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.