The chill of fear and the fever of confidence
came alternating day by day, and months passed ere I had the strength
of nerve to declare myself; but at last the opportunity and the
courage came together. I was accepted. She said that if I had great
love her love might be measured by my own, and that if I did not think
that I could love her always she would go away and end her days in
grief. The wedding day was appointed. But when I went to claim my
bride she was gone--gone with my brother George. To-day, an old man, I
look back upon that time and see myself raving on the very brink of
madness. I had known that George was acquainted with Caroline
Springer--indeed, I had proudly introduced him to her. I will tell my
story, though, and not discourse. But it is hard for an old man to be
straightforward. If he has read much he is discursive, and if he has
not read he is tedious with many words. I didn't leave Salem at once.
I met George, and he did not even attempt to apologize for the wrong
he had done me. He repeated the fool saying that all is fair in love.
'You ought to be glad that you discovered her lack of love in time,'
he said. This was consolation, surely. My mind may never have been
well-balanced, and I think that at this time it tilted over to one
side, never to tilt back. And now my love, trampled in the mire, arose
in the form of an evil determination. I would do my brother and his
wife an injury that could not be repaired. I did not wish them dead; I
wanted them to live and be miserable. A year passed, and a boy was
born. I left my native town and went west. I lived there nearly three
years, and then I sent to a Kansas newspaper an account of my death.
It was printed, and I sent my brother a marked copy of the paper. Two
weeks later I was in Salem. I wore a beard, kept myself close, and no
one recognized me. I waited for an opportunity. It came, and I stole
my brother's boy. I went to Boston, to Europe, back to America; lived
here and there, and you know the rest. My dear boy, I repented
somewhat, and it was my intention, at some time, to restore you to
your parents, but you yourself were their enemy; you crept into my
heart and I could not pluck you out. For a time the story of your
mysterious disappearance filled the newspapers. You were found in a
hundred towns, year after year, and when your sensation had run its
course, you became the joke of the paragraphers. It was no longer,
'Who struck Billy Patterson?" but 'Who stole Henry Witherspoon?' Once
I saw your father in New Orleans. He had come to identify his boy; but
he went away with another consignment added to his large stock of
disappointment. Finally all hope was apparently abandoned and even the
newspapers ceased to find you.

"Your father and mother now live in Chicago. George Witherspoon is one
of the great merchants of that city, and is more than a millionaire.
This is why I have so often told you that one day you would be worth
money. You were young and could afford to wait; I was old, and to me
the present was everything, and you were the present.

"For some time I have been threatened with sudden death; I have felt
it at night when you were asleep; and now I have written a confession
which for years I irresolutely put aside from day to day. I charge you
to bury me as Andrew Witherspoon, for in the grave I hope to be
myself, with nothing to hide. Write at once to your father, and after
settling up my affairs, which I urge you not to neglect, you can go to
him. In the commercial world a high place awaits you, and though I
have done you a great wrong, I hope that your recollection of my deep
love for you may soften your resentment and attune your young heart to
the sweet melody of forgiveness.

"ANDREW WITHERSPOON."

DeGolyer folded the paper, returned it to Henry and sat in silence.
He looked at the smoking lamp and listened to the barking of the
hungry dogs.

"What do you think, Hank?"

"I don't know what to think."

"But ain't it the strangest thing you ever heard of?"

"Yes, it is strange, and yet not so strange to me. It is simply the
sequel to a well-known story. In the streets of New Orleans, years
ago, when I could scarcely carry a bundle of newspapers, I cried your
name. The story was getting old then, for I remember that the people
paid but little attention to it."

They sat for a time in silence. Young Witherspoon spoke, but DeGolyer
did not answer him. They heard a guitar and a Spanish love song.

"Yes, it is strange," said DeGolyer, coming hack from a wandering
reverie. "It is strange that I should be here with you;" and under a
quickening of his newspaper instincts, he added, "and I shall have the
writing of it."

"But wait awhile before you let your mind ran on on that, Hank. I
don't want to be described and talked about so much. I know it can't
be kept out of the papers, but we'll discuss that after a while. Now,
let me tell you what I've done. I wrote to--to--father--don't that
sound strange? I wrote to him and sent him a copy of uncle's paper--I
would have sent the original, but I wanted to show that to you. I also
sent a note that mother--there it is again--wrote to uncle a long time
ago, and a lock of hair and some other little tricks. I told him to
write to me, and here's his letter. It came nearly four weeks ago. And
think, Hank, I've got a sister--grown and handsome, too, I'll bet."

Ecstasy had almost made the letter incoherent. It was written first by
one and then another hand, with frequent interchanges; and DeGolyer;
who fancied that he could pick character oat of the marks of a pen,
thought that a mother's heart had overflowed and that a hard,
commercial hand had cramped itself to a strange employment--the
expression of affection. The father deplored the fact that his son
could not be reached by telegraph, and still more did he lament his
inability, on account of urgent business demands, to come himself
instead of sending a letter. "Admit of no delay, but set out for home
at once," the father commanded. "Telegraph as soon as you can, and
your mother and I will meet you in New Orleans. I hope that this may
not be exploited in the newspapers. God knows that in our time we have
had enough of newspaper notoriety. Say nothing to any one, but come at
once, and we can give for publication such a statement as we think
necessary. Of course your discovery, as a sequel to your abduction
years ago and the tremendous interest aroused at the time, will be of
national importance, but I prefer that the news be sent out from this
place."

Here the handwriting was changed, and "love," "thank God," "darling
child," and emotion blots filled out the remainder of the page.

"You see," said Witherspoon, "that I have a reason for depriving you
of an early whack at this thing. Now, I have written again and told
them not to be impatient, and that I would leave here as soon as
possible. I have settled up everything here, but I've got to go to a
little place away over on the coast and close out some mining
interests there."

"It must be of but trifling importance, my boy, and I should think
that you'd let it go."

"No, sir; I'm going to do my duty by that dear old man if I never do
anything else while I live."

He held not a mote of resentment. Indeed was his young heart "attuned
to the sweet melody of forgiveness."

"By the way, Hank, here's a letter for you."

The communication was brief. It was from New Orleans and ran thus:
"The five letters which we have published have awakened no interest
whatever, and I am therefore instructed to discontinue the service.
Inclosed please find check for the amount due you."

"What is it, Hank?"

"Oh, nothing except what I might have expected. Read it."

Witherspoon read the letter, and crumpling it, broke out in his
impulsive way: "That's all right, old fellow. It fits right into my
plan, and now let me tell you what that is. We'll leave here to-morrow
and go over to Dura and settle up there. I don't know how long it will
take, and I won't try to telegraph until we get through. Dura isn't
known as a harbor, it is such a miserably small place, but ships land
there once in awhile, and we can sail from there. But the main part of
my plan is that you are to go with me and live in Chicago; and I'll
bet we have a magnificent time. I'll go in the store, and I'll warrant
that father--don't that sound strange?--that father can get you a good
place on one of the newspapers. You haven't had a chance. Hank, and
when you do get one, I'll bet you can lay out the best of them. What
do you say?"

"Henry," said the dark-visaged DeGolyer--and the light of affection
beamed in his eyes--"Henry, you are a positive charm; and if I should
meet a girl adorned with a disposition like yours, I would unstring my
heart, hand it to her and say, 'Here, miss, this belongs to you.'"

"Oh, you may find one. I've got a sister, you know. What! are you
trying to look embarrassed? Do you know what I'm going to say? I'm
going to lead you up to my sister and say, 'Here, I have caught you a
prince; take him.'"

"Nonsense, my boy."

"That's all right; but, seriously, will you go with me?"

"I will."

"Good. We'll get ready to-night and start early in the morning. But I
mustn't forget to see the priest again. He was a friend when I needed
one; he took charge of uncle's burial. But," he suddenly broke off
with rising spirits, "won't we have a time? Millionaire, eh? I'll
learn that business and make it worth ten millions."




CHAPTER IV.

A STRANGE REQUEST.


The next morning, before it was well light, and at a time when brisk
youth and slow age were seeking the place of confession, Henry
Witherspoon went to the priest, not to acknowledge a sin, but to avow
a deep gratitude. The journey was begun early; it was in July. The
morning was braced with a cool breeze, the day was cloudless, and
night's lingering gleam of silver melted in the gold of morn. Young
Witherspoon's impressive nature was up with joy or down with sadness.
The prospect of his new life was a happiness, and the necessity to
leave his old uncle in a foreign country was a sore regret; so
happiness and regret strove against each other, but happiness,
advantaged with a buoyant heart as a contest-ground, soon ended the
struggle.

On a brown hill-top they met the sunrise, and from a drowsy
roosting-place they flushed a flock of greenish birds. Witherspoon
stood in his stirrups and waved his hat. "Good-by," he cried, "but you
needn't have got up so soon. We didn't want you. Hank," he said,
turning sideways in his saddle, "I think we can get there in about
five days, at the pace we'll be compelled to go; and we can sell these
mules or give them away, just as we like. Going home! I can't get the
strangeness of it out of my head. And a sister, too, mind you. I'm
beginning to feel like a man now. You see, uncle wanted me to be a boy
as long as I could, and it was only of late that he began to tell me
that I must put aside foolishness; but I am beginning to feel like a
man now."

"You will need to feel like one when you take up your new
responsibilities. You are playing now, but it may be serious enough
after a while."

"What! Don't preach, Hank. Responsibilities! Why, I'll throw them over
my shoulder like a twine string. But let me tell you something.
There's one thing I'm not going to allow--they shan't say a word
against that old man. Oh, I know the trouble and grief he brought
about, but by gracious, he had a cause. If--if--mother didn't love
him, why did she say that if he didn't love her she would go away
somewhere and grieve herself to death? That was no way to treat a
fellow, especially a fellow that loves you like the mischief. And
besides, why did father cut him out? Pretty mean thing for a man to
slip around and steal his brother's sweetheart. In this country it
would mean blood."

"You are a jewel, my boy."

"No, I'm simply just. Of course, two wrongs don't make a right, as the
saying has it, but a wrong with a cause is half-way right, and I'll
tell them at the very start that they better not talk about the
matter. In fact, I told them so in the letter. You've had a pretty
hard time of it, haven't you, Hank?"

"I shouldn't want an enemy's dog to have a harder one," DeGolyer
answered.

"But you've got a good education."

"So has the hog that picks up cards and tells the time of day," said
DeGolyer, "but what good does that do him? He has to work harder than
other hogs, and is kept hungry so that he may perform with more
sprightliness. But if I have a good education, my boy, I stole it, and
I shouldn't be surprised at any time to meet an officer with a warrant
of arrest sworn out against me by society."

"Good; but you didn't steal trash at any rate. But, Hank, you look for
the dark when the light would serve you better. Don't do it. Throw off
your trouble."

"Oh, I'm not disposed to look so much for the dark as you may imagine.
Throw it off! That's good advice. It is true that we may sometimes
throw off a trouble, but we can't very well throw off a cause. Some
natures are like a piece of fly-paper--a sorrow alights and sticks
there. But that isn't my nature. It doesn't take much to make me
contented."

The weather remained pleasant, and the travelers were within a day's
ride of Dura, when Witherspoon complained one morning of feeling ill,
and by noon be could scarcely sit in his saddle.

"Let us stop somewhere," DeGolyer urged.

"No," Witherspoon answered, "let us get to Dura as soon as we can.
I've got a fever, haven't I?"

DeGolyer leaned over and placed his hand on Witherspoon's forehead.
"Yes, you have."

"The truth is, I haven't felt altogether right since the first day
after we started, but I thought it would wear off."

When they reached Dura, Witherspoon was delirious. Not a ship was in
port, and DeGolyer took him to an inn and summoned such medical aid as
the hamlet afforded. The physician naturally gave the case a
threatening color, and it followed that he was right, for at the
close of the fourth day the patient gave no promise of improvement.
The innkeeper said that sometimes a month passed between the landing
of ships at that point. The fifth day came. DeGolyer sat by the
bedside of his friend, fanning him. The doctor had called and had just
taken his leave.

"Give me some water, Hank."

"Ah, you are coming around all right, my boy," DeGolyer cried. He
brought the water; and when the patient drank and shook his head as a
signal to take away the cup, DeGolyer asked; "Don't you feel a good
deal better?"

"No."

"But your mind is clear?"

"Yes."

"Shall I put another cold cloth on your head?"

"If you please."

And when DeGolyer had gently done this, Witherspoon said: "Sit down
here, Hank."

"All right, my boy, here I am."

"Hank, I'm not going to get well."

"Oh, yes, you are, and don't you let any such nonsense enter your
head."

"It's a good ways from nonsense, I tell you. I know what I'm talking
about; I know just as well as can be that I'm going to die--now you
wait till I get through. It can't be helped, and there's no use in
taking on over it. I did want to see my father and mother and sister,
but it can't be helped."

DeGolyer was on his knees beside the bed. He attempted to speak, but
his utterance was choked; and the tears in his eyes blurred to
spectral dimness the only human being whom he held warm in his heart.

"Hank, while I am able to talk I've got a great favor to ask of you.
And you'll grant it, won't you?"

"Yes," DeGolyer Bobbed.

For a few moments the sick man lay in silence. He fumbled about and
found DeGolyer's hand. "My father and mother are waiting for me," he
said. "They have been raised into a new life. If I never come it will
be worse than if I had never been found, for they'll have a new grief
to bear, and it may be heavier than the first. They must have a son,
Hank."

"My dear boy, what do you mean?"

"I mean that if I die--and I know that I am going to die--you must be
their son. You must go there, not as Henry DeGolyer, but as Henry
Witherspoon, their own son."

"Merciful God! I can't do that."

"But if you care for me you will. Take all my papers--take everything
I've got--and go home. It will be the greatest favor you could do me
and the greatest you could do them."

"But, my dear boy, I should be a liar and a hypocrite."

"No, you would be playing my part because I couldn't play it. Once you
said that you would give me your life if I wanted it, and now I want
it. You can make them happy, and they'll be so proud of you. Won't you
try it? I would do anything on earth for you, and now you deny me
this--and who knows but my spirit might enter into you and form a part
of your own? How can you refuse me when you know that I think more of
you than I do of anybody? This is no boy's prank--I'm a man now. Will
you?"

"Henry," said DeGolyer, "this is merely a feverish notion that has
come out of your derangement. Put it by, and after a while we will
laugh at it. Is the cloth hot again?"

"Yes."

"I'll change it." And DeGolyer, removing the cloth and placing his
hand on his friend's forehead, added: "Your fever isn't so high as it
was yesterday. You are coming out all right."

"No, I tell you that I'm going to die; and you won't do me the only
favor I could ask. Don't you remember saying, not long ago, that a
man's life is a pretense almost from the beginning to the end?"

"I don't remember saying it, but it agrees with what I have often been
compelled to think."

"Well, then, if you think that life is a pretense, why not pretend by
request?"

"Well talk about it some other time, my boy."

"But there may not be any other time."

"Oh, yes, there will be. Don't you think you can sleep now?"

"No, I don't think I can sleep and wake up again."

But he did sleep, and he did awake again. Three more days passed
wearily away, and the patient was delirious most of the time.
DeGolyer's acquaintance with Spanish was but small, and he could
comprehend but little of what a pedantic doctor might say, yet he
learned that there was not much encouragement to be drawn from the
fact that the sick man's mind sometimes returned from its troubled
wandering.

DeGolyer was again alone with his friend. It was a hot though a
blustery afternoon, and the sea, in sight through the open door,
sounded the deeper notes of its endless opera.

"Hank."

"I'm here, my boy."

"Have you thought about what I told you to do?"

"Are you still clinging to that notion?"

"No; it is clinging to me. Have you thought about it?"

"Yes."

"And what did you think?"

"I thought that for you I would take the risk of playing a part that
you are unable to perform. But really, Henry, I'm too old."

"You have promised, and my mind is at ease," the sick man said, with a
smile. "Now I feel that I have given my life over to you and that I
shall not really be dead so long as you are alive. Among my things you
will find some letters written by my mother to my uncle, and a small
gold chain and a locket that I wore when I was sto--when uncle took
me. That's all."

"I will do the best I can, but I'm too old."

"You are only a few years older than I am. They'll never know. They'll
be blind. You'll have the proof. Go at once. You are Henry
Witherspoon. That's all."

The blustery afternoon settled into a calm as the sun went down, and a
change came with the night. The sufferer's mind flitted back for a
moment, and in that speck of time he spoke not, but he gave his friend
a look of gratitude. All was over. During the night DeGolyer sat alone
by the bedside. And a ship came at morning.

A kind-hearted priest offered his services. "The ship has merely
dodged in here," said he, "and won't stay long, and it may be a month
before another one comes." And then he added: "You may leave these
melancholy rites to me."

A man stepped into the doorway and cried in Spanish: "The ship is
ready."

DeGolyer turned to the priest, and placing a purse on the table, said:
"I thank you." Then he stepped lightly to the bedside and gazed with
reverence and affection upon the face of the dead boy. He spoke the
name of Christ, and the priest heard him say: "Take his spirit to Thy
love and Thy mercy, for no soul more forgiving has ever entered Thy
Father's kingdom." He took up his traveling-bag and turned toward the
door. "One moment," said the priest, and pointing to the couch, he
asked: "What name?"

"Henry--Henry DeGolyer."




CHAPTER V.

DISSECTING A MOTIVE.


Onward went the ship, nodding to the beck and call of mighty ocean.
DeGolyer--or, rather, Henry Witherspoon, as now he knew
himself--walked up and down the deck. And it seemed that at every turn
his searching grief had found a new abiding-place for sorrow. His
first strong attachment was broken, and he felt that in the years to
come, no matter what fortune they might bring him, there could not
grow a friendship large enough to fill the place made vacant by his
present loss. An absorbing love might come, but love is by turns a
sweet and anxious selfishness, while friendship is a broad-spread
generosity. Suddenly he was struck by the serious meaning of his
obligation, and with stern vivisection he laid bare the very nerves of
his motive. At first he could find nothing save the discharge of a
sacred duty; but what if this trust had entailed a life of toil and
sacrifice? Would he have accepted it? In his agreement to this odd
compact was there not an atom of self-interest? Over and over again he
asked himself these questions, and he strove to answer them to the
honor of his incentive, but he felt that in this strife there lay a
prejudice, a hope that self might be cleared of all dishonor. But was
there ever a man who, in the very finest detail, lived a life of
perfect truth and freedom from all selfishness? If so, why should
Providence have put him in a grasping world? Give conscience time and
it will find an easy bed, and yet the softest bed may have grown hard
ere morning comes.

"Who am I that I should carp with myself?" the traveler mused. "Have
the world and its litter of pups done anything for me?" He walked up
and down the deck. "God knows that I shall always love the memory of
that dear boy. But if all things are foreseen and are still for the
best, why should he have died? Was it to throw upon me this great
opportunity? But who am I? And why should a special opportunity be
wrought for me? But who is anybody?"

Going whither? Home. A father--and he thought of a drunken painter. A
mother--and his mind flew back to a midnight when arms that had
carried him warm with life were cold in death. A millionaire's
son--that thought startled him. What were the peculiar duties of a
millionaire's son? No matter. They might impose a strain, but they
could never be so trying as constant poverty. But who had afflicted
him with poverty? First his birth and then his temperament. But who
gave him the temperament? He wheeled about and walked away as if he
would be rid of an impertinent questioner.

When the ship reached New Orleans he went straightway to the telegraph
office and sent this message to George Witherspoon: "Will leave for
Chicago to-day."

And now his step was beyond recall; he must go forward. But conscience
had no needles, and his mind was at rest. In expectancy there was a
keen fascination. He met a reporter whom he knew, but there was no
sign of recognition. A beard, thick, black and neatly trimmed, gave
Henry's face an unfamiliar mold. But he felt a momentary fear, he
realized that a possible danger thenceforth would lie in wait for him,
and then came the easing assurance that his early life, his father and
his mother, were remembered by no one of importance, and that even if
he were recognized as Henry DeGolyer, he could still declare himself
the stolen son of George Witherspoon. Indeed, with safety he could
thus announce himself to the managing editor who had sent him to Costa
Rica, and he thought of doing this, but no, his--his father wanted the
secret kept until the time was ripe for its divulgence. He went into a
restaurant, and for the first time in his life he felt himself free to
order regardless of the prices on the bill of fare. Often, when a
hungry boy, he had sold newspapers in that house, and enviously he had
watched the man who seemed to care not for expenses. As he sat there
waiting for his meal, a newsboy came in, and after selling him a
paper, stood near the table.

"Sit down, little fellow, and have something to eat."

This was sarcasm, and the boy leered at him.

"Sit down, won't you?"

"What are you givin' me?"

"This," said Henry, and he handed him a dollar.




CHAPTER VI.

WAITING AT THE STATION.


Men bustling their way to the lunch counter; old women fidgeting in
the fear that they had forgotten something; man in blue crying the
destination of outgoing trains; weary mothers striving to soothe their
fretful children; the tumult raised by cabmen that were crowding
against the border-line of privilege; bells, shrieks, new harshnesses
here and there; confusion everywhere--a railway station in Chicago.

"The train ought to be here now," said George Witherspoon, looking at
his watch.

"Do you know exactly what train he is coming on?" his wife asked.

"Yes; he telegraphed again from Memphis."

"You didn't tell me you'd got another telegram."

"My dear, I thought I did. The truth is that I've been so rushed and
stirred up for the last day or so that I've hardly known what I was
about."

"And I can scarcely realize now what I'm waiting for," said a young
woman. "Mother, you look as if you haven't slept any for a week."

"And I don't feel as if I have."

George Witherspoon, holder of the decisive note in the affairs of that
great department store known as "The Colossus," may not by design have
carried an air that would indicate the man to whom small tradesman
regarded it as a mark of good breeding to cringe, but even in a place
where his name was not known his appearance would strongly have
appealed to commercial confidence. That instinct which in earlier life
had prompted fearless speculation, now crystalized into conscious
force, gave unconscious authority to his countenance. He was tall and
with so apparent a strength in his shoulders as to suggest the thought
that with them he had shoved his way to success. He was erect and
walked with a firm step; he wore a heavy grayish mustache that turned
under; his chin had a forceful squareness; he was thin-haired, nearing
baldness. In his manner was a sort of firm affability, and his voice
was of that tone which success nearly always assumes, kindly, but with
a suggestion of impatience. His eyes were restless, as though
accustomed to keep watch over many things. When spoken to it was his
habit to turn quickly, and if occasion so warranted, to listen with
that pleasing though frosty smile which to the initiated means, "I
shall be terribly bored by any request that you may make, and shall
therefore be compelled to refuse it." He was sometimes liberal, though
rarely generous. If he showed that a large disaster touched his heart,
he could not conceal the fact that a lesser mishap simply fell upon
his irritated nerves; and therefore he might contribute to a stricken
city while refusing to listen to the distress of a family.

Mrs. Witherspoon was a dark-eyed little woman. In her earlier life she
must have been handsome, for in the expression of her face there was a
reminiscence of beauty. Her dimples had turned traitor to youth and
gossiped of coming age. Women are the first to show the contempt with
which wealth regards poverty, the first to turn with resentment upon
former friends who have been left in the race for riches, the first to
feel the overbearing spirit that money stirs; but this woman had not
lost her gentleness.

The girl was about nineteen years of age. She was a picture of style,
delsarted to ease of motion. She was good-looking and had the whims
and the facial tricks that are put to rhyme and raved over in a
sweetheart, but which are afterward deplored in a wife.

"I feel that I shan't know how to act."

Witherspoon looked at his daughter and said, "Ellen."

"But, papa, I just know I shan't. How should I know? I never met a
brother before; never even thought of such a thing."

"Don't be foolish. We are not the only people that have been placed in
such a position. No matter how you may be situated, remember that you
are not a pioneer; no human strain is new."

"But it's the only time _I_ was ever placed in such a position."

"Nonsense. In this life we must learn to expect anything." Mrs.
Witherspoon was silently weeping. "Caroline, don't, please. Remember
that we are not alone. A trial of joy, my dear, is the easiest trial
to bear."

"Not always," she replied.

A counter commotion in the general tumult--the train.

A crowd waited outside the iron gate. A tall young man came through
with the hastening throng. He caught Witherspoon's wandering eye.
Strangers looking for each other are guided by a peculiar instinct,
but Witherspoon stood questioning that instinct. The mother could see
nothing with distinctness. The young man held up a gold chain.

It was soon over. People who were hastening toward a train turned to
look upon a flurry of emotion--a mother faint with joy; a strong man
stammering words of welcome; a girl seemingly thrilled with a new
prerogative; a stranger in a nest of affection.

"Come, let us get into the carriage," said Witherspoon. "Come,
Caroline, you have behaved nobly, and don't spoil it all now."

She gave her husband a quick though a meek glance and took Henry's
arm. When the others had seated themselves in the carriage,
Witherspoon stood for a moment on the curb-stone.

"Drive to the Colossus," he commanded. Mrs. Witherspoon put out her
hand with a pleading gesture. "You are not going there before you go
home, are you, dear?" she asked.

"I am compelled to go there, but I'll stay only a moment or two," he
answered. "I'll simply hop out for a minute and leave the rest of you
in the carriage. There's something on hand that needs my attention at
once. Drive to the Colossus," he said as he stepped into the carriage.
A moment later he remarked: "Henry, you are different from what I
expected. I thought you were light."

"He is just like my mother's people," Mrs. Witherspoon spoke up. "All
the Craigs were dark."

They drove on in a silence not wholly free from embarrassment. Through
the carriage windows Henry caught glimpses of a world of hurry. The
streets, dark and dangerous with traffic, stretched far away and
ended in a cloud of smoke. "It will take time to realize all this,"
the young men mused, and meeting the upturned eyes of Mrs.
Witherspoon, who had clasped her hands over his shoulder, he said:

"Mother, I hope you are not disappointed in me."

"You are just like the Craigs," she insisted. "They were dark. And
Uncle Louis was so dark that he might have been taken for an Italian,
and Uncle Harvey"--She hesitated and glanced at her husband.

"What were you going to say about your Uncle Harvey?" Henry asked.

"Nothing, only he was dark just like all the Craigs."

There is a grunt which man borrowed from the goat, or which, indeed,
the goat may have borrowed from man. And this grunt, more than could
possibly be conveyed by syllabic utterance, expresses impatience.
Witherspoon gave this goat-like grunt, and Henry knew that he had
heard of the Craigs until he was sick of their dark complexion. He
knew, also, that the great merchant had not a defensive sense of
humor, for humor, in the exercise of its kindly though effective
functions, would long ago have put these Craigs to an unoffending
death.

"I don't see why you turn aside to talk of complexion when the whole
situation is so odd," said Ellen, speaking to her father. "I am
not able to bring myself down to a realization of it yet, although
I have been trying to ever since we got that letter from that
good-for-nothing country, away off yonder. You must know that it
strikes me differently from what it does any one else. It is all
romance with me--pure romance."

Witherspoon said nothing, but his wife replied: "It isn't romance
with me; it is an answer to a prayer that my heart has been beating
year after year."

"But don't cry, mother," said Ellen. "Your prayer has been answered."

"Yes, I know that, but look at the long, long years of separation, and
now he comes back to me a stranger."

"But we shall soon be well acquainted," Henry replied, "and after a
while you may forget the long years of separation."

"I hope so, my son, or at least I hope to be able to remember them
without sorrow. But didn't you, at times, fancy that you remembered
me? Couldn't you recall my voice?" Her lips trembled.

"No," he answered, slowly shaking his head. This was the cause for
more tears. She had passed completely out of his life. Ah, the tender,
the hallowed egotism of a mother's love!

The carriage drew up to the sidewalk, and the driver threw open the
door. "I'll be back in just a minute," said Witherspoon, as he got
out; and when he was gone his wife began to apologize for him. "He's
always so busy. I used to think that the time might come when he could
have more leisure, but it hasn't."

"What an immense place!" said Henry, looking out.

"One of the very largest in the world," Ellen replied. "And the
loveliest silks and laces you ever saw." A few moments later she said:
"Here comes father."

"Drive out Michigan," Witherspoon commanded. They were whirled away
and had not gone far when the merchant, directing Henry's attention,
said:

"The Auditorium."

"The what?"

"The Auditorium. Is it possible you never heard of it?"

"Oh, yes, I remember now. It was formally opened by the President."

He did remember it; he remembered having edited telegraph for a
newspaper on the night when Patti's voice was first heard in this
great home of music.

"Biggest theater in the world," said Witherspoon.

"Bigger than La Scala of Milan?" Henry asked.

"Beats anything in the world, and I remember when the ground could
have been bought for--see that lot over there?" he broke off,
pointing. "I bought that once for eighty dollars a foot and sold it
for a hundred."

"Pretty good sale! wasn't it?" Henry innocently asked.

"Good sale! What do you suppose it's worth now!"

"I have no idea."

"Three thousand a foot if it's worth a penny. There never was anything
like it since the world began. I'm not what you might call an
old-timer, but I've seen some wonderful changes here. Now, this land
right here--fifteen hundred a foot; could have bought it not so very
long ago for fifty. I tell you the world never saw anything like it.
Why, just think of it; there are men now living who could have bought
the best corner in this city for a mere song. There's no other town
like this. Look at the buildings. When a man has lived here a while he
can't live in any other town--any other town is too slow for him--and
yet I heard an old man say that he could have got all the land he
wanted here for a yoke of oxen."

"But he hadn't the oxen, eh?"

"Of coarse he had," Witherspoon replied, "but who wanted to exchange
useful oxen for a useless mud-hole? Beats anything in this world."

Henry looked at him in astonishment. His tongue, which at first had
seemed to be so tight with silence, was now so loose with talk. He had
dropped no hint of his own importance; he had made not the slightest
allusion to the energy and ability that had been required to build his
mammoth institution. His impressive dignity was set aside; he was
blowing his town's horn.

The carriage turned into Prairie Avenue. "Look at all this,"
Witherspoon continued, waving his hand. "I remember when it didn't
deserve the name of a street. Look at that row of houses. Built by a
man that used to drive a team. There's a beauty going up. Did you ever
see anything like it?"

"I can well say that I never have," Henry answered.

"I should think not," said Witherspoon, and pointing to the
magnificent home of some obscure man, he added: "I remember when an
old shed stood there. Just look at that carving in front."

"Who lives there?" Henry asked.

"Did hear, but have forgotten. Yonder's one of green stone. I don't
like that so well. Here we have a sort of old stone. That house looks
as though it might be a hundred years old, but it was put up last
year. Well, here's our house."

The carriage drew up under the porte-cocher of a mansion built of
cobble-stones. It was as strong as a battlement, but its outlines
curved in obedience to gracefulness and yielded to the demand of
striking effect. Viewed from one point it might have been taken for a
castle; from another, it suggested itself as a spireless church.
Strangers halted to gaze at it; street laborers looked at it in
admiration. It was showy in a neighborhood of mansions.

Mrs. Witherspoon led Henry to the threshold and tremulously kissed
him. And it was with this degree of welcome that the wanderer was
shown into his home.




CHAPTER VII.

A MOTHER'S AFFECTION.


In one bedazzled moment we review a whole night of darkness. A luxury
brings with it the memory of a privation. The first glimpse of those
drawing-rooms, gleaming with white and warm with gold, were seen
against a black cloud, and that cloud was the past. The wanderer was
startled; there was nothing now to turn aside the full shock of his
responsibilities. He felt the enormity of his pretense, and he began
again to pick at his motive. Mrs. Witherspoon perceived a change in
him and anxiously asked if he were ill. No, but now that his long
journey was ended he felt worn by it. The father saw him with a fresh
criticism and said that he looked older than his years bespoke him;
but the mother, quick in every defense, insisted that he had gone
through enough to make any one look old; and besides, the Craigs,
being a thoughtful people, always looked older than they really were.
In the years that followed, this first day "at home" was reviewed in
all its memories--the library with its busts of old thinkers and its
bright array of new books; the sober breakfast-room in which luncheon
was served; the orderly servants; the plants; the gold fishes; the
heavy hangings; a tiger skin with a life-expressive head; the
portraits of American statesmen; the rich painting of a cow that
flashed back the tradition of a trade-mark bull on a dead wall.

Evening came with melody in the music-room; midnight, and Henry sat
alone in his room. He was heavy with sadness. The feeling that
henceforth his success must depend upon the skill of his hypocrisy,
and that he must at last die a liar, lay upon him with cold
oppression. Kindness was a reproach and love was a censure. Some one
tapped at the door.

"Come in."

Mrs. Witherspoon entered. "I just wanted to see if you were
comfortable," she said, seating herself in a rocking-chair.

"So much so that I am tempted to rebel against it," he answered.

She smiled sadly. "There are so many things that I wanted to say to
you, dear, but I haven't had a chance, somehow."

Her eyes were tear-stricken and her voice trembled. "It isn't possible
that you could know what a mother's love is, my son."

"I _didn't_ know, but you have taught me."

"No, not yet; but I will--if you'll let me."

"If I'll let you?" He looked at her in surprise.

"Yes, if you will bear with me. Sit here," she said, tapping the broad
arm of the chair. He obeyed, and she took his arms and put them about
her neck. "There hasn't been much love in my life, precious. Perhaps I
am not showy enough, not strong enough for the place I occupy."

"But you are good enough to hold the place of an angel."

She attempted to speak, but failed. Something fell on her hand, and
she looked up. The man was weeping. They sat there in silence.

"In your early life," she said, pressing his arms closer about her
neck, "my love sought to protect you, but now it must turn to you for
support. Your uncle--but you told me not to speak of him." She paused
a moment, and then continued: "Your uncle did me a deep wrong, but I
had wronged him. Oh, I don't know why I did. And he had kept my
letters all these years." Another silence. She was the first to speak.
"Ellen loves me, but a daughter's love is more of a help than a
support."

"And father?"

"Oh, he is good and kind," she quickly answered, "but somehow I
haven't kept up with him. He is so strong, and I fear that my nature
is too simple; I haven't force enough to help him when he's worried.
He hasn't said so, but I know it! And of course you don't understand
me yet; but won't you bear with me?"

In her voice there was a sad pleading for love, and this man, though
playing a part, dropped the promptings of his role, and with the
memory of his own mother strong within him, pressed this frail woman
to his bosom and with tender reverence kissed her.

"Oh," she sobbed, "I thank God for bringing you back to me. Good
night."

He closed the door when she was gone, and stood as though he knew not
whither to turn. He looked at the onyx clock ticking on the
mantelpiece. He listened to the rumble of a carriage in the street. He
put out his hands, and going slowly into his sleeping-room, sank upon
his knees at the bedside.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE DOMAIN OF A GREAT MERCHANT.


To one who has gazed for many hours upon whirling scenes, and who at
his journey's end has gone to sleep in an unfamiliar place, the
question of self-identity presents itself at morning and of the dozing
faculties demands an answer. Henry lay in bed, catching at flitting
consciousness, but missing it. He tried to recall his own name, but
could not. One moment he felt that he was on board a ship, rising and
sinking with the mood of the sea; then he was on a railway train,
catching sight of a fence that streaked its way across a field. He saw
a boy struggling with a horse that was frightened at the train; he saw
a girl wave her beflowered hat--a rushing woods, a whirling open
space, a sleepy station. Once he fancied that he was a child lying in
bed, not at midnight, but at happy, bird-chattered morning, when the
sun was bright; but then he heard a roar and he saw a street stretch
out into a darkening distance, and he knew that he was in a great
city. Consciousness loitered within reach, and he seized it. He was
called to breakfast.

How bright the morning. Through the high and church-like windows
softened sunbeams fell upon the stairway. He heard Ellen singing in
the music-room; he met the rich fragrance of coffee. Mrs. Witherspoon,
with a smile of quiet happiness, stood at the foot of the stairs.
Ellen came out with a lithe skip and threw a kiss at him. Witherspoon
sat in the breakfast-room reading a morning newspaper.

"Well, my son, how do you find yourself this morning?" the merchant
asked, throwing aside the newspaper and stretching himself back in his
chair.

"First-rate; but I had quite a time placing myself before I was fully
awake."

"I guess that's true of nearly everybody who comes to Chicago. It
makes no difference how wide-awake a man thinks he is, he will find
when he comes to this city that he has been nodding."

Breakfast was announced. Ellen took Henry's hand and said: "Come, this
is your place here by me. Mother told me to sit near you; she wants me
to check any threatened outbreak of your foreign peculiarities."

"Ellen, what do you mean? I didn't say anything of the sort, Henry. It
could make no difference where my mother's people were brought up. The
Craigs always knew how to conduct themselves."

"Oh, yes," Witherspoon spoke up, "the Craigs were undoubtedly all
right, but we are dealing with live issues now. Henry, we'll go down
to the store this morning"--

"So soon?" his wife interrupted.

"So soon?" the merchant repeated. "What do you mean by so soon? Won't
it be time to go?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so."

"And where do I come in?" asked the girl.

"You can go if you insist," said Witherspoon, "but there are matters
that he and I must arrange at once. We've got to fix up some sort of
statement for the newspapers; can't keep this thing a secret, you
know, and a tailor must be consulted. Your clothes are all right, my
son," he quickly added, "but--well, you understand."

Henry understood, but he had thought when he left New Orleans that he
was well dressed. And now for a moment he felt ragged.

"When shall we have the reception?" Ellen asked.

"The reception," Henry repeated, looking up in alarm.

"Why, listen to him," the girl cried. "Don't you know that we must
give a reception? Why, we couldn't get along without it; society would
cut us dead. Think how nice it will be--invitations with 'To meet Mr.
Henry Witherspoon' on them."

"Must I go through that?" Henry asked, appealing to Mrs. Witherspoon.

"Of course you must, but not until the proper time."

"Why, it will be just splendid," the girl declared. "You ought to have
seen me the night society smiled and said, 'Well, we will now permit
you to be one of us.' Oh, the idea of not showing you off, now that
we've caught you, is ridiculous. You needn't appeal to mother. You
couldn't keep her from parading you up and down in the presence of her
friends."

He was looking at Mrs. Witherspoon. She smiled with more of humor than
he had seen her face express, and thus delivered her opinion: "If we
had no reception, people would think that we were ashamed of our son."

"All right, mother; if you want your friends to meet the wild man of
Borneo who has just come to town, I have nothing more to say. Your
word shall be a law with me; but I must tell you that whenever you
make arrangements into which I enter, you must remember that society
and I have had scarcely a hat-tipping acquaintance. I may know many
things that society never even dreamed of, but some of society's
simplest phases are dangerous mysteries to me."

"Nonsense," said Witherspoon. "Society may rule a poor man, but a rich
man rules society. Common sense always commands respect, for nearly
every rule that governs the conduct of man is founded upon it. Don't
you worry about the reception or anything else. You are a man of the
world, and to such a man society is a mere plaything."

"Well," replied Ellen, wrinkling her handsome brow with a frown, "I
must say that you preach an odd sort of sermon. Society is supposed to
hold the culture and the breeding of a community, sir."

"Yes, supposed to," Witherspoon agreed.

"Oh, well, if you question it I won't argue with you." And giving
Henry a meaning look, she continued: "Of course business is first. Art
drops on its worn knees and prays to business, and literature begs it
for a mere nod. Everything is the servant of business."

"Everything in Chicago is," the merchant replied.

"Art is the old age of trade," said Henry. "A vigorous nation buys and
sells and fights; but a nation that is threatened with decay paints
and begs."

"Good!" Witherspoon exclaimed. "I think you've hit it squarely. Since
we went to Europe, Ellen has had an idea that trade is rather low in
the scale of human interest."

"Now, father, I haven't any such idea, and you know it, too. But I do
think that people who spend their lives in getting money can't be as
refined as those who have a higher aim."

Witherspoon grunted. "What do you call a higher aim? Hanging about a
picture gallery and simpering over a lot of long-haired fellows in
outlandish dress, ha? Is it refinement to worship a picture simply
because you are not able to buy it? Some people rave over art, and we
buy it and hang it up at home."

She laughed, and slipping off her chair, ran round to her father and
put her arms about his neck. "I can always stir you up, can't I?"

"You can when you talk that way," he answered.

"But you know I don't mean that you aren't refined. Who could be more
gentle than you are? But you must let me enjoy an occasional mischief.
My mother's people, the Craigs, were all full of mischief, and"

"Ellen," said her mother.

Witherspoon laughed, and reaching back, pretended to pull the girl's
ears. "Am I going down town with you?" she asked.

"No, not this morning. I'm going to drive Henry down in the light
buggy. My boy, I've got as fine a span of bay horses as you ever saw.
Cost me five thousand apiece. That's art for you; eh, Ellen?"

"They are beautiful," she admitted.

"Yes, and strung up with pride. Get ready, Henry, and we'll go."

When Witherspoon gathered up the lines and with the whip touched one
of the horses, both jumped as though startled by the same impulse.

"There's grace for you," said Witherspoon. "Look how they plant their
fore feet."

Henry did not answer. He was looking back at a palace, his home; and
he, too, was touched with a whip--the thrilling whip of pride. It
lasted but a moment. His memory threw up a home for the friendless,
and upon a background of hunger, squalor and wretchedness his fancy
flashed the picture of an Italian hag, crooning and toothless.

"We'll turn into Michigan here," said the merchant. "Isn't this a
great thoroughfare? Yonder is where we lived before we built our new
house. Just think what this will be when these elms are old." They
sped along the smooth drive. "Ho, boys! Business is creeping out this
way, and that is the reason I got over on Prairie. See, that man has
turned his residence into a sort of store. A little farther along you
will see fashionable humbuggery of all sorts. These are women fakes
along here. Ho, boys, ho! There's where old man Colton lives. We'll
meet him at the store. In the Colossus Company he is next to me. Smart
old fellow, but he worked many years in the hammer-and-tongs way, and
he probably never would have done much if he hadn't been shoved. Ho,
boys, _ho_! People ought to be arrested for piling brick in the street
this way. Colton was always afraid of venturing; shuddered at the
thought of risking his money; wanted it where he could lay his hands
on it at any time. Brooks, his son-in-law, is a sort of general
manager over our entire establishment, and he is one of the most
active and useful men I ever saw--bright, quick, characteristically
American. I think you'll like him. That place over there"--cutting his
whip toward an old frame house scalloped and corniced in fantastic
flimsiness--"was sold the other day at about thirty per cent more than
it would have brought a few years ago."

They turned into another street and were taken up, it seemed, by the
swift trade currents that swirl at morning, rush through the noon,
glide past the evening and rest for a time in the semi-calm of
midnight. Chicago has begun to set the pace of a nervous nation's
progress. It is a city whose growth has proved a fatal example to many
an overweaning town. Materialistic, it holds no theory that points not
to great results; adventurous, it has small patience with methods that
slowness alone has stamped as legitimate. Worshiping a deification of
real estate, and with a rude aristocracy building upon the blood of
the sow and the tallow of the bull, its atmosphere discourages one
artist while inviting another to rake up the showered rewards of a
"boom" patronage. Feeling that naught but sleepiness and sloth should
be censured, it resents even a kindly criticism. Quick to recognize
the feasibility of a scheme; giving money, but holding time as a
sacred inheritance. It is a re-gathering of the forces that peopled
America and then made her great among nations; a mighty community with
a growing literary force and with its culture and its real love for
the beautiful largely confined to the poor in purse; grand in a
thousand respects; with its history glaring upon the black sky of
night; with the finest boulevards in America and the filthiest
alleys--a giant in need of a bath.

The Colossus stood as a towering island with "a tide in the affairs of
men" sweeping past. And it seemed to Henry that the buggy was cast
ashore as a piece of driftwood that touches land and finds a lodgment.
At an earlier day, and not so long ago either, the flaw of unconscious
irony might have been picked in the name Colossus, but now the
establishment, covering almost a block and rising story upon story,
filled in the outlines of its pretentious christening.

"Tap, tap, tap--cash, 46; tap, tap--cash, 63," was the leading strain
in this din of extensive barter and petty transaction. The Colossus
boasted that it could meet every commercial demand; supply a
sewing-machine needle or set up a saw-mill; receipt for gas bills and
water rates or fit out a general store. Under one roof it held the
resources of a city. Henry was startled by its immensity, and as he
followed Witherspoon through labyrinths of bright gauzes and avenues
of somber goods, he perceived that a change in the tone of the hum
announced the approach of the master. And it appeared that, no matter
what a girl might be doing, she began hurriedly to do something else
the moment she spied Witherspoon coming toward her. The quick signs of
flirtation, signals along the downward track of morality, subsided
whenever this ruler came within sight; and the smirk bargain-counter
miss would actually turn from the grinning idiocy of the bullet-headed
fellow who had come in to admire her and would deign to wait on a
poorly dressed woman who had failed to attract her attention.

The offices of the management were on the first floor, and Henry was
conducted thither and shown into Witherspoon's private apartment--into
the calico, bombazine, hardware and universal nick-nack holy of
holies. The room was not fitted up for show, but for business. Its
furniture consisted mainly of a roll-top desk, a stamp with its handle
sticking up like the tail of an excited cat, a dingy carpet and
several chairs of a shape so ungenial to the human form as to suggest
that a hint at me desirability of a visitor's early withdrawal might
have been incorporated in their construction.

"I will see if Colton has come down," Witherspoon remarked, glancing
through a door into another room. "Yes, there he is. He's coming. Mr.
Colton," said Witherspoon, with deep impressiveness, "this is my son
Henry."

The old man bowed with a politeness in which there was a reminder of a
slower and therefore a more courteous day, and taking the hand which
Henry cordially offered him, said: "To meet you affects me profoundly,
sir. Of course I am acquainted with your early history, and this adds
to the interest I feel in you; but aside from this, to meet a son of
George Witherspoon must necessarily give me great pleasure."

"Brother Colton is from Maryland," Witherspoon remarked, and a sudden
shriveling about the old man's mouth told that he was smiling at what
he had long since learned to believe was a capital hit of playfulness.
And he bowed, grabbled up a dingy handkerchief that dangled from him
somewhere, wiped off his shriveled smile, and then declared that if
frankness was a mark of the Marylander, he should always be glad to
acknowledge his native State.

Brooks, Colton's son-in-law, now came in. This man, while a
floor-walker in a dry-goods store, had attracted Witherspoon's notice,
and a position in the Colossus, at that time an experiment, was given
him. He recognized the demands of his calling, and he strove to fit
himself to them. Several years later he married Miss Colton, and now
he was in a position of such confidence that many schemes for the
broadening of trade and for the pleasing of the public's changeful
fancy were entrusted to his management. He was of a size which
appears to set off clothes to the best advantage. His face was pale
and thoughtful, and he had the shrewd faculty of knowing when to
smile. His eyes were of such a bulge as to give him a spacious range
of vision without having to turn his head, and while moving about in
the discharge of his duty, he often saw sudden situations that were
not intended for his entertainment.

Brooks was prepared for the meeting, and conducted himself with a
dignity that would have cast no discredit upon the ablest floor-walker
in Christendom. He had known that he could not fail to be impressed by
one so closely allied by blood to Mr. George Witherspoon, but really
he had not expected to meet a man of so distinguished a bearing, a
traveler and a scholar, no doubt.

"Traveler enough to know that I have seen but little, and scholar
enough to feel my ignorance," Henry replied.

"Oh, you do yourself an injustice, I am sure, but you do it
gracefully. We shall meet often, of course. Mr. Witherspoon," he
added, addressing the head of the Colossus, "we have just arrested
that Mrs. McNutt."

"How's that? What Mrs. McNutt?"

"Why, the woman who was suspected of shop-lifting. This time we caught
her in the act."

"Ah, hah. Have you sent her away?"

"Not yet. She begs for an interview with you--says she can explain
everything."

"Don't want to see her; let her explain to the law."

"That's what I told her, sir."

Brooks bowed and withdrew. Old man Colton was already at his desk.

"Now, my son," said Witherspoon, aimlessly fumbling with some papers
on his desk, "I should think that the first thing to be attended to is
that statement for the newspapers. Wait a moment, and we will consult
Brooks. He knows more in that line than any one else about the place."
He tapped a bell. "Mr. Brooks," he said when a boy appeared. Brooks
came, and Witherspoon explained.

"Ah, I see," said Brooks. "You don't want to give it to any one paper,
for that isn't business. We'll draw off a statement and send it to the
City Press Association, and then it will be given out to all the
papers."

"That is a capital idea; you will help us get it up."

"Yes, sir," said Brooks, bowing.

"That will not be necessary," Henry protested, unable to disguise his
disapproval of the arrangement. "I can write it in a very short time."

"Ah," Witherspoon replied, "but Brooks is used to such work. He writes
our advertisements."

"But this isn't an advertisement, and I prefer to write it."

"Of course, if you can do it satisfactorily, but I should think that
it would be better if done by a practiced hand."

"I think so too," Henry rejoined, "and for that reason I recommend my
own hand. I have worked on newspapers."

"That so? It may be fortunate so far as this one instance is
concerned, but as a general thing I shouldn't recommend it. Newspaper
men have such loose methods, as a rule, that they never accomplish
much when they turn their attention to business."

Henry laughed, but the merchant had spoken with such seriousness that
he was not disposed to turn it off with a show of mirth. His face
remained thoughtful, and he said: "We had several newspaper men about
here, and not one of them amounted to anything. Brooks, your services
will not be needed. In fact, two of them were dishonest," he added,
when Brooks had quitted the room. "They were said to be good newspaper
men, too. One of them came with 'Journalist' printed on his card; had
solicited advertisements for nearly every paper in town. They were all
understood to be good solicitors."

"What," said Henry, "were they simply advertising solicitors?"

"Why, yes; and they were said to be good ones."

"But you must know, sir, that an advertising solicitor is not a
newspaper man. It makes me sick--I beg your pardon. But it does rile
me to hear that one of these fellows has called himself a newspaper
man. Of course there are honest and able men in that employment, but
they are not to be classed with men whose learning, judgment and
strong mental forces make a great newspaper."

So new a life sprang into his voice, and so strong a conviction
emphasized his manner, that Witherspoon, for the first time, looked on
him with a sort of admiration.

"Well, you seem to be loaded on this subject."

"Yes, but not offensively so, I hope. Now, give me the points you want
covered."

"All right; sit here."

Henry took Witherspoon's chair; the merchant walked up and down the
room. The points were agreed upon, and the writer was getting well
along with his work when Witherspoon suddenly paused in his walk and
said to some one outside: "Show him in here."

A pale and restless-looking young man with green neckwear entered the
room. "Now, sir," the merchant demanded somewhat sharply, "what do you
want with me? You have been here three or four times, I understand.
What do you want?"

"We are not alone," the young man answered, glancing at Henry.

"State your business or get out."

"Well, it's rather a delicate matter, sir, and I didn't want anything
to do with it, but we don't always have our own way, you know. Er--the
editor of the paper"--

"What paper?"

"The _Weekly Call_. The editor sent me with instructions to ask you if
this is true?"

He handed a proof-slip to the merchant, and Henry saw Witherspoon's
face darken as he read it. The next moment the great merchant stormed:
"There isn't a word of truth in it. It is an infamous lie from start
to finish."

"I told him I didn't think it was true," said the young man, "but he
talked as if he believed it; remarked that you never advertised with
him anyway."

"Advertise with him! Why, I didn't know until this minute that such a
paper existed. How much of an advertisement does he expect?"

"Hold on a moment!" Henry cried. "Let me kick this fellow into the
street."

"Nothing rash," said Witherspoon, putting out his hand. "Sit down,
Henry. It will be all right. It's something you don't understand." And
speaking to the visitor, he added: "Send me your rates."

"I have them here, sir," he replied, shying out of Henry's reach. He
handed a card to Witherspoon.

"Let me see, now. Will half a column for a year be sufficient?"

"Well, that's rather a small ad, sir."

Henry got up again. "I think I'd better kick him into the street."

"No, no; sit down there. Let me manage this. Here." The blackmailer
had retreated to the door. "You go back to your editor and tell him
that I will put in a column for one year. Wait. Has anybody seen
this?" he added, holding up the proof-slip.

"Nobody, sir, and I will have the type distributed as soon as I get
back."

"See that you do. Tell Brooks; he will send you the copy. Now get out.
Infamous scoundrel!" he said when the fellow was gone. "But don't say
anything about it at home, for it really amounts to nothing."

He tore the proof-slip into small fragments and threw them into the
spittoon.

"What is it all about?" Henry asked.

"Oh, it's the foulest of fabrication. About a year ago there came a
widow from Washington with a letter from one of our friends, and asked
for a position in the store. Well, we gave her employment, and--and it
is about her; but it really amounts to nothing."

"Why, then, didn't you let me kick the scoundrel into the street?"

"My dear boy, to a man who has the money it is easier to pay than to
explain. The public is greedy for scandal, but looks with suspicion
and coldness upon a correction. One is sweet; the other is tasteless.
The rapid acquisition of wealth is associated with some mysterious
crime, and men who have failed in wild speculations are the first to
cry out against the millionaire. The rich man must pay for the
privilege of being rich."

The statement was sent to the city press. It reminded the public of
the abduction of Henry Witherspoon; touched upon the sensation created
at the time, and upon the long season of interest that had followed;
explained the part which the uncle had played, and delicately gave his
cause for playing it. And the return of the wanderer was set forth
with graphic directness.

At noon the merchant and Henry ate luncheon in a club where thick rugs
hushed a foot-fall into a mere whisper of a walk, where servants,
grave of countenance and low of voice, seemed to underscore the
chilliness of the place. Henry was introduced to a number of
astonished men, who said that they welcomed him home, and who
immediately began to talk about something else; and he was shown
through the large library, where a solitary man sat looking at the
pictures in a comic weekly. After leaving the club they went to a
tailor's shop, and then drove over the boulevards and through the
parks. Witherspoon, with no pronounced degree of pride, had conducted
Henry through the Colossus; he had been pleased, of course, at the
young man's astonishment, and he must have been moved by a strong
surge of self-glorification when his son wondered at the broadness of
the Witherspoon empire, yet he had held in a strong subjection all
signs of an unseemly pride. But when he struck the boulevard system,
his dignified reserve went to pieces.

"Finest on earth; no doubt about that. Oh, of course, many years of
talk and thousands of pages of print have paved the Paris boulevards
with peculiar interest, but wipe out association, and where would they
be in comparison with these? Look at that stretch. And a few years ago
this land could have been picked up for almost nothing. Look at those
flowers."

It was now past midsummmer, but no suggestion of a coming blight lay
upon the flower-beds. "Look at those trees. Why, in time they will
knock the New Haven elms completely out."




CHAPTER IX.

THE INTERVIEWERS.


When they reached home at evening they found that five reporters had
been shown into the library and were waiting for them.

"Glad to see you, gentlemen," said Witherspoon, smiling in his way of
pleasant dismissal, "but really that statement contains all that it is
necessary for the public to know. We don't want to make a sensation of
it, you understand."

"Of course not," one of the newspaper men replied.

"And," said the merchant, with another smile, "I don't know what else
can be said."

But the smile had missed its aim. The attention of the visitors was
settled upon Henry. There was no chance for separate interviews, and
questions were asked by first one and then another.

"You had no idea that your parents were alive?"

"Not until after my uncle's death."

"Had he ever told you why you were in his charge?"

"Yes; he said that at the death of my parents I had been given to
him."

"You of course knew the story of the mysterious disappearance of Henry
Witherspoon."

"Yes; when a boy I had read something about it."

"In view of the many frauds that had been attempted, hadn't you a
fear that your father might he suspicious of you?"

"No; I had forwarded letters and held proof that could not be
disputed. The mystery was cleared up."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be twenty-five next--next"--

"December the fourteenth," Witherspoon answered for him.

"The truth is," said Henry, "uncle did not remember the exact date of
my birth."

"Was your uncle a man of means?"

"Well, I can hardly say that he was. He speculated considerably, and
though he was never largely successful, yet he always managed to live
well."

"Were you engaged in any sort of employment?"

"Yes, at different times I was a reporter."

"It is not necessary that the public should know all this," said
Witherspoon.

"But we can't help it," Henry replied. "The statement we sent out
would simply serve to hone and strap public curiosity to a keen edge.
I expected something of this sort. The only thing to do is to get
through with it as soon as we can."

When the interview was ended Henry went to the front door with the
reporters, and at parting said to them: "I hope to see you again,
gentlemen, and doubtless I shall. I am one of you."

At dinner that evening Witherspoon was in high spirits. He joked--a
recreation rare with him--and he told a story--a mental excursion of
marked uncommonness.

"What, Henry, don't you drink wine at all?" the merchant asked.

"No, sir, I stand in mortal fear of it." The vision of a drunken
painter, he always fancied, hung like a fog between him and the liquor
glass.

"It's well enough, my son."

"None of the Craigs were drunkards," said Ellen, giggling.

"Ellen," Mrs. Witherspoon solemnly enjoined, "my mother's people shall
not be made sport of. It is true that there were no drunkards among
them. And why?"

"Because none of them got drunk, I should think," Henry ventured to
suggest.

"That, of course, was one reason, my son, but the main reason was that
they knew how to govern themselves."

The evening flew away with music and with talk of a long ago made
doubly dear by present happiness. The hour was growing late.
Witherspoon and Henry sat in the library, smoking. Ellen had gone to
her room to draft a form for the invitation to Henry's reception, and
Mrs. Witherspoon was on a midnight prowl throughout the house, and
although knowing that everything was right, yet surprised to find it
so.

"Now, my boy," said the merchant, "we will talk business. Your mother,
and particularly your sister, thought it well for me to make you an
allowance, and while I don't object to the putting of money aside for
you, yet I should rather have you feel the manliness which comes of
drawing a salary for services rendered. That is more American. You see
how useful Brooks has made himself. Now, why can't you work yourself
into a similar position? In the future, the charge of the entire
establishment may devolve upon you. All that a real man wants is a
chance, and such a chance as I now urge upon you falls to the lot of
but few young men. Had such an opportunity been given to me when I was
young, I should have regarded myself as one specially favored by the
partial goddess of fortune."

He was now walking up and down the room. He spoke with fervor, and
Henry saw how strong he was and wondered not at his great success.

"I don't often resort to figures of speech," Witherspoon continued,
"but even the most practical man feels sometimes that illustration is
a necessity. Words are the trademarks of the goods stored in the mind,
and a flashy expression proclaims the flimsy trinket."

Was his unwonted indulgence in wine at dinner playing rhetorical
tricks with his mind?

"I spoke just now of the partial goddess of fortune," the merchant
continued, "in the hope that I might impress you with a deplorable
truth. Fortune is vested with a peculiar discrimination. It appears
more often to favor the unjust than the just. Ability and a life of
constant wooing do not always win success, for luck, the factotum of
fortune, often bestows in one minute a success which a life-time of
stubborn toil could not have achieved. Therefore, I say to you, think
well of your position, and instead of drawing idly upon your great
advantage, add to it. Successful men are often niggardly of advice,
while the prattling tongue nearly always belongs to failure;
therefore, when a successful man does advise, heed him. I think that I
should have succeeded in nearly any walk of life. Sturdy New England
stock, the hard necessity for thrift, and the practical common school
fitted me to push my way to the front. Don't think that I am boasting.
It is no more of vanity for one to say 'I have succeeded' than to say
'I will succeed.'" He paused a moment and stood near Henry's chair.
"You have the chance to become what I cannot be--one of the wealthiest
men in this country." He sat down, and leaning back in his
leather-covered chair, stretched forth his legs and crossed his
slippered feet. He looked at Henry.

"To some men success is natural, and to others it is impossible,"
Henry replied. "I can well see that prosperity could not long have
kept beyond your reach. Your mind led you in a certain direction, and
instead of resisting, you gladly followed it. You say that you should
have been a success in any walk of life, and while it is true that you
would have made money, it does not follow that you would have found
that contentment which is beyond all earthly price. I admit that the
opportunity which you offer me is one of rarest advantage, but knowing
myself, I feel that in accepting it I should be doing you an
injustice. It may be so strange to you that you can't understand it,
yet I haven't a single commercial instinct; and to be frank with you,
that great store would be a penitentiary to me. Wait a moment."
Witherspoon had bounded to his feet. "I am willing to do almost
anything," Henry continued, "but I can't consent to a complete
darkening of my life. I admit that I am peculiar, and shall not
dispute you in your belief that my mind is not strong, but I am firm
when it comes to purpose. To hear one say that he doesn't care to be
the richest man in the country may strike you as the utterance of a
fool, and yet I am compelled to say it. I don't want you to make me an
allowance. I don't want"--

"What in God's name do you want, sir!" Witherspoon exclaimed. He was
walking up and down the room, not with the regular paces which had
marked his stroll a few moments before, but with the uneven tread of
anger. "What in God's name can you ask?"

He turned upon Henry, and standing still, gave him a look of hard
inquiry.

"I ask nothing in God's name, and surely nothing in my own. I knew
that this would put you out, and I dreaded it, but it had to come.
Suppose that at my age the opportunity to manage a cattle ranch had
been offered you."

"I would have taken it; I would have made it the biggest cattle ranch
in the country. It galls me, sir, it galls me to see my own children
sticking up their noses at honest employment."

"Pardon me, but so far as I am concerned you are wrong. I seek honest
employment. But what is the most honest employment? Any employment
that yields an income? No; but the work that one is best fitted for
and which is therefore the most satisfactory. If you had shaped my
early life"--

"Andrew was a fool!" Witherspoon broke in. "He was crazy."

"But he was something of a gentleman, sir."

"Gentleman!" Witherspoon snorted; "he was the worst of all thieves--a
child-stealer."

"And had you been entirely blameless, sir?"

"What! and do you reproach me? Now look here." He pointed a shaking
finger at Henry. "Don't you ever hint at such a thing again. My God,
this is disgraceful!" he muttered, resuming his uneven walk. "My hopes
were so built up. Now you knock them down. What the devil do you
want, sir!" he exclaimed, wheeling about.

"I will tell you if you will listen."

"Oh, yes, of course you will. It will no doubt do you great good to
humiliate me."

"When you feel, sir, that I am humiliating you, one word is all you
need to say."

"What's that? Come now, no foolish threats. What is it you want to
do?"

"I have an idea," Henry answered, "that I could manage a newspaper."

"The devil you have."

"Yes, the devil I have, if you insist. I am a newspaper man and I like
the work. It holds a fascination for me while everything else is dull.
Now, I have a proposal to make, not a modest one, perhaps, but one
which I hope you will patiently consider--if you can. It would be easy
for you to get control of some afternoon newspaper. I can take charge
of it, and in time pay back the money you invest. I don't ask you to
give me a cent."

The merchant was about to reply, when Mrs. Witherspoon entered the
room. "Why, what is the matter?" she asked.

Witherspoon resumed his seat, shoved his hands deep into his pockets,
stretched forth his legs, crossed his feet and nervously shook them.

"What is the matter?" she repeated.

"Everything's the matter," Witherspoon declared. "I have
suggested"--he didn't say demanded--"that Henry should go into the
store and gradually take charge of the whole thing, and he positively
refuses. He wants to ran a newspaper." The merchant grunted and shook
his feet.

"But is there anything so bad about that?" she asked. "I am sure it is
no more than natural. My uncle Louis used to write for the Salem
_Monitor_."

He looked at her--he did not say a word, but he looked at her.

"And Uncle Harvey"--

He grunted, flounced out of his chair and quitted the room.

"Mother," said Henry, getting up and taking her hand, "I am grieved
that this dispute arose. I know that he is set in his ways, and it is
unfortunate that I was compelled to cross him, but it had to come
sooner or later."

"I am very sorry, but I don't blame you, my son. If you don't want to
go into the store, why should you?"

They heard Witherspoon's jolting walk, up and down the hall.

"You have but one life here on this earth," she said, "and I don't see
why you should make that one life miserable by engaging in something
that is distasteful to you. But if your father has a fault it is that
he believes every one should think as he does. Don't say anything more
to him to-night."

When Henry went out Witherspoon was still walking up and down the
hall. They passed, but took not the slightest notice of each other.
How different from the night before. Henry lay awake, thinking of the
dead boy, and pictured his eternal sleeping-place, hard by the stormy
sea.




CHAPTER X.

ROMPED WITH THE GIRL.


The morning was heavy and almost breathless. The smoke of the city
hung low in the streets. Henry had passed through a dreamful and
uneasy sleep. He thought it wise to remain in his room until the
merchant was gone down town, and troublously he had begun to doze
again when Ellen's voice aroused him. "Come on down!" she cried,
tapping on the door. "You just ought to see what the newspapers have
said about you. Everybody in the neighborhood is staring at us. Come
on down."

Witherspoon was sitting on a sofa with a pile of newspapers beside
him. He looked up as Henry entered, and in the expression of his face
there was no displeasure to recall the controversy of the night
before.

"Well, sir," said he, "they have given you a broad spread."

The reporters had done their work well. It was a great sensation.
Henry was variously described. One report said that he had a
dreaminess of eye that was not characteristic of this strong,
pragmatic family; another declared him to be "tall, rather handsome,
black-bearded, and with the quiet sense of humor that belongs to the
temperament of a modest man." One reporter had noticed that his
Southern-cut clothes did not fit him.

"He might have said something nicer than that," Ellen remarked, with
a natural protest against this undue familiarity.

"I don't know why we should be spoken of as a pragmatic family," said
Mrs. Witherspoon. "Of course your father has always been in business,
but I don't see"--

Witherspoon began to grunt. "It's all right," said he. "It's all
right." He had to say something. "Come, I must get down town."

"Shall I go with you?" Henry asked.

For a moment Witherspoon was silent. "Not unless you want to," he
answered.

They sat down to breakfast. Henry nervously expected another outbreak.
The merchant began to say something, but stopped on a half utterance
and cleared his throat. "It is coming," Henry thought.

"I have studied over our talk of last night," said Witherspoon, "and
while I won't say that you may be right, or have any excuse for
presuming that you are right, I am inclined to indulge that wild
scheme of yours for a while. My impression is that you'll soon get
sick of it."

Mrs. Witherspoon looked at him thankfully. "And you will give him a
chance, father," she said.

"Didn't I say I would? Isn't that exactly what I said? Gracious alive,
don't make me out a grinding and unyielding monster. We'll look round,
Henry, and see what can be done. Brooks may know of some opening.
You'd better rest here to-day."

"I am deeply grateful, sir, for the concession you have made," Henry
replied. "I know how you feel on the subject, and I regret"--

"All right."

"Regret that I was forced"--

"I said it was all right."

"Forced to oppose you, but I don't think that you'll have cause to
feel ashamed of me."

"You have already made me feel proud of your manliness," said
Witherspoon.

Henry bowed, and Mrs. Witherspoon gave her husband an impulsive look
of gratitude. The merchant continued:

"You have refused my offer, but you have not presumed upon your own
position. Sincerity expects a reward, as a rule, and when a man is
sincere at his own expense, there is something about him to admire.
You don't prefer to live idly--to draw on me--and I should want no
stronger proof that you are, indeed, my son. It is stronger than the
gold chain you brought home with you, for that might have been found;
but manly traits are not to be picked up; they come of inheritance.
Well, I must go. I will speak to Brooks and see if anything can be
done."

Rain began to fall. How full of restful meditation was this
dripping-time, how brooding with half-formed, languorous thoughts that
begin as an idea and end as a reverie. Sometimes a soothing spirit
which the sun could not evoke from its boundless fields of light comes
out of the dark bosom of a cloud. A bright day promises so much, so
builds our hopes, that our keenest disappointments seem to come on a
radiant morning, but on a dismal day, when nothing has been promised,
a straggling pleasure is accidentally found and is pressed the closer
to the senses because it was so unexpected.

To Henry came the conviction that he was doing his duty, and yet he
could not at times subdue the feeling that pleasant environment was
the advocate that had urged this decision. But he refused to argue
with himself. Sometimes he strode after Mrs. Witherspoon as she went
about the house, and he knew that she was happy because be followed
her; and up and down the hall he romped with Ellen. They termed it a
frolic that they should have enjoyed years ago, and they laughingly
said that from the past they would snatch their separated childhood
and blend it now. It was a back-number pleasure, they agreed, but
that, like an old print, it held a charm in its quaintness. She
brought out a doll that had for years been asleep in a little blue
trunk. "Her name is Rose," she said, and with a broad ribbon she
deftly made a cap and put it on the doll's head. After a while Rose
was put to sleep again--the bright little mummy of a child's
affection, Henry called her--and the playmates became older. She told
him of the many suitors that had sought to woo her; of rich men; of
poor young fellows who strove to keep time to the quick-changing tune
of fashion; of moon-impressed youths who measured their impatient
yearning.

"And when are you going to let one of them take you away?" Henry
asked. Holding his hand, she had led him in front of a mirror.

"Oh, not at all," she answered, smiling at herself and then at him. "I
haven't fallen in love with anybody yet."

"And is that necessary?"

"Why, you know it is, goose. I'd be a pretty-looking thing to marry a
man I didn't love, wouldn't I?"

"You are a pretty thing anyway."

"Oh, do you really think so?"

"I know it."

"You are making fun of me. If you had met me accidentally, would you
have thought so?"

"Surely; my eyes are always open to the truth."

"If I could meet such a man as you are I could love him--'with a
dreaminess of eye not characteristic of this strong, pragmatic
family.'"

She broke away from him, but he caught her. "If I were not related to
you," he said, "I would be tempted to kiss you."

"Oh, you'd be _tempted_ to kiss me, would you? If you were not related
to me I wouldn't let you, but as it is--there!"

His blood tingled. Her hair was falling about her shoulders. For a
moment it was a strife for him to believe that she was his sister.

"Beautiful," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "Somebody
said that the glory of a woman is her hair; and it is true. It is a
glory that always catches me."

"Does it? Well, I must put up my glory before papa comes. Oh, you are
such a romp; but I was just a little afraid of you at first, you were
so sedate and dreamy of eye."

She ran away from him, and looking back with mischief in her eyes, she
hummed a schottish, and keeping time to it, danced up the stairway.

When Witherspoon came to dinner he said that he had consulted Brooks
and that the resourceful manager knew of a possible opening.

The owner of the _Star_, a politician who had been foolish enough to
suppose that with the control of an editorial page he could illumine
his virtues and throw darkness over his faults, was willing to part
with his experiment. "I think that we can get it at a very reasonable
figure," said Witherspoon. And after a moment's silence he added:
"Brooks can pull you a good many advertisements in a quiet way, and
possibly the thing may be made to turn oat all right. But I tell you
again that I am very much disappointed. Your place is with me--but we
won't talk about it. How came you to take up that line of work?"

"I began by selling newspapers."

Mrs. Witherspoon sighed, and the merchant asked: "And did Andrew urge
it?"

"Oh, no. In fact I was a reporter before he knew anything about it."

Witherspoon grunted. "I should have thought," said he, "that your
uncle would have looked after you with more care. Did you receive a
regular course of training?" Henry looked at him. "At school, I mean."

"Yes, in an elementary way. Afterward I studied in the public
library."

"A good school, but not cohesive," Witherspoon replied. "A thousand
scraps of knowledge don't make an education."

"Father, you remember my uncle Harvey," said Mrs. Witherspoon.

"Hum, yes, I remember him."

"Well, his education did not prevent his having a thousand scraps of
knowledge."

"I should think not," Witherspoon replied. "No man's knowledge
interferes with his education."

"My uncle Harvey knew nearly everything," Mrs. Witherspoon went on.
"He could make a clock; and he was one of the best school teachers in
the country. I shouldn't think that education consists in committing a
few rules to memory."

"No, Caroline, not in the committing of a thousand rules to memory,
but without rule there is no complete education."

"I shouldn't think that there could be a complete education anyway,"
she rejoined, in a tone which Henry knew was meant in defense of
himself.

"Of course not," said the merchant, and turning from the subject as
from something that could interest him but little, he again took up
the newspaper project. "We'll investigate that matter to-morrow, and
if you are still determined to go into it, the sooner the better. My
own opinion is that you will soon get tired of it, in view of the
better advantages that I urge upon you, for the worries of an
experimental concern will serve to strengthen my proposal."

"I am resolved that in the end it shall cost you nothing," Henry
replied.

"Hum, we'll see about that. But whatever you do, do it earnestly, for
a failure in one line does not argue success in another direction. In
business it is well to beware of men who have failed. They bring bad
luck. Without success there may be vanity, but there can be but little
pride, little self-respect."

Henry moved uneasily in his chair. "But among those who have failed,"
he replied, "we often find the highest types of manhood."

"Nonsense," rejoined the merchant. "That is merely a poetic idea. What
do you mean by the highest type of manhood? Men whose theories have
all been proved to be wrong? Great men have an aim and accomplish it.
America is a great country, and why? Because it is prosperous."

"I don't mean that failure necessarily implies that a man's aim has
been high," said Henry, "neither do I think that financial success is
greatness. But our views are at variance and I fear that we shall
never be able to reconcile them. I may be wrong, and it is more than
likely that I am. At times I feel that there is nothing in the entire
scheme of life. If a man is too serious we call him a pessimist; if he
is too happy we know that he is an idiot."

"Henry, you are too young a man to talk that way."

"My son," said Mrs. Witherspoon, "the Lord has made us for a special
purpose, and we ought not to question His plans."

"No, mother," Ellen spoke up, "but we should like to know something
about that especial part of the plan which relates to us."

"My daughter, this is not a question for you to discuss. Your duty in
this life is so clearly marked out that there can be no mistake about
it. With my son it has unfortunately been different."

The girl smiled. "A woman's duty is not so clearly marked out now as
it used to be, mother. As long as man was permitted to mark it out her
duty was clear enough--to him."

"Hum!" Witherspoon grunted, "we are about to have a woman's
advancement session. Will you please preside?" he added, nodding at
Ellen. She laughed at him. He continued: "After a while Vassar will be
nothing but a woman's convention. Henry, we will go down to-morrow and
look after that newspaper."




CHAPTER XI.

ACKNOWLEDGED BY SOCIETY.


The politician was surprised. He had not supposed that any one even
suspected that he wanted to get rid of the _Star_; indeed, he was not
aware that the public knew of his ownership of that paper. It was a
very valuable piece of property; but unfortunately his time was so
taken up with other matters that he could not give it the attention it
deserved. Its circulation was growing every day, and with proper
management its influence could be extended to every corner of the
country. Witherspoon replied that he was surprised to hear that the
paper was doing so well. He did not often see a copy of it. The
politician and the merchant understood each other, and the bargain was
soon brought to a close.

And now the time for the reception was at hand. A florist's wagon
stood in front of the door, and the young man thought, "This is my
funeral." Every preparation gave him a shudder. Ellen laughed at him.

"It's well enough for you to laugh," said he, "for you are safe in the
amphitheater while I am in the ring with the bull."

"Why, you great big goose, is anybody going to hurt you?"

"No; and that's the trouble. If somebody were to hurt me, I could
relieve myself of embarrassment by taking up revenge."

At the very eleventh hour of preparation he was not only reconciled
to the affliction of a reception, but appeared rather to look with
favor upon the affair. And it was this peculiar reasoning that brought
him round: "I am here in place of another. I am not known. I am as a
writer who hides behind a pen-name."

The evening came with a rumble of carriages. An invitation to a
reception means, "Come and be pleased. Frowns are to be left at home."
The difference between one society gathering and another is the
difference that exists between two white shoes--one may be larger than
the other. Witherspoon was lordly, and in his smile a stranger might
have seen a life of generosities. And with what a welcoming dignity he
took the hand that in its time had cut the throats of a thousand hogs.
Diamonds gleamed in the mellowed light, and there were smiles none the
less radiant for having been carefully trained. The evening was warm.
There was a wing-like movement of feathered fans. Scented time was
flying away.

The guests were gone, and Henry sat in his room. He had thrown off the
garments which convention had prescribed, and now, with his feet on a
table, he sat smoking an old black pipe that he had lolled with on the
mountains of Costa Rica. The night which was now ending waved back for
review. Ellen, beautiful in an empire gown, golden yellow, brocaded
satin. "Why did you try to dodge this?" she had asked in a whisper.
"You are the most self-possessed man in the house. Can't you see how
proud we all are of you? I have never seen mother so happy."

The perfume of praise was in the air. "Oh, I think your brother is
just charming," a young woman had said to Ellen, and Henry had caught
the words.

"He is like my mother's people." Mrs. Witherspoon was talking to a
woman whose hair had been grayed and who appeared to enjoy the
distinction of being an invalid. The Coltons and the Brooks contingent
had smeared him with compliments. There was a literary group, and the
titles of a hundred books were mentioned; one writer was charming;
another was horrid. There was the group of household government, and
the servant-girl question, which has never been found in repose, was
tossed from one woman to another and caught as a bag of sweets. In the
library was a commercial and real-estate gathering, and the field of
speculation was broken up, harrowed and seeded down.

The black-bearded muser put his pipe aside, and from this glowing
scene his thoughts flew away into a dark night when he stood in
Ulmata, knocking at the door of a deserted house. He got up and stood
at the window. Sparrows twittered. Threads of gray dawn streaked the
black warp of night.

At morning there was another spread in the newspapers. The wonder of a
few days had spent its force, and the Witherspoon sensation was done.




CHAPTER XII.

A DEMOCRACY.


The _Star_ was printed in an old building where more than one
newspaper had failed. The interior of the place was so comfortless in
arrangement, so subject to unaccountable drafts of cold air in winter
and breaths of hot oppression in summer, that it must have been built
especially for a newspaper office. Henry found that the working force
consisted mainly of a few young reporters and a large force of
editorial writers. The weakness of nearly every newspaper is its
editorial page, and especially so when the paper is owned by a
politician. The new manager straightway began a reorganization. It was
an easy matter to form an efficient staff, for in every city some of
the best newspaper men are out of employment--the bright and uncertain
writers who have been shoved aside by trustworthy plodders. He did not
begin as one who knows it all, but he sought the co-operation of
practical men. The very man who knew that the paper could not do
without him was told that his services were no longer needed. In his
day he had spread many an acre of platitudes; he had hammered the
tariff mummy, and at every lick he had knocked out the black dust; he
had snorted loud in controversy, and was arrogant in the certainty
that his blowhard sentence was the frosty air of satire. He was the
representative of a class. To him all clearness of expression was
shallowness of thought, and brightness was the essence of frivolity.
He soon found another place, for some of the Chicago newspapers still
set a premium upon windy dullness.

Among the writers whom Henry decided to retain was Laura Drury. She
wrote book reviews and scraps which were supposed to be of interest to
women. Her room opened into Henry's, and through a door which was
never shut he could see her at work. The brightness and the modesty of
her face attracted him. She could not have been more than twenty years
of age.

"Have you been long in newspaper work?" he asked, when she had come in
to submit something to him.

"Only a short time," she answered, and returned at once to her desk.
Henry looked at her as she proceeded with her work. Her presence
seemed to refine the entire office. He fancied that her hair made the
room brighter. His curiosity was awakened by one touch of her
presence. He sought to know more of her, and when she had come in
again to consult him, he said: "Wait a moment, please. How long have
you been connected with this paper?"

"About three months, regularly."

"Had you worked on any other paper in the city?"

"No, sir; I have never worked on any other paper."

"Have you lived here long?"

"No, sir, I have been here only a short time. I am from Missouri."

"You didn't come alone, did you?"

She glanced at him quickly and answered: "I came alone, but I live
with my aunt."

She returned to her work, and she must have discovered that he was
watching her, for the next day he saw that she had moved her desk.

Henry had applied for membership in the Press Club, and one morning a
reporter told him that he had been elected.

"Was there any opposition?" the editor asked.

"Not after the boys learned that you had been a reporter. You can go
over at any time and sign the constitution."

"I'll go now. Suppose you come with me."

The Press Club of Chicago is a democracy. Money holds but little
influence within its precincts, for its ablest members are generally
"broke." There are no rules hung on its walls, no cool ceremonies to
be observed. Its atmosphere invites a man to be natural, and warns him
to conceal his vanities. Among that body of men no pretense is sacred.
Here men of Puritan ancestry find it well to curb a puritanical
instinct. A stranger may be shocked by a snort of profanity, but if he
listens he will hear a bright and poetic blending of words rippling
after it. A great preacher, whose sermons are read by the world, sat
one day in the club, uttering the slow and heavy sentences of an
oracle. He touched his finger tips together. He was discoursing on
some phase of life; and an old night police reporter listened for a
moment and said, "Rats!" The great man was startled. Accustomed to
deliver his theories to a silent congregation, he was astonished to
find that his wisdom could so irreverently be questioned. The reporter
meant no disrespect, but he could not restrain his contempt for so
presuming a piece of ignorance. He turned to the preacher and showed
him where his theories were wrong. With a pin he touched the bubble of
the great man's presumption, and it was done kindly, for when the
sage arose to go he said: "I must confess that I have learned
something. I fear that a preacher's library does not contain all that
is worth knowing." And this, more than any of his sermons, proved his
wisdom.

In the Press Club the pulse of the town can be felt, and scandals that
money and social influence have suppressed are known there. The
characters of public men are correctly estimated; snobs are laughed
at; and the society woman who seeks to bribe the press with she
cajolery of a smile is a familiar joke. Of course this is not wholly a
harmonious body, for keen intelligence is never in smooth accord with
itself. To the "kicker" is given the right to "kick," and keen is the
enjoyment of this privilege. Every directory is the worst; every
officer neglects his duty.

Literary societies know but little of this club, for literary
societies despise the affairs of the real worker--they are interested
in the bladdery essay written by the fashionable ass.

Henry was shown into a large room, brightly carpeted and hung with
portraits. On a leather lounge a man lay asleep; at a round table a
man sat, solemnly playing solitaire; and in one corner of the
apartment sat several men, discussing an outrageous clause in the
constitution that Henry had just signed. The new member was introduced
to them. Among the number were John McGlenn, John Richmond and
a shrewd little Yankee named Whittlesy. Of McGlenn's character
a whole book might be written. An individual almost wholly distinct
from his fellow-men; a castigator of human weakness and yet a
hero-worshiper--not the hero of burning powder and fluttering flags,
but any human being whose brain had blazed and lighted the world. Art
was to him the soul of literature. Had he lived two thousand years
ago, as the founder of a peculiar school of philosophy, he might still
be alive. If frankness be a virtue, he was surely a reward unto
himself. He would calmly look into the eyes of a poet and say, "Yes, I
read your poem. Do you expect to keep on attempting to write poetry?
But you may think better of it after a while. I wrote poems when I was
of your age." He did not hate men because they were wealthy, but he
despised the methods that make them rich. His temperament invited a
few people to a close friendship with him, and gently warned many to
keep a respectful distance. Aggressive and cutting he was, and he
often said that death was the best friend of a man who is compelled to
write for a living. He wrote a subscription book for a mere pittance,
and one of the agents that sold it now lives in a mansion. He regarded
present success as nothing to compare with an immortal name in the
ages to come. He was born in the country, and his refined nature
revolted at his rude surroundings, and ever afterward he held the
country in contempt. In later years he had regarded himself simply as
a man of talent, and when this decision had been reached he thought
less of life. If his intellectual character lacked one touch, that
touch would have made him a genius. When applied to him the term
"gentleman" found its befitting place.

Careless observers of men often passed Richmond without taking
particular notice of him. He was rather undersized, and was bald, but
his head was shapely. He was so sensitive that he often assumed a
brusqueness in order not to appear effeminate. His judgment of men
was as swift as the sweep of a hawk, and sometimes it was as sure. He
had taken so many chances, and had so closely noted that something
which we call luck, that he might have been touched a little with
superstition, but his soul was as broad as a prairie, and his mind was
as penetrating as a drill; and a fact must have selected a close
hiding-place to escape his search. Sitting in his room, with his plug
of black tobacco, he had explored the world. Stanley was amazed at his
knowledge of Africa, and Blaine marveled at his acquaintance with
political history.

"We welcome you to our club," McGlenn remarked when Henry had sat
down, "but are you sure that this is the club you wanted to join!"

Henry was surprised. "Of course I am. Why do you ask that question?"

"Because you are a rich man, and this is the home of modesty."

Henry reached over and shook hands with him. "I like that," said he,
"and let me assure you that you have in one sentence made me feel that
I really belong here, not because I am particularly modest, but
because your sentiments are my own. I am not a rich man, but even if I
were I should prefer this group to the hyphenated"--

"Fools," McGlenn suggested.

"Yes," Henry agreed, "the hyphenated fools that I am compelled to
meet. George Witherspoon is a rich man, but his money does not belong
to me. I didn't help him earn any of it; I borrowed money from him,
and, so soon as I can, I shall return it with interest."

"John," said Richmond, "you were wrong--as you usually are--in asking
Mr. Witherspoon that question, but in view of the fact that you
enabled him to put himself so agreeably on record, we will excuse your
lack of courtesy."

"I don't permit any man who goes fishing with any sort of ignorant
lout, and who spends a whole day in a boat with him, to tell me when I
am lacking in courtesy."

Richmond laughed, put his hand to his mouth, threw back his head and
replied: "I go fishing, not for society, but for amusement; and, by
the way, I think it would do you good to go fishing, even with an
ignorant lout. You might learn something."

"Ah," McGlenn rejoined, "you have disclosed the source of much of your
information. You learn from the ignorant that you may confound the
wise."

Richmond put his hand to his mouth. "At some playful time," said he,
"I might seek to confound the wise, but I should never so far forget
myself as to make an experiment on you."

"Mr. Witherspoon," remarked McGlenn, "we will turn from this rude
barbarian and give our attention to Mr. Whittlesy, who knows all about
dogs."

"If he knows all about dogs," Henry replied, "he must be well
acquainted with some of the most prominent traits of man."

"I am not talking much to-day," said Whittlesy, ducking his head. "I
went fooling round the Board of Trade yesterday; and they got me, and
they got me good."

"How much did they catch you for, Whit?" McGlenn asked.

"I won't say, but they got me, and got me good, but never mind. Ill go
after 'em."

The man who had been asleep on the leather lounge got up, stretched
himself, looked about for a moment, and then, coming over to the
group, said: "What's all this bloody rot?" Seeing a stranger, he
added, by way of apology: "I thought this was the regular roasting
lay-out."

"Mr. Witherspoon," said Richmond, "let me introduce Mr. Mortimer, an
old member of the club;" and when the introduction had been
acknowledged, Richmond added: "Mortimer has just thought of something
mean to say and has come over to say it. He dozes himself full of
venom and then has to get rid of it."

"Our friend Richmond is about as truthful as he is complimentary,"
Mortimer replied.

"Yes," said Richmond, "but if I were no more complimentary than you
are truthful, I should have a slam for everybody."

"Oh, ho, ho, no," McGlenn cried, and Richmond shouted: "Oh, I have
been robbed."

Henry looked about for the cause of this commotion and saw a smiling
man, portly and impressive, coming toward them with a dignified mince
in his walk. And Mr. Flummers was introduced with half-humorous
ceremony. He had rather a pleasant expression of countenance, and men
who were well acquainted with him said that he had, though not so long
of arm, an extensive reach for whisky. He was of impressive size, with
a sort of Napoleonic head; and when hot on the trail of a drink, his
voice held a most unctuous solicitude. He was exceedingly annoying to
some people and was a source of constant delight to others. At one
time he had formed the habit of being robbed, and later on he was
drugged; but no one could conjecture what he would next add to his
repertory. His troubles were amusing, his difficulties were humorous,
his failures were laughable, and his sorrows were the cause for jest.
He had a growing paunch, and when he stood he leaned back slightly as
though his rotund front found ease in exhibition. As a law student he
had aimed a severe blow at justice, and failing as an attorney, he had
served his country a good turn. As a reporter he wrote with a torch,
and wrote well. All his utterances were declamatory; and he had a set
of scallopy gestures that were far beyond the successful mimicry of
his fellows. The less he thought the more wisely he talked. Meditation
hampered him, and like a rabbit, he was generally at his best when he
first "jumped up."

He shook hands with Henry, looked at him a moment and asked: "Are you
going to run a newspaper with all those old geysers you've got over
there?"

The new member winced.

"Don't pay any attention to Flummers," John Richmond said.

"Oh, yes," Flummers insisted. "You see, I know all those fellows. Some
of them were worn out ten years ago--but say, are you paying anything
over there?"

"Yes, paying as much as any paper in the town."

"That's the stuff; but say, you can afford it. Who rang the bell? Did
anybody ring? Boy," (speaking to a waiter), "we ought to have
something to drink here."

"Do _you_ want to pay for it?" Richmond asked.

"Oh, ho, ho, no, I'm busted. I've set 'em up two or three times
to-day."

"Why, you stuffed buffalo robe, you"--

"Oh, well, it was the other day, then. I'm all the time buying the
drinks. If it weren't for me you geysers would dry up. Say, John,
touch the bell."

"Wait," said Henry. "Have something with me."

"Ah, now you command the respect of the commonwealth!" Flummers cried.
"By one heroic act you prove that your life is not a failure. These
fellows round here make me tired. Boy, bring me a little whisky. What
are you fellows going to take? What! you want a cigar?" he added,
speaking to Henry.

"Oh, I had a great man on my staff yesterday--big railroad man. Do you
know that some of those fellows like to have a man show them how to
spend their money? I see I'm posted for dues. This municipality must
think I'm made of money."

When he caught sight of the boy coming with the tray, a peculiar
light, such as painters give the face of Hope, illumined his
countenance, and clasping his hands, he unctuously greeted himself.

"Mr. Flummers," said McGlenn, "we all love you."

"Oh, no."

"Yes; it is disreputable, but we love you. It was a long time before I
discovered your beauties. I used to think that the men who loved you
were the enemies of a higher grade of life, and perhaps they were, but
I love you. You are a great man, Mr. Flummers. Nature designed you to
be the president of a life insurance company."

"Well, say, I know that."

"Yes," continued McGlenn. "A life insurance company ought to employ
you as a great joss, and charge people for the privilege of a mere
glimpse of you."

"I shouldn't think," said Richmond, "that a man who had committed
murder in Nebraska would be so extreme as to pose as the president of
a life insurance company."

"Mr. Hammers, did you commit a murder in Nebraska?" McGlenn asked.

"Oh, no."

"But didn't you confess that you killed a man there?" Richmond urged.

"Oh, well, that was a mistake."

"What? The confession?"

"No, the killing. You see, I was out of work, and I struck a doctor
for a job in his drug-store; and once, when the doctor was away, an
old fellow sent over to have a prescription filled, and I filled it.
And when the doctor returned he saw the funeral procession going past
the store. He asked me what it meant, and I told him."

"Then what did he say?"

"He asked me if I got pay for the prescription. Oh, but he was a
thrifty man!" Flummers clasped his hands, threw himself back and
laughed with a jolting "he, he, he." "Well, I've got to go. Did
anybody ring? Say, John"--to Richmond--"why don't you buy something?"

"What? Oh, you gulp, you succession of swallows, you human sink-hole!
Flummers, I have bought you whisky enough to overflow the
Mississippi."

"Oh, ho, ho, but not to-day, John. Past whisky is a scandal; in
present whisky there lies a virtue. Never tell a man what you have
done, John, lest he may think you boastful, but show him what you will
do now, so that he may have the proof of your ability. Is it possible
that I've got to shake you fellows? My time is too valuable to waste
even with a mere contemplation of your riotous living."

He walked away with his mincing step. "There's a character," said
Henry, looking after him. "He is positively restful."

"Until he wants a drink," Mortimer replied, "and then he is restless.
Well, I must follow his example of withdrawal, if not his precept of
appetite. I am pleased to have met you, Mr. Witherspoon, and I hope to
see you often."

"I think you shall, as I intend to make this my resting-place."

"There is another character," said McGlenn, referring to Mortimer. "He
is a very learned man, so much so that he has no need of imagination.
He is a _very_ learned man."

"And he is charmed with the prospect of saying a mean thing," Richmond
replied. "I tell him so," he added, "though that is needless, for he
knows it himself. His mind has traveled over a large scope of
intellectual territory, and he commands my respect while I object to
his methods."

The conversation took a serious turn, and Richmond flooded it with his
learning. His voice was low and his manner modest--a great man who in
the game of human affairs played below the limit of his abilities.
McGlenn roused himself. When emphatic, he had a way of turning out his
thumb and slowly hammering his knee with his fist. In his sky there
was a cloud of pessimism, but the brightness of his speech threw a
rainbow across it. He was a poet in the garb of a Diogenes. Many of
his theories were wrong, but all were striking. Sometimes his
sentences flashed like a scythe swinging in the sunshine.

Henry talked as he had never found occasion to talk before. These men
inspired him, and in acknowledgment of this he said: "We may for years
carry in our minds a sort of mist that we cannot shape into an idea.
Suddenly we meet a man, and he speaks the word of life unto that mist,
and instantly it becomes a thought."

Other members joined the group, and the conversation broke and flew
into sharp fragments. McGlenn and Richmond began to wrangle.

"Your children may not read my books," said McGlenn, replying to some
assertion that Richmond had made, "but your great-grandchildren will."

"Oh, that's possible," Richmond rejoined. "I can defend my immediate
offspring, while my descendants may be left without protection. If you
would tear the didacticism out of your books and inject a little more
of the juice of human interest--hold on!" Richmond threw up his arm,
as though warding off a blow. "When that double line comes between his
eyes I always feel that he is going to hit me."

"I wouldn't hit you. I have some pity left."

"Or fear--which is it?"

"Not fear; pity."

"Why don't you reserve some of it for your readers?"

McGlenn frowned. "I don't expect you to like my books."

"Oh, you have realized the fact that the characters are wooden?"

"No, but I have realized that they are beyond your feeble grasp. I
don't want you to like my books." He hammered his knee. "The book that
wins your regard is an exceedingly bad production. When you search
for facts you may sometimes go to high sources, but when you read
fiction you go to the dogs. A consistent character in fiction is
beyond you."

"There are no consistent characters in life," said Richmond, "and a
consistent character in fiction is merely a strained form of art. In
life the most arrant coward will sometimes fight; the bravest man at
times lacks nerve; the generous man may sometimes show the spirit of
the niggard. But your character in fiction is different. He must be
always brave, or always generous, or always niggardly. He must be
consistent, and consistency is not life."

"But inconsistency is life, and you are, therefore, not dead," McGlenn
replied. "If inconsistency were a jewel," he added, "you would be a
cluster of brilliants. As it is, you are an intellectual fault-finder
and a physical hypochondriac."

"And you are an intellectual cartoon and a physical mistake."

"I won't talk to you. Even the semblance of a gentleman commands my
respect, but I can't respect you. I like truth, but"--

"Is that the reason you seek me?"

"No, it is the reason I avoid you. Brutal prejudice never held a
truth."

"Not when it shook hands with you," Richmond replied.

McGlenn got up, walked over to the piano, came back, looked at his
watch, and addressing Richmond, asked:

"Are you going home, John?"

"Yes, John. Suppose we walk."

"I'll go you; come on."

They bade Henry good evening and together walked off affectionately.

"What do you think of our new friend?" Richmond asked as they strolled
along.

"John, he has suffered. He is a great man."

"I don't know how he may turn out," Richmond said, "but I rather like
him. Of course he hasn't fitted himself to his position--that is, he
doesn't as yet feel the force of old Witherspoon's money. His
experience has gone far toward making a man of him, but his changed
condition may after a while throw his past struggles into contempt and
thereby corrode his manliness."

"I don't think that he scraped up his principles from the Witherspoon
side of the house," McGlenn declared. "If he had, we should at once
have discovered in him the unmistakable trace of the hog. Oh, I don't
think he will stay in the club very long. His tendency will be to
drift away. All rich men are the enemies of democracy. If they pretend
that they are not, they are hypocrites; if they believe they are not,
it is because they haven't come to a correct understanding of
themselves. The meanest difference that can exist between men is the
difference that money makes. There is some compassion in an
intellectual difference, and even in a difference of birth there is
some little atonement to be expected, but a moneyed difference is
stiff with unyielding brutality."

In this opinion they struck a sort of agreement, but they soon fell
apart, and they wrangled until they reached a place where their
pathway split. They halted for a moment; they had been fierce in
argument. Now they were calm.

"Can't you come over to-night, John?" McGlenn asked.

"No, I can't possibly come to-night, John. I've got a piece of work on
hand and must get it off. I've neglected it too long already."

But he did go over that night, and he wrangled with McGlenn until
twelve o'clock.




CHAPTER XIII.

BUTTING AGAINST A WALL.


When we have become familiar with an environment we sometimes wonder
why at any time it should have appeared strange to us; and it was thus
with Henry as the months moved along. The mansion in Prairie Avenue
was now home-like to him, and the contrasts which its luxurious
belongings were wont to summon were now less sharp and were dismissed
with a growing easiness. Feeling the force which position urges, he
worked without worry, and conscious of a certain ability, he did not
question the success of his plans. But how much of the future did he
intend these plans to cover? He turned from this troublesome
uncertainty and found satisfaction in that state of mind which permits
one day to forecast the day which is to follow, and on a futurity
stretching further than this he resolutely turned his back. In his
work and in his rest at the Press Club, whither he went every
afternoon, he found his keenest pleasure. He was also fond of the
theater, not to sit with a box party, but to loiter with Richmond--to
enjoy the natural, to growl at the tame, and to leave the place
whenever a tiresome dialogue came on. Ellen sometimes drew him into
society, and on Sundays he usually went with Mrs. Witherspoon to a
Congregational church where a preacher who had taught his countenance
the artifice of a severe solemnity denounced the money-chasing spirit
of the age at about double the price that he had received in the East.

The Witherspoons had much company and they entertained generously,
though not with a showy lavishness, for the old man had a quick eye
for the appearance of waste. It was noticeable, too, that since Henry
came young women who were counted as Ellen's friends were more
frequent with their visits. Witherspoon rarely laughed at anything,
but he laughed at this. His wife, however, discovered in it no cause
for mirth. A mother may plan the marriage of her daughter, for that is
romantic, but she looks with an anxious eye upon the marriage of her
son, for that is serious.

One evening, when Witherspoon and Henry had gone into the library to
smoke, the merchant remarked: "I want, to talk to you about the course
of your paper."

"All right, sir."

The merchant stood on the hearth-rug. He lighted his cigar, turned it
round and round, and then said:

"Brooks called my attention this afternoon to an article on working
girls. Does it meet with your approval?"

"Why, yes. It was a special assignment, and I gave it out."

"Hum!" Witherspoon grunted. He sat down in his leather-covered chair,
crossed his legs, struck a match on the sole of his slipper, relighted
his cigar, which he had suffered to go out, and for a time smoked in
silence.

"Is there anything wrong about it?" Henry asked.

"I might ask you if there is anything right about it," Witherspoon
replied. "'The poor ye have with you always,' was uttered by the Son
of God. It was not only a prophecy, but a truth for all ages. There
are grades in life, and who made them? Man. Ah, but who made man? God.
Then who is responsible for the grades? Nature sets the example of
inequality. One tree is higher than another." His cigar had gone out.
He lighted it again and continued: "Writers who seek to benefit the
poor of ten injure them--teach them a dissatisfaction which in its
tarn brings a sort of reprisal on the part of capital."

"I don't agree with you," said Henry.

"Of course not."

"I have cause to know that you are wrong, sir."

"You think you have," the merchant replied.

"It is true," Henry admitted, "that we shall always have the poor with
us."

"I thought so," said Witherspoon.

"But it is not true that an attempt to aid them is harmful. Their
condition has steadily improved since history "--

"You are a sentimentalist."

"I am more than that," said Henry. "I am a man."

"Hum! And are you more than that?"

"How could I be more?"

"Easily enough. You could be an anarchist."

"And is that a step higher?"

"Wolves think so."

"But I don't"

"I hope not."

They sat in silence. The young man was angry, but he controlled
himself.

"It is easy to scatter dangerous words in this town," said the
merchant. "And, sir,"--he broke off, rousing himself,--"look at the
inconsistency, the ridiculousness of your position. I employ more than
a thousand people; my son says that I oppress them. I"--

"Hold on; I didn't say that. I don't know of any injustice that you
inflict upon your employés; but I do know of such wrongs committed by
other men. But you have shown me that the condition of those creatures
is hopeless."

"What creatures?"

"Women who work for a living."

"And do you know the cause of their hopelessness?"

"Yes; poverty and oppression."

"Ah, but what is the cause of their poverty?"

"The greed of man."

"Oh, no; the appetite of man--whisky. Nine out of ten of those
so-called wretched creatures can trace their wretchedness to drink."

"But it is not their fault."

"Oh!"

Henry was stunned. He saw what a wall he was butting against. "And is
this to go on forever?" he asked.

"Yes, forever. 'The poor ye have with you always.'"

"But present conditions may be overturned."

"Possibly, but other conditions just as bad, or even worse, will build
on the ruins. That is the history you spoke of just now."

"But slavery was swept away--and, let me affirm," he suddenly broke
off, "that the condition of the poorer people in this town is worse
than the slavery that existed in the South. From that slavery the
government pointed toward freedom, and mill-owners in the North
applauded--men, too, mind you, who were the hardest of masters. I can
bring up now the picture of a green lane. I can see an old negro woman
sweeping the door-yard of her cabin, and she sings a song. Her husband
is at work in the field, and her happy children are fishing in the
bayou. That is the freedom which the government pointed out--the
freedom which a God-inspired Lincoln proclaimed. But do you hear any
glad songs among the slaves in the North? Let me tell you, sir, that
we are confronted with a problem that is more serious than that which
was solved by Lincoln."

Witherspoon looked at him as though he could think of no reply. At one
moment he seemed to be filling up with the gathering impulses of
anger; at another he appeared to be humiliated.

"Are you my son?" he asked.

"Presumably. An impostor would yield to your demands; he would win
your confidence that he might steal your money."

"Yes," said the merchant, and he sat in silence.

Henry was the first to speak. "If you were poor, and with the same
intelligence you have now, what would you advise the poor man to do?"

"I should advise him to do as I did when I was poor and as I do
now--work. Now, let me tell you something: Last year your mother and I
gave away a great deal of money--we do so every year. Does that look
as if I am grinding the poor? You have hurt me."

"I am sorry. But if I have hurt you with a truth, it should make you
think."

Witherspoon looked at him, and this time it was with resentment.
"What! you talk about making me think? Young man, you don't know what
it is to think. You are confounded with the difference between
sentimentalism and thought. You go ahead and print your newspaper and
don't worry about the workingwoman. Her class will be larger and worse
off, probably, a hundred years after you are dead."

"Yes, but before that time her class may rise up and sweep everything
before it. A democracy can't long permit a few men to hold all the
wealth. But there's no good to come from a discussion with you."

"You are right," said Witherspoon, "but hold on a moment. Don't go
away believing that I have no sympathy for the poor. I have, but I
haven't time to worry with it. There is no reason why any man should
be poor in this country."

Henry thought of a hundred things to say, but said nothing. He knew
that it was useless; he knew that this man's strength had blinded him
to the weakness of other men, and he felt that American aristocracy
was the most grinding of all aristocracies, for the reason that a
man's failure to reach its grade was attributable to himself alone.




CHAPTER XIV.

A DIFFERENT HANDWRITING.


Henry bade Witherspoon good night and went to his room. A fire was
burning in the grate. At the window there was a rattle of sleet. He
lighted his old briar-root pipe and sat down. He had, as usual, ceased
to argue with himself; he simply mused. He acknowledged his weakness,
and sought a counteracting strength, but found none. But why should he
fight against good fortune? It was not his fault that certain
conditions existed. Why not starve the past and feed the present? But
he had begun to argue, and he shook himself as though he would be
freed from something that had taken hold of him, and he got up and
stood at the window. How raw the night! And as he stood there, he
fancied that the darkness and the sleet of his boyhood were trying to
force their way into the warmth and the light of his new inheritance.
He turned suddenly about, and bowing with mock politeness, said to
himself: "You are a fool." He lighted his pipe afresh, and sat down to
work. Some one tapped at the door. Was it Witherspoon come to deliver
another argument, and to decide again in his own favor? No, it was
Ellen. She had been at the theater.

"You bring roses out of the storm," said Henry, in allusion to the
color of her cheeks.

"But I don't bring flattery. Gracious! I am chilled through." She took
off her gloves and held her hands over the grate. "Everybody's gone
to bed, and I didn't know but you might be here, scribbling. Goodness,
what's that you've been smoking?"

"A pipe."

She turned from the fire and shrugged her shoulders. "Couldn't you get
a cigar? Why do you smoke that awful thing?"

"It is an altar of the past, and on it I burn the memories of its
day," he answered, smiling.

"Well, I think I would get a new altar and burn incense for the
present! Oh, but I've had the stupidest evening."

"Wasn't the play good?"

"No, it was talk, talk, with a stress laid on nothing. And then my
escort wasn't particularly entertaining."

"Who?"

"Oh, a Mr. Somebody. What have you been doing all the evening?"

"Something that I found to be worse than useless. Father and I have
been locking horns over the--not exactly the labor question, but over
the wretchedness of working-women."

"What do you know about the wretchedness of working-women?" she asked.

"What do I know about it? What can I help knowing about it? How can I
shut my eyes against it?"

"I don't see why they are so very wretched. They get pay, I'm sure.
Somebody has to work; somebody has to be poor. What are you writing?"

"The necessary rot of an editorial page." he answered.

"Why, how your handwriting has changed," she said, leaning over the
table.

"How so?"

"Why, this is so different from the letters you wrote before you came
home."

He did not reply immediately; he was thinking. "Pens in that country
cut queer capers," he said. "Where are those letters, anyway?"

"Mother has put them away somewhere."

"I should like to see them again."

"Why?"

"Oh, on account of the memories they hold. Get them for me, and I will
give you a description of my surroundings at the time I wrote them."

"Why, what a funny fellow you are! Can't you give me a description
anyway?"

"No, not a good one."

"But I don't want to wake mother, and I don't know that I can find the
letters."

"Go and see."

"Oh, you are so headstrong."

She went out, and he walked up and down the room, and then stood again
at the window. Ellen returned.

"Here they are."

"Did you wake mother?"

"No, but I committed burglary. I found the key and unlocked her trunk,
and all to please you."

"Good, and for the first time burglary shall be repaid with
gratitude."

He took the letters and looked at the sprawling characters drawn by
the hand of his friend. "When I copied this confession," said he, "I
was heavy of heart. I was sitting in a small room, looking far down
into a valley where nature seemed to keep her darkness stored, and
from, another window, in the east, I could see a mountain where she
made her light."

"Go on," she said, leaning with her elbows on the table.

He began to walk across the room, from the door to the grate, and to
talk as one delivering a set oration. "And I had just finished my work
when a most annoying monkey, owned by the landlord, jumped through the
window. I was so startled that I threw the folded papers at him"--

"What have you done!" she cried.

He had thrown the letters into the fire, he sprang forward, and
snatching them, threw them on the hearth and stamped out the blaze.

"Oh, I do wish you hadn't done that," she said, hoarse with alarm.
"Mother reads these letters every day, and--oh, I _do_ wish you hadn't
done it! They are all scorched--ruined, and I wouldn't have her know
that I took them out of her trunk for anything. What shall we do about
it? Oh, I know you didn't mean to do it." He had looked appealingly at
her. "I wish I hadn't got them."

"It is only the copy of the confession that is badly burned. The
original is here on the table," he said.

"I know, but what good will that do? The letters are so scorched that
it won't do to return them."

"But I can copy them," he replied.

"Oh, you genius!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

"Thank you," he said, bowing. Then he added: "Let me see--this paper
won't do. Where can we get some fool's-cap?"

"There must be some in the library," she answered. "I'll slip down and
see."

She hastened down-stairs and soon returned with the paper. "I feel
like a burglar," she said.

"And I _am_ a forger," he replied.

"Won't take you long, will it?"

"No."

The work was soon completed. The scorched letters were thrown into the
fire. "She will never know the difference," said Ellen. "It is a sin
to deceive her, but then, following the burglary, deception is a
kindness; and there can't be so very much wickedness in a sin that
keeps one from being unhappy."

"Or keeps one from being discovered," he suggested. She laughed, not
mirthfully, but with an attempt at self-consolation. "This is our
first secret," she said, as she opened the door.

"And I think you will keep it," he replied, smiling at her.

She looked at him for a moment and rejoined: "Indeed, fellow-criminal!
And if you didn't smoke that horrid pipe, what a lovable convict you
would make."

When she was gone he stood again at the window. The night was
breathing hard. He spoke to himself with mock concern: "Two hours ago
you were simply a fool, but now you are a scoundrel."




CHAPTER XV.

TOLD HIM HER STORY.


When he awoke the next morning his blood seemed to be clogged
somewhere far from the seat of thought, and then it came with a leap
that brought back the night before. "But I won't argue with you," he
said, turning over. "Argue," he repeated. "Why, it's past argument
now. I will simply do the best I can and let the worst take care of
itself. But I do despise a vacillator, and I am one. The old man maybe
right. Nature admires strength and never pities the weak. And what am
I to do if I'm not to carry out my part of this programme? The trial
is over," he said as he got up. "I am Henry Witherspoon."

He was busy in his room at the office when Brooks entered.

"Well, hard at it, I see."

"Yes. Sit down; I'll be through with this in a moment."

He sat himself back from the desk, and Brooks asked, "Can't you go out
to lunch with me?"

"Isn't time yet."

"Hardly, that's so," Brooks admitted, looking at his watch. "I
happened to have business in this neighborhood and thought I'd drop
in. Say," he added in a lower tone, and nodding his head toward the
door of the adjoining room, "who is she?"

"The literary reviewer."

"She's a stunner. What's her name?"

"Miss Drury."

"You might introduce me."

"She's busy."

"Probably she'd go to lunch with us."

"She refuses to go out with any one."

"Hasn't been here long, eh?" That was the floorwalker's idea. "Well, I
must get back, if you can't go with me. So long."

Henry took a book into Miss Drury's room. "Here's something that was
sent to me personally," said he, "but treat it as you think it
deserves."

She looked up with a suggestion of a smile. "Are you willing to trust
the reputation of your friends to me?" she asked.

"I am at least willing to let you take charge of their vanity."

"Oh, am I so good a keeper of vanity?"

"No, you are so gentle an exterminator of it."

"Thank you," she said, laughing. Her hair seemed ready to break from
its fastenings, and she gave it those deft touches of security which
are mysterious to man, but which a little girl practices on a doll.

"You have wonderful hair," he said.

And she answered: "I'm going to cut it off."

This is woman's almost invariable reply to such a compliment. Henry
knew that she would say it, and she knew that she would not cut it
off, and they both laughed.

"How did you happen to get into newspaper work?" he asked.

Her face became serious. "I had to do something," she answered, "and
I couldn't do anything else. My mother was an invalid for ten years,
and I nursed her, read to her day and night. Sometimes in the winter
she couldn't sleep, and I would get up and amuse her by writing
reviews of the books I had read. It was only play, but after she was
dead I thought that I might make it earnest."

"And your father died when you were very young, I suppose."

She looked away, and with both hands she began to touch her hair
again. "Yes," she said.

"Tell me about him."

"Why about him?"

"I don't know. Because you have told me about your mother, I suppose."

"And are you so much interested in me?" she asked, looking earnestly
at him.

"Yes."

"I ought not to tell you, but I will. We lived in the country. My
father was"--She looked about her and then at him. "My father was a
drunkard, but my mother loved him devotedly. One day he went to the
village, several miles away, and at evening he didn't come home, and
my mother knew the cause. It was a cold, snowy night. Mother stood at
the gate, holding a lantern. She wouldn't let me stand there with her,
it was so cold, but I was on my knees in a chair at the window, and I
could see her. She stood there so long, and it seemed so cruel that I
should be in a warm room while she was out in the cold, that I slipped
out and closed the door softly after me. I stood a short distance
behind her, and I had not been standing there long when a horse,
covered with snow, came stumbling out of the darkness. Mother called
me, and I ran to her. We went down the road, holding the lantern first
one side, then the other, that we might see into the corners of the
fences. We found him lying dead in the road, covered with snow. Mother
was never well after that night--but really I am neglecting my work."

He returned to his desk. The proof-sheets of a leading article were
brought to him, but he sat gazing at naught that he could see.

"Are you done with those proofs?" some one asked.

"Take them away," he said, without looking up. He sat for a long time,
musing, and then he shook himself, a habit which he had lately formed
in trying to free himself from meditations that sought to possess him.

He went out to luncheon, and just as he was going into a restaurant
some one spoke to him. It was old man Colton.

"My dear Mr. Witherspoon," said the old man, "come and have a bite to
eat with me. Ah, come on, now; no excuse. Let's go this way. I know of
a place that will just suit you. This way. I'm no hand for clubs--they
bore me; they are newfangled."

The old man conducted him into a basement restaurant not noticeable
for cleanliness, but strong with a smell of mutton.

"Now, suppose we try a little broth," said the old man, when they had
sat down. "Two bowls of mutton broth," he added, speaking to the
waiter. "Ah," he went on, "you may talk about your dishes, but at
noontime there is nothing that can touch broth. And besides," he
added, in a whisper, "there's no robbery in broth. These restaurant
fellows are skinners of the worst order. I'll tell you, my dear Mr.
Witherspoon, everything teaches us to practice economy. We must do
it; it's the saving clause of life. Now, what could be better than
this? Go back to work, and your head's clear. My dear Mr. Witherspoon,
if I had been a spendthrift, I should not only be a pauper--I should
have been dead long ago."

He continued to talk on the virtues of economy. "Won't you have some
more broth?"

"No, thank you."

"Won't you have something else?" he asked, in a tone that implied
extreme fear.

"No, I'm not hungry to-day."

This announcement appeared greatly to relieve the old man. "Oh, you'll
succeed in life, my dear young man; but really you ought to come into
the store with us. It would do your father so much good; he would feel
that he has a sure hold on the future, you understand. You don't know
what a comfort Brooks is to me. Why, if my daughter had married a man
in any other line, I--well, it would have been a great disappointment.
Are you going back to work now?"

"No; to the Press Club."

"Why don't you come to see us oftener?"

"Oh, I'm there often enough, I should think--two or three times a
week."

"Yes, of course, but we are all so anxious that you should become
interested in our work. Don't discourage yourself with the belief that
a man brought up in the South is not a good business man. I am from
the South, my dear Mr. Witherspoon."

They had reached the sidewalk, and the roar from the street impelled
the old man to force his squeaky voice into a split shout.

"Southern man"--He was bumped off by the passing throng, but he got
back again and shouted: "Southern man has just as good commercial
ability as anybody. Well, I must leave you here."




CHAPTER XVI.

AN AROUSER OF THE SLEEPY.


In the Press Club Henry found Mr. Flummers haranguing a party of men
who sat about the round table. He stood that he might have room in
which to scallop his gestures, and he had reached a climax just as
Henry joined the circle. He waited until all interruptions had ceased
and then continued: "Milwaukee was asleep, and I was sent up there to
arouse it. But I shook it too hard; I hadn't correctly measured my own
strength. The old-timers said, 'Let us doze,' but I commanded, 'Wake
up here now, and get a move on you,' and they had to wake up. But they
formulated a conspiracy against me, and I was removed."

"How were you removed, Mr. Flummers?" McGlenn asked.

"Oh, a petition, signed by a thousand sleepy citizens, was sent down
here to my managing editor, and I was requested to come away. Thus was
my Milwaukee career ended, but it ended in a blaze that dazzled the
eyes of the old-timers." He cut a scallop. "But papa was not long
idle. The solid South wanted him. They knew that papa was the man to
quiet a disturbance or compel a drowsy municipality to get up and rub
its eyes. Well, I went to Memphis. What was the cause of the great
excitement that followed?" He tapped his forehead. "Papa's nut. But
again had he underestimated himself; again was he too strong for the
occasion. He tossed up the community in his little blanket, and while
it was still in the air, papa skipped, and the railroad train didn't
go any too fast for him."

"And was that the time you went over into Arkansas and murdered a
man?" Richmond asked.

"Oh, no; you are mixing ancient history with recent events. But say,
John, you haven't bought anything to-day."

"Why, you paunch-bulging liar, I bought you a drink not more than ten
minutes ago."

"But you owed me that one."

"Get out, you nerveless beef! Under the old law for debt I could put
you in prison for life."

"Oh, no."

"Do you really need a drink, Mr. Flummers?" McGlenn asked.

"Yes."

"And you don't think that there is any mistake about it?"

"No."

"Well, then, as one who has been compelled to love you, I will buy you
a drink."

"Good stuff. Say, Whit, touch the bell over there, will you?"

"Touch it yourself, you lout!"

With a profane avowal that he had never struck so lazy a party,
Flummers rang the bell, and when the boy appeared, he called with
hearty hospitality: "See what the gentlemen will have."

"Would you like something more?" Henry asked of Flummers, when the
drinks had been served.

"Oh, I've just had one. But wait a minute. Say, boy, bring me a
cigar."

When the cigar was brought, Flummers said, "That's the stuff!" and a
moment later he broke out with, "Say, Witherspoon, why don't you kill
the geyser that does the county building for your paper?"

"Why so?"

"Oh, he flashes his star and calls himself a journalist. What time is
it? I must hustle; can't stay here and throw away time on you fellows.
Say, John"--

Richmond shut him off with: "Don't call me John. A man--I'll say man
out of courtesy to your outward form--a man that hasn't sense enough
to lift a bass into a boat is not to be permitted such a familiarity.
Out in a boat with him last summer and caught a big bass," Richmond
explained to the company, "and brought it up to the side of the boat
and told Flummers to lift it in, not thinking at the time that he
hadn't sense enough, and he grabbed hold of the line and let the fish
get away. It made me sick, and I had a strong fight with myself to
keep from drowning him."

Flummers tapped his forehead. "Papa's nut says, 'Keep your hand out of
a fish's mouth.' Oh, I don't want to go fishing with you again. No fun
for me to pull a boat and see a man thrash the water. Say, did I take
anything on you just now?" he suddenly broke off, addressing Henry.

"Yes, but you can have something else."

"Well, not now. I'll hold it in reserve. In this life it is well to
have reserve forces stationed here and there. Who's got a car-ticket?
I've got to go over on the West Side. What, are you all broke? What
sort of a poverty-stricken gang have I struck? Well, I've given you
as much of my valuable time as I can spare."

"I suppose you are getting used to this town," said Mortimer, when
Flummers was gone.

"Yes, I am gradually making myself feel at home," Henry answered.

"You find the weather disagreeable, of course. We do, I know."

"I think that Chicago is great in spite of its climate," said Henry.

"If great at all, it is great in spite of a great many absences,"
McGlenn replied; "and in these absences it is mean and contemptible.
To money it gives worship; to the song and dance man it pays admiring
attention, but to the writer it gives neglect--the campaign of
silence."

Richmond put his hand to his month and threw his head back. "The
trouble with you, John"--

"There's no trouble with me."

"Yes, there is, and it is the trouble that comes to all men who form
an estimate without having first taken the trouble to think."

"Gentlemen," said McGlenn, "I wish to call your attention to that
remark. John Richmond advising people to think before they form their
estimates. John, you are the last man to think before you form an
estimate. Within a minute after you meet a man you are prepared to
give your estimate of his character; you'll give a half-hour's opinion
on a minute's acquaintance."

"Some people can't form an opinion of a man after a year's
acquaintance with him, but I can. I go by a certain instinct, and when
the wrong sort of man rubs up against me I know it. I don't need to
wait until he has worked me before I find out that he is an impostor.
But, as I was going to say, the trouble with you is that you forget
the difference that exists between new and old cities. A new community
worships material things; and if it pays tribute to an idea, it must
be that idea which appeals quickest to the eye--to the commoner
senses. And in this Chicago is no worse than other raw cities. Fifty
years from now "--

"Who wants to live fifty years in this miserable world?" McGlenn broke
in. "There is but one community in which the writer is at ease, and
that is the community of death. It is populous; it is crowded with
writers, but it holds an easy place for every one. The silence of that
community frightens the rich but its democracy pleases the poor."

"I suppose, then, that you want to die."

"I do."

"But you didn't want to die yesterday?"

"Yes, it was the very time when I should have died--I had just eaten a
good dinner. You don't know how to eat, John. You stuff yourself,
John. Yes, you stuff yourself and think that you have dined. The
reason is that you have never taken the trouble to become civilized.
It's my misfortune to have friends who can't eat. But some of my
friends can eat, and they are therefore great men. Tod Cowles strikes
a new dish at a house on the North Side and softens his voice and
says, 'Ah hah.' He is a great man, for he knows that he has discovered
an additional pleasure to offset another trouble of this infamous
life; and Colonel Norton is a great man--he knows how to eat; but you,
John, are an outcast from the table, and therefore civilization cannot
reach you. Civilization comes to the feast and asks, 'Where is John
Richmond, whom I heard some of you say something about?' and we reply,
'He holds us in contempt,' and Civilization pronounces these solemn
words: 'He who holds ye in contempt, the same will I banish.'"

"But," rejoined Richmond, "civilization teaches one of two things--to
think or to become a glutton. Somehow I was kept away from the feast
and had to accept the other teaching. I don't go about deifying my
stomach and making an apostle of the palate of my month. When I eat"--

"But you don't eat; you stuff. I have sat down to a table with you,
and after giving your order you would fill yourself so full of bread
and pickles or anything within reach that you couldn't eat anything
when the order was brought."

"That was abstraction of thought instead of hunger," Richmond replied.

"No, it was the presence of gluttony. Can you eat, Mr. Witherspoon?"

"I fear that I must confess a lack of higher civilization. I am not
well schooled in anything, and I suppose that you must class me with
Richmond--as a barbarian. I lack"--

"Art," McGlenn suggested. "But for you there is a chance. John
Richmond is hopelessly gone."

"I sometimes feed my dogs on stewed tripe," said Whittlesy, "and the
good that it does them teaches me that man is to be judged largely by
what he eats."

"There is absolutely no use for all this bloody rot," Mortimer
declared. "Eating is essential, of course, but I don't see how men can
talk for an hour on the subject, and talk foolishly, at that."

"If eating is essential," Richmond replied, "it is a wonder that you
don't kick against it."

"Ah, but isn't it a good thing that I don't kick against
non-essentials? Wouldn't I be obliged to kick against this assemblage
and its beastly rot?"

Mortimer sometimes emphasized his walk with a peculiar springiness of
step, and with this emphasis he walked off, biting the stem of his
pipe.

"I thought that by this time you would begin to show a weariness of
the Press Club," McGlenn said to Henry.

"I don't see why you should have thought that. I said at first that I
was one of you."

"Yes, but I didn't know but by this time you might have discovered
your mistake."

"I made no mistake, and therefore could discover none. Let me tell you
that between George Witherspoon's class and me there is but little
affinity. You may call me a crank, and perhaps I am, but I was poor so
long that I felt a sort of pride in the fight I was compelled to make.
Poverty has its arrogance, and foppery is sometimes found in rags. I
don't mind telling you that I have been strongly urged to take what is
called my place in the world; but that place is so distasteful to me
that I look on it with a shudder. I despise barter--I am compelled to
buy, but I am not forced to sell. I am not a sentimentalist--if I were
I should attempt to write poetry. I am not a philosopher--if I were I
shouldn't attempt to run a newspaper. I am simply an ordinary man who
has passed through an extraordinary school. And what I think are
virtues may be errors."

McGlenn replied: "John is your friend. John thinks that you are a
strong man--I don't know yet, but I do know that you please me when
you are silent and that you don't displease me when you talk. You are
strong enough to say, 'I don't know,' and a confession of ignorance is
a step toward wisdom. Ask John a question to-day and he may say, 'I
don't know,' but to-morrow he does know--he has spent a night with it.
You are a remarkable man, Mr. Witherspoon," he added after a moment's
reflection, "a very remarkable man. Your life up to a short time ago,
you say, was a struggle; your uncle was a poor man. Suddenly you
became the son of a millionaire. A weak nature would straightway have
assumed the airs of a rich man; you remained a democrat. It was so
remarkable that I thought the decision might react as an error, and
therefore I asked if you had not begun to grow weary of this
democracy, the Press Club."

McGlenn smiled, and his smile had two meanings, one for his friends
and another for his enemies. His friends saw a thoughtful countenance
illumined by an intellectual light; his enemies recognized a sarcasm
that had escaped from a sly and revengeful spirit. But Henry was his
friend.

"John," said Richmond, "you think"--

McGlenn turned out his thumb and began to motion with his fist. "I
won't submit to the narrow dictum of a man who presumes to tell me
what I think."

"But if nobody were to tell you, how would you find out what you
think? Oh," he added, "I admit that it was presumption on my part. I
was presuming that you think."

"I do think, and if some one must tell me _what_ I think, let him be a
thinking man."

"John, you cry out for thought, and are the first to strike at it
with your dogmatism. You don't think--you dogmatize."

McGlenn turned to Henry. "I had two delightful days last week. John
Richmond was out of town."

"Yes," said Richmond, putting his feet on a chair. "Falsehood gallops
in riotous pleasure when Truth is absent. Hold on! I can stand one
wrinkle between your eyes, but I am afraid of two."

"A man of many accomplishments, but wholly lacking in humor," said
McGlenn, seeming to study Richmond for the purpose of placing an
appraisement on him. "A man who worships Ouida and decries Sir Richard
Steele."

"No, I don't worship Ouida, but I read her sometimes because she is
interesting. As for Steele, he is decried by your praise. Say, John,
you advised me to change grocers every month, and I don't know but it
would be a good plan. An old fellow that I have been trading with has
sent me a bill for eighty-three dollars."

"John, he probably takes you for a great man and wants to compliment
you."

"I don't object to a compliment, but that was flattery," Richmond,
replied, taking his feet off one chair and putting them on another.
"Let's ride home, John; it's 'most too slippery to walk."

"All right. You have ruined my health already by making me walk with
you. Come on; we'll go now."




CHAPTER XVII.

AN OLD MAN WOULD INVEST.


When Henry went home to dinner he found, already seated at the table,
old man Colton, Mrs. Colton and Mrs. Brooks. The old Marylander got
away from his soup, got off his chair, and greeted Henry with an
effusive display of what might have been his pleasure at seeing the
young man, but which had more of the appearance of a palavering
pretense. He bowed, ducked his head first on one side and then on the
other--and his colored handkerchief dangled at his coat-tails. He
found his tongue, which at first he seemed to have lost, and with his
bald head bobbing about, he appeared as an aged child, prattling at
random.

"Hah, hah, delighted to see you again, my dear young man. Didn't know
that I was coming when you were so kind as to take lunch with me
to-day; ladies came in the afternoon; Brooks couldn't come with me,
but he will be here later on. Hah, hah, they are taking excellent care
of us, you see. Ah, you sit here by me? Glad."

Mrs. Colton was exceedingly feeble, and her daughter appeared as a
very old-fashioned girl in a stylish habit--an old daguerreotype sort
of face, smooth, shiny and expressionless.

"We have all been talking about you," Colton said, as Henry sat down.
"Your mother and sister think you a very wonderful man, and my dear
friend Witherspoon"--

"Brother Colton is from Maryland," Witherspoon remarked.

Colton laughed and ducked his head. Ah, the listless wit of the rich!
It may be pointless, but how laughable is the millionaire's joke.

"But, my dear young man, we are determined to have you with us,"
Colton declared, when he had recovered himself. He nodded at
Witherspoon.

"We are going to try," the great merchant replied. "By the way, I told
Brooks that we'd have to press Bradley & Adams, of Atchison, Kansas.
They are altogether too slow--there's no excuse for it."

"None in the world; none whatever," Colton agreed. He more than
agreed, for there was alarm in his voice, and the alarm of an old
miser is pitiable. "Gracious alive, can they expect people to wait
always? Dear, what can the world be coming to when we are all to be
cheated out of our rights? We'll have the law on them."

Money professes great love for the law, and not without cause. The
rich man thinks that the law is his; and the poor man says, "It was
not made for me."

Among the ladies Henry was the subject of a subdued discussion, and
occasionally he heard Mrs. Colton say: "Such a comfort to you, and
after so many years of separation. So manly." And then Mrs. Brooks
would say: "Yes, indeed."

Henry noticed that Colton was not accompanied with his mutton-broth
economy. It was evident that the old man was frugal only to his own
advantage, and that his heartiness came at the expense of other men.

Brooks arrived soon after dinner. The women went to the drawing-room
to talk about Henry, and to exchange harmless hypocrisies, and the men
betook themselves to the library to smoke and to discuss plots that
are known as enterprises. Country merchants were taken up, turned
over, examined and put down ruined. Brooks was as keen and as ardent
as a prosecuting attorney. Every man who owed a bill was under
indictment.

"You see," he said to Henry, "we have to hold these fellows tight or
they would get loose and smash us."

"You needn't apologize to me," Henry replied.

"Of course not, but as you say that you don't understand business, I
merely wanted to show you to what extent we are driven."

"Oh, I assure you that it is awfully unpleasant," said Colton, "but we
have to do it. And let me tell you, my dear young man, there is more
crime than you imagine in the neglect of these fellows. In this
blessed country there is hardly any excuse for a man's failure to meet
his obligations. The trouble is that people who can't afford it live
too high. Let them economize; let them be sensible. Why, I could have
gone broke forty-odd years ago; hah, I could go broke now. Oh, I know
that we are all accused of being hard, but you have no idea what the
wealthy people of this city do for the poor. Just look at the charity
balls; look at our annual showing, and you'll find it remarkable."

Henry felt that the charity of the rich was largely a species of
"bluff" that they make at one another. It was not real charity; it was
an advertisement--it was business.

"My dear friend Witherspoon," said Colton, mouthing his cigar--he did
not smoke at home--"I am going to branch out more. I'm going to make
investments. I see that it is safe, and I want you to help me."

"All right; how much do you want to invest?"

"Oh, I can place my hand on a little money--just a little. I've got
some in stocks, but I've got a little by me."

"How much?"

This frightened him. "Oh, I don't know; really, I can't tell. But I
think that I've got a little that I'd like to invest. But I'll talk to
you about it to-morrow."

"All right."

"I think real estate would be about the right thing. I could soon turn
it over, you know. Some wonderfully fortunate investments have been
made that way. But I'll talk to you about it to-morrow."

Brooke said that he was in something of a hurry to get home, and the
visitors took their leave early in the evening. Witherspoon returned
to the library after going to the door with Colton. He sat down,
stretched forth his feet, meditated for a few moments, and said: "The
bark on a beech tree was never any closer than that old man, and yet
he is kind-hearted."

"When kindness doesn't cost anything, I suppose," Henry suggested.

"Yes, that's true. He spoke of the wonderful showing of the charities
of this city as though he were a prime mover in them, when, in fact, I
don't think he ever contributed more than a barrel of flour in any one
year. But he is a good business man, and if there were more like him
there would be fewer bankrupts."

Ellen appeared at the door. "Henry, mother and I are going to your
room to pay you a call."

"All right, I'll go up with you. Won't you come, father?"

"No, I believe not. Think I'll read a while and go to bed."

Henry's room was bright with a gladsome fire. On the table had been
set a vase of moss roses, and beside the vase lay an old black pipe,
tied with a blue ribbon. The young man laughed, and the girl said:

"Mother's doings. Ugh! the nasty thing!"

"If my son smoked a pipe when he was in exile," Mrs. Witherspoon
replied, "he can do so now. None of the privileges of a strange land
shall be denied him in his own home."

She sat in an easy-chair and was slowly rocking. To man a
rocking-chair is a remembrancer of a mother's affection.

"Light your pipe, my son."

"No, not now, mother."

Ellen sat on an arm of Henry's chair. "Your hair would curl if you
were to encourage it," she remarked.

"Has anybody said anything about curly hair?" he asked.

"No, but I was just thinking that yours might curl."

"Do you want me to look like Brooks?"

She frowned. "He kinks his with a hot poker. I don't like pretty men."

"How about handsome men?"

"Oh, I have to like them. You are a handsome man, you know."

"Nonsense," he replied.

"Your grandmother was a very handsome woman," said Mrs. Witherspoon.
"She had jet-black hair, and her teeth were like pearls. Ellen, what
did Mr. Coglin say when you gave him the slippers?" Mr. Coglin was a
clergyman.

"Oh, he thanked me, of course. He couldn't very well have said, 'Take
them away.'"

"But did you tell him that you embroidered them with your own hands?"

"Yes, I told him."

"Then what did he say?"

"He pretended to be greatly surprised, and said something, but I have
forgotten what it was. Mrs. Brooks is awful tiresome with her 'Yes,
indeed,' isn't she? Seems to me that I'd learn something else."

"She's hardly so tiresome with her 'Yes, indeed,' as her father is
with his 'Hah, hah, my dear Mr. Witherspoon,'" Henry replied.

"But he is a very old man, my son," said Mrs. Witherspoon, "and you
must excuse him. I have heard that he was quite aristocratic before
the war."

"Oh, he never was aristocratic," Ellen declared. "Aristocracy hampered
by extreme stinginess would cut but a poor figure, I should think."

"Have we set up a grill here?" Henry asked.

Mrs. Witherspoon nodded at Ellen as if to emphasize the rebuke, and
the young woman exclaimed: "Oh, I'm singled out, am I? Who said that
the old man's 'hah, hah,' was tiresome? You'd better nod at your son,
mother."

But she gave her son never a nod. In her sight he surely could commit
no indiscretion. A moment later the mother asked:

"Have they talked to you again about going into the store?"

"Oh, they hint at it occasionally."

"Ellen, can't you find a chair? I know your brother must he tired."
Ellen got off the arm of Henry's chair, and soon afterward Mrs.
Witherspoon took the vacated place. The young woman laughed, but said
nothing. The mother fondly touched Henry's hair and smoothed it back
from his forehead. "Don't you let them worry you, my son. They can't
help but respect your manliness. Indeed," she added, growing strangely
bold for one so gentle, "must a man be a merchant whether he will or
not? And whenever you want to write about poor women, you do it. They
are mistreated; they are made wretched, and by just such men as
Brooks, too. What does he care for a woman's misery? And your father's
so blind that he doesn't see it. But I see it. And I oughtn't to say
it, but I will--he has the impudence to tell your father that I give
too much money to the poor. It's none of his business, I'm sure."

There was a peculiar softness in Henry's voice when he replied: "I
hope some time to catch him interfering with your affairs."

"Oh, but you mustn't say a word, my son--not a word; and I don't want
your father to know that I have said anything."

"He shall not know, but I hope some time to catch Brooks interfering
with your affairs. He has meddled with mine, but I can forgive that."

Henry walked up and down the room when Mrs. Witherspoon and Ellen were
gone. With a mother's love, that gentle woman had found a mother's
place in his heart. He looked at the rocking-chair. Suddenly he seized
hold of the mantelpiece to steady himself. He had caught himself
seriously wondering if she had rocked him years ago.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE INVESTMENT.


It seemed to Henry that he had just dozed off to sleep when he was
startled by a loud knock at the door.

"Henry, Henry!" It was Witherspoon's voice.

"Yes."

"Get up, quick! Old man Colton is murdered."

When he went down-stairs he found the household in confusion. Every
one on the place had been aroused. The servants were whispering in the
hall. Witherspoon was waiting for him.

"A messenger has just brought the news. Come, we must go over there.
The carriage is waiting."

It was two o'clock. A fierce and cutting wind swept across the
lake--the icy breath of a dying year. Not a word was spoken as the
carriage sped along. At the door of Colton's home Witherspoon and
Henry were confronted by a policeman.

"My orders are to let no one in," said the officer.

"I am George Witherspoon."

The policeman stepped aside. Brooks met them in the hall. He said
nothing, but took Witherspoon's hand. The place was thronged with
police officers and reporters.

Adjoining Colton's sleeping-apartment, on the second floor, was a
small room with a window looking out on the back yard, and with one
door opening from the hall. In this room, let partly into the wall,
was an iron safe in which the old man kept "the little money" that he
had decided to invest in real estate. The window was protected by
upright iron bars. At night, a gas-jet, turned low, threw dismal
shadows about the room, and it was the old man's habit to light the
gas at bed-time and to turn it off the first thing at morning. He had
lighted the gas shortly after returning from Witherspoon's house and
had gone to bed, and it must have been about one o'clock when the
household was startled by the report of a pistol. Brooks and his wife,
whose room was on the same floor, ran into the old man's room. The
place was dark, but a bright light burned in the vault-room. Into this
room they ran, and there, lying on the floor, with money scattered
about him, was the old man, bloody and dead, with a bullet-hole in his
breast. But where was Mrs. Colton? They hastened back to her room and
struck a light. The old woman lay across the bed, unable to
move--paralyzed.

The first discovery made by the police was that the iron bars at the
window, four in number, had been sawed in two; and then followed
another discovery of a more singular nature. In the window, caught by
the sudden fall of the sash, was a black frock coat. In one of the
tail pockets was a briar-root pipe. The sash had fallen while the
murderer was getting out, and, pulled against the sash, the pipe held
the garment fast. One sleeve was torn nearly off. In a side pocket was
found a letter addressed to Dave Kittymunks, general delivery,
Chicago, and post-marked Milwaukee. Under the window a ladder was
found.

At the coroner's inquest, held the next day, one of the servants
testified that three days before, while the old man and Brooks were at
the store and while the ladies were out, a man with black whiskers,
and who wore a black coat, had called at the house and said that he
had been sent to search for sewer-gas. He had an order presumably
signed by Mr. Colton, and was accordingly shown through the house. He
had insisted upon going into the vault-room, declaring that he had
located the gas there, but was told that the room was always kept
locked. He then went away. The servant had not thought to tell Mr.
Colton.

A general delivery clerk at the post-office testified that the letter
addressed to Dave Kittymunks had passed through his hands. The oddness
of the name had fastened it on his memory. He did not think that he
could identify the man who had received the letter, but he recalled
the black whiskers. The letter was apparently written by a woman, and
was signed "Lil." It was an urgent appeal for money.




CHAPTER XIX.

ARRESTED EVERYWHERE.


"Who is Dave Kittymunks?" was a question asked by the newspapers
throughout the country. Not the slightest trace of him could be found,
nor could "Lil" be discovered with any degree of certainty. But one
morning the public was fed to an increase of appetite by an article
that appeared in a Chicago newspaper. "Kittymunks came to Chicago
about five months ago," said the writer, "and for a time went under
the name of John Pruett. Fierce in his manner, threatening in his
talk, wearing a scowl, frowning at prattling children and muttering at
honest men, he repelled every one. Dissatisfied with his lot in life,
he refused, even for commensurate compensation, to perform that honest
labor which is the province of every true man, and like a hyena, he
prowled about growling at himself and despising fate. The writer met
him on several occasions and held out inducements that might lead to
conversation, but was persistently repulsed by him. He frowned upon
society, and set the grinding heel of his disapproval on every attempt
to draw him out. Was there some dark mystery connected with his life?
This question the writer asked himself. He execrated humanity; and,
moody and alone, the writer has seen him sitting on a bench on the
lake front, turning with a sullen look and viewing with suppressed
rage the architectural grandeur towering at his back."

The article was written by Mr. Flummers. As the only reporter who
could write from contact with the murderer, his sentences were bloated
into strong significance. Fame reached down and snatched him up, and
the blue light of his flambeau played about him.

"Pessimist as he is"--Flummers was holding forth among the night
reporters at the central station--"Pessimist as he is, and a skeptic
though he may be, papa goes through this life with his eyes open. Idle
suggestion says, 'Shut your eyes, papa, and be happy,' but shrewdness
says, 'Watch that fellow going along there.' I don't claim any
particular credit for this; we are not to be vain of what nature has
done for us, nor censured for what she has denied. We are all
children, toddling about as an experiment, and wondering what we are
going to be. Some of us fall and weep over our bruises, and some of
us--some of us get there. He, he, he."

"Flummers, have they raised your salary yet?" some one asked.

"Oh, no, and that's why I am disgusted with the newspaper profession.
The country cries out, 'Who is the man?' There is a deep silence. The
country cries again, 'Does any one know this man?' And then papa
speaks. But what does he get? The razzle. A great scoop rewarded with
a razzle. My achievements are taken too much us a matter of course. I
don't assert myself enough. I am too modest. Say, I smell liquor.
Who's got a bottle? Somebody took a cork out of a bottle. Who was it?
Say, Will, have you got a bottle?"

"Thought you said that your doctor told you not to drink."

"He did; he said that I had intercostal rheumatism. He examined me
carefully, and when I asked him what he thought, he replied, 'Mr.
Flummers, you can't afford to drink.'"

"And did you tell him that you could afford it--that it didn't cost
you anything?"

"Oh, ho, ho, no! Say, send out and get a bottle. What are you fellows
playing there? Ten cents ante, all jack pots? It's a robbers' game."

       *       *       *       *       *

In every community a stranger wearing black whiskers was under
suspicion. A detective shrewdly suggested that the murderer might have
shaved, and he claimed great credit for this timely hint; but no
matter, the search for the black-whiskered man was continued. Dave
Kittymunks was arrested in all parts of the country, and the head-line
writer, whose humor could not long be held in subjection, began to
express himself thus: "Dave Kittymunks captured in St. Paul, also
seized in New Orleans, and is hotly pursued in the neighborhood of
Kansas City."

Witherspoon, sitting by his library fire at night, would say over and
over again: "I told him never to keep any money in the house. He was
so close, so suspicious; and then to put his money in a safe that a
boy might have knocked to pieces!" And it became Mrs. Witherspoon's
habit to declare: "I just know that somebody will break into our house
next." Then the merchant's impatience would express itself with a
grunt. "Oh, it has given you and Ellen a rare chance for speculation.
We'd better wall ourselves in a cave and die there waiting for robbers
to drill their way in. It does seem to me that they ought to catch
that fellow, I told Brooks that he'd better increase the reward to
fifty thousand."

Witherspoon and Brooks called at Henry's office. "You may publish the
fact that I have offered fifty thousand dollars reward for
Kittymunks," said Brooks, speaking to Henry, but looking into the room
where Miss Drury was at work.

"That ought to be a great stimulus," Henry replied, "but it doesn't
appear to me that there has been any lack of effort."

"No," said Witherspoon; "but the prospect of fifty thousand dollars
will make a strong effort stronger."

"By the way," Henry remarked, "this is the first time you have visited
me in my work-room."

Witherspoon replied: "Yes, that's so; and it strikes me that you might
get more comfortable quarters."

"Comfortable enough for a workshop," Henry rejoined.

"Yes, I presume so. Are you ready, Brooks?"

"Yes, sir."

"We have just come from police headquarters," said Witherspoon, "and
thought that we would stop and tell you of the increased reward. You
were late at dinner yesterday. Will you be on time this evening?"

"Yes, I think so."

When they were gone, Henry went into Miss Drury's room. "Was that your
father?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And he scolded you for being late yesterday. If he had suspected that
I was the cause, I suppose he would have come in and stormed at me."

"You were not the cause."

"Yes, you were helping me with my work."

"It was my work, too." He tilted a pile of newspapers off a chair,
sat down and said: "I feel at home with you."

"Oh, am I so homely?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes, restoring the word to its best meaning. By the way, you haven't
cut off your hair."

"No, I forgot it, but I'm going to."

"My sister Ellen has hair something like yours, but not so heavy and
not so bright."

"I should like to see her."

"Because she has hair like yours?"

"What a question! No, because I am acquainted with her brother, of
course."

"And when you become acquainted with a man do you want to meet his
sister?"

"Oh, you are getting to be a regular tease, Mr. Witherspoon. After
awhile I shall be afraid to talk to you."

"I hope the clock will refuse to record that time. You say that you
would like to see my sister. You shall see her; you must come home to
dinner with me."

She gave him a quick look, a mere glance, the shortest sentence within
the range of human expression, but in that short sentence a full book
of meaning. One moment she was nothing but a resentment; but when she
looked up again the light in her eyes had been softened by that
half-sarcastic pity which a well-bred woman feels for the ignorance of
man.

"Your sister has not called on me," she said.

He replied: "I beg your pardon for overlooking the ceremonious
flirtation which women insist shall be indulged in, for I assure you
that their ways are sometimes a mystery to me; but I admit that the
commonest sort of sense should have kept me from falling into this
error. My sister shall call on you."

"Pardon me, but she must not."

"And may I ask why not?"

"My aunt lives in a flat," she answered.

"Suppose she does? What difference can that make?"

"It makes this difference: Your sister couldn't conceal the air of a
patron, and I couldn't hide my resentment; therefore," she added with
a smile that brought back all her brightness, "to be friends we must
remain strangers."

"But suppose I should call on you; would you regard it as a
patronage?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you are a man."

"You women are peculiar creatures."

"An old idea always patly expressed," she replied.

"But isn't it true?"

"It must be, or it wouldn't have lived so long," she answered.

"A pleasing sentiment," he replied, "but old age is not a mark of
truth, for nothing is grayer than falsehood."

"But it finally dies, and truth lives on," she rejoined.

"No, it is often buried."

"So is a mummy buried, but it is brought to light again."

"Yes, but it doesn't live; it is simply a mummy."

"Oh, well," she said, "I know that you are wrong, but I won't worry
with it."

John Richmond opened the door of Henry's room. "Come in," Henry
called, advancing to meet him. "How are you? And now that you are
here, make yourself at home."

"All right," Richmond replied, sitting down, reaching out with his
foot and drawing a spittoon toward him. "How is everything running?"

"First-rate."

"You are getting out a good paper. I have just heard that the reward
for Kittymunks has been increased."

"Yes, it was increased not more than an hour ago."

"Who is to pay it?"

"The State, you know, has offered a small reward; the Colossus Company
is to pay twenty thousand dollars, and the remainder will be paid by
the Colton estate."

"Who constitutes the Colton estate?"

"Brooks, mainly."

Richmond put his hand to his mouth. "That's what I thought," said he.
"Do you know Brooks very well?" he asked after a short silence.

"Not very."

"What do you think of him?"

"I despise him."

"I thought so. As the French say, whom does it benefit?"

They looked at each other, but said nothing. There could be no mistake
as to who was benefited. After a time Henry remarked: "I see that
Flummers has gone to Omaha to identify a suspect."

"He did go, but I heard some of the boys say that he returned this
morning. Is your work all done for to-day?"

"Yes, about all."

"Suppose we go over to the club."

"All right. Wait a moment."

Henry stepped into Miss Drury's room. "You must; forgive me," he said,
in a low tone.

"What for?" she asked, in surprise.

"For so rudely inviting you to dinner when my sister had not even
called on you."

"Oh, that's nothing," she replied, laughing. "Such mistakes are common
enough with men, I should think."

"Not with sensible men. What have you here?"

"Oh, some stupid paragraphs about women."

"They'll keep till to-morrow."

"But Mr. Mitchell said he wanted them to-day."

"Tell him if he calls for them that I want them to-morrow. You'd
better go home and rest."

"Rest? Why, I haven't done anything to make me tired."

"Well, you don't know how soon you may be tired, and you'd better take
your rest in advance. All right, John," he said in a louder tone, "I'm
with you."

When they entered the office of the Press Club, a forensic voice,
followed by laughter, bore to them the intelligence that Mr. Flummers
was in the front room, declaiming his recent adventures. They found
the orator measuredly stepping the short distance between this round
table and the post on which was fixed the button of the electric bell.
Led by fondness to believe that some one, moved to generosity, might
ask him to ring for the drinks, he showed a disposition to loiter
whenever he reached the post, and the light of eager expectancy and
the shadow of sore disappointment played a trick pantomime on his
countenance.

"Oh, ho, ho, here come two of my staff. John, I have been talking for
an hour, and the bell is rusting from disuse."

"Why don't you ring it on your own account?"

"Oh, no; you can't expect one man to do everything."

"Go on with your story."

"But is there anything in it?"

"If you mean your story, I don't think there's much in it."

"If you cut it short enough," said Mortimer, "we'll all contribute."

"There spoke a disgruntled Englishman," Flummers exclaimed. "Having no
humor himself, he scowls on the--the"--He scalloped the air, but it
failed to bring the right word. "Jim, you'd better confine yourself to
the writing of encyclopedias and not meddle with the buzz-saw of--of
sharp retort."

"He appears to have made it that time," said Whittlesy.

"Now, Whit, it may behoove some men to speak, but it doesn't behoove
you. Remember that I hold you in the hollow of my hand."

"Let us have the story," said Henry.

"But is the laborer worthy of his hire--is there anything in it?"

"Yes, ring the bell."

"That's the stuff."

"Flummers," some one remarked, a few moments later, "I don't think
that I ever saw you drunk."

Flummers tapped his forehead and replied: "The brain predominates the
jag. But I must gather up the flapping ends of my discourse. I will
begin again."

"Are you going to repeat that dose of bloody rot?" Mortimer asked.

"Jim, I pity you. I pity any man that can't see a point when it's held
under his nose."

"Or smell one when it's held under his eye," someone suggested.

"You fellows are pretty gay," said Flummers. "You must have drawn your
princely stipends this week." He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand
to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital:

"When I reached Omaha it was snowing. The heavens wore a feathery
frown."

"He didn't fill," said Whittlesy.

Flummers condemned him with a look and continued: "The wind whetted
itself to keenness on a bleak knob and came down to shave its unhappy
customers."

"He made his flush," said Whittlesy.

Flummers did not look at him. "I went immediately to the jail, where
one of the rank and file of the Kittymunkses was confined; and say,
you ought to have seen the poor, miserable, bug-bitten wretch they
stood up in front of me. He wore about a half-pint of dirty whiskers,
and in his make-up he reminded me of a scare-crow that brother and I
once made to put out on the farm in Wisconsin. I have seen a number of
Kittymunkses, but he was the worst. I said, 'Say, why don't you wash
yourself?' and the horrible suggestion made him shudder. 'Is this the
man?' the sheriff asked. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, disdaining the
sheriff, 'on the first train that pulls out I am going back to
Chicago; and whenever you catch another baboon that has worn himself
threadbare by sitting around your village, telegraph me and I will
come and tell you to turn him loose.' 'Then he is not the man?' said
the sheriff, giving me a look that told of deep official
disappointment. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, still disdaining the sheriff,
'I never saw this poor wretch before. Tra la.' I met one gentleman in
the town. I think he belonged to the sporting fraternity. He said,
'Will you have something?' and we went into a place kept by a retired
prize-fighter. My friend pointed to a noisy party at the rear end of
the room, and said: 'The city authorities.' 'Should they live?' I
asked, and my friend said, 'They should not.' And then papa was in
town. 'Make me a sufficient inducement,' said I, 'and I will take a
position on one of you

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