A HELPLESS OLD WOMAN.
In Kansas City was arrested a suspicious-looking man, who, upon being taken to jail, confessed that his name was Dare Kittymunks and owned that he had killed old man Colton. Thus was ended the search for the murderer, the newspapers said, and the vigilance of the Kansas City police was praised. But it soon transpired that the prisoner had been a street preacher in Topeka at the time when the murder was committed, that he had on that day created a sensation by announcing himself John the Baptist and swearing that all other Johns the Baptist were base impostors. The fellow was taken to an asylum for the insane, and the search for Dave Kittymunks was resumed.
Old Mrs. Colton had not moved a muscle since the night of the murder. She lay looking straight at the ceiling, and in her eyes was an expression that seemed constantly to repeat, "My body is dead, but my mind is alive." Once every week the pastor of her church came to see her. He was an old man, threatened with palsy, and had long ago ceased to find pleasure in the appetites and vanities of this life. He came on Sunday, just before the time for evening services in the church, and kneeling at the old woman's chair, which he placed near her bedside, lifted his shaking voice in prayer. It was a touching sight, one infirmity pleading for another, palsy praying for paralysis; but upon these devotions Brooks began to look with a frown.
"What is the use of it?" he asked, speaking to his wife. "If a celebrated specialist can't do her any good, I know that an old man's prayer can't."
"We ought not to deny her anything," the wife answered.
"And we ought not to inflict her with anything," the husband replied.
"Prayer was never an infliction to her."
"But this old man's praying is an infliction to the rest of us."
"Not to me; and you needn't hear him."
"I can't help it if I'm at home."
"But you needn't be at home when he comes."
"Oh, I suppose I could go over and stand on the lake shore, but it would be rather unpleasant this time of year."
"There are other places you can go."
"Oh, I suppose so. Doesn't make any difference to you, of course, where I go."
"Not much," she answered.
The Witherspoon family was gathered one evening in the mother's room. It was Mrs. Witherspoon's birthday, and it was a home-like picture, this family group, with the mother sitting in a rocking-chair, fondly looking about and giving the placid heed of love to Henry whenever he spoke. On the walls were hung the portraits of early Puritans, the brave and rugged ancestors of Uncle Louis and Uncle Harvey, and all her mother's people, who were dark.
Ellen had been imitating a Miss Miller, who, it was said, was making a determined set at Henry, and Witherspoon was laughing at the aptness of his daughter's mimicry.
"I must confess," said Mrs. Witherspoon, slowly rocking herself, "that I don't see anything to laugh at. Miss Miller is an exceedingly nice girl, I'm sure, but I don't think she is at all suited to my son. She giggles at everything, and Henry is too sober-minded for that sort of a wife."
"But marriage would probably cure her giggling," Witherspoon replied, slyly winking at Henry. "To a certain kind of a girl there is nothing that so inspires a giggle as the prospect of marriage, but marriage itself is the greatest of all soberers—it sometimes removes all traces of the previous intoxication."
"Now, George, what is the use of talking that way?" She rarely called him George. "You know as well as you know anything that I didn't giggle. Of course I was lively enough, but I didn't go about giggling as Miss Miller does."
"Oh, perhaps not exactly as Miss Miller does, but"—
"George!"
"I say you didn't. But anybody can see that Ellen is a sensible girl, and yet she giggles."
"Not at the prospect of marriage, papa," the girl replied. "To look at Mr. Brooks and his wife is quite enough to make me serious."
"Brooks and his wife? What do you mean?"
"Perhaps I oughtn't to have said anything, but they appear to make each other miserable. There, now, I wish I hadn't said anything. I might have known that it would make you look glum."
"How do you know that they make each other miserable?"
"I know this, that when they should be on their good behavior they can't keep from snapping at each other. I was over there this afternoon, and when Mr. Brooks came home he began to growl about the preacher's coming once a week to pray for Mrs. Colton. He ought to be ashamed of himself. The poor old creature lies there so helpless; and he wants to deny her even the consolation of hearing her pastor's voice. And he knows that she was so devoted to the church."
"My daughter," Witherspoon gravely said, "there must be some mistake about this."
"But I know that there isn't any mistake about it. I was there, I tell you."
"And still there may be some mistake," Witherspoon insisted.
"What doctor's treating the old lady?" Henry asked.
"A celebrated specialist, Brooks tells me," Witherspoon answered.
"What's his name?"
"I don't remember," said Witherspoon. "Do you know, Ellen?"
"Doctor Linmarck," Ellen answered.
"Let us not think of anything so very unpleasant," said Mrs. Witherspoon.
But the spirit of pleasantry was flown. With another imitation of Miss Miller, Ellen strove to call it back, but failed, for Witherspoon paid no attention to her. He sat brooding, with a countenance as fixed as the expression of a mask, and in his gaze, bent on that nothing through which nothing can be seen, there was no light.
"Father, do your new slippers fit?" Mrs. Witherspoon asked. He was not George now.
"Very nicely," he answered, with a warning absentmindedness. Presently he went to the library, and shutting out the amenities of that cheerful evening, shut in his own somber brooding.
"I don't see why he should let that worry him so," said Mrs. Witherspoon. "He's getting to be so sensitive over Brooks."
"I don't think it's his sensitiveness over Brooks, mother," Ellen replied, "but the fact that he is gradually finding out that Brooks is not so perfect as he pretends to be."
"I don't know," the mother rejoined, "but I think he has just as much confidence in Brooks as he ever had. I know he said last night that the Colossus couldn't get along without him."
"Ellen," said Henry, "what is the name of that doctor?"
"Linmarck. It isn't so hard to remember, is it?"
"No, but I forgot it."
Immediately after reaching the office the next day, Henry sent for a reporter who had lived so long in Chicago that he was supposed thoroughly to know the city.
"Are you acquainted with Doctor Linmarck?" Henry asked when the reporter entered the room.
"Linmarck? Let me see. No, don't think I am."
"Did you ever hear of him?"
"What's his particular line?"
"Paralysis, I think."
"No, I've never heard of him."
"Well, find out all you can about him and let me know as soon as possible. And say," he added as the reporter turned to go, "don't say a word about it."
"All right."
Several hours later the reporter returned. "Did you learn anything?" Henry asked.
"Yes, about all there is to learn, I suppose. He has an office on Wabash Avenue, near Twelfth Street. I called on him."
"Does he look like a great specialist?"
"Well, his beard is hardly long enough for a great specialist."
"But does he appear to be prosperous?"
"His location stands against that supposition."
"But does he strike you as being an impostor?"
"Well, not exactly that; but I shouldn't like to be paralyzed merely to give him a chance to try his hand on me. I told him that I had considerable trouble with my left arm, and he asked if I had ever been afflicted with rheumatism, or if I had ever been stricken with typhoid fever, or—I don't remember how many diseases he tried on suspicion. I told him that so far as I knew I had been in excellent health, and then he began to ask me about my parents. I told him that they were dead and that I didn't care to be treated for any disease that they might have had. I asked him where he was from, and he said Philadelphia. He hasn't been here long, but is treating some very prominent people, he says. There may be a reason why he should be employed, but I failed to find it."