A MOMENT OF ARROGANCE.
Henry wandered through the old familiar streets. How vividly came back
the years, the dreary long ago! Here, on a door-step, he had passed
many a nodding hour, kept in half-consciousness by the clank of the
printing-press, waiting for the dawn and his bundle of newspapers. No
change had come to soften the truth of the picture that a by-gone
wretchedness threw upon his memory. The attractive fades, but how
eternal is the desolate! Yonder he could see the damp wall where he
used to hunt for snails, and farther down the narrow street was the
house in which had lived the old Italian woman. "You think I'm a
stranger," he mused, as he passed a policeman, "but I know all this. I
have been in dens here that you have never seen."
He went to the Foundlings' Home and walked up and down in front of the
long, low building. An old woman, dragging a rocking-chair, came out
on the veranda and sat down. He halted at the gate, stood for a moment
and then rang the bell. A negro opened the gate and politely invited
him to enter. The old woman arose as he came up the steps.
"Keep your seat, madam."
"Did you want to see anybody?" she asked.
"No; and don't let me disturb you."
He gave her a closer look and thought that he remembered her as the
woman who had taken him on her lap and told him that his father was
dead.
"No disturbance at all," she answered. "Is there anything I can do for
you?"
"Yes, I should like to look through this place."
"Very well, but you may find things pretty badly tumbled up. We're
cleaning house. Come this way, please."
He saw the corner in which he used to sleep, and there was the same
iron bedstead, with a fever-fretted child lying upon it. He thought of
the nights when he had cried himself to sleep, and of the mornings
when he lay there weaving his fancies while a spider high above the
window was spinning his web. There was the same old smell, and he
sniffed the sorrow of his childhood.
"How long has this been here?" he asked.
"He was brought here about two weeks ago."
"I mean the bedstead. How long has it been in this corner?"
"Oh, I can't say as to that. I thought you meant the child. I've been
here a long time, and I never saw the bedstead anywhere else. It will
soon be thirty years since I came here. Do you care to go into any of
the other rooms?"
"No, thank you."
They returned to the veranda. "Won't you sit down?" the old woman
asked.
"No, I've but a few moments to stay. By the way, some time ago I met a
man who said that he had lived here when a child. I was trying to
think of his name. Oh, it was a man named Henry DeGolyer, I believe.
Do you remember him?"
"Yes, but it was a long time ago. I heard somebody say that he lived
in the city here, but he never came out to see us. Oh, yes, I remember
him. He was a stupid little thing, but that didn't keep him from being
mean. He oughtn't to have been taken in here, for he had a father."
"Did you know his father?"
"Who? John DeGolyer? I reckon I did, and he wa'n't no manner account,
nuther. He had sense enough, but he throw himself away with liquor. He
painted a picture of my youngest sister, and everybody said that it
favored her mightily, but John wa'n't no manner account."
"Do you remember his wife?"
"Not much. He married a young creature down the river and broke her
heart, folks said."
"Did you ever see her?"
His voice had suddenly changed, and the old woman looked sharply at
him.
"Yes, several times. She was a tall, frail, black-eyed creature, and
she might have done well if she hadn't ever met John DeGolyer. But
won't you sit down?"
"No, thank you, I'm going now. You are the matron, I presume."
"Yes, sir--have been now for I hardly know how long."
"If I send some presents to the children will you see that they are
properly distributed?"
"Yes, but for goodness' sake don't send any drums or horns."
"I won't. How many boys have you?"
"Well, we've got a good many, I can tell you. You see, this isn't a
regular foundlings' home. We take up poor children from most,
everywhere. We've got ninety-three boys."
And how many girls?"
"We've got a good many of them, too, I can tell you.
Seventy-odd--seventy-five, I think."
"All right. Now don't forget your promise. Good day, madam."
He went to a large toy-shop and began to buy in a way that appeared
likely to exhaust the stock.
"Where do you live?" asked the proprietor of the shop.
"In Chicago."
"What, you ain't going to ship these toys there and try to make
anything on them, are you?"
"No; I want them sent out to the Foundlings' Home. What's your bill?"
The man figured up four hundred and ten dollars. "Come with me to the
bank," said Henry.
"Nearly all you Chicago men are rich," remarked the toy merchant as
they walked along. "I've had a notion to sell out and move there
myself. Chicago's reaching out after everything, and New Orleans is
doing more and more trading with her every year. I bought a good many
of these toys from a Chicago drummer. He sells everything--represents
a concern called the Colossus."
Henry settled for the toys, and then continued his stroll about the
city. A strange sadness depressed him. The old woman's words--"and
broke her heart, folks said"--rang in his ears. Had he been born as a
mere incident of nature, or was it intended that he should achieve
something? Was he an accident or was he designed? When he thought of
his mother, his heart bled; but to think of his father made it beat
with anger. When he became a member of the Witherspoon family, his
conscience had constantly plied him with questions until, worn with
self-argument, he resolved to accept a part of the advantages that
were thrust upon him. Why not all? What sense had he shown in his
obstinacy? What honor had he served? Why should he desire to reserve a
part of a former self? Fortune had not favored his birth, but accident
had thrown him in the way to be rich and therefore powerful. Accident!
What could be more of an accident than life itself? Then came the last
sting. The woman whom he loved, should she become his wife, would
never know her name; his children--but how vain and foolish was such a
questioning. Was his name worth preserving? Should he not rejoice in
the thought that he had thrown it off? He stopped on a corner and
stood in an old doorway, where he had blacked shoes. "George
Witherspoon is right, and I have been a fool," he said. "Nature
despises the weak. I will be rich--I am rich."
There was no half-heartedness now. His manner changed; there was
arrogance in his step. Rich--powerful! The world had been his enemy
and he had blacked its shoes. Now it should be his servant, and with a
lordly contempt he would tip it for its services.
He turned into a restaurant, and in a masterful and overbearing way
ordered his dinner. He looked at a man and mused: "He puts on airs,
the fool! I could buy him."
Several men who had been sitting at a table got up to go out. One of
them pointed at a ragged fellow who, some distance back, was down on
his knees scrubbing the floor. "Zeb, see that man?"
"What man?"
"The one scrubbing the floor."
"That isn't a man--it's a thing. What of it?"
"Nothing, only he used to be one of the brightest newspaper writers in
this city."
Henry looked up.
"Yes--used to write some great stuff, they say."
"What's his name?"
"Henry DeGolyer."
Henry sprang to his feet. He put out his hands, for the room began to
swim round. He looked toward the door, but the men were gone. A waiter
ran to him and caught him by the arm. "Sit down here, sir."
"No; get away."
He steadied himself against the wall. The ragged man looked up, moved
his bucket of water, dipped his mop-rag into it and went on with his
work. Henry took a stop forward, and then felt for the wall again. A
death-like paleness had overspread his face, and he appeared vainly to
be trying to shut his staring and expressionless eyes. The waiter took
hold of his arm again.
"Never mind. I'm all right."
There were no customers in the room. The scrub-man came nearer.
Shudder after shudder, seeming to come in waves, passed over Henry,
but suddenly he became calm, and slowly he walked toward the rear end
of the room. The scrub-man moved forward and was at Henry's feet. He
reached down and took hold of the man's arm--took the rag out of his
hand. The man looked up. There could be no mistake. He was Henry
Witherspoon.
"Don't you know me?" DeGolyer asked.
The man snatched the rag and began again to scrub the floor.
DeGolyer took hold of his arm. "Get up," he commanded, and the man
obeyed as if frightened.
"Don't you know me?"
"No."
"Don't you remember Hank?"
"I'm Hank," the man answered.
"No," said DeGolyer, with a sob, "you are Henry, and I am Hank."
"No, Henry's dead--I'm Hank." He dropped on his knees again and began
to scrub the floor.
Just then the proprietor came in. "What's the trouble?" he asked.
"Why, mister, don't pay any attention to that poor fellow. There's no
harm in him."
"No one knows that better than I," DeGolyer answered. "How long has he
been here--where did he come from?"
"He came off a ship. The cap'n said that he couldn't use him and asked
me to take him. Been here about five months, I think. They say he used
to amount to something, but he's gone up here," he added, tapping his
head.
"What's the captain's name--where can I find him?"
"His ship's in now, I think. Go down to the levee and ask for the
cap'n of the Creole."
"I will, but first let me tell you that I have come for this man. I
know his father. I'll get back as soon as I can."
"All right. And if you can do anything for this poor fellow you are
welcome to, for he's not much use round here."
DeGolyer snatched his hat and rushed out into the street. Not a hack
was in sight; he could not wait for a car, and he hastened toward the
river. He began to run, and a boy cried: "Sick him, Tige." He stopped
suddenly and put his hand to his head. "Have I lost my mind?" he asked
himself.
"Well, here we are again," some one said. DeGolyer looked round and
recognized the railroad man who had charge of the excursion.
"I'm glad I met you," DeGolyer replied. "It saves hunting you up."
"Why, what's the matter? Are you sick?"
"No, I'm all right, but something has occurred that compels me to
return at once to Chicago."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"No, but it demands my immediate return. I'm sorry, but it can't be
helped. Good-by."
Again he started toward the river. He upset an old woman's basket of
fruit. She cried out at him, and be saw that she could scarcely totter
after the rolling oranges. He halted and picked them up for her. She
mumbled something; she appeared to be a hundred years old. As he was
putting the fruit into the basket, she struck a note in her mumbling
that caused him to look her full in the face. He dropped the oranges
and sprang back. She was the hag that had taken him from the
Foundlings' Home. He hurried onward. "Great God!" he inwardly cried,
"I am covered with the slime of the past."
Without difficulty he found the captain of the Creole. "I don't know
very much about the poor fellow," he said. "I run across him nearly
six months ago fit a little place called Dura, on the coast of Costa
Rica. He was working about a sort of hotel, scrubbing and taking care
of the horses; and I guess I shouldn't have paid any attention to him
if I hadn't heard somebody say that he was an American; and it struck
me as rather out of place that an American should be scrubbing round
for those fellows, and I began to inquire about him. The landlord said
that he was brought there sick, a good while ago, and was left for
dead, but just as they were about to bury him he came to, and got up
again after a few weeks. A priest told me that his name was Henry
DeGolyer, and I said that it didn't make any difference what his name
might be, I was going to take him back to the United States, so that
if he had to clean out stables and scrub he might do it for white
folks at least; for I am a down-east Yankee, and I haven't any too
much respect for those fellows. Well, I brought him to New Orleans. I
couldn't do much for him, being a poor man myself, but I got him a
place in a restaurant, where he could get enough to eat, anyhow. I've
since heard that he used to be a newspaper man, but this was disputed.
Some people said that the newspaper DeGolyer was a black-haired
fellow. But that didn't make any difference--I did the best I could."
"And you shall he more than paid for your trouble," said DeGolyer.
"Well, we won't argue about that. If you've got any money to spare
you'd better give it to him."
"What is your name?"
"Atkins--just Cap'n Atkins."
"Where do you get your mail?"
"Well, I don't get any to speak of. A letter sent in care of the
wharfmaster will reach me all right."
DeGolyer got into a hack and was rapidly driven to the restaurant.
Young Witherspoon had completed his work and was in the kitchen,
sitting on a box with a dirty-looking bundle lying beside him.
"Come, Henry," DeGolyer said, taking his arm.
"No; not Henry--Hank. Henry's dead."
"Come, my boy."
Witherspoon looked up, and closing his eyes, pressed the tips of his
fingers against them.
"My boy."
"He got up and turned to go with DeGolyer, who held his arm, but
perceiving that he had left his bundle, pulled back and made an effort
to reach it.
"No, we don't want that," said DeGolyer.
"Yes, clothes."
"No, we'll get better clothes. Come on."
DeGolyer took him to a Turkish bath, to a barbershop, and then to a
clothing store. It was now evening and nearly time to take the train
for Chicago. They drove to the hotel and then to the railway station.
The homeward journey was begun, and the wheels kept on repeating: "A
father and a mother and a sister, too." DeGolyer did not permit
himself to think. His mind had a thousand quickenings, but he killed
them. Young Witherspoon looked in awe at the luxury of the
sleeping-car; he gazed at the floor as if he wondered how it could be
scrubbed. At first he refused to sit on the showy plush, and even
after DeGolyer's soothing and affectionate words had relieved his fear
of giving offense, he jumped to his feet when the porter came through
the car, and in a trembling fright begged his companion to protect
him against the anger of the head waiter.
"Sit down, my dear boy. He is not a head waiter--he is your servant."
"Is he?"
"Yes, and must wait on you."
At this he doubtfully shook his head, and he continued to watch the
porter until assured that he was not offended, and then timidly
offered to shake hands with him.
When bed-time came young Witherspoon refused to take off his clothes.
He was afraid that some one might steal them, and no argument served
to reassure him; and even after he had lain down, with his clothes on,
he took off a red neck-tie which he had insisted upon wearing, and for
greater security put it into his pocket. DeGolyer lay beside him, and
for a time Witherspoon was quiet, but suddenly he rose up and began to
mutter.
"What's the matter, Henry?"
"Not Henry--Hank. Henry's dead."
"Well, what's the matter, Hank?"
"Want my hat."
"It's up there. We'll get it in the morning."
"Want it now."
DeGolyer got his hat for him, and he lay with it on his breast. How
dragging a night it was! Would the train never run from under the
darkness out into the light of day? And sometimes, when the train
stopped, DeGolyer fancied that it had run ahead of night and
perversely was waiting for the darkness to catch up. The end was
coming, and what an end it might be!
The day was dark and rainy; the landscape was a flat dreariness. A
buzzard flapped his heavy wings and flew from a dead tree; a yelping
dog ran after the train; a horse, turned out to die, stumbled along a
stumpy road.
It was evening when the train reached Chicago. DeGolyer and young
Witherspoon took a cab and were driven to a hospital. The case was
explained to the physician in charge. He said that the mental trouble
might not be due to any permanent derangement of the brain; it was
evident that he had not been treated properly. The patient's nervous
system was badly shattered. The case was by no means hopeless. He
could not determine the length of time it might require to restore him
to physical health, which meant, he thought, a mental cure as well.
"Three months?" DeGolyer asked.
"That long, at least."
"I will leave him with you, and I urge you not to stop short of the
highest medical skill that can be procured in either this country or
in Europe. As to who this young man is or may turn out to be, that
must be kept as a secret. I will call every day. Henry"--
"Hank."
"All right, Hank. Now, I'm going to leave you here, but I'll be back
soon."
"No; they'll steal my clothes!" he cried, in alarm.
"No, they won't; they'll give you more clothes. You stay here, and I
will bring you something when I come back."
DeGolyer went to a hotel.