A MOTHER'S REQUEST.
At dinner, the evening after Henry had returned from the country, Ellen caused her mother to look up by saying that Miss Miller's chance was gone.
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Witherspoon asked. "I wasn't aware that Miss Miller ever had any chance, as you are pleased to term it. But why hasn't she as much chance now as she ever had?"
"Because her opportunity has been killed."
"Was it ever alive?" Henry asked.
"Oh, yes, but it is dead now. Mother, you ought to see the young woman I saw at Henry's office the other day. Look, he's trying to blush. Oh, she's dazzling with her great blue eyes."
Mrs. Witherspoon's look demanded an explanation.
"Mother," said Henry, "she means our book-reviewer."
"I don't like literary women," Mrs. Witherspoon replied, with stress in the movement of her head and with prejudice in the compression of her lips. "They are too—too uppish, I may say."
"But Miss Drury makes no literary pretensions," Henry rejoined.
"I should think not," Ellen spoke up. "I didn't take her to be literary, she was so neatly dressed."
"When you cease so lightly to discuss a noble-minded girl—a friend of mine—you will do me a great favor," Henry replied.
"What's all this?" Witherspoon asked. He had paid no attention to this trifling set-to and had caught merely the last accent of it.
"Oh, nothing, I'm sure," Ellen answered.
"Very well, then, we can easily put it aside. Henry, what was it you said to-day at noon about going away?"
"I said that I was going with a newspaper excursion to Mexico."
"Oh, surely, not so far as that!" Mrs. Witherspoon exclaimed.
"It won't take long, mother."
"No, but it's so far; and I should think that you've had enough of that country."
"I've never been in Mexico."
"Oh, well, all those countries down there are just the same, and I should think that when you have seen one your first impression is that you don't want to see another."
"They are restful at any rate," he replied.
"But can't you rest nearer home?"
"I could, but I have made up my mind to go with this excursion. I'll not be gone long."
"When are you going to start?"
"To-morrow evening."
"So soon as that?"
"Yes; I—I didn't decide until to-day."
"I don't like to have you go so far, but you know best, I suppose. Are you going out this evening?" she asked.
"No."
"Well, I wish to have a talk with you alone. Come to my sitting-room."
"With pleasure," he answered.
He thought that he knew the subject upon which she had chosen to talk; he saw that she was worried over Miss Drury; but when he had gone into her room and taken a seat beside her, he was surprised that she began to speak of Witherspoon's health.
"I know," she said, "that he is getting stronger, but he needs one great stimulus—he needs you. Please don't look at me that way." She took his hand, and it was limp in her warm grasp. "You know that I've always taken your part."
"Yes, mother, God bless you."
"And you know that I wouldn't advise you against your own interest—you know, my son, that I love you."
His hand closed upon hers, and his eyes, which for a moment had been cold and rebellious, now were warm with the light of affection and obedience.
"I will do what you ask," he said.
"God bless you, my son."
She arose, and hastening to the door, called: "George! oh, George!"
Witherspoon answered, and a moment later he came into the room. "George, our son will take his proper place."
Henry got up, and the merchant caught him by the hand. "You don't know how strong this makes me!" He rubbed his eyes and continued: "This is the first time I have seen you in your true light. You are a strong man—you are not easily influenced. Sit down; I want to look at you. Yes, you are a strong man, and you will be stronger. I will buy the Colton interest—the Witherspoons shall be known everywhere. To-morrow we will make the arrangements."
"I start for Mexico to-morrow."
"Yes, but you'll not be gone long. The trip will be good for you. Let me have a chair," he said. "Thank you," he added, when a chair had been placed for him. "I am quite beside myself—I see things in a new light." He sat down, reached over and took Henry's hands; he shoved himself back and looked at the young man. "Age is coming on, but I'll see myself reproduced."
"But not supplanted," Henry said.
"No, not until the time comes. But the time must come. Ah, after this life, what then? To be remembered. But what serves this purpose? A perpetuation of our interests. After you, your son—the man dies, but the name lives. No one of any sensibility can look calmly on the extinction of his name."
He arose with a new ease, and with a vigor that had long been absent from his step, paced up and down the room. "You will not find it a sacrifice, my son; it will become a fascination. It is not the love of money, but the consciousness of force. The lion enjoys his own strength, but the hare is frightened at his own weakness and runs when no danger is near. Small tradesmen may be ignorant, but a large merchant must be wise, for his wisdom has made him large. Trade is the realization of logic, and success is the fruit of philosophy. People wonder at the achievements of a man whom they take to be ignorant; but that man has a secret intelligence somewhere; and if they could discover it they would imitate him. Don't you permit yourself to feel that any mental force is too high for business. The statesman is but a business man. Behind the great general is the nation's backbone, and that backbone is a financier. Let me see, what time is it?" He looked at his watch. "Come, we will all go to the theater."
Witherspoon drove Henry to the railway station the next evening, and during the drive he talked almost ceaselessly. He complimented Henry upon the wise slowness with which he had made up his mind; there was always too much of impulse in a quick decision. He pointed his whip at a house and said: "A lonely old man lives there; he has built up a fortune, but his name will be buried with him." He spoke of his religious views. There must be a hereafter, but in the future state strength must rule; it was the order of the universe, the will of nature, the decree of eternity. He talked of the books that he had read, and then he turned to business. In a commercial transaction there must be no sentiment; financial credit must be guarded as a sacred honor. Every debt must be paid; every cent due must be extracted. It might cause distress, but distress was an inheritance of life.
To this talk the young man listened vaguely; he said neither yes nor no, and his silence was taken for close attention.
When they arrived at the station, Witherspoon got out of the buggy and with Henry walked up and down the concrete floor along the iron fence. It was here that the stranger had wonderingly gazed at the crowd as he held up young Henry's chain.
"Are you going through New Orleans?"
"Yes; will be there one day."
"You are pretty well acquainted in that town, I suppose."
"With the streets," Henry answered.
"I wish I could go with you, but I can't. Next year perhaps I can get away oftener."
"Yes, if you have cause to place confidence in me."
"I have the confidence now; all that remains for you to do is to become acquainted with the details of your new position."
"And there the trouble may lie."
"You underrate yourself. A man who can pick up an education can with a teacher learn to do almost anything."
"But when I was a boy there was a pleasure in a lesson because I felt that I was stealing it."
The merchant laughed and drew Henry closer to him. "If we may believe the envious, the quality of theft may not be lacking in your future work," he said.
After a short silence Henry remarked: "You say that I am to perpetuate your name."
"Yes, surely."
"I suppose, then, that you claim the right to direct me in my selection of a wife."
Again the merchant drew Henry closer to him. "Not to direct, but to advise," he answered.
"A rich girl, I presume."
"A suitable match at least."
"Suitable to you or to me?"
"To both—to us all. But we'll think about that after a while."
"I have thought about it; the girl is penniless."
"What! I hope you haven't committed yourself." They were farther apart now.
"Not by what I have uttered—and she may care nothing for me—but my actions must have said that I love her."
"What do you mean by 'love her'?" the merchant angrily demanded.
"Is it possible that you have forgotten?"
"Of course not," he said, softening. "Who is she?"
"A girl whose life has been a devotion—an angel."
"Bosh! That's all romance. Young man, this is Chicago, and Chicago is the material end—the culmination of the nineteenth century."
"And this girl is the culmination of purity and divine womanhood—of love!" He stopped short, looked at Witherspoon, and said: "If you say a word against her I will not go into the store—I'll set fire to it and burn it down."
They were in a far corner, and now, standing apart, were looking at each other. The young man's eyes snapped with anger.
"Come, don't fly off that way," said the merchant. "You may choose for yourself, of course. Oh, you've got some of the old man's pigheadedness, have you? All right; it will keep men from running over you."
He took Henry's arm, and they walked back toward the gate.
"I won't say anything to your mother about it."
"You may do as you like."
"Well, it's best not to mention it yet a while. Will you sell your newspaper as soon as you return?"
"Yes."
"All right. Then there'll be nothing in the way. Your train's about ready. Take good care of yourself, and come back rested. Telegraph me whenever you can. Good-by."