The Colossus: A Novel

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.

TOLD IT ALL.

Witherspoon started. "Ah, it's you. Did you bring the evening papers?"

"Yes, here they are," Henry answered.

"What do they say? Can't you tell me? Got the papers and can't tell me what they say?"

"They say a great deal," Henry replied. "Brooks has made a confession."

In an instant Witherspoon sat on the edge of the bed, with the covers jerked about him. He opened his mouth, but no word came forth.

"When he was told that Mrs. Colton had made a statement he gave up," said Henry. "The confession is not a written one, but is doubtless much fuller than if it were. I will take the Star's report. They are all practically the same, but this one has a few pertinent questions. I will skip the introduction.

"'I confess,' said Brooks, 'that I killed the old man, but I did not murder him. I was trying to keep him from killing me. I had gone into a losing speculation and was in pressing need of money. I knew that it would be useless to ask him to help me; in fact, I didn't want him to know that I had been speculating, and I decided to help myself. I knew that he kept money in the safe at home; I didn't know how much, but I thought that it was enough to help me out, and I began deliberately to plan the robbery. I knew that it would have to be done in the most skillful manner, for the old man's love of money made him as sharp as a briar when money was at stake; and I was resolved to have no confederates to share the reward and afterward to keep me in fear of exposure, I wrote a letter, and using the first name that came into my head, addressed it to "Dave Kittymunks, General Delivery, Chicago." I don't know where I picked up the name, and it makes no difference. I ran up to Milwaukee, dropped the letter in a mail box and was back here before any one knew that I was out of town. I disguised myself with black whiskers, went to the post-office and called for the letter, and took care that the delivery clerk should notice me. Colton supposed that none but members of his family knew of the safe at home, and why a robber should know must be made clear; so, wearing the same disguise, I called at the house one day and told the servant in charge that I had been sent to search for sewer-gas. I showed an order. A shrewd colored man had been discharged on account of some irregularities into which I had entrapped him, and an ignorant fellow that had agreed to work for less had just been put in his place. One evening when our family visited the Witherspoons I perfected my arrangements. I sawed the iron bars at the window and placed the black coat, with the Kittymunks letter in the pocket, as if the sash had failed and caught it. It was necessary that the coat should be found, and it was hardly natural that it should be found lying in the yard, it must appear that in his haste to get away the robber was compelled to leave his coat, and this could not be done unless he was forced to get out of it, leaving the police to suspect that he had done so with a struggle. I had torn one sleeve nearly off. But the mere falling of the sash on the tail of the coat would not do, it would pull out too easily. Then I thought of the pipe. I arranged the safe so that with a chisel I could open it easily—it was an old and insecure thing, anyway—and then placed a ladder on the ground under the window. Here there is a paved walk, so there was no necessity to make tracks. Now, there was but one thing more, and that was a noise to sound like the falling of the sash, and which was to wake the old man so that he might jump up almost in time to catch the robber. I had almost forgotten this, and now it puzzled me. The vault-room, a narrow apartment, is between the old man's room and mine, and I could have left the window up, propped with a stick, and from my window jerked out the prop, but the cool air would have shown the old man that the window was raised, and this would have ruined everything. Finally I decided that the falling of my own window—both are old-fashioned and are held up by a notched button—would arouse him and that he would think that the noise came from the vault-room. I would prop it with the edge of the button so that a slight pull on a string would throw it. But another question then arose. The weather was cold, and why should we have our window up so high? How should I explain to my wife? I would build a roaring fire in the furnace. That would heat the room too hot and give me an excuse to raise the window. But she would find it down. I could tell her that the room cooled off and that I put it down. But I was quibbling with myself. Everything was settled. The hall-door of the vault-room is but a step from my own door, and was kept fastened with a spring lock and a bolt and was supposed never to be opened. I drew back the bolt and the catch, and fixed the catch so that I could easily spring it when I went out. When everything had thus been arranged, I went to Witherspoon's to come home with the folks. The sky was clouded and the night was very dark. When we reached home the old man complained of having eaten too much—something he never had cause to complain of when he ate at home—and said that he believed he would lie down.

"'The window of the vault-room was never raised by the old man, and was kept fastened down with an old-time cast-iron catch. I had broken this off; but, afraid that he might examine the window and the door, I went with him to his room. And when he went into the vault-room to light the gas, I stood in the door and talked to him about his intended investment, and I talked so positively of the great profit he would surely make that he looked at neither the door nor the window. Everything had worked well. I bade him and the old lady good night and went to my own room. My wife complained of the heat, and I raised the window, remarking that I would get up after a while and put it down. How dreadfully slow the time was after I went to bed! And when I thought that every one must be asleep, my wife startled me by asking if I had noticed how unusually feeble her mother looked. I imagined that some one was dragging the ladder from under the window, and once I fancied that I heard the old man call me. The thought, the possibility of committing murder never occurred to me. The positive knowledge that I should never be discovered and that I should get every dollar of his money would not have tempted me to kill him. I lay for a long time—until I knew that every one must be asleep. Then I carefully got out of bed. I struck a chair, and I waited to see if my wife had been awakened by the noise. No; she was sound asleep. I tied a string to the window button, got my tools, which I had hidden in a closet and which were mainly intended for show after the robbery was discovered, and softly stole out. The hall was dark. The old man hated a gas-bill. I felt my way to the vault-room door and gently pushed it open, a little at a time. When I got inside I remembered that the very first thing I must attend to during the excitement which would follow the discovery of the robbery was to slip the bolt back in its place. The gas appeared to be burning lower than usual, and I wondered if the prospect of parting with money enough to make the investment had driven the old man to one more turn of his screw of economy. Although I knew how to open the safe, for previous arrangement had made it easy, I found it to be some trouble after all. But I got it open and had taken out the money drawer when a noise startled me. I sprang up, and there was the old man. He was but a few feet from me. He had a pistol. I saw it gleam in the dim light. I couldn't stand discovery, and I must protect myself against being shot. I knew that in the semi-darkness he did not recognize me. All this came with a flash. I sprang upon him. With one hand I caught the pistol, with the other I clutched his throat. I would choke him senseless and run back to my room. He threw up one hand, threw back his head and freed his throat. We were under the gas jet. My hand struck the screw, and the light leaped to full blaze. At that instant the pistol fired and the old man fell, I wheeled about and was in the hall; I sprung the lock after me, and in a second I was in my own room—just as my wife, dazed with fright, had jumped out of bed. "Come," I cried, "something must have happened." And together we ran into the old man's room.'

"'During the excitement which followed I forgot no precaution; I slipped the bolt back into place and removed the string from the button of my own window. My wife was frantic. I did not suspect that the old woman had seen me, for I was not in the vault-room an instant after the pistol fired, and before that it was so dark that she could not have recognized me. If I had thought that she did see me'—

"'What would you have done?' the reporter asked.

"'I don't know,' Brooks answered, 'but it is not reasonable to suppose that I would have let her go away from home. I acknowledge that I did not care to see her recover—now that I am acknowledging everything—for at best she could be only in the way, and naturally, she would interfere with my management of the estate. But if I had been anxious that she should die, I could have had her poisoned. Instead, however, I employed a quack, who I knew pretended to be a great physician, and who I believed could do her no good. In fact, I didn't think that she could live but a few days.' After pausing for a moment he added, 'She must have seen me just as the light blazed up, and was doubtless standing back from the door. I didn't take any money.'

"'But why didn't you take the money while the old man was away? Then you would have run no risk of killing him or of being killed."

"'I could easily have done this, but he was so shrewd. I wanted him to believe that he had almost caught the robber.'

"'Then there is no such man as Dave Kittymunks,' said the reporter.

"'No,' Brooks answered.

"'But Flummers, the reporter, said that he knew him.'

"'I met Mr. Flummers one evening,' Brooks replied, 'and before we parted company I think that he must have had in his mind a vague recollection of having seen such a fellow. The public was eager, and that was a great stimulus to Mr. Flummers.'

"'Did you feel that you were suspected?' the reporter asked.

"'Not of having committed the murder, but I felt that I was suspected of having had something to do with it. But I hadn't a suspicion that any proof existed. I could stand suspicion, especially as I should receive large pay for it. A number of men in this city are under suspicion of one kind or another, but it doesn't seem to have hurt them a great deal. Their checks are good. Men come back from the penitentiary and build up fortunes with the money they stole. Their hammered brass fronts and colored electric lights are not unknown to Clark Street.'

"'But you suffered remorse, of course,' the reporter suggested.

"'I think that there is a great deal of humbug about the remorse a man feels,' Brooks replied. 'I regretted that I had been forced to kill the old man, for with all his stinginess he was rather kind-hearted, but I had to save my own life. It is true that I didn't have to commit the robbery, but robbery is not a capital crime.'

"'But the self-defense of a robber, when it results in a tragedy, is a murder,' the reporter suggested.

"'We'll see about that,' Brooks coolishly replied.

"'Do you make this confession with the advice of your lawyer?'

"'No, but at the suggestion of my own judgment. When I was told that the old woman had seen the killing and that, of course, her deposition would be introduced in court, I then knew that it was worse than useless to protest my innocence. Besides, as she saw it, the tragedy was a murder, but, as I confess it'—He hesitated.

"'It is what?' the reporter asked.

"'Well, that's for the law to determine. There should always be some mercy for a man who tells the truth. I have done a desperate thing—I staked my future on it. But I have associated with rich men so long that for me a future without money could be but a continuation of embarrassment. I have helped to make the fortunes of other men, but I failed when I engaged in speculations for myself. I had prospects, it is true, but I didn't know but Colton had arranged his will so as to prevent my using his money; and I had reason to fear that my wife was in touch with him,'

"'Has she been to see you?' the reporter asked.

"'That's rather an impertinent question,' Brooks replied, 'but I may as well confess everything. We haven't been getting along very well together. No, she hasn't been to see me. Not one of my friends has called. There, gentlemen, I have told you everything.'"

When the last word of the interview had been pronounced, Witherspoon grunted and lay back with his hands clasped under his head.

"What do you think of it?" Henry asked.

"There's hardly any room for thinking."

But he did think, and a few moments later he said: "Of all the cold-blooded scoundrels I ever heard of, he takes the lead. And just to think what I have done for him! I don't think, though, that he has robbed us of much. He didn't have the handling of a great deal of cash. Still I can't tell. My, how sharp he is! He didn't mention the Colossus. But what difference Would it make?" He sat up. "What need I care how often he mentions it? The public knows me. Nobody ever had cause to question my credit. Why should I have been worried over him? Henry, you are right; my trouble is the result of a physical cause. Caroline, I'm going in to dinner with you."

POINTS OUT HER BROTHER'S DUTY.

In the afternoon of the day that followed the publication of the confession Flummers minced his way into the Press Club. He wore a suit of new clothes, and although the weather was warm, he carried a silk-faced overcoat. Before any one took notice of him he put his coat and hat on the piano, and then, with a gesture, he exclaimed:

"Wow!"

"Why, here's Kittymunks! Helloa, Kit!" one man shouted. "Have you identified Brooks?" some one else cried, and a roar followed.

For a moment Flummers stood smiling at this raillery; then suddenly, and as though he would shut out a humiliating scene, he pressed his hands across his eyes. But his hands flew off into a double gesture—into a gathering motion that invited every one to come into his confidence, and solemnly he pronounced these words:

"He made a monkey of me."

"I should say he did!" Whittlesy cried. "Oh, you'll hold me in the hollow of your hand, will you?"

Flummers looked at Whittlesy and scalloped the forerunner of a withering speech; but, thoughtful enough suddenly to remember that at this solemn time his words and his eyes belonged not to one man, but to the entire company, he withdrew his gaze from Whittlesy, and in his broad look included every one present.

"He made a monkey of me. He stopped me on the street one evening—I had boned him for an advertisement when I was running The Art of Interior Decoration—and was so polite that I said to myself: 'Papa, here's another flip man thirsting for recognition. Put him on your staff.' Well, we had a bowl or two at Garry's, and the first thing I knew he began to remind me that I remembered a fellow who must be Kittymunks, and I said, 'Hi, gi, here's a scoop.' And it was. Oh, it's a pretty hard matter to scoop papa"—(tapping his head). "Papa knows what the public wants, and he serves it up. Some of you dry-dock conservative ducks would have let it go by, but papa is nothing if not adventurous. Papa knows that without adventure you make no discoveries. But, wow! he did make a monkey of me. Just think of a floor-walker making a monkey of papa!" He pressed his hand to his brow. "Why, a floor-walker has been my especial delicacy—he has been my appetizer, my white-meat—but, wow! this fellow was a gristle."

"Mr. Flummers," said McGlenn, "we all love you."

"Say, John, I owe you two dollars."

"No, Mr. Flummers, you don't owe me anything."

"But I borrowed two dollars from you, John, when I started The Bankers' Review."

"No man can borrow money from me, Mr. Flummers. If he gets money from me, it's his and not mine. We all love you, Mr. Flummers, and your Kittymunks escapade, so thoroughly in keeping with our estimate of you, has added strength to our affection. If you wish to keep friends, Mr. Flummers, you must do nothing which they could not forecast for you. The development of hitherto undiscovered traits, of an unsuspected and therefore an inconsistent strength, is a dash of cold water in the face of friendship. We are tied to you by a strong rope made of the strands of weaknesses, Mr. Flummers."

"Oh, no."

"Yes, made of the fine-spun strands of weaknesses, Mr. Flummers. It is better to be a joss of pleasing indiscretion than to be a man of great strength, for the joss has no enemies, but sooner or later the strong man must be overthrown by the hoard of weaklings that envy has set against him. Do you desire something to drink, Mr. Flummers?"

"No."

"Now you place your feet on inconsistent and slippery ground, Mr. Flummers. Remember that in order to hold our love you must not surprise us."

"But I can't drink now; I have just had something to eat."

"Beware, Mr. Flummers. Inconsiderate eating caused a great general to lose a battle, and now you are in danger. You may suffer superfluous lunch to change our opinion of you, which means a withdrawal of our love."

"Oh, wait a minute or two, John. But never mind. Say, there, boy, bring me a little liquor. But, say, wasn't it funny that Detective Stavers should give ten thousand dollars of that reward to the Home for the Friendless? I used to work for the Pinkertons, and I know all those guys, and there's not one of the whole gang that gives a snap for charity. There's a mystery about it somewhere."

"Probably you can throw some light on it as you did on the Kittymunks affair," Whittlesy suggested.

Flummers gave him a scallop. "Papa still holds you in the hollow of his hand. Here you are; see?" He put his finger in the palm of his hand. "You are right there; see? And when I want you, I'm going to shut down, this way." He closed his hand. "And people will wonder what papa's carrying around with him, but you'll know all the time."

"My," said Whittlesy, "what a dangerous man this fellow would be if he had nerve! Oh, yes, people will wonder what you have in the hollow of your hand, and sooner or later, they will find that you are carrying three shells and a pea. Get out, Kittymunks. I'm afraid of you—too tough for me."

Flummers waved Whittlesy into oblivion, and continued: "Old Witherspoon gave up his check for twenty thousand, and there the reward stops, for Mrs. Brooks won't give anything for having her husband caught. It has been whispered in the Star office that Henry Witherspoon had something to do with the detection of Brooks, and made Stavers promise that he would give half the reward to charity. But I don't believe it. Why should he want to give up ten thousand? But there's a mystery in it somewhere, and the first thing you know papa'll get on the track of it. Here, boy, bring that drink. What have you been doing out there? Have I got to drink alone? Well, I'm equal to any emergency." He shuddered as he swallowed the whisky, but recovered instantly, and with a circular movement, expressive of his satisfaction, rubbed his growing paunch.

Witherspoon remained three days at home and then resumed his place at the store. With a promptness in which he took a pride, he sent a check to the detective. He did this even before he went down to the Colossus. The physician had urged him to put aside all business cares, and the merchant had replied with a contemptuous grunt. He appeared to be stronger when he came home at evening, and he joked with Ellen; he told her that she had narrowly escaped the position of temporary manager of the Colossus. They were in the library, and a cheerfulness that had been absent seemed just to have returned. Witherspoon went early to bed and left Henry and Ellen sitting there.

"Don't you think he will be well in a few days?" the girl asked.

"Yes, now that his worry is locked in jail."

"That isn't so very bad," she replied, smiling at him. "But suppose they hang his worry?"

"It may be all the better."

"Mother and I went this afternoon to see Mrs. Brooks," said the girl. "And she doesn't appear to be crushed, either. I don't see why she should be—they wouldn't have lived together much longer anyway. Oh, of course she's humiliated and all that, but if she really cared for him she'd be heartbroken. She used to tell me how handsome he was, but that was before they were married. I think she must have found out lately what she might have known at first—that he married her for money. Oh, she's a good woman—there's no doubt of that—but she's surely as plain a creature as I've ever seen."

"If I had thought that she loved him," said Henry, "I should have hesitated a long time before seeking to fasten the murder on him. I may have only a vague regard for justice, for abstract right is so intangible; but I have a strong and definite sympathy."

"We all have," she said. "Oh, by the way," she broke off, as though by mere accident she had thought of something, "you superintended the Colossus for two whole days, didn't you?"

"I didn't exactly superintend it, but I stood about with an air of helpless authority."

"But how did you get along with your paper during all that worry?" she asked; and before he answered she added, "I don't see how you could write anything."

"Worry is a bad producer, but a good critic," Henry replied. "And I didn't try to write much," he added.

She put her elbows on the arm of her chair, rested her chin on her hand and leaned toward him. "Do you know what I've been thinking of ever since I came home?" she asked.

"Well," he answered, smiling on her, "as you haven't told me and as I am not a mind-reader, I can't say that I do."

"Must I tell you?"

"Yes."

"And you won't be put out?"

"Surely not. You wouldn't want to tell me if you thought it would put me out, would you?"

"No, but I was afraid this might." She hesitated. "I have been thinking that you ought to go into business with father. Wait a moment, now, please. You said you wouldn't be put out. You see how much he needs you, and you ought to be willing to make a personal sacrifice. You"—

He reached over and put his hand on her head. She looked into his eyes. "Ellen, there is but one thing that binds me to a past that was a hardship, but which after all was a liberty; and that one thing is the fact that I am independent of the Colossus, the mill where thousands of feet are treading. I have one glimpse of freedom, and that is through the window of my office. It isn't possible that you can wholly understand me, but let me tell you one time for all that I shall have nothing to do with the store."

She put his hand off her head and settled back in her chair. "I thought you might if I asked you, but I ought to have known that nothing I could say would have any effect. You don't care for me; you don't care for any of us."

"Ellen, it is but natural that you should side with father against me, and it is also natural that I should decide in favor of myself. You may say that on my part it is selfishness, and I may say that it is more just than selfish. But you must not say that I don't care for you."

"Oh, it is easy enough for you to say that you do care for me," she replied. "It costs but a breath that must be breathed anyway; but if you really cared for me you would do as I ask you—as I beg of you."

"Well," and he laughed at her, "there is a charming narrowness in that view, I must say. If I love you I will grant whatever you may ask; and if you love me—then what? Shall I answer?"

"Yes," she said, "as you seem to know what answer will be most acceptable to you."

"No, not the answer most acceptable to me, but the one that seems to be the most consistent. And if you love me," he continued, in answer to the question, "you will not ask me to make a painful sacrifice." He looked earnestly at her and added: "I think you'd better call me a crank and dismiss the subject."

He expected her to take this as a humorous smoothing of their first unpleasant ruffle, but if she did she shrewdly deceived him, for she looked at him with the soberest of inquiry as she asked:

"Do you really think you are a crank?"

"I sometimes think so," he answered.

"Isn't it simply that you take a pride in being different from other people. Don't you strive to be odd?"

"Are you talking seriously?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, then, I will say seriously that I do take a pride in being different from some people?"

"Am I included?"

"Oh, nonsense, girl. What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, I know you don't care for any of us," she whimpered. "You won't even let mother show her love for you; you try to surround yourself with a lordly mystery."

"If I have a mystery it is far from a lordly one."

"But it's not far from annoying, I can tell you that."

"Don't try to pick a quarrel, little girl."

"Oh, I'm not half so anxious to quarrel as you are."

"All right; if that's the case, we'll get along smoothly. Get your doll out of the little trunk and let us play with her."

She got up and stood with her hands resting on the back of the chair. "If I didn't have to like you, Henry, I wouldn't like you a single bit. But somehow I can't help it. It must be because I can't understand you."

"Then why do you blame me for not making myself plain, since your regard depends upon the uncertain light in which you see me?"

"You are so funny," she said.

"Then you ought to laugh at me instead of scolding."

"Indeed! But if I didn't scold sometimes you would rim over me; and besides, we shouldn't have the happiness that comes from making up again. Really, though, won't you think about what I have said?"

"I will think about you, and that will include all that you have said and all that you may say."

"I oughtn't to kiss you good night, but after that I suppose I must. There—Mr.—Ungratefulness. Good night."

THE VERDICT.

During the first few weeks of his imprisonment, the murderer of old man Colton had maintained a lightsome air, but as the time for his trial drew near he appeared to lose the command of that self-hypnotism which had seemed to extract gayety from wretchedness. To one who has been condemned to death there comes a resignation that is deeper than a philosophy. Despair has killed the nerve that fear exposed, and nothing is left for terror to feed on. But Brooks had not this deadened resignation, for he had a hope that he might escape the gallows, and so long as there is a hope there is an anxiety. He had refused to see his wife, for he felt that in her heart she had condemned him and executed the sentence; but he was anxious to see Witherspoon. He thought that with the aid of that logic which trade teaches and which in its directness comes near being an intellectual grace, he could explain himself to the merchant and thereby whiten his crime, and he sent for him; but the messenger returned with a note that bore words which Brooks had often heard Witherspoon speak and which he himself so often had repeated: "Explain to the law."

The trial came. In the expectancy with which Chicago looks for a new sensation, Brooks had been almost forgotten by the public. His confession had robbed his trial of that uncertainty which means excitement, and there now remained but a formal ceremony, the appointment of his time to die. The newspapers no longer paid especial attention to him, and such neglect depresses a murderer, for notoriety is his last intoxicant. It seemed that an unwarranted length of time was taken up in the selection of a jury, a deliberation that usually exposes justice to many dangers; and after this the trial proceeded. The deposition of Mrs. Colton was introduced. It was a brief statement, and after leading up to the vital point, thus concluded: "I must have been asleep some time, when my husband awoke me. He said that he thought he heard a noise in the vault-room. I listened for a few moments and replied that I didn't think it was anything. But he got up and took his pistol from under the pillow and went into the vault-room. A moment later I was convinced that I heard something, and I got up, and just as I got near the door the light blazed up and at the same moment there was a loud report as of a pistol; and then I saw my husband fall—saw Mr. Brooks wheel about and run out of the room. This is all I remember until I found myself lying on the bed, unable to move or speak."

Brooks set up a plea for mercy, and his lawyers were strong in the urging of it, but when the judge delivered his charge it was clear that the plea was not entertained by the court. The jury retired, and now the courtroom was thronged. To idle men there is a fascination in the expected verdict, even though it may not admit of the quality of speculation. The jurymen could not be out long—their duty was well defined; but an hour passed, and the crowd began gradually to melt away. Two hours—and word came that the jury could not agree. It was now dark, and the court was adjourned to meet in evening session. But midnight struck, and still there was no verdict. What could be the cause of this indecision? It was a mystery outside, but within the room it was plain. One man had hung the jury. In his community he was so well known as a sectarian that he was called a hypocrite. He was not thought to be strong except in the grasp he held upon bigotry, but he succeeded in either convincing or browbeating eleven men into an agreement not to hang Brooks, but to send him to the penitentiary for life; and this verdict was rendered when the court reassembled at morning.

Witherspoon was sitting in his office at the Colossus when Henry entered. Papers were piled upon the merchant's desk, but he regarded them not. A boy stood near as if waiting for orders, but Witherspoon took no heed of him. He sat in a reverie, and as Henry entered he started as if rudely aroused from sleep.

"Have you heard the verdict?" Henry asked.

"By telephone," Witherspoon answered. "Sit down."

"No, I must get over to the office. What do you think of the verdict?"

"If the law's satisfied I am," Witherspoon answered. "But you wanted him hanged, didn't you?" he added.

"No, but I wanted him punished. The truth is, I hated the fellow almost from the first."

Witherspoon turned to the boy and asked: "What do you want? Oh, did I ring for you? Well, you may go." And then he spoke to Henry: "You hated him."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he is a villain."

"But if you hated him from the first, you hated him before you found out that he was a villain; and that was snap judgment. I try a man before I condemn him."

"And I let a man condemn himself, and some men do this the minute I see them."

"But a quick judgment is nearly always wrong."

"Yes, and yet it's better than a slow judgment that allows itself to be imposed upon."

"Sometimes," Witherspoon agreed; and after a short silence he added: "I was just thinking of how that fellow imposed on me, but I can't quite get at the cause of my worry over him, and I don't understand why I should have been afraid that he could ruin me. I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the exact truth without fear of giving offense: Have you ever thought that at times my mind was unbalanced? Have you?"

"You haven't been well, and a sick man's mind is never sound, you know."

"That's all true enough; but do I remind you very much of your uncle Andrew?"

"Yes, when you worry."

"I thought so. I've got to stop worrying; and I believe that we have more control over ourselves than we exercise. Come back at noon and we'll go out together."

"I'll be here," Henry replied.

Just before he reached the office Henry met John Richmond, and together they stepped into a cigar-store.

"I've been over to your office," said Richmond. "I have important business with you."

"All right, John. Business with you is a pleasure."

"I think this will be. This is the last day of September, and relying on my recollection, I know that black bass are about ready to begin their fall campaign. So I thought we'd better get on a train early to-morrow morning and go out into Lake County. Now don't say you are too busy, for I'm running away from a stack of work as high as my head."

"I'll go."

"Good. We'll have a glorious day in the woods. We'll forget Brother Brooks and the fanatic who saved his life; we'll float on the lake; well pick up nuts; we'll listen to the controversy of the blue jays, and the flicker, flicker of the yellowhammers; we'll study Mr. Woodpecker, whose judgment tells him to go south, but who is held back by the promising sunshine. The train leaves at eight. I'll be on hand, and don't you fail."

"I won't. I'm only too anxious to get out of town."

Shortly after Henry arrived at the office Miss Drury came into his room. "Your sister was here just now," she said.

"Was she?"

"Yes, she came to wait for the verdict."

"That reminds me. I intended to telephone, but forgot it."

"She said she knew you wouldn't think of it."

"Did you quarrel?" Henry asked.

"Did we quarrel? Well, now, I like that question. No, we didn't quarrel. I got along with her quite as well as I do with her brother. She said that she had often wondered who got up my department, but that no one had ever told her."

"She may have wondered, but she never asked. So, you see, I intend to rid myself of blame even at the expense of my sister."

"Oh, I suppose she said it merely to put me in good humor with myself."

"But wouldn't it have been more in harmony with a woman's character if she'd given you a sly cut, a tiny stab, to put you in ill humor with the world?"

"I hope you don't mean that, Mr. Witherspoon."

"Why? Would it make you think less of women?"

"What egotism! No, less of you."

"Oh, if that's the case I'll withdraw it—will say that I didn't mean it."

"That's so kind of you that I'm almost glad you said it."

She went back to her work, but a few moments later she returned, and now she appeared to be embarrassed. "You must pardon me," she said.

"Pardon you? What for?"

"For speaking so rudely just now. You constantly make me forget that I am working for you."

"That's a high compliment. But I didn't notice that you spoke rudely."

"Yes, I said 'what egotism,' and I'm sorry."

"You must not be sorry, for if you meant what you said, I deserved it."

"Oh, then you really did mean what you said about women."

Henry laughed. "Miss Drury, don't worry over anything I say; and remember that I'm pleased whenever you forget that you are working for me. You didn't know that I was instrumental in the arrest of Brooks, did you?"

"Why, no, I never thought of such a thing."

"You must keep it to yourself, but I was, and why? I hated him. Once he suggested to me that he would like to have you take lunch with him. I told him that you didn't go out with any one, and with coldbloodedness he replied, 'Ah, she hasn't been here long.' I hated him from that moment. Don't you see what a narrow-minded fellow I am?"

"Narrow-minded!"

"Yes, to move the law against a man merely because he had spoken lightly of—of my friend."

She was leaning against the door-case and was looking down. She dropped a paper. Henry glanced at the window, which he called his loop-hole of freedom, for through it no Colossus could be seen. He turned slowly and looked toward the door. The girl was gone.

A DAY OF REST.

Early the next morning Henry and Richmond were on a train, speeding away from the roar, the clang, the turmoil, the smoke, the atmospheric streams of stench, the trouble of the city. They saw a funeral procession, and Richmond remarked: "They have killed a drone and are dragging him out of the hive, and as they have set out so early they must be going to pay him the compliment of a long haul." They passed stations where men who had spent a quiet night at home paced up and down impatiently waiting for a train to whirl them back to their daily strife. "They play cards going in and coming out," said Richmond, "but at noon they are eager to cut one another's throats."

They ran through a forest, dense and wild-looking, but in the wildness there was a touch of man's deceiving art. They crossed a small river and caught sight of a barefooted boy trying to steal a boat. They sped over the prairie and flew past an old Dutch windmill. It was an odd sight, an un-American glimpse—a wink at a strange land. They commented on everything that whirled within sight—a bend in the road, a crooked Line, a tumble-down fence. They were boys. They talked about names that they held a prejudice against, and occasionally one of them would say, "No, I don't like a man of that name."

"There," Richmond spoke up, "I never knew a man of that name that wasn't a wolf. But sometimes one good fellow offsets a whole generation of bad names. I never liked the name Witherspoon until I met you."

"How do you like DeGolyer?" Henry asked.

"That's not so had, but it isn't free from political scandal. I rather like it—strikes me that there might be a pretty good fellow of that name. Let me see. We'll get off about three miles this side of Lake Villa and go over to Fourth Lake. The woods over there are beautiful."

"We should have insisted on McGlenn's coming," said Henry.

"No," Richmond replied, "the country is a bore to John. Once he came out with me and found fault with what he termed the loose methods of nature. I pointed out a hill, and he said that it wasn't so graceful as a mound in the park. I waved my hand toward a pastoral stretch of valley, and he said, 'Yes, but it isn't Drexel Boulevard.' Art is the mistress of John's mind. His emotions are never stirred by a simple tune, but the climax of an opera tumbles him over and over in ecstasy. He is one of the truest of friends, and he is as game as a brook trout. He has associated with drunkards, but was never drunk; and during his early days in Chicago he lived with gamblers, but he came out an honorable man."

"I have been reading his novels," said Henry, "and in places he is as sharp as broken glass."

"Yes, but he is too much given to didacticism. Out of mischief I tell him that he sets up a theory, calls it a character, and talks through it. But he is strong, and his technique is fine."

"In Paris he would have been a great man," Henry replied.

They got off at a milk station and strolled along a road. A piece of newspaper fluttered on the ground in front of them.

"There is just enough of a breeze to stir a scandal," said Richmond, treading upon the paper.

"When I find a newspaper in an out-of-the-way place," Henry replied, "I fancy that the world has lost one of its visiting-cards."

They stopped at a farm-house, engaged a boat, and then went down to the lake. Nature wore a thoughtful, contemplative smile, and the lake was a dimple. A flawless day; an Indian summer day, gauzed with a glowing haze. And the smaller trees, in recognition of this grape-juice time of year, had adorned themselves in red. October, the sweetest and mellowest stanza in God Almighty's poem—the dreamy, lulling lines between hot Summer's passion and Winter's cold severity. On the train they had been boys, but now they were men, looking at the tranquil, listening to the immortal.

"Did you speak?" Henry asked.

"No," said Richmond, "it was October."

They floated out on the lake. Mud-hens, in their midsummer fluttering, had woven the rushes into a Gobelin tapestry. The deep notes of the old frog were hushed, but in an out-of-the-way nook the youngster was trying his voice on the water-dog. A dragon-fly lighted on a stake and flashed a sunbeam from his bedazzled wing; and a bright bug, like a streak of blue flame, zigzagged his way across the smooth water.

An hour passed. "They won't bite," said Richmond. "In this pervading dreaminess they have forgotten their materialism."

"Probably they are tired of minnows," Henry replied. "Suppose we try frogs."

"No, I have sworn never to bait with another frog. It's too much like patting a human being on a hook. The last frog I used reached up, took hold of the hook and tried to take it out. No, I can't fish with a frog."

"But you would catch a bass, and you know that it must hurt him—in fact, you know that it's generally fatal."

"Yes, but it's his rapacity that gets him into trouble. I don't believe they're going to bite. Suppose we go over yonder and wallow under that tree."

"All right. I don't care to catch a fish now anyway. It would be a disturbance to pull him out. Our trip has already paid us a large profit. With one exception it has been more than a year since I have seen anything outside of that monstrous town. As long as the spirit of the child remains with the man, he loves the country. All children are fond of the woods—the deep shade holds a mystery."

They lay on the thick grass under an oak. On one side of the tree was an old scar, made with an axe, and Henry, pointing to the scar, said: "To cut down this tree was once the task assigned some lusty young fellow, but just as he had begun his work, a neighbor came along and told him that his strong arm was needed by his country; and he put down his axe and took up a gun."

"That may be," Richmond replied, "Many a hero has sprung from this land; these meadows have many times been mowed by men who went away to reap and who were reaped at Gettysburg."

After a time they went out in the boat again, and were on the water when the sun lost its splendor and, hanging low, fired the distant wood-top. And now there was a hush as if all the universe waited for the dozing day to sink into sounder sleep. The sun went down, a bird screamed, and nature began her evening hum.

In the darkness they lost the path that led through the woods. They made an adventure of this, and pretended that they might not find their way out until morning. They wandered about in a laughing aimlessness, and there was a tone of disappointment in Richmond's voice when he halted and said, "Here's the road."

They went to bed in the farmer's spare room, where the subscription book, flashing without and dull within, lay on the center table. A plaster-of-paris kitten, once the idol of a child whose son now doubtless lay in a national burial-ground, looked down from the mantel-piece. There was the frail rocking-chair that was never intended to be sat in, and on the wall, in an acorn-studded frame, was a faded picture entitled "The Return of the Prodigal."

Richmond was sinking to sleep when Henry called him.

"What is it?"

"I didn't know you were asleep."

"I wasn't. What were you going to say?"

"Oh, nothing in particular—was just going to ask what you think of a man who lives a lie?"

"I should think," Richmond answered, "that he must be a pretty natural sort of a fellow."

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."