The Colossus Part 25

"I must be getting back," said Brooks.

"Won't you stay to breakfast?" Witherspoon asked. "It will be ready in a few minutes. Hum"--looking at his watch--"ought to have been ready long ago. Everything goes wrong. Can't even get anything to eat. I'll swear I never saw the like."

"I'm much obliged, but I can't stay," Brooks answered.

"Well, I suppose I shall be down to the store some time to-day. If anybody calls to see me, just say that I am at home, standing round begging for something to eat. Good morning."

Henry laughed, and the merchant gave him a strained look. For a moment the millionaire bore a striking likeness to old Andrew, at the time when he declared that the devil had gone wrong. The young man sought to soothe him when Brooks was gone; he apologized for laughing; he said that he keenly felt that there was cause for worry, but that the picture of a Chicago merchant standing about at home begging for his breakfast, while important business awaited him at the store, was enough to crack the thickest crust of solemnity. The merchant's dignity was soon brought back; never was it far beyond his reach. At breakfast he was severe with silence.

Over and over again during the day Henry repeated Richmond's words, "Whom does it benefit" and these words went to bed with him, and as though restless, they turned and tossed themselves upon his mind throughout the night, and like children, they clamored to be taken up at early morning, to be dressed in the many colors of supposition.

CHAPTER XXI.

A HELPLESS OLD WOMAN.

In Kansas City was arrested a suspicious-looking man, who, upon being taken to jail, confessed that his name was Dare Kittymunks and owned that he had killed old man Colton. Thus was ended the search for the murderer, the newspapers said, and the vigilance of the Kansas City police was praised. But it soon transpired that the prisoner had been a street preacher in Topeka at the time when the murder was committed, that he had on that day created a sensation by announcing himself John the Baptist and swearing that all other Johns the Baptist were base impostors. The fellow was taken to an asylum for the insane, and the search for Dave Kittymunks was resumed.

Old Mrs. Colton had not moved a muscle since the night of the murder.

She lay looking straight at the ceiling, and in her eyes was an expression that seemed constantly to repeat, "My body is dead, but my mind is alive." Once every week the pastor of her church came to see her. He was an old man, threatened with palsy, and had long ago ceased to find pleasure in the appet.i.tes and vanities of this life. He came on Sunday, just before the time for evening services in the church, and kneeling at the old woman's chair, which he placed near her bedside, lifted his shaking voice in prayer. It was a touching sight, one infirmity pleading for another, palsy praying for paralysis; but upon these devotions Brooks began to look with a frown.

"What is the use of it?" he asked, speaking to his wife. "If a celebrated specialist can't do her any good, I know that an old man's prayer can't."

"We ought not to deny her anything," the wife answered.

"And we ought not to inflict her with anything," the husband replied.

"Prayer was never an infliction to her."

"But this old man's praying is an infliction to the rest of us."

"Not to me; and you needn't hear him."

"I can't help it if I'm at home."

"But you needn't be at home when he comes."

"Oh, I suppose I could go over and stand on the lake sh.o.r.e, but it would be rather unpleasant this time of year."

"There are other places you can go."

"Oh, I suppose so. Doesn't make any difference to you, of course, where I go."

"Not much," she answered.

The Witherspoon family was gathered one evening in the mother's room.

It was Mrs. Witherspoon's birthday, and it was a home-like picture, this family group, with the mother sitting in a rocking-chair, fondly looking about and giving the placid heed of love to Henry whenever he spoke. On the walls were hung the portraits of early Puritans, the brave and rugged ancestors of Uncle Louis and Uncle Harvey, and all her mother's people, who were dark.

Ellen had been imitating a Miss Miller, who, it was said, was making a determined set at Henry, and Witherspoon was laughing at the aptness of his daughter's mimicry.

"I must confess," said Mrs. Witherspoon, slowly rocking herself, "that I don't see anything to laugh at. Miss Miller is an exceedingly nice girl, I'm sure, but I don't think she is at all suited to my son. She giggles at everything, and Henry is too sober-minded for that sort of a wife."

"But marriage would probably cure her giggling," Witherspoon replied, slyly winking at Henry. "To a certain kind of a girl there is nothing that so inspires a giggle as the prospect of marriage, but marriage itself is the greatest of all soberers--it sometimes removes all traces of the previous intoxication."

"Now, George, what is the use of talking that way?" She rarely called him George. "You know as well as you know anything that I didn't giggle. Of course I was lively enough, but I didn't go about giggling as Miss Miller does."

"Oh, perhaps not exactly as Miss Miller does, but"--

"George!"

"I say you didn't. But anybody can see that Ellen is a sensible girl, and yet she giggles."

"Not at the prospect of marriage, papa," the girl replied. "To look at Mr. Brooks and his wife is quite enough to make me serious."

"Brooks and his wife? What do you mean?"

"Perhaps I oughtn't to have said anything, but they appear to make each other miserable. There, now, I wish I _hadn't_ said anything. I might have known that it would make you look glum."

"How do you know that they make each other miserable?"

"I know this, that when they should be on their good behavior they can't keep from snapping at each other. I was over there this afternoon, and when Mr. Brooks came home he began to growl about the preacher's coming once a week to pray for Mrs. Colton. He ought to be ashamed of himself. The poor old creature lies there so helpless; and he wants to deny her even the consolation of hearing her pastor's voice. And he knows that she was so devoted to the church."

"My daughter," Witherspoon gravely said, "there must be some mistake about this."

"But I know that there isn't any mistake about it. I was there, I tell you."

"And still there may be some mistake," Witherspoon insisted.

"What doctor's treating the old lady?" Henry asked.

"A celebrated specialist, Brooks tells me," Witherspoon answered.

"What's his name?"

"I don't remember," said Witherspoon. "Do you know, Ellen?"

"Doctor Linmarck," Ellen answered.

"Let us not think of anything so very unpleasant," said Mrs.

Witherspoon.

But the spirit of pleasantry was flown. With another imitation of Miss Miller, Ellen strove to call it back, but failed, for Witherspoon paid no attention to her. He sat brooding, with a countenance as fixed as the expression of a mask, and in his gaze, bent on that nothing through which nothing can be seen, there was no light.

"Father, do your new slippers fit?" Mrs. Witherspoon asked. He was not George now.

"Very nicely," he answered, with a warning absentmindedness.