IMPATIENTLY WAITING.
While it was yet dark, and long before the dimply lake had caught a
glint from the coming sun, Witherspoon asked for the morning papers.
At brief periods of troubled sleep during the night he had fancied
that he was reading of the wreck of the Colossus and of his own
disgrace: and when he was told that the papers had not come, that it
was too early for them, he said: "Don't try to keep them back. I am
prepared." He wanted to get up and put on his clothes, but his wife
begged him to remain in bed.
"Was the doctor here?" he asked.
"Yes, don't you remember telling him that Brooks had been arrested?"
"No, I don't remember anything but a bad taste in my mouth. I know
him; he leaves a bad taste as his visiting-card. What did he say?
Wasn't he delighted to have a chance at me?"
"He said that if you keep quiet you will be all right in a day or
two."
"Did anybody else come?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Reporters?" he asked.
"Yes, I think so; but Henry saw them."
"Hum! I suppose he will be known now as Witherspoon the detective."
"No; the part he took will be kept a profound secret."
"I hope so; but don't you think he would rather be known as some sort
of freak?"
"No, dear. You do him an injustice."
"But does he do me a _justice_? He's got to pay back every cent I
advanced on that newspaper deal."
"We will attend to that, father."
"_We_ will. You are to have nothing to do with it."
"I mean that he will."
"That's different. I'll take the thing away from him the first thing
he knows. I'm tired of his browbeating. Isn't it time for those
papers?"
"Not quite."
"Have they stopped printing them? Are they holding back just to worry
me now that they've got me down? Where's Henry?"
"He has just gone out to wait for the carrier-boy. He's coming now, I
think."
Henry came in with the morning papers. "What do they say?" Witherspoon
eagerly asked. He flounced up, and drawing the covers about him, sat
on the edge of the bed.
"I'll see," Henry answered.
"But be quick about it. Great goodness, I can't wait all day."
"There's so much that I can't tell it in a breath."
"But can't you give me the gist of it? Call yourself a newspaper man
and can't get at the gist of a thing."
"Be patient a moment and I will read to you."
During more than an hour Witherspoon sat, listening; and when the last
paper had been disposed of, he said: "Why, that isn't so bad. They
don't mix me up in it after all. What was that? Brooks seems to he
wavering and may make a confession? But what will he say? That's the
question. What will he say?"
"How can he say anything to hurt you?" Mrs. Wither spoon asked.
"He can't if he sticks to the truth. But will he? He may want to ruin
the Colossus. I will not go near him. They may hang him and let him
rot. I will not go near him. The truth is, I have been afraid of him.
The best of us have cause to fear the man we have placed too much
confidence in. Caroline, I'll get up."
"Not now, father. The doctor said you must not get up to-day."
"But does he suppose I'm going to lie here and let the Colossus run
wild? Got nobody to help me; nobody."
"I will go down this morning and see that everything starts off all
right," said Henry.
"You will? What do you know about it? You could have known all about
it, but what do you know now?"
"I should think that the heads of the departments understand their
business; and I hope that I can at least represent you for a short
time."
"For a short time? Oh, yes, a short time suits you exactly. Ellen
could do that, and I'd send her if she were at home." The girl was at
Lake Geneva. "Think you can go down and say, 'Wish you would open this
door if you please'? Think you can do that?"
The mother put up her hands as though she would protect her son
against the merchant's feelingless reproach. For a time Henry sat
looking hard in Witherspoon's blood-shot eyes; and a thought, hot and
anger-edged, strove for utterance, but an appealing gesture, a look
from that gentle woman, turned his resentment into these consoling
words, "Don't worry. I think I know my duty when it's put before me.
The Colossus shall not suffer."
How tenderly she looked at him. She made a magnanimity of the cooling
of his resentment and she gave him that sacred reward--a mother's
gratefulness.
"All right," said the merchant, "Do the best you can."
His quick discernment had caught the play between Henry and Mrs.
Witherspoon. "Of course I don't expect you to take my place. I want
you merely to show that the Witherspoon family hasn't run away."
The doctor called and found his patient much improved. "A little rest
is all you need to bring you about again," the physician said. "Your
unsettled nerves have made you morbid. Don't worry. Everything will be
all right."
The newspaper reports of the arrest of Brooks, although they proceeded
to arraign and condemn him, had on Witherspoon's nervous system more
of a retoning effect than could have been brought about by a doctor's
skill. That Brooks might be guilty, had not been the merchant's fear;
but that he himself might in some way be implicated, had been his
morbid dread. Now he could begin to recognize the truth that with a
black beast of his own creation he had frightened himself; and he
laughed with a nervous shudder. But when the doctor was gone he again
became anxious.
"Caroline, didn't he ask if there had ever been any insanity in my
family?"
"Why, no; he didn't hint at such a thing."
"I must have dreamed it, then. But what makes me dream such strange
things? I thought you told him that my father had been a little off at
times. Didn't you?"
"Why, of course not. You never told me that there was ever anything
wrong with your father, and even if there was how should I know it?"
"But there wasn't anything wrong with him, Caroline, and why should
you say 'if there was.'"
"Now, father, I never thought of such a thing as suspecting that there
was, and please don't let that worry you."
"I won't, but didn't Henry bring a paper and keep it hidden until
after I went to sleep?"
"No, he read them all to you."
"I thought he brought in a weekly paper and read something about a
widow from Washington."
"No, he didn't."
After a time he dozed and then he began to mutter: "It is easier to
pay than to explain."
"What is it, dear?" she asked, not noticing that he dozed.
"Did you speak to me?" he inquired, rousing himself.
"You said something about it's being easier to pay than to explain,"
she answered.
"Did I? Must have been dreaming. Has Ellen come home?"
"Not yet, but I'm looking for her. Of course she started for home as
soon as she could after hearing the news."
"What time is it?"
"Twenty minutes of four," she answered, glancing at the clock.
"I wonder why Henry doesn't come."
"He'll be here soon."
"Has any one heard from Mrs. Brooks?"
"No. I would have gone over there, but I couldn't leave you."
"You are a noble woman, Caroline." She was arranging his pillow and he
was looking up at her. "You are too good for me."
"Please don't say that," she pleaded.
"I might as well say it as to feel it. Isn't it time for Henry to
come?"
"Yes, I think so. He'll be here soon, I'm sure."
"I hope I shan't have to lie here to-morrow. I can't, and that's all
there is about it."
He lay listening with the nervous ear of eagerness until so wearied by
disappointing noises that he sank into another doze.