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."