The Best Policy. Flower Elliott
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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.
“But the insurance becomes effective when the application is accepted and the first premium paid, doesn’t it?” asked Wentworth.
“Yes,” answered Murray.
“Well, now that I am at last converted to insurance I am an enthusiast,” laughed Wentworth. “We won’t waste any time at all. Get out your little check-book, Helen, and give Murray a check for the first premium. I’ll make it good to you to-morrow.”
“I don’t believe I could accept it now,” said Murray hesitatingly. “There are certain forms, you know – ”
“Oh, well, I’ll send you a check the first thing in the morning,” interrupted Wentworth. “Perhaps it isn’t just the thing to turn a little family dinner into a business conference.”
“Better wait till you hear from me,” advised Murray, and his face showed his distress. He wished to avoid anything unpleasant at this time, but he was being driven into a corner.
“Is – is anything wrong?” asked Mrs. Wentworth anxiously.
“There is an extraordinary amount of red tape to the insurance business,” explained Murray, and the fact that he was very ill at ease did not escape the notice of Wentworth. The latter said nothing, but he lost his jovial air and he watched Murray as closely as Murray had previously watched him. It did not take him long to discover that Murray was abstracted and uncomfortable; that he was a prey to painful thoughts and kept track of the conversation only by a strong effort of will.
Mrs. Wentworth, too, discovered that something was wrong, and when the men retired to the library to smoke she went to her own room in a very unhappy frame of mind. She was sure that Murray had some bad news for her husband, but it did not occur to her that it concerned the insurance policy; it probably related to some business venture, she thought, for she knew that her husband had recently lost money and had still more invested in a speculative enterprise. Well, he would get the news from Murray, and she would get it from him.
Murray did not remain long, and he went out very quietly. Usually the two men laughed and joked at parting, but there was something subdued about them this time. As they paused for a moment at the door, she heard her husband say, “That’s all right, old man; it isn’t your fault.” Then, instead of coming to her, he put on his hat and left the house almost immediately after Murray had gone.
It was late when he came back, but she was waiting for him, and his face frightened her. He seemed to have aged twenty years in a few hours; he was haggard and pale and there was something of fear in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look sick.”
“A little tired,” he answered with an attempt at carelessness. “I’ll be all right to-morrow.”
“Mr. Murray was troubled, too,” she persisted. “What’s it all about?”
“Oh, Murray has been unfortunate in a little business affair,” he explained.
“And you’re concerned in it, too,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “But it’s all right, so don’t worry.”
More he refused to say, but later in the night, waking suddenly, she heard him in the library, and, stealing down stairs, found him pacing the floor in his dressing-gown and slippers. He meekly went back to bed when she gently chid him, but he was restless and slept little.
The next morning he held her in his arms several minutes before leaving for the office, and he knelt for some time beside the baby’s crib. It was such a leave-taking as might have been expected if he were going on a long journey. And she knew that he was withholding something from her.
At the office he shut himself up for nearly the whole morning.
“It must be a mistake,” he kept muttering. “That doctor is a fool. I’ll try another company.”
In the afternoon he put in an application and suggested that, as a matter of business convenience, he would like to be examined at once. Two days later he was politely informed that the company, on the advice of its physician, felt constrained to decline the risk. But the man who is condemned to death does not give up hope: he appeals to a higher court, holding to the last that an error of law or of fact will be discovered. Wentworth appealed his case, but the verdict of the specialist he consulted was the same: he might live many years, but he might die at any moment.
“I would advise you,” said the physician, “to give up active business and to get your financial affairs in the best possible shape. If you are to live, you must take unusual precautions to avoid excitement and worry.”
Avoid worry! What a mockery, when he was deprived of the opportunities to make proper provision for the little woman and the baby! He was well-to-do, but only so long as he continued to live and make money. Some investments he had, but they were neither numerous nor large, and not of a character that would be considered absolutely safe. He had invested to make money rather than to save it in most instances, so the amount that he had in really first-class securities was comparatively trifling.
“If I continue in business, how long can I expect to live, Doctor?” he asked.
“It is problematical,” was the reply. “Frankly, I don’t think I would give you more than two or three years of active business life, with the possibility of death at any moment during that time. Still, if you are careful, you ought to last two years.”
Wentworth shuddered. He had told the physician to speak frankly, but it was horrible to have the limit of life set in this way.
“Retire from business,” the doctor added, “go to some quiet place, and you may live as long as any other.”
“But I can’t!” cried Wentworth. “I haven’t the money, and I must provide for the little woman and the baby. My God! how helpless they would be without me!”
Wentworth went from the doctor’s office to the safe-deposit vaults where he kept his securities. He was a desperate man now – a man who had deliberately decided to sacrifice his life for those he loved. He would continue in business another year – two years, if necessary and the Lord permitted – and he would bend every energy to making provision for his little family. It might – nay, probably would – kill him, but what matter? To buy life at the expense of their future would be supremely selfish. And he might succeed before the fatal summons came: he might get his affairs in such shape in a year that he could retire with almost as good a chance of life as he had now – if he could stand the strain so long. But in his heart he felt he was pronouncing his own doom. He might put the optimistic view of the situation in words, but he did not believe the words. A great fear – a fear that was almost a certainty – gripped hard at his heart.
“Hic jacet!” he said to himself, as he went over