"It is true," Henry admitted, "that we shall always have the poor with us."
"I thought so," said Witherspoon.
"But it is not true that an attempt to aid them is harmful. Their condition has steadily improved since history "--
"You are a sentimentalist."
"I am more than that," said Henry. "I am a man."
"Hum! And are you more than that?"
"How could I be more?"
"Easily enough. You could be an anarchist."
"And is that a step higher?"
"Wolves think so."
"But I don"t"
"I hope not."
They sat in silence. The young man was angry, but he controlled himself.
"It is easy to scatter dangerous words in this town," said the merchant. "And, sir,"--he broke off, rousing himself,--"look at the inconsistency, the ridiculousness of your position. I employ more than a thousand people; my son says that I oppress them. I"--
"Hold on; I didn"t say that. I don"t know of any injustice that you inflict upon your employes; but I do know of such wrongs committed by other men. But you have shown me that the condition of those creatures is hopeless."
"What creatures?"
"Women who work for a living."
"And do you know the cause of their hopelessness?"
"Yes; poverty and oppression."
"Ah, but what is the cause of their poverty?"
"The greed of man."
"Oh, no; the appet.i.te of man--whisky. Nine out of ten of those so-called wretched creatures can trace their wretchedness to drink."
"But it is not their fault."
"Oh!"
Henry was stunned. He saw what a wall he was b.u.t.ting against. "And is this to go on forever?" he asked.
"Yes, forever. "The poor ye have with you always.""
"But present conditions may be overturned."
"Possibly, but other conditions just as bad, or even worse, will build on the ruins. That is the history you spoke of just now."
"But slavery was swept away--and, let me affirm," he suddenly broke off, "that the condition of the poorer people in this town is worse than the slavery that existed in the South. From that slavery the government pointed toward freedom, and mill-owners in the North applauded--men, too, mind you, who were the hardest of masters. I can bring up now the picture of a green lane. I can see an old negro woman sweeping the door-yard of her cabin, and she sings a song. Her husband is at work in the field, and her happy children are fishing in the bayou. That is the freedom which the government pointed out--the freedom which a G.o.d-inspired Lincoln proclaimed. But do you hear any glad songs among the slaves in the North? Let me tell you, sir, that we are confronted with a problem that is more serious than that which was solved by Lincoln."
Witherspoon looked at him as though he could think of no reply. At one moment he seemed to be filling up with the gathering impulses of anger; at another he appeared to be humiliated.
"Are you my son?" he asked.
"Presumably. An impostor would yield to your demands; he would win your confidence that he might steal your money."
"Yes," said the merchant, and he sat in silence.
Henry was the first to speak. "If you were poor, and with the same intelligence you have now, what would you advise the poor man to do?"
"I should advise him to do as I did when I was poor and as I do now--work. Now, let me tell you something: Last year your mother and I gave away a great deal of money--we do so every year. Does that look as if I am grinding the poor? You have hurt me."
"I am sorry. But if I have hurt you with a truth, it should make you think."
Witherspoon looked at him, and this time it was with resentment.
"What! you talk about making me think? Young man, you don"t know what it is to think. You are confounded with the difference between sentimentalism and thought. You go ahead and print your newspaper and don"t worry about the workingwoman. Her cla.s.s will be larger and worse off, probably, a hundred years after you are dead."
"Yes, but before that time her cla.s.s may rise up and sweep everything before it. A democracy can"t long permit a few men to hold all the wealth. But there"s no good to come from a discussion with you."
"You are right," said Witherspoon, "but hold on a moment. Don"t go away believing that I have no sympathy for the poor. I have, but I haven"t time to worry with it. There is no reason why any man should be poor in this country."
Henry thought of a hundred things to say, but said nothing. He knew that it was useless; he knew that this man"s strength had blinded him to the weakness of other men, and he felt that American aristocracy was the most grinding of all aristocracies, for the reason that a man"s failure to reach its grade was attributable to himself alone.
CHAPTER XIV.
A DIFFERENT HANDWRITING.
Henry bade Witherspoon good night and went to his room. A fire was burning in the grate. At the window there was a rattle of sleet. He lighted his old briar-root pipe and sat down. He had, as usual, ceased to argue with himself; he simply mused. He acknowledged his weakness, and sought a counteracting strength, but found none. But why should he fight against good fortune? It was not his fault that certain conditions existed. Why not starve the past and feed the present? But he had begun to argue, and he shook himself as though he would be freed from something that had taken hold of him, and he got up and stood at the window. How raw the night! And as he stood there, he fancied that the darkness and the sleet of his boyhood were trying to force their way into the warmth and the light of his new inheritance.
He turned suddenly about, and bowing with mock politeness, said to himself: "You are a fool." He lighted his pipe afresh, and sat down to work. Some one tapped at the door. Was it Witherspoon come to deliver another argument, and to decide again in his own favor? No, it was Ellen. She had been at the theater.
"You bring roses out of the storm," said Henry, in allusion to the color of her cheeks.
"But I don"t bring flattery. Gracious! I am chilled through." She took off her gloves and held her hands over the grate. "Everybody"s gone to bed, and I didn"t know but you might be here, scribbling. Goodness, what"s that you"ve been smoking?"
"A pipe."
She turned from the fire and shrugged her shoulders. "Couldn"t you get a cigar? Why do you smoke that awful thing?"