The Best Policy

“I want you,” said Murray, and there was something of admiration in his tone; “I want you so much that I am going to put you in the way of making more money. You have a great deal to learn about the insurance business before you will cease making unnecessary problems for yourself, but you have one quality that makes you valuable to me.” He paused and smiled a little at the recollection of what had passed. “I would suggest,” he went on, “that you bear this in mind: life insurance is not for one life only or for one generation only, but for the centuries. Otherwise, we could not do business on the present plan. We exist by reducing the laws of chance to a science that makes us secure in the long run, although, on the basis of a single year, there may be considerable losses. And a good company will no more stoop to shabby tricks than you will; nor will it seek to escape obligations through technicalities or petty subterfuges. That’s why I told you to pay that premium, and I respect you for doing it.”

Murray picked up a memorandum on his desk.

“By the way,” he added, glancing at it, “you must have made good use of the arguments I gave you, for your sanctimonious optimist telephoned that, if you would call this afternoon or to-morrow, he would arrange with you for a ten-thousand-dollar policy.”

Grateful as Murray’s praise was to his ears, the greeting from his wife gave Ross the most joy.

“He was conscious for a moment and understood,” she said, as she put her arms around her husband’s neck, “and there was such an expression of restful peace on his face that it made me happy, in spite of the shadow of death hovering over. It made him a little better, the doctor said, but nothing can save him. And I’m so proud of you, Owen!”

“To tell the truth, dearest,” he replied tenderly, “I’m almost proud of myself.”

AN INCIDENTAL TRAGEDY

Dave Murray stretched his legs comfortably under the table, blew rings of smoke toward the ceiling, and waited for Stanley Wentworth to speak.

Having his full share of worldly wisdom, Murray knew that there was a reason for Wentworth’s most urgent invitation to lunch with him at his club. While they had been friends for years and had lunched together on many previous occasions, there was a formality about this invitation that presaged something of importance. So, when they reached the cigars, Murray smoked and waited.

“You win, Dave,” Wentworth announced at last.

“I knew I would – when you married,” returned Murray. “It was only a question of time then.”

“Especially after you got the ear of my wife,” said Wentworth. “You worked that very nicely, Dave. Do you remember the story you told her about the man who couldn’t give any time to life insurance during the busy season and who was on his death-bed when the date he had set for his examination arrived?”

“It was true, too,” asserted Murray. “The man was a good risk when I went after him, and there would have been ten thousand dollars for his wife if he hadn’t procrastinated. There’s no money in the policy that a man was just going to take out, Stanley.”

“Well, you win, anyway,” said Wentworth. “We’ve been jollying each other on this insurance business for six or eight years, and I’ve stood you off pretty well, but I can’t stand against the little woman at home. I was lost, Dave, the day I took you up to the house and introduced you to her.”

“I guess I played the cards pretty well,” laughed Murray. “I told you at the beginning that I was going to insure you before I got through, and a good insurance man doesn’t let a little matter like the personal inclinations of his subject interfere with his plans. Why, I’ve been known to put a man in a trance, have him examined, and abstract the first premium from his pocket before he waked up. But you were the hardest proposition I ever tackled. You ought to have taken out a policy ten years ago.”

“I couldn’t see any reason for it,” explained Wentworth. “I thought I was a confirmed bachelor: had no family and never expected to have one. That was at twenty-five, and at thirty I considered the matter absolutely settled, but at thirty-five the little woman just quietly reached out and took me into camp – and I’m glad of it. Never knew what real life was before. Still, I hate like thunder to surrender to you after our long, harmonious and entertaining fight, Dave; I wouldn’t do it if you hadn’t taken advantage of my hospitality to load my wife up with insurance ghost stories. If you want to be fair, you’ll pay her half the commission.”

“I’ll do it!” exclaimed Murray; “not in cash, of course, but I’ll make her a present that will cover it – something nice for the house. You won’t be jealous, will you?”

“Jealous!” returned Wentworth with a hearty laugh. “Well, I guess not! Why, I’ll help out by making the policy worth while: I’ll take out one for twenty-five thousand. I tell you, Dave, I’m not going to run any risk of leaving the little woman unprovided for, and I lost four thousand in the last month.”

The conversation had been jocular, with an undercurrent of seriousness in it, but Wentworth became really serious with the last remark. Murray saw that this loss had had more to do with the decision than any arguments that had been advanced, and he, too, dropped his bantering tone.

“I never could see,” Wentworth went on, “why insurance was any better than an investment in good stock – ”

“A little more certain,” suggested Murray, “so far as your wife is concerned. No stock is safe while a man lives and continues in business. It is too convenient as collateral and can be reached too easily in the case of failure. You will take risks with stock that you will not take with insurance, even when you can; you will sell stock to get ready cash for a business venture that may prove disastrous, but it’s like robbing your own widow to touch life insurance money. No man ever raised money on his policy without feeling meaner than a yellow dog, for he is gambling with the future of the one he loves, or at least should love. He has taken money that he promised her; money that she will sadly need in case of his unexpected death. That she consented to it does not ease his conscience, if he is any sort of a man, for no woman ever freely consents to jeopardizing any part of her husband’s life insurance money; she is led to do it, against her better judgment, by love and faith, and he knows that he has demanded of her what may prove to be a great sacrifice. That is why insurance is a better investment than stocks for the purpose you have in mind, Stanley; whatever your business needs, you never can ask your wife to join you in hypothecating the policy without feeling like a mean heartless sneak.”

“I never looked at in that way,” returned Wentworth thoughtfully, “but you’re right, Dave. The policy will have a sacredness that no stock can possess. To touch it, to risk any part of it in business, would seem like taking money out of the baby’s bank. Still,” he added whimsically, “a game in which you have to die to win never did appeal to me very strongly.”

“A game in which you are sure to win when you die is better than a game in which you are likely to lose twice,” retorted Murray, “or one in which you have to live to win, so long as life is something over which you have no jurisdiction. With insurance you win when you lose, but with stocks you may lose both ways and leave nothing but a reputation for selfish improvidence. Of course, I am looking at it from the family, rather than the personal, point of view.”

“Surely,” acquiesced Wentworth. “I am thinking of the little woman and the baby.” He settled back in his chair and smoked dreamily for a few moments, his thoughts evidently wandering to the home that had given him so much of happiness during the last eighteen months. And Murray was silent, too. The affair was as much one of friendship as of business with him. It had been largely a joke when he had first declared that he would write a policy on Wentworth’s life, although he believed implicitly that every man should have insurance and should get it when he is young enough to secure a favorable rate. At that time Wentworth had no one dependent upon him, but Murray had kept at him in a bantering way, telling him that he would surely have need of insurance later and that he had better prepare for it while the opportunity offered. Then, when celibacy seemed to have become a permanent condition with him, he had married, and thereafter, while still treating the subject lightly and humorously, Murray had conducted a campaign that was really founded on friendship. No one knows better than a man who has been long in the insurance business of the tragedies resulting from procrastination and neglect; no one can better appreciate how great a risk of such a tragedy a friend may be running. So Murray, jolly but insinuating, was actuated by something more than purely business interest when he made whimsical references to his long campaign in the presence of Mrs. Wentworth and incidentally, apparently only to tease her husband, described some of the sad little dramas of life that had come to his notice. And he had won at last.

“Get the application ready,” said Wentworth, suddenly rousing himself, “and let me know when your doctor wants to see me.”

That evening Wentworth told his wife that he had arranged to take out a twenty-five-thousand-dollar policy, and she put her arms around his neck and looked up at him in an anxious, troubled way.

“You don’t think I’m mercenary, do you, Stanley?”

“Indeed, I don’t, little woman,” he replied, as he kissed her; “I think you are only wise.”

“It seems so sort of heartless,” she went on, “but you know I’m planning only for the baby. There is something sure about life insurance, and everything else is so uncertain. Some of the stories Mr. Murray told were very sad.”

“Oh, Murray was after business,” he said with a laugh. “He told me long ago that he intended to insure me, and it’s been a sort of friendly duel with us ever since. But he has convinced me that he is right in holding that every married man should carry life insurance, and, aside from that, I would cheerfully pay double premiums to relieve you of any cause for worry. The insurance company is going to get the best of me, though: I’ll live long enough to pay in more than it will have to pay out.”

“Of course you will!” she exclaimed confidently. “You’re so big and strong it seems foolish – except for the baby. That’s why we mustn’t take any chances.”

So cheerful and confident was Wentworth that he failed to notice the solemnity of the physician who examined him the next day. The doctor began with a joke, but he ended with a perplexed scowl.

“You certainly look as strong as a horse,” he said. “But you’re not,” he added under his breath.

Then he made his report to Murray.

“Heart trouble,” he explained. “The man may live twenty or thirty years or he may die to-morrow. My personal opinion is that he will die within two years.”

Murray was startled and distressed. Wentworth was his close personal friend, and to refuse his application after he had striven so hard to get it seemed heartless and cruel, especially as the refusal would have to be accompanied by an explanation that would be much like a death-warrant. Of course, he was in no way responsible for the conditions, but it would seem as if he were putting a limit on his friend’s life.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Positive,” replied the physician. “It is an impossible risk.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No.”

“And I am to dine with him and his wife to-night,” said Murray. “They will be sure to ask about the policy.”

Murray was tempted to send word that he could not come, but it was rather late for that. Besides, the information would have to be given some time, so what advantage could there be in procrastinating? But it came to him as a shock. The news of actual death would hardly have affected him more seriously, for it seemed like a calamity with which he was personally identified and for which he was largely responsible. He knew that he was not, but he could not banish the disquieting feeling that he was. He closed his desk and walked slowly and thoughtfully to Wentworth’s house, wishing, for once, that he had been less successful in the “friendly duel.”

It was a long walk; he could easily have put in another half-hour at the office had he chosen to take the elevated; but he was in no humor for business and he preferred to walk. It gave him additional time for thought. He must decide when and how he would tell Wentworth, and it is no easy task to tell a friend that his hold upon life is too slight to make him a possible insurance risk.

He would not do it to-night. It would be nothing short of brutal so to spoil a pleasant evening. Wentworth would have the knowledge soon enough, even with this respite, and he was entitled to as much of joyousness and pleasure as could be given him.

Murray was noticeably dispirited. He tried to be as jovial as usual, but he found himself looking at his friend much as he would have looked at a condemned man. There was sympathy and pity in his face. He wondered when the hour of fate would arrive. Might it not be that very evening? A moment of temporary excitement might be fatal; anything in the nature of a shock might mean the end. Indeed, the very information he had to give might be the one thing needed to snap the cord of life. If so, he would feel that he had really killed his friend, and yet he had no choice in the matter: he must refuse and he must explain why he refused. If it had been his own personal risk, he would have taken it cheerfully, but even had he so desired, he could not take it for the company in the face of the doctor’s report.

“What makes you so solemn?” asked Mrs. Wentworth. “You look as if you had lost your best friend.”

“I feel as if I had,” Murray replied thoughtlessly, and then he hastened to explain that some business affairs disturbed and worried him.

“But your victory over Stanley ought to make you cheerful,” she insisted. “Think of finally winning after so long a fight!”

“When shall I get the policy?” asked Wentworth.

“Policies are written at the home office,” answered Murray evasively.