THE INTERVIEWERS.
When they reached home at evening they found that five reporters had
been shown into the library and were waiting for them.
"Glad to see you, gentlemen," said Witherspoon, smiling in his way of
pleasant dismissal, "but really that statement contains all that it is
necessary for the public to know. We don't want to make a sensation of
it, you understand."
"Of course not," one of the newspaper men replied.
"And," said the merchant, with another smile, "I don't know what else
can be said."
But the smile had missed its aim. The attention of the visitors was
settled upon Henry. There was no chance for separate interviews, and
questions were asked by first one and then another.
"You had no idea that your parents were alive?"
"Not until after my uncle's death."
"Had he ever told you why you were in his charge?"
"Yes; he said that at the death of my parents I had been given to
him."
"You of course knew the story of the mysterious disappearance of Henry
Witherspoon."
"Yes; when a boy I had read something about it."
"In view of the many frauds that had been attempted, hadn't you a
fear that your father might he suspicious of you?"
"No; I had forwarded letters and held proof that could not be
disputed. The mystery was cleared up."
"How old are you?"
"I shall be twenty-five next--next"--
"December the fourteenth," Witherspoon answered for him.
"The truth is," said Henry, "uncle did not remember the exact date of
my birth."
"Was your uncle a man of means?"
"Well, I can hardly say that he was. He speculated considerably, and
though he was never largely successful, yet he always managed to live
well."
"Were you engaged in any sort of employment?"
"Yes, at different times I was a reporter."
"It is not necessary that the public should know all this," said
Witherspoon.
"But we can't help it," Henry replied. "The statement we sent out
would simply serve to hone and strap public curiosity to a keen edge.
I expected something of this sort. The only thing to do is to get
through with it as soon as we can."
When the interview was ended Henry went to the front door with the
reporters, and at parting said to them: "I hope to see you again,
gentlemen, and doubtless I shall. I am one of you."
At dinner that evening Witherspoon was in high spirits. He joked--a
recreation rare with him--and he told a story--a mental excursion of
marked uncommonness.
"What, Henry, don't you drink wine at all?" the merchant asked.
"No, sir, I stand in mortal fear of it." The vision of a drunken
painter, he always fancied, hung like a fog between him and the liquor
glass.
"It's well enough, my son."
"None of the Craigs were drunkards," said Ellen, giggling.
"Ellen," Mrs. Witherspoon solemnly enjoined, "my mother's people shall
not be made sport of. It is true that there were no drunkards among
them. And why?"
"Because none of them got drunk, I should think," Henry ventured to
suggest.
"That, of course, was one reason, my son, but the main reason was that
they knew how to govern themselves."
The evening flew away with music and with talk of a long ago made
doubly dear by present happiness. The hour was growing late.
Witherspoon and Henry sat in the library, smoking. Ellen had gone to
her room to draft a form for the invitation to Henry's reception, and
Mrs. Witherspoon was on a midnight prowl throughout the house, and
although knowing that everything was right, yet surprised to find it
so.
"Now, my boy," said the merchant, "we will talk business. Your mother,
and particularly your sister, thought it well for me to make you an
allowance, and while I don't object to the putting of money aside for
you, yet I should rather have you feel the manliness which comes of
drawing a salary for services rendered. That is more American. You see
how useful Brooks has made himself. Now, why can't you work yourself
into a similar position? In the future, the charge of the entire
establishment may devolve upon you. All that a real man wants is a
chance, and such a chance as I now urge upon you falls to the lot of
but few young men. Had such an opportunity been given to me when I was
young, I should have regarded myself as one specially favored by the
partial goddess of fortune."
He was now walking up and down the room. He spoke with fervor, and
Henry saw how strong he was and wondered not at his great success.
"I don't often resort to figures of speech," Witherspoon continued,
"but even the most practical man feels sometimes that illustration is
a necessity. Words are the trademarks of the goods stored in the mind,
and a flashy expression proclaims the flimsy trinket."
Was his unwonted indulgence in wine at dinner playing rhetorical
tricks with his mind?
"I spoke just now of the partial goddess of fortune," the merchant
continued, "in the hope that I might impress you with a deplorable
truth. Fortune is vested with a peculiar discrimination. It appears
more often to favor the unjust than the just. Ability and a life of
constant wooing do not always win success, for luck, the factotum of
fortune, often bestows in one minute a success which a life-time of
stubborn toil could not have achieved. Therefore, I say to you, think
well of your position, and instead of drawing idly upon your great
advantage, add to it. Successful men are often niggardly of advice,
while the prattling tongue nearly always belongs to failure;
therefore, when a successful man does advise, heed him. I think that I
should have succeeded in nearly any walk of life. Sturdy New England
stock, the hard necessity for thrift, and the practical common school
fitted me to push my way to the front. Don't think that I am boasting.
It is no more of vanity for one to say 'I have succeeded' than to say
'I will succeed.'" He paused a moment and stood near Henry's chair.
"You have the chance to become what I cannot be--one of the wealthiest
men in this country." He sat down, and leaning back in his
leather-covered chair, stretched forth his legs and crossed his
slippered feet. He looked at Henry.
"To some men success is natural, and to others it is impossible,"
Henry replied. "I can well see that prosperity could not long have
kept beyond your reach. Your mind led you in a certain direction, and
instead of resisting, you gladly followed it. You say that you should
have been a success in any walk of life, and while it is true that you
would have made money, it does not follow that you would have found
that contentment which is beyond all earthly price. I admit that the
opportunity which you offer me is one of rarest advantage, but knowing
myself, I feel that in accepting it I should be doing you an
injustice. It may be so strange to you that you can't understand it,
yet I haven't a single commercial instinct; and to be frank with you,
that great store would be a penitentiary to me. Wait a moment."
Witherspoon had bounded to his feet. "I am willing to do almost
anything," Henry continued, "but I can't consent to a complete
darkening of my life. I admit that I am peculiar, and shall not
dispute you in your belief that my mind is not strong, but I am firm
when it comes to purpose. To hear one say that he doesn't care to be
the richest man in the country may strike you as the utterance of a
fool, and yet I am compelled to say it. I don't want you to make me an
allowance. I don't want"--
"What in God's name do you want, sir!" Witherspoon exclaimed. He was
walking up and down the room, not with the regular paces which had
marked his stroll a few moments before, but with the uneven tread of
anger. "What in God's name can you ask?"
He turned upon Henry, and standing still, gave him a look of hard
inquiry.
"I ask nothing in God's name, and surely nothing in my own. I knew
that this would put you out, and I dreaded it, but it had to come.
Suppose that at my age the opportunity to manage a cattle ranch had
been offered you."
"I would have taken it; I would have made it the biggest cattle ranch
in the country. It galls me, sir, it galls me to see my own children
sticking up their noses at honest employment."
"Pardon me, but so far as I am concerned you are wrong. I seek honest
employment. But what is the most honest employment? Any employment
that yields an income? No; but the work that one is best fitted for
and which is therefore the most satisfactory. If you had shaped my
early life"--
"Andrew was a fool!" Witherspoon broke in. "He was crazy."
"But he was something of a gentleman, sir."
"Gentleman!" Witherspoon snorted; "he was the worst of all thieves--a
child-stealer."
"And had you been entirely blameless, sir?"
"What! and do you reproach me? Now look here." He pointed a shaking
finger at Henry. "Don't you ever hint at such a thing again. My God,
this is disgraceful!" he muttered, resuming his uneven walk. "My hopes
were so built up. Now you knock them down. What the devil do you
want, sir!" he exclaimed, wheeling about.
"I will tell you if you will listen."
"Oh, yes, of course you will. It will no doubt do you great good to
humiliate me."
"When you feel, sir, that I am humiliating you, one word is all you
need to say."
"What's that? Come now, no foolish threats. What is it you want to
do?"
"I have an idea," Henry answered, "that I could manage a newspaper."
"The devil you have."
"Yes, the devil I have, if you insist. I am a newspaper man and I like
the work. It holds a fascination for me while everything else is dull.
Now, I have a proposal to make, not a modest one, perhaps, but one
which I hope you will patiently consider--if you can. It would be easy
for you to get control of some afternoon newspaper. I can take charge
of it, and in time pay back the money you invest. I don't ask you to
give me a cent."
The merchant was about to reply, when Mrs. Witherspoon entered the
room. "Why, what is the matter?" she asked.
Witherspoon resumed his seat, shoved his hands deep into his pockets,
stretched forth his legs, crossed his feet and nervously shook them.
"What is the matter?" she repeated.
"Everything's the matter," Witherspoon declared. "I have
suggested"--he didn't say demanded--"that Henry should go into the
store and gradually take charge of the whole thing, and he positively
refuses. He wants to ran a newspaper." The merchant grunted and shook
his feet.
"But is there anything so bad about that?" she asked. "I am sure it is
no more than natural. My uncle Louis used to write for the Salem
_Monitor_."
He looked at her--he did not say a word, but he looked at her.
"And Uncle Harvey"--
He grunted, flounced out of his chair and quitted the room.
"Mother," said Henry, getting up and taking her hand, "I am grieved
that this dispute arose. I know that he is set in his ways, and it is
unfortunate that I was compelled to cross him, but it had to come
sooner or later."
"I am very sorry, but I don't blame you, my son. If you don't want to
go into the store, why should you?"
They heard Witherspoon's jolting walk, up and down the hall.
"You have but one life here on this earth," she said, "and I don't see
why you should make that one life miserable by engaging in something
that is distasteful to you. But if your father has a fault it is that
he believes every one should think as he does. Don't say anything more
to him to-night."
When Henry went out Witherspoon was still walking up and down the
hall. They passed, but took not the slightest notice of each other.
How different from the night before. Henry lay awake, thinking of the
dead boy, and pictured his eternal sleeping-place, hard by the stormy
sea.