The Colossus. Opie Percival Read

word against that old man. Oh, I know the trouble and grief he brought about, but by gracious, he had a cause. If—if—mother didn't love him, why did she say that if he didn't love her she would go away somewhere and grieve herself to death? That was no way to treat a fellow, especially a fellow that loves you like the mischief. And besides, why did father cut him out? Pretty mean thing for a man to slip around and steal his brother's sweetheart. In this country it would mean blood."

      "You are a jewel, my boy."

      "No, I'm simply just. Of course, two wrongs don't make a right, as the saying has it, but a wrong with a cause is half-way right, and I'll tell them at the very start that they better not talk about the matter. In fact, I told them so in the letter. You've had a pretty hard time of it, haven't you, Hank?"

      "I shouldn't want an enemy's dog to have a harder one," DeGolyer answered.

      "But you've got a good education."

      "So has the hog that picks up cards and tells the time of day," said DeGolyer, "but what good does that do him? He has to work harder than other hogs, and is kept hungry so that he may perform with more sprightliness. But if I have a good education, my boy, I stole it, and I shouldn't be surprised at any time to meet an officer with a warrant of arrest sworn out against me by society."

      "Good; but you didn't steal trash at any rate. But, Hank, you look for the dark when the light would serve you better. Don't do it. Throw off your trouble."

      "Oh, I'm not disposed to look so much for the dark as you may imagine. Throw it off! That's good advice. It is true that we may sometimes throw off a trouble, but we can't very well throw off a cause. Some natures are like a piece of fly-paper—a sorrow alights and sticks there. But that isn't my nature. It doesn't take much to make me contented."

      The weather remained pleasant, and the travelers were within a day's ride of Dura, when Witherspoon complained one morning of feeling ill, and by noon be could scarcely sit in his saddle.

      "Let us stop somewhere," DeGolyer urged.

      "No," Witherspoon answered, "let us get to Dura as soon as we can. I've got a fever, haven't I?"

      DeGolyer leaned over and placed his hand on Witherspoon's forehead. "Yes, you have."

      "The truth is, I haven't felt altogether right since the first day after we started, but I thought it would wear off."

      When they reached Dura, Witherspoon was delirious. Not a ship was in port, and DeGolyer took him to an inn and summoned such medical aid as the hamlet afforded. The physician naturally gave the case a threatening color, and it followed that he was right, for at the close of the fourth day the patient gave no promise of improvement. The innkeeper said that sometimes a month passed between the landing of ships at that point. The fifth day came. DeGolyer sat by the bedside of his friend, fanning him. The doctor had called and had just taken his leave.

      "Give me some water, Hank."

      "Ah, you are coming around all right, my boy," DeGolyer cried. He brought the water; and when the patient drank and shook his head as a signal to take away the cup, DeGolyer asked; "Don't you feel a good deal better?"

      "No."

      "But your mind is clear?"

      "Yes."

      "Shall I put another cold cloth on your head?"

      "If you please."

      And when DeGolyer had gently done this, Witherspoon said: "Sit down here, Hank."

      "All right, my boy, here I am."

      "Hank, I'm not going to get well."

      "Oh, yes, you are, and don't you let any such nonsense enter your head."

      "It's a good ways from nonsense, I tell you. I know what I'm talking about; I know just as well as can be that I'm going to die—now you wait till I get through. It can't be helped, and there's no use in taking on over it. I did want to see my father and mother and sister, but it can't be helped."

      DeGolyer was on his knees beside the bed. He attempted to speak, but his utterance was choked; and the tears in his eyes blurred to spectral dimness the only human being whom he held warm in his heart.

      "Hank, while I am able to talk I've got a great favor to ask of you. And you'll grant it, won't you?"

      "Yes," DeGolyer Bobbed.

      For a few moments the sick man lay in silence. He fumbled about and found DeGolyer's hand. "My father and mother are waiting for me," he said. "They have been raised into a new life. If I never come it will be worse than if I had never been found, for they'll have a new grief to bear, and it may be heavier than the first. They must have a son, Hank."

      "My dear boy, what do you mean?"

      "I mean that if I die—and I know that I am going to die—you must be their son. You must go there, not as Henry DeGolyer, but as Henry Witherspoon, their own son."

      "Merciful God! I can't do that."

      "But if you care for me you will. Take all my papers—take everything I've got—and go home. It will be the greatest favor you could do me and the greatest you could do them."

      "But, my dear boy, I should be a liar and a hypocrite."

      "No, you would be playing my part because I couldn't play it. Once you said that you would give me your life if I wanted it, and now I want it. You can make them happy, and they'll be so proud of you. Won't you try it? I would do anything on earth for you, and now you deny me this—and who knows but my spirit might enter into you and form a part of your own? How can you refuse me when you know that I think more of you than I do of anybody? This is no boy's prank—I'm a man now. Will you?"

      "Henry," said DeGolyer, "this is merely a feverish notion that has come out of your derangement. Put it by, and after a while we will laugh at it. Is the cloth hot again?"

      "Yes."

      "I'll change it." And DeGolyer, removing the cloth and placing his hand on his friend's forehead, added: "Your fever isn't so high as it was yesterday. You are coming out all right."

      "No, I tell you that I'm going to die; and you won't do me the only favor I could ask. Don't you remember saying, not long ago, that a man's life is a pretense almost from the beginning to the end?"

      "I don't remember saying it, but it agrees with what I have often been compelled to think."

      "Well, then, if you think that life is a pretense, why not pretend by request?"

      "Well talk about it some other time, my boy."

      "But there may not be any other time."

      "Oh, yes, there will be. Don't you think you can sleep now?"

      "No, I don't think I can sleep and wake up again."

      But he did sleep, and he did awake again. Three more days passed wearily away, and the patient was delirious most of the time. DeGolyer's acquaintance with Spanish was but small, and he could comprehend but little of what a pedantic doctor might say, yet he learned that there was not much encouragement to be drawn from the fact that the sick man's mind sometimes returned from its troubled wandering.

      DeGolyer was again alone with his friend. It was a hot though a blustery afternoon, and the sea, in sight through the open door, sounded the deeper notes of its endless opera.

      "Hank."

      "I'm here, my boy."

      "Have you thought about what I told you to do?"

      "Are you still clinging to that notion?"

      "No; it is clinging to me. Have you thought about it?"

      "Yes."

      "And what did you think?"

      "I thought that for you I would take the risk of playing a part that you are unable to perform. But really, Henry, I'm too old."