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.