A MOMENT OF ARROGANCE.
Henry wandered through the old familiar streets. How vividly came back the years, the dreary long ago! Here, on a door-step, he had passed many a nodding hour, kept in half-consciousness by the clank of the printing-press, waiting for the dawn and his bundle of newspapers. No change had come to soften the truth of the picture that a by-gone wretchedness threw upon his memory. The attractive fades, but how eternal is the desolate! Yonder he could see the damp wall where he used to hunt for snails, and farther down the narrow street was the house in which had lived the old Italian woman. "You think I'm a stranger," he mused, as he passed a policeman, "but I know all this. I have been in dens here that you have never seen."
He went to the Foundlings' Home and walked up and down in front of the long, low building. An old woman, dragging a rocking-chair, came out on the veranda and sat down. He halted at the gate, stood for a moment and then rang the bell. A negro opened the gate and politely invited him to enter. The old woman arose as he came up the steps.
"Keep your seat, madam."
"Did you want to see anybody?" she asked.
"No; and don't let me disturb you."
He gave her a closer look and thought that he remembered her as the woman who had taken him on her lap and told him that his father was dead.
"No disturbance at all," she answered. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes, I should like to look through this place."
"Very well, but you may find things pretty badly tumbled up. We're cleaning house. Come this way, please."
He saw the corner in which he used to sleep, and there was the same iron bedstead, with a fever-fretted child lying upon it. He thought of the nights when he had cried himself to sleep, and of the mornings when he lay there weaving his fancies while a spider high above the window was spinning his web. There was the same old smell, and he sniffed the sorrow of his childhood.
"How long has this been here?" he asked.
"He was brought here about two weeks ago."
"I mean the bedstead. How long has it been in this corner?"
"Oh, I can't say as to that. I thought you meant the child. I've been here a long time, and I never saw the bedstead anywhere else. It will soon be thirty years since I came here. Do you care to go into any of the other rooms?"
"No, thank you."
They returned to the veranda. "Won't you sit down?" the old woman asked.
"No, I've but a few moments to stay. By the way, some time ago I met a man who said that he had lived here when a child. I was trying to think of his name. Oh, it was a man named Henry DeGolyer, I believe. Do you remember him?"
"Yes, but it was a long time ago. I heard somebody say that he lived in the city here, but he never came out to see us. Oh, yes, I remember him. He was a stupid little thing, but that didn't keep him from being mean. He oughtn't to have been taken in here, for he had a father."
"Did you know his father?"
"Who? John DeGolyer? I reckon I did, and he wa'n't no manner account, nuther. He had sense enough, but he throw himself away with liquor. He painted a picture of my youngest sister, and everybody said that it favored her mightily, but John wa'n't no manner account."
"Do you remember his wife?"
"Not much. He married a young creature down the river and broke her heart, folks said."
"Did you ever see her?"
His voice had suddenly changed, and the old woman looked sharply at him.
"Yes, several times. She was a tall, frail, black-eyed creature, and she might have done well if she hadn't ever met John DeGolyer. But won't you sit down?"
"No, thank you, I'm going now. You are the matron, I presume."
"Yes, sir—have been now for I hardly know how long."
"If I send some presents to the children will you see that they are properly distributed?"
"Yes, but for goodness' sake don't send any drums or horns."
"I won't. How many boys have you?"
"Well, we've got a good many, I can tell you. You see, this isn't a regular foundlings' home. We take up poor children from most, everywhere. We've got ninety-three boys."
And how many girls?"
"We've got a good many of them, too, I can tell you. Seventy-odd—seventy-five, I think."
"All right. Now don't forget your promise. Good day, madam."
He went to a large toy-shop and began to buy in a way that appeared likely to exhaust the stock.
"Where do you live?" asked the proprietor of the shop.
"In Chicago."
"What, you ain't going to ship these toys there and try to make anything on them, are you?"
"No; I want them sent out to the Foundlings' Home. What's your bill?"
The man figured up four hundred and ten dollars. "Come with me to the bank," said Henry.
"Nearly all you Chicago men are rich," remarked the toy merchant as they walked along. "I've had a notion to sell out and move there myself. Chicago's reaching out after everything, and New Orleans is doing more and more trading with her every year. I bought a good many of these toys from a Chicago drummer. He sells everything—represents a concern called the Colossus."
Henry settled for the toys, and then continued his stroll about the city. A strange sadness depressed him. The old woman's words—"and broke her heart, folks said"—rang in his ears. Had he been born as a mere incident of nature, or was it intended that he should achieve something? Was he an accident or was he designed? When he thought of his mother, his heart bled; but to think of his father made it beat with anger. When he became a member of the Witherspoon family, his conscience had constantly plied him with questions until, worn with self-argument, he resolved to accept a part of the advantages that were thrust upon him. Why not all? What sense had he shown in his obstinacy? What honor had he served? Why should he desire to reserve a part of a former self? Fortune had not favored his birth, but accident had thrown him in the way to be rich and therefore powerful. Accident! What could be more of an accident than life itself? Then came the last sting. The woman whom he loved, should she become his wife, would never know her name; his children—but how vain and foolish was such a questioning. Was his name worth preserving? Should he not rejoice in the thought that he had thrown it off? He stopped on a corner and stood in an old doorway, where he had blacked shoes. "George Witherspoon is right, and I have been a fool," he said. "Nature despises the weak. I will be rich—I am rich."
There was no half-heartedness now. His manner changed; there was arrogance in his step. Rich—powerful! The world had been his enemy and he had blacked its shoes. Now it should be his servant, and with a lordly contempt he would tip it for its services.
He turned into a restaurant, and in a masterful and overbearing way ordered his dinner. He looked at a man and mused: "He puts on airs, the fool! I could buy him."
Several men who had been sitting at a table got up to go out. One of them pointed at a ragged fellow who, some distance back, was down on his knees scrubbing the floor. "Zeb, see that man?"
"What man?"
"The one scrubbing the floor."
"That isn't a man—it's a thing. What of it?"
"Nothing, only he used to be one of the brightest newspaper writers in this city."
Henry looked up.
"Yes—used to write some great stuff, they say."
"What's his name?"
"Henry DeGolyer."
Henry sprang to his feet. He put out his hands, for the room began to swim round. He looked toward the door, but the men were gone. A waiter ran to him and caught him by the arm. "Sit down here, sir."
"No; get away."
He steadied himself against the wall. The ragged man looked up, moved his bucket of water, dipped his mop-rag into it and went on with his work. Henry took a stop forward, and then felt for the wall again. A death-like paleness had overspread his face, and he appeared vainly to be trying to shut his staring and expressionless eyes. The waiter took hold of his arm again.
"Never mind. I'm all right."
There were no customers in the room. The scrub-man came nearer. Shudder after shudder, seeming to come in waves, passed over Henry, but suddenly he became calm, and slowly he walked toward the rear end of the room. The scrub-man moved forward and was at Henry's feet. He reached down and took hold of the man's arm—took the rag out of his hand. The man looked up. There could be no mistake. He was Henry Witherspoon.
"Don't you know me?" DeGolyer asked.
The man snatched the rag and began again to scrub the floor.
DeGolyer took hold of his arm. "Get up," he commanded, and the man obeyed as if frightened.
"Don't you know me?"
"No."
"Don't you remember Hank?"
"I'm Hank," the man answered.
"No," said DeGolyer, with a sob, "you are Henry, and I am Hank."
"No, Henry's dead—I'm Hank." He dropped on his knees again and began to scrub the floor.
Just then the proprietor came in. "What's the trouble?" he asked. "Why, mister, don't pay any attention to that poor fellow. There's no harm in him."
"No one knows that better than I," DeGolyer answered. "How long has he been here—where did he come from?"
"He came off a ship. The cap'n said that he couldn't use him and asked me to take him. Been here about five months, I think. They say he used to amount to something, but he's gone up here," he added, tapping his head.
"What's the captain's name—where can I find him?"
"His ship's in now, I think. Go down to the levee and ask for the cap'n of the Creole."
"I will, but first let me tell you that I have come for this man. I know his father. I'll get back as soon as I can."
"All right. And if you can do anything for this poor fellow you are welcome to, for he's not much use round here."
DeGolyer snatched his hat and rushed out into the street. Not a hack was in sight; he could not wait for a car, and he hastened toward the river. He began to run, and a boy cried: "Sick him, Tige." He stopped suddenly and put his hand to his head. "Have I lost my mind?" he asked himself.
"Well, here we are again," some one said. DeGolyer looked round and recognized the railroad man who had charge of the excursion.
"I'm glad I met you," DeGolyer replied. "It saves hunting you up."
"Why, what's the matter? Are you sick?"
"No, I'm all right, but something has occurred that compels me to return at once to Chicago."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"No, but it demands my immediate return. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. Good-by."
Again he started toward the river. He upset an old woman's basket of fruit. She cried out at him, and be saw that she could scarcely totter after the rolling oranges. He halted and picked them up for her. She mumbled something; she appeared to be a hundred years old. As he was putting the fruit into the basket, she struck a note in her mumbling that caused him to look her full in the face. He dropped the oranges and sprang back. She was the hag that had taken him from the Foundlings' Home. He hurried onward. "Great God!" he inwardly cried, "I am covered with the slime of the past."
Without difficulty he found the captain of the Creole. "I don't know very much about the poor fellow," he said. "I run across him nearly six months ago fit a little place called Dura, on the coast of Costa Rica. He was working about a sort of hotel, scrubbing and taking care of the horses; and I guess I shouldn't have paid any attention to him if I hadn't heard somebody say that he was an American; and it struck me as rather out of place that an American should be scrubbing round for those fellows, and I began to inquire about him. The landlord said that he was brought there sick, a good while ago, and was left for dead, but just as they were about to bury him he came to, and got up again after a few weeks. A priest told me that his name was Henry DeGolyer, and I said that it didn't make any difference what his name might be, I was going to take him back to the United States, so that if he had to clean out stables and scrub he might do it for white folks at least; for I am a down-east Yankee, and I haven't any too much respect for those fellows. Well, I brought him to New Orleans. I couldn't do much for him, being a poor man myself, but I got him a place in a restaurant, where he could get enough to eat, anyhow. I've since heard that he used to be a newspaper man, but this was disputed. Some people said that the newspaper DeGolyer was a black-haired fellow. But that didn't make any difference—I did the best I could."
"And you shall he more than paid for your trouble," said DeGolyer.
"Well, we won't argue about that. If you've got any money to spare you'd better give it to him."
"What is your name?"
"Atkins—just Cap'n Atkins."
"Where do you get your mail?"
"Well, I don't get any to speak of. A letter sent in care of the wharfmaster will reach me all right."
DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant. Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen, sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him.
"Come, Henry," DeGolyer said, taking his arm.
"No; not Henry—Hank. Henry's dead."
"Come, my boy."
Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers against them.
"My boy."
"He got up and turned to go with DeGolyer, who held his arm, but perceiving that he had left his bundle, pulled back and made an effort to reach it.
"No, we don't want that," said DeGolyer.
"Yes, clothes."
"No, we'll get better clothes. Come on."
DeGolyer took him to a Turkish bath, to a barbershop, and then to a clothing store. It was now evening and nearly time to take the train for Chicago. They drove to the hotel and then to the railway station.
The homeward journey was begun, and the wheels kept on repeating: "A father and a mother and a sister, too." DeGolyer did not permit himself to think. His mind had a thousand quickenings, but he killed them. Young Witherspoon looked in awe at the luxury of the sleeping-car; he gazed at the floor as if he wondered how it could be scrubbed. At first he refused to sit on the showy plush, and even after DeGolyer's soothing and affectionate words had relieved his fear of giving offense, he jumped to his feet when the porter came through the car, and in a trembling fright begged his companion to protect him against the anger of the head waiter.
"Sit down, my dear boy. He is not a head waiter—he is your servant."
"Is he?"
"Yes, and must wait on you."
At this he doubtfully shook his head, and he continued to watch the porter until assured that he was not offended, and then timidly offered to shake hands with him.
When bed-time came young Witherspoon refused to take off his clothes. He was afraid that some one might steal them, and no argument served to reassure him; and even after he had lain down, with his clothes on, he took off a red neck-tie which he had insisted upon wearing, and for greater security put it into his pocket. DeGolyer lay beside him, and for a time Witherspoon was quiet, but suddenly he rose up and began to mutter.
"What's the matter, Henry?"
"Not Henry—Hank. Henry's dead."
"Well, what's the matter, Hank?"
"Want my hat."
"It's up there. We'll get it in the morning."
"Want it now."
DeGolyer got his hat for him, and he lay with it on his breast. How dragging a night it was! Would the train never run from under the darkness out into the light of day? And sometimes, when the train stopped, DeGolyer fancied that it had run ahead of night and perversely was waiting for the darkness to catch up. The end was coming, and what an end it might be!
The day was dark and rainy; the landscape was a flat dreariness. A buzzard flapped his heavy wings and flew from a dead tree; a yelping dog ran after the train; a horse, turned out to die, stumbled along a stumpy road.
It was evening when the train reached Chicago. DeGolyer and young Witherspoon took a cab and were driven to a hospital. The case was explained to the physician in charge. He said that the mental trouble might not be due to any permanent derangement of the brain; it was evident that he had not been treated properly. The patient's nervous system was badly shattered. The case was by no means hopeless. He could not determine the length of time it might require to restore him to physical health, which meant, he thought, a mental cure as well.
"Three months?" DeGolyer asked.
"That long, at least."
"I will leave him with you, and I urge you not to stop short of the highest medical skill that can be procured in either this country or in Europe. As to who this young man is or may turn out to be, that must be kept as a secret. I will call every day. Henry"—
"Hank."
"All right, Hank. Now, I'm going to leave you here, but I'll be back soon."
"No; they'll steal my clothes!" he cried, in alarm.
"No, they won't; they'll give you more clothes. You stay here, and I will bring you something when I come back."
DeGolyer went to a hotel.