The $30,000 Bequest, and Other Stories

“All the eggs in one basket – that’s the objection.”

“All right, if you say so. What about the other twenty? What do you mean to do with that?”

“There is no hurry; I am going to look around before I do anything with it.”

“All right, if your mind’s made up,” sighed Sally. He was deep in thought awhile, then he said:

“There’ll be twenty thousand profit coming from the ten a year from now. We can spend that, can’t we, Aleck?”

Aleck shook her head.

“No, dear,” she said, “it won’t sell high till we’ve had the first semi-annual dividend. You can spend part of that.”

“Shucks, only that– and a whole year to wait! Confound it, I – ”

“Oh, do be patient! It might even be declared in three months – it’s quite within the possibilities.”

“Oh, jolly! oh, thanks!” and Sally jumped up and kissed his wife in gratitude. “It’ll be three thousand – three whole thousand! how much of it can we spend, Aleck? Make it liberal! – do, dear, that’s a good fellow.”

Aleck was pleased; so pleased that she yielded to the pressure and conceded a sum which her judgment told her was a foolish extravagance – a thousand dollars. Sally kissed her half a dozen times and even in that way could not express all his joy and thankfulness. This new access of gratitude and affection carried Aleck quite beyond the bounds of prudence, and before she could restrain herself she had made her darling another grant – a couple of thousand out of the fifty or sixty which she meant to clear within a year of the twenty which still remained of the bequest. The happy tears sprang to Sally’s eyes, and he said:

“Oh, I want to hug you!” And he did it. Then he got his notes and sat down and began to check off, for first purchase, the luxuries which he should earliest wish to secure. “Horse – buggy – cutter – lap-robe – patent-leathers – dog – plug-hat – church-pew – stem-winder – new teeth —say, Aleck!”

“Well?”

“Ciphering away, aren’t you? That’s right. Have you got the twenty thousand invested yet?”

“No, there’s no hurry about that; I must look around first, and think.”

“But you are ciphering; what’s it about?”

“Why, I have to find work for the thirty thousand that comes out of the coal, haven’t I?”

“Scott, what a head! I never thought of that. How are you getting along? Where have you arrived?”

“Not very far – two years or three. I’ve turned it over twice; once in oil and once in wheat.”

“Why, Aleck, it’s splendid! How does it aggregate?”

“I think – well, to be on the safe side, about a hundred and eighty thousand clear, though it will probably be more.”

“My! isn’t it wonderful? By gracious! luck has come our way at last, after all the hard sledding. Aleck!”

“Well?”

“I’m going to cash in a whole three hundred on the missionaries – what real right have we care for expenses!”

“You couldn’t do a nobler thing, dear; and it’s just like your generous nature, you unselfish boy.”

The praise made Sally poignantly happy, but he was fair and just enough to say it was rightfully due to Aleck rather than to himself, since but for her he should never have had the money.

Then they went up to bed, and in their delirium of bliss they forgot and left the candle burning in the parlor. They did not remember until they were undressed; then Sally was for letting it burn; he said they could afford it, if it was a thousand. But Aleck went down and put it out.

A good job, too; for on her way back she hit on a scheme that would turn the hundred and eighty thousand into half a million before it had had time to get cold.

CHAPTER III

The little newspaper which Aleck had subscribed for was a Thursday sheet; it would make the trip of five hundred miles from Tilbury’s village and arrive on Saturday. Tilbury’s letter had started on Friday, more than a day too late for the benefactor to die and get into that week’s issue, but in plenty of time to make connection for the next output. Thus the Fosters had to wait almost a complete week to find out whether anything of a satisfactory nature had happened to him or not. It was a long, long week, and the strain was a heavy one. The pair could hardly have borne it if their minds had not had the relief of wholesome diversion. We have seen that they had that. The woman was piling up fortunes right along, the man was spending them – spending all his wife would give him a chance at, at any rate.

At last the Saturday came, and the Weekly Sagamore arrived. Mrs. Eversly Bennett was present. She was the Presbyterian parson’s wife, and was working the Fosters for a charity. Talk now died a sudden death – on the Foster side. Mrs. Bennett presently discovered that her hosts were not hearing a word she was saying; so she got up, wondering and indignant, and went away. The moment she was out of the house, Aleck eagerly tore the wrapper from the paper, and her eyes and Sally’s swept the columns for the death-notices. Disappointment! Tilbury was not anywhere mentioned. Aleck was a Christian from the cradle, and duty and the force of habit required her to go through the motions. She pulled herself together and said, with a pious two-per-cent. trade joyousness:

“Let us be humbly thankful that he has been spared; and – ”

“Damn his treacherous hide, I wish – ”

“Sally! For shame!”

“I don’t care!” retorted the angry man. “It’s the way you feel, and if you weren’t so immorally pious you’d be honest and say so.”

Aleck said, with wounded dignity:

“I do not see how you can say such unkind and unjust things. There is no such thing as immoral piety.”

Sally felt a pang, but tried to conceal it under a shuffling attempt to save his case by changing the form of it – as if changing the form while retaining the juice could deceive the expert he was trying to placate. He said:

“I didn’t mean so bad as that, Aleck; I didn’t really mean immoral piety, I only meant – meant – well, conventional piety, you know; er – shop piety; the – the – why, you know what I mean. Aleck – the – well, where you put up that plated article and play it for solid, you know, without intending anything improper, but just out of trade habit, ancient policy, petrified custom, loyalty to – to – hang it, I can’t find the right words, but you know what I mean, Aleck, and that there isn’t any harm in it. I’ll try again. You see, it’s this way. If a person – ”

“You have said quite enough,” said Aleck, coldly; “let the subject be dropped.”

“I’m willing,” fervently responded Sally, wiping the sweat from his forehead and looking the thankfulness he had no words for. Then, musingly, he apologized to himself. “I certainly held threes —I know it – but I drew and didn’t fill. That’s where I’m so often weak in the game. If I had stood pat – but I didn’t. I never do. I don’t know enough.”

Confessedly defeated, he was properly tame now and subdued. Aleck forgave him with her eyes.

The grand interest, the supreme interest, came instantly to the front again; nothing could keep it in the background many minutes on a stretch. The couple took up the puzzle of the absence of Tilbury’s death-notice. They discussed it every which way, more or less hopefully, but they had to finish where they began, and concede that the only really sane explanation of the absence of the notice must be – and without doubt was – that Tilbury was not dead. There was something sad about it, something even a little unfair, maybe, but there it was, and had to be put up with. They were agreed as to that. To Sally it seemed a strangely inscrutable dispensation; more inscrutable than usual, he thought; one of the most unnecessary inscrutable he could call to mind, in fact – and said so, with some feeling; but if he was hoping to draw Aleck he failed; she reserved her opinion, if she had one; she had not the habit of taking injudicious risks in any market, worldly or other.

The pair must wait for next week’s paper – Tilbury had evidently postponed. That was their thought and their decision. So they put the subject away and went about their affairs again with as good heart as they could.

Now, if they had but known it, they had been wronging Tilbury all the time. Tilbury had kept faith, kept it to the letter; he was dead, he had died to schedule. He was dead more than four days now and used to it; entirely dead, perfectly dead, as dead as any other new person in the cemetery; dead in abundant time to get into that week’s Sagamore, too, and only shut out by an accident; an accident which could not happen to a metropolitan journal, but which happens easily to a poor little village rag like the Sagamore. On this occasion, just as the editorial page was being locked up, a gratis quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter’s Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors, and the stickful of rather chilly regret over Tilbury’s translation got crowded out to make room for the editor’s frantic gratitude.

On its way to the standing-galley Tilbury’s notice got pied. Otherwise it would have gone into some future edition, for weekly Sagamores do not waste “live” matter, and in their galleys “live” matter is immortal, unless a pi accident intervenes. But a thing that gets pied is dead, and for such there is no resurrection; its chance of seeing print is gone, forever and ever. And so, let Tilbury like it or not, let him rave in his grave to his fill, no matter – no mention of his death would ever see the light in the Weekly Sagamore.

CHAPTER IV

Five weeks drifted tediously along. The Sagamore arrived regularly on the Saturdays, but never once contained a mention of Tilbury Foster. Sally’s patience broke down at this point, and he said, resentfully:

“Damn his livers, he’s immortal!”

Aleck give him a very severe rebuke, and added with icy solemnity: