“Perhaps I can arrange it,” he said at last. “In what company is he insured?”“Perhaps I can arrange it,” he said atlast. “In what company is he insured?”
“I’ll pay it back to you—when he dies!” cried the woman, and Ross gave her a quick glance. It seemed heartless, but he saw it was not. The woman was tried beyond her endurance; she, with her two children, faced a future that was absolutely devoid of hope; she was sick, wretched, despairing, and the husband she had striven so hard to keep with her was already beyond recall. She spoke of his approaching death merely as something certain, that could not be prevented, and that force of circumstances compelled her to consider. She had to think for herself and children, plan for herself and children, even at this fearful time, for there was no one to do it for her, no one to relieve her of any part of the burden. The problem of the larder and the problem of burial would confront her simultaneously; she had to face these cold, hard, brutal facts, in spite of the grief and sorrow of the moment.
All this Ross saw and appreciated, and he gave his attention to various possible ways of raising the necessary money.
“Perhaps I can arrange it,” he said at last. “In what company is he insured?”
It proved to be his own company. Instantly, his talk with Murray flashed through his mind. “You are paid to protect your company, so far as lies in your power,” Murray had said. Absolute loyalty to its interests was imperative. Would it be honorable for him to enter into any arrangement with this woman that would cost his company money? Had he any right to do more than the company would do itself? What would be thought of an employee in any other line of business who advanced money that was to beused to the financial disadvantage of his employer, however proper it might be in the case of some one else?
“I can do nothing,” he announced shortly.
“Oh, Owen!” cried his wife reproachfully.
“It is impossible!” he insisted. “If it were a proper thing to do, Murray would do it for her himself.”
“Mr. Murray doesn’t understand the situation,” urged his wife.
“Murray would understand my situation and his,” he returned. “We are taking money from this company, we are its trusted agents, and we can not do anything that would be to its disadvantage. It is a matter of business integrity.”
The woman did not weep now, but the look she gave him haunted him all that night. And his wife’s entreaties and reproaches added to his unhappiness.
“Why, Jennie,” he explained, “I stand alone between the company and a loss of over four thousand dollars. I know that this man is dying; I know that, if I pay this premium, the company will have to pay out the full amount of the insurance within a few days; I know that the premiums paid to date amount to only about five hundred or six hundred dollars, which, under the terms of the policy, the woman will not wholly lose. For me, an employee, to conspire toget the rest of the money for her would be like taking it from the cash drawer. I won’t do it; I can’t do it after Murray’s talk to me to-day about business integrity!”
“The company can afford it,” persisted Mrs. Ross, “and the woman needs it so badly.”
“There are lots of companies and individuals who could afford to let the woman have five thousand dollars,” replied Ross.
Still, Mrs. Ross could not understand. If he had been willing to pay the premium to another company, why not to his own?
“Resign and pay it!” she exclaimed suddenly, feeling that she had solved the problem; but that was a greater sacrifice than he was prepared to make. He was sincerely sorry for the woman; the case was on his mind all the following morning; but Murray’s talk had made a deep impression. This was one of the severe temptations of the business—the more severe because there was no question of corruption, but only of sympathy, in it. Such, he had read, were the temptations that led men of the best intentions astray in many of the affairs of life.
He was thinking of this when he called to see the “sanctimonious optimist”; he was thinking of it when he advanced the arguments Murray had given him;he was still thinking of it when the man said he was almost convinced and would telephone him after talking with his wife. Consequently, this success failed to elate him.
“The law of humanity,” he told himself, “is higher and more sacred than the law of business.”
He had walked unconsciously in the direction of his father’s office, and, still arguing with himself, he went in.
“Father,” he said, “I want to borrow a hundred dollars.” The premium was a little more than that, but he could supply the remainder.
“For what?” asked the senior Ross.
“There is something I may wish to do,” was the enigmatical reply. “I will repay it as rapidly as possible.”
“Commissions few and small?” laughed the senior Ross. “Well, a young man never finds out exactly what he’s worth, while working for a relative or a friend, so this experience ought to be valuable.”
Still undecided, but with the money in his pocket, Ross left his father’s office and went to his own. He wanted to pay that premium, but it seemed to him a very serious matter, ethically and actually. The woman faced a future of privation; he faced what seemed to him a crisis in his business career. He revoltedat the thought of being false to his employer, but to let the woman suffer would be heartless.
“A letter for you, Ross,” said one of the clerks, as he entered the office. “Your wife left it.”
He opened it with nervous haste, and a notice of a premium due dropped out.
“You must find some way to help this woman, Owen,” his wife wrote. “I went to see her to-day, and the situation is pitiable. She has used up every cent she had and is in debt. Her husband is conscious at intervals, and he looks at you so wistfully, so anxiously, that it makes your heart bleed. Oh! if I could only tell him that the insurance is all right! It would give him peace for the little time that is left to him on this earth.Owen! resign, if necessary, but do what I ask!”
Ross crumpled the note in his hand and walked into Murray’s private office.
“Mr. Murray,” he said, “please accept my verbal resignation.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Murray.
“I have no time to explain now,” said Ross. “I want to be released from my obligations to the company at once.”
“You’re excited,” said Murray. “Sit down! Now, what’s the matter?”
Ross hesitated a moment, and then blurted out the whole story.
“You wish to pay this premium?” asked Murray.
“I’m going to pay it!” said Ross defiantly. “It will stick the company for more than four thousand dollars, but I’m going to pay it!”
“And you wish to resign to do it honorably?”
“Yes.”
“Pay it!” said Murray. “But your resignation is not accepted. I wouldn’t lose such a man as you for ten times four thousand dollars.”
“It is all right?” asked Ross, bewildered.
“Of course it’s all right,” asserted Murray. “As a matter of sympathy and justice, it is not only right but highly commendable; as a matter of financial profit to you, it would be despicable. Pay that premium, and I tell you now that the company will never pay a death benefit with less hesitation than it will pay this one. What is one risk more or less? We do business on the general average, and any sum is well invested that uncovers so conscientious an employee. Pay it, and come back to me.”
Three minutes later, Ross, with the receipt in his pocket, was at the telephone.
“It’s all right,” he told his wife. “The premium is paid.”
“Oh, Owen!” exclaimed Mrs. Ross, and her voice broke a little, “you don’t know what comfort you have given a dying man! If you could only see—”
“Get a cab!” he broke in. “He doesn’t know it yet, and you must tell him. Get a cab and drive like—”
He stopped short, but his wife knew what he almost said, and she forgave him without even a preliminary reproach.
His eyes were bright and his heart was light when he went back to Murray. Mrs. Becker’s situation was sad enough, but surely he had lessened the gloom of it by removing one great source of anxiety. He felt that he had done something worthy of a man, and it was a joy that he could do this without transcending the rules of business integrity and loyalty.
“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, wecould 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.”
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 matterabsolutely 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 insurancewas 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 hypothecatingthe 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 businesswith 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, suddenlyrousing 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—exceptfor 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, evenwith 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.
“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 tothe 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 toher, 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 aleave-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 provisionfor 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 youmaylive 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-depositvaults 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 the securities and estimated the amount of available cash he could command. He had speculated before and had been reasonably successful in most instances; he must speculate again, for in no other way could he bring his resources up to the point desired within the time limitations. The moment he reached this point he would put everything in stocks or bonds that wouldbe absolutely safe. Indeed, he would do this as fast as he got a little ahead of the game.
Wentworth had speculated previously only with money that he could afford to lose; but he was speculating now with his entire surplus. It had been a divertisement before; it was a business now. He had to win—and he lost. No one could be more careful than he, but his judgment was wrong. When he had given the markets no particular attention he had taken an occasional “flier” with success; when he made a study of conditions and discussed the situation with friendly authorities he found himself almost invariably in error.
There was something pathetic and disquieting in the affection and consideration he displayed for his wife and child during this time. He endeavored to conceal his own distress, but morning after morning his wife clung to him and looked anxiously into his face. He spoke cheeringly, but he grew daily more haggard, and she knew he was concealing something. Once she asked for news about the life insurance policy.
“Oh, that’s all settled,” he replied, but he did not tell her how it was settled.
Finally she went to see Murray. He had brought the news that had made this great change in her husband,and he could tell her what was worrying him. Murray had not called since that evening. While in no sense responsible for it, he had been so closely identified with this blow that had fallen on his friend that he felt his presence, for a time at least, would be only an unpleasant reminder.
“I must know this secret,” she told Murray with earnest directness of speech. “It is killing Stanley. He is worried and anxious, and he is working himself to death in an effort to straighten out some complication.”
“He mustn’t do that!” exclaimed Murray quickly. “Work and worry are the two things for him to avoid.”
“Why?” demanded Mrs. Wentworth.
Murray hesitated. He knew why Wentworth had kept this from his wife, but was it wise? The man was deliberately walking to his grave. Ought not his wife to be informed in order that she might take the necessary steps to save him? It would be a breach of confidence, but did not the circumstances justify it? Wentworth was his friend, and he had a sincere regard for Mrs. Wentworth. Surely he ought not to stand idly by and witness a tragedy that he might prevent.
“You—you didn’t insure him?” she said inquiringly“You—you didn’t insure him?” she said inquiringly
“Mrs. Wentworth,” he said at last, “the thing that is worrying Stanley is the fact that we had to decline him as a risk.“
“You—you didn’t insure him?” she said inquiringly, as if she did not quite comprehend.
“No.”
“He let me think you had.”
“Because he did not wish to distress you, and I assure you, Mrs. Wentworth, I would not tell you this myself, were it not for the fact that Stanley is doing the most unwise thing possible.”
“I am very glad you did tell me,” she said quietly. She was not an emotional woman, but the pallor of her face and something of anxious fright in her eyes told how deeply she felt. “What must I do?”
“Get him out of business and away from excitement,” replied Murray promptly. “In a quiet place, if he takes care of himself, he may live as long as any of us.”
When Wentworth reached home that evening, the little woman, always affectionate, greeted him with unusual tenderness. She said nothing of her visit to Murray, but later she brought up the subject of moving to the country.
“I’m dreadfully worried about you, Stanley,” she said. “You must take a vacation.”
“I can’t,” he replied.
“But you must,” she insisted. “You’ve been working too hard lately.”
“Next year,” he said, “I hope to get out of this city turmoil and take you away to some quiet place, where we can live for each other and the baby.”
She went over and knelt beside him, as he leaned wearily back in his big arm-chair.
“Why not now?” she pleaded.
“My God! I can’t, Helen!” he cried. “I want to, but I can’t! If you only knew—”
“I only know that you will break down, if you don’t take a rest,” she interrupted hastily. It would only add to his distress to learn that she knew his secret. “Don’t you suppose I can see how you are overtaxing your strength? We must go away for a time, anyway.”
“Little woman,” he said, putting an arm round her, “it’s a question of finance, and you never could understand that very well. When I get things in shape we will go, but not yet. I have some investments to watch, and,”—wearily,—“things have gone rather against me lately. There are lots of things to be done before I can take any extended vacation, and it is even a more serious matter to retire permanently. My earning capacity is about all we have to live on now.”
“I thought you had money invested,” she remarked.
“I had,” he replied, “but it was not enough, and in trying to make it enough I made some wrong guesses on the market.”
“Never mind,” she said cheerily. “We’ll make the best of what’s left. We won’t need much if we get away from this fearful life. It isn’t money that the baby and I want, it’s you; and we don’t want you to die for us, but to live for us.”
Wentworth gave his wife a quick glance, for this was hitting very close to his secret; but he saw in her only the very natural anxiety of a loving wife, who knew that her husband was overtaxing his strength.
“You mean well,” he said, “but you don’t know.”
Mrs. Wentworth was not a business woman, and she knew little of her husband’s affairs, but she had a feeling that this question of life insurance was all that stood in the way of the precautions that he ought to take. He could get something for his interest in the business, if he retired, but not enough to make proper provision for her. He could take up some quiet pursuit and continue to make a little money as long as he lived, but he could leave only the most trifling income. And, in his efforts to improve matters, he had only made them worse. She understood so much.
There was an undercurrent of sadness, but still something beautiful, in the life that followed thisconversation. All the little sympathetic attentions that love can suggest, each gave to the other, while each worried in secret, seeking only to make life a little easier and more cheerful for the other.
But Mrs. Wentworth was becoming as desperate as her husband, and even more unreasoning. Was not her husband’s life worth all the money of all the insurance companies? And were they not condemning him to death by their action? It was more than a risk that depended upon life; it was a life that depended upon the risk. In a little time she convinced herself that the insurance companies could save him and would not, failing utterly to appreciate the fact that, even with the greatest precautions, the chances were against him; that there was only a possibility that he might live longer than a few years, the probability being quite the reverse.
Murray was shocked when she called to see him again. The change in her husband was no greater than the change in her. Was not the man she loved committing suicide before her eyes? And was he not doing this for love of her and the baby? Would not such a condition of affairs make any woman desperate and unreasoning?
“Mr. Murray,” she said, “if you are as good afriend to my husband as he has always been to you, you will save his life.”
“I will do anything in my power, Mrs. Wentworth,” replied Murray. “Nothing in life ever has so distressed me as this.”
“Then give him the policy he wants.”
“Impossible! Why, the doctor—”
“You can fix it with the doctor; you know you can! Or you can get another doctor to pass him! Oh, Mr. Murray! I am not asking for money; I am asking for life—for his life! It’s suicide—murder! I want to get him away! I must get him away! But I can’t while he fears for our future—the baby’s and mine! He must provide for us, and he’s losing the little he had! He can’t stand it a month longer! Give him the policy, Mr. Murray, and I’ll swear to you never to present it for payment! It’s only for him that I ask it! You can give him life—give your friend life! Won’t you do it?”
The tears were running down the little woman’s cheeks, and Murray could not trust himself to speak for a moment.
“Mrs. Wentworth,” he said at last, “every cent I have is at your husband’s disposal, if he needs it, but what you ask is utterly impossible. The risk would be refused at the home office, even if I passed it, for thefact that he has been refused by two other companies would be reported there.”
In the case of another, Murray would have said more, but he knew that Mrs. Wentworth was quite beside herself and did not really appreciate that she was asking him to be dishonest with the company that employed him.
“He wouldn’t touch a cent of the money of such a friend!” she exclaimed with sudden anger. “He’s not a beggar, and neither am I! All I seek for him is the tranquility that means life; all I ask is the removal of the anxiety that means death. And this little you will not do for a friend!” She was beside herself with desperation.
It was bitter, it was harsh, it was unjustifiable, but Murray had forgiven her before she had ceased speaking. The depth of her feeling and the excitement under which she was laboring were sufficient to excuse her. But he felt as if he really were condemning his friend to death. Yet what could he do? He would cheerfully give a thousand dollars out of his own pocket to make things easier for the two suffering ones, but it was not a matter of ready cash. Wentworth had enough of that.
In the deepest distress Murray was pacing back and forth when the door opened and Wentworth himselfstaggered in. Murray was at his side in a moment and guided him to a chair.
“What’s the matter, old man?”
“Lost everything,” Wentworth gasped. “Tried to protect—margined to limit—all gone!”
“But your interest in the business?”
“Sold it—to protect deal.” He seemed almost at the point of collapse, but he rallied for a moment. “Insurance!” he cried. “I must have it! Damn the company! You must put it through for me! You hear, Murray!” The man was almost crazy, and he spoke fiercely. “You’ve got to do it—for humanity’s sake! Can’t leave them penniless!”
“We’ll talk about it to-morrow,” said Murray soothingly.
“You lie, Murray!” the excited man cried. “You won’t do it at all; you’ll see them starve first, you—you dog! I’ll kill you, if you don’t—”
Wentworth had risen in frenzied fury, as he pictured the future of his loved ones; he swayed for an instant, and Murray caught him as he fell. He was dead before Murray could get him back into the chair.
Murray did all that anyone could do for the bereaved woman, and more than any one else would have done, for the next day he sent her this letter:
Dear Mrs. Wentworth: After a conference with our physician we decided that a small risk on Mr. Wentworth would be justified, and the matter was closed up yesterday afternoon just previous to his death. As a result of my close personal relations with him, I know that he left his affairs in rather a complicated condition, so, as it will take a little time to file the necessary proofs and get the money from the company, I am taking the liberty of sending you my personal check for the amount of the policy, one thousand dollars, and I hope that you will not hesitate to call on me for any service that is in my power to render. With the deepest sympathy, I am,
Very sincerely yours,
David Murray.
“A lie,” he muttered, referring to the insurance item; “a cold, deliberate lie, but I feel better for telling it.”
Just when the Interurban Traction Company thought the successful culmination of its plans in sight it woke up to the fact that there had been a miscalculation or an oversight somewhere. It had the absolute or prospective control of all the principal lines embraced in its elaborate scheme of connecting various towns and cities by trolley, which means that it had bought a good deal of the necessary stock and had options on most of the rest; but there was one insignificant little road that it had left to the last. This road had been a losing venture from its inception, and its stock was quoted far below par, with no buyers. As a matter of business policy, the more successful roads should be secured first, for the moment the secret was out their stocks would soar. They represented the larger investments, and their stock-holders could hold on, if they saw the advisability of it, without making any financial sacrifice; they were in a position to “hold up” the new company in the most approved modern style. But the Bington road was weak and unprofitable, valuable only as a connecting link in the chain.
“Of course,” said Colonel Babington, who was at the head of the new venture, “we’re sure to be held up somewhere on the line, and these people can hold us up for less than any of the others. They haven’t much as a basis for a hold-up, and they can’t afford to go on losing money. We can buy their road cheap the first thing, but the discovery of the purchase will give our plans away and add a million dollars to the cost of carrying them out. Any fool would know that we were not buying that road for itself alone. Why, the mere rumor that negotiations were opened would add fifty or a hundred per cent. to the value of the other stocks we want. We can’t afford even to wink at that road until we get control of the others.”
So they went about their work very secretly, hoping so to conceal their design that they would be able to get the last link at the bed-rock price; but, when the time came, entirely unexpected difficulties were encountered. The stock-holders might have been tractable enough, but the stock-holders themselves had been fooled.
“Why, there was a young fellow here last week,” they explained, “and he got a sixty-day option on enough stock to control the road.”
“Who was he?” asked the startled Colonel Babington.
“His name is Horace Lake,” they told him.
“I’ll have to look Horace up,” remarked the colonel thoughtfully.
Meanwhile, Horace was congratulating himself on having done a good stroke of business, and further amusing himself by figuring his possible profit.
“I’ve been looking for just such a chance as this,” he told Dave Murray, the insurance man.
“Have you got the money to carry it through?” asked the practical Murray.
“I had enough to put up a small forfeit to bind the option and convince them that I mean business, and I don’t need any more,” returned Lake.
“Once in a great while,” said Murray, “a man makes a good lot of money on a bluff, but even then he usually has some backing. It takes money to make money, as a general rule. You will find that most successful men, even those who are noted for their nervy financiering, got the basis of their fortunes by hard work and rigid economy. Wind may be helpful, but it makes a poor foundation.”
“This is one of the times when it is about all that is necessary,” laughed Lake. “I got a little inside information about the Interurban Traction Company’s plans in time to secure an option on one link in its chain of roads, and it has simply got to do businesswith me before it can make its line complete. For twenty thousand dollars, paid any time within sixty days, I can control the blooming little line, and the option to buy at that price is going to cost the traction company just twenty-five thousand dollars, which will be clear profit for me.”
“It sounds nice,” admitted Murray, “but, if I were in your place, I’d feel a good deal better if I had the money to make good. If they don’t buy, you lose your forfeit, which represents every cent you could scrape up.”
“They will buy,” asserted Lake confidently.
“They may think it cheaper to parallel your line,” suggested Murray.
“I’m not worrying,” returned Lake confidently. “I’m just waiting for them to come and see me, and they’ll come.”
Lake’s prophecy proved correct. They came—at least Colonel Babington came, he being the active manager of the company’s affairs. But Colonel Babington first took the precaution to learn all he could of Horace Lake’s financial standing and resources. This convinced him that it was what he termed a “hold-up,” but, even so, it was better to pay a reasonable bonus than to have a fight.
“We will give you,” said Colonel Babington, “athousand dollars for your option on the majority stock of the Bington road.”
“The price,” replied Lake, “is twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“My dear young man,” exclaimed the colonel, when he had recovered his breath, “you ought to see a specialist in mental disorders. You are clearly not right in your mind.”
“The price,” repeated Lake, “is twenty-five thousand dollars now, and, if I am put to any trouble or annoyance in the matter, the price will go up.”
“A bluff,” said the colonel, “is of use only when the opposing party does not know it is a bluff. We happen to know it. You haven’t the money to buy that road, and you can’t get it.”
“You speak with extraordinary certainty,” returned Lake with dignified sarcasm.
“The road,” asserted the colonel, “is valuable only to us, and we can parallel it, if necessary. No conservative capitalist is going to advance you the money to buy it in the face of such a risk as that, so we have only to wait until your option expires to get it from the men who now own it, and I may add that we have taken a second option at a slightly higher price. Therefore, your only chance to get out of the deal with a profit is to let us acquire the road under thefirst option at something less than the second option price. To avoid any unnecessary delay, we might be willing to pay you a bonus of two thousand dollars.”
“The price,” said Lake, “is now twenty-six thousand.”
“Sixty days—less than fifty now, as a matter of fact—is not such a long time,” remarked the colonel. “We will wait.”
Lake told Murray later that he “had them in a corner,” but Murray was inclined to be doubtful; fighting real money with wind, he said, was always a risky undertaking, and the Interurban Traction Company had plenty of real money. Lake, however, being in the “bluffing” line himself, was inclined to think all others were doing business on the same basis, and he confidently expected the colonel to return in a few days. But the colonel came not.
Then Lake made another trip to Bington, to look the ground over, and he was disturbed to find that the colonel had been sounding the people on a proposition to put a line through the town on another street. This was only a tentative plan, to be adopted in case of failure to get the existing line, but it showed that the company was not disposed to be held up without a fight. Fortunately, the people did not take kindly to the idea. The principal shops were on the line of thetrolley now, and the proprietors did not wish to have travel diverted to another street.
Lake devoted several days to missionary work in Bington, pointing out the great depreciation of property that would follow such a move, and he finally left with a feeling that the company would have an extremely difficult time getting the necessary legislation from the town officials. Still, he was not entirely at ease, for officials are sometimes “induced” to act contrary to the wishes of the people they are supposed to represent. But he believed he had made the situation such that Babington would come back to him. Surely, it would be cheaper to deal with him than to buy an entire town board.
Thirty of the sixty days slipped away, and Lake grew really anxious. The Interurban Traction Company could not be a success without a connecting link between the two main stretches of its line, and Lake had not believed that it would dare to proceed with its plans until this was assured. Consequently, he had expected all work to stop, pending negotiations with him. But work did not stop. There were two or three trifling gaps at other places, and the company was laying the rails to bridge them, in addition to improving the road-beds of the lines it had bought. It even began to build a half-mile of track to reach one terminusof his little road. Clearly, there was no anticipation of trouble in ultimately beating him.
“It’s my lack of money,” he soliloquized. “I’ve got the basis of a good thing, if I only had the money to make it good, but I haven’t, and they know it. Murray was right.”
His thoughts being thus turned to Murray, he went to see him, in the faint hope that he might interest him in the plan. Murray had money to invest. But Murray deemed the risk too great in this instance.
“They can beat you,” said Murray. “They have unlimited resources, and they’ll certainly get through Bington on another street, if you persist in making your terms too stiff. Very likely, they would have given you three thousand or possibly even five thousand for your option when they first came to you, and they may do it now.”
“I tell you, it’s a good thing,” insisted Lake.
“If it’s really as good a thing as you think it is,” said Murray, “you will have no difficulty in getting somebody with money to take it off your hands at a good margin of profit to you, but I can’t see it.”
In this emergency, Lake recalled a man of considerable wealth who had known him as a boy and had taken an interest in him. It was humiliating not to be able to put the scheme through himself, after all hisplanning and confident talk, but it was better to turn it over to some one else than to fail entirely. So he went to see Andrew Belden.
“There is a remote chance of success,” declared Belden, “but I would not care to risk twenty thousand on it.”
“The company can’t get through Bington, except on that franchise,” insisted Lake.
“That may be so,” admitted Belden, “but I have learned not to be too confident in forecasting the action of public officials and corporations. The company could make a strong point by threatening to cut out Bington entirely and carry its line to one side of it.”
“That would make a loop in their road that would be costly in building and in the delays it would occasion,” argued Lake. “They can’t make any circuits, if they are to do the business.”
“Nevertheless,” returned Belden, “their actions show that they are very sure of their ground.”
“Simply because I haven’t the ready cash,” said Lake bitterly. “Will you loan it to me, Mr. Belden? If you won’t go into the deal yourself, will you loan me the money to put it through? I’ll give you the stock as security, and I think you know me well enough to know that I’ll repay every cent of it as rapidly as possible.”
“My dear Horace,” exclaimed Belden with frank friendliness, “I haven’t the least doubt of your integrity, but I have very serious doubts of your ability to repay any such sum, and it is more than I care to lose. You never have had a thousand dollars at one time in your life, and I may say, without intending to be unkind, that it isn’t likely you ever will. As for the security, its value depends entirely on the success of your plans: if you fail, it won’t be worth ten cents. Now, if you had any real security, upon which I could realize in case anything happened to you, I would cheerfully let you have the money for as long a time as you wish. Although your plan does not appeal to me, I am sincerely anxious to be of assistance to you as far as possible, but I can’t make you a gift of twenty thousand dollars. Convince me that it will be repaid ultimately—no matter in how long a time—and I will let you have it.”
Lake departed, discouraged. He had no security of any sort to offer, and had only asked for the loan as a desperate last resort, without the slightest expectation that he would get it. The company, he decided, had beaten him, just because no one else was clear-headed enough to see the opportunity, and he might as well get what little profit he could while there was still time. With this object in view, he went to see the colonel.
“I have decided,” he said, “to let you have the road for a bonus of five thousand dollars.”
“That is very kind of you,” returned the colonel, “but we can get it cheaper. You see,” he explained, with the disagreeable frankness of one who thinks he holds the winning hand, “the minority stock-holders were a little disgruntled when they learned of your deal—thought they had been left out in the cold—and they were ready to make very favorable terms with us. As we have a second option on the majority stock, at a somewhat higher figure, we have only to wait until your option expires and then take the little we need to give us control.”
“I’ll let you have my option for the two thousand you offered a month ago,” said Lake in desperation.
“It’s not worth that to us now.”
“One thousand dollars.”
“Why, frankly, Mr. Lake,” said the colonel still pleasantly, “we men of some experience and standing in the business world don’t like to have half-baked financiers interfering with our plans, and we aim to discourage them as effectually as possible whenever possible.” Then, with a sudden change of tone: “We won’t give you a damn cent for your option. You were too greedy.”
“Of course, you men of money and high finance are not greedy at all,” retorted Lake sarcastically.
Lake was too depressed to see it at the moment, but later it began to dawn on him that the colonel, usually astute, had made a grievous mistake. In his anxiety to impress upon the young man the futility of his avaricious schemes, in the face of such wise and resourceful opposition, he had mentioned the fact that the minority stock had been brought within their reach. Had they already bought it, or had they only secured options on it? If already purchased, the purchase price would prove a dead loss, unless they were able to get enough more to secure control. To parallel the road would be to kill a company in which they were financially interested, in addition to incurring the considerable expense necessary for a new connecting link.
Lake went to Bington that afternoon, and returned the following morning. The game was his, if he could raise the money; they had bought most of the minority stock outright, being unable to get options on it. He was sure of victory now, if he could raise the money. He no longer wished to turn the deal over to any one else on any terms: he wished to carry it to the conclusion himself. But the money, the money!
He tried Belden again, but Belden still consideredthe security utterly inadequate for a loan of twenty thousand dollars. In truth, although Belden considered the outlook a little more promising now, he doubted the young man’s ability to handle such a deal, and it would take very little to upset all calculations. The company’s investment was not sufficient to prevent the abandonment of the road in some very possible circumstances, although it was ample evidence of a present plan to use it. Murray took the same view of the situation.
“It begins to look like a good speculation,” said Murray, “but I haven’t the money to invest in it, and I never was much of a speculator, anyway. I have discovered that, as a general thing, when the possible profit begins to climb very much over the legal rate of interest, the probability of loss increases with it. However, if you want to take the risk, that’s your affair, provided you have the money.”
“But I haven’t,” complained Lake; “that’s the trouble.”
“Too bad you’re not carrying enough insurance to be of some use,” remarked Murray.
“What good would that do?” asked Lake.
“Why, then you’d only have to convince your wife that you have a safe investment, and it’s always easier to convince your wife than it is to convince some coldbloodedcapitalist. Insurance ranks high as security, but of course the beneficiary has to consent to its use.”
“I never had thought of insurance as a factor in financiering,” said Lake. “I had regarded it more as a family matter.”
“It plays an important part in the business world,” explained Murray, “and it might even play a part in speculation. There is partnership insurance, you know.”
“I may have heard of it, but I never gave it any consideration.”
“It’s not a speculation, but a business precaution,” said Murray. “The partners are insured in favor of the firm. If one of them dies, it gives the firm the ready cash to buy his interest from the widow, without infringing on the business capital. Partnership insurance may sometimes prevent a failure; it may prevent several. Many interests may depend temporarily upon the operation of one man, and his sudden death might spell ruin for a number of people, unless they were protected by insurance. The policy is playing a more important part in the business world every day. There are lots of strange things that can be done when you fully understand it.”
“But that doesn’t help me,” asserted Lake impatiently.
“No,” returned Murray, “I don’t see how insurance could help you just now, unless you were to die. A policy won’t be accepted as security for a sum in excess of the premiums paid, for you might default.”
“I’m not the kind of man who dies to win,” said Lake rather sharply.
“Of course not,” replied Murray. “I was merely considering the financial possibilities of policies.” All insurance questions being of absorbing interest to Murray, he straightway forgot all about Lake’s predicament, and busied his mind with his own speculations. “There is so much that can be done with insurance,” he went on, “but I guess it’s just as well the public doesn’t know it all. Do you remember the case of Rankin, the banker who committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Rankin couldn’t have done anything with our company, because the element of premeditation is assumed if death by suicide occurs within two years from the time the policy is issued. After that the manner of death cuts no figure, for the courts have held that an insurance company takes a risk on the mind as well as the body of a policy-holder, and, anyway, competition has cut out the old suicide restrictions. But there are companies that issue policies incontestable after the date of issue. Suppose Rankin,when he found his affairs in such shape that he no longer dared to face the world, had gone to one or more of these companies. A hundred thousand dollars—very likely less—would have protected his bank and provided for his family. He had already decided to kill himself, for his operations had been such that he could not hope to escape the penitentiary when discovery came, but he was ostensibly still a prosperous man. Many men of his standing insure themselves for extraordinarily large sums, to protect legitimately their business interests as well as their families.
“Not so very long ago we issued a paid-up policy for fifty thousand dollars on the life of one man, who died within three years, and we thought nothing of it. He was taking a risk on his own life then, for he thought he was going to live long enough to make a paid-up policy cheaper than the aggregate of annual payments, whereas there would have been a saving to his estate of a good many thousands of dollars if he had followed the other plan. However, that has nothing to do with this case; I mention it only to show that a man of Rankin’s apparent standing could have got insurance to any amount without creating comment. And, with an incontestable-after-date-of-issue policy, he could have protected his business associates and his familyby the very culmination of his overwhelming disgrace. Why, a defaulter could use part of his stolen money in this way to provide for his family when the moment of discovery and death shall come, or a dishonest business man, facing ruin, could use his creditors’ money to make such provision, for insurance money is something sacred, that can not be reached like the rest of an estate. Oh, there are great dramatic possibilities in this business, Lake—tragedies and comedies and dramas of which the public knows nothing.”
“How does that help me?” demanded Lake gloomily, and the question brought Murray back to the realities of the moment.
“It doesn’t help you,” Murray replied, “but it’s an intensely interesting subject to one who gives it a little time and thought.”
Yet it did help Lake, although not at that moment. It was a new field, and Lake liked to explore new fields. A novelty that taxed his ingenuity appealed to him especially. True, he had enough to occupy his mind without entering upon idle speculation, but, when every other avenue to success seemed closed, his thoughts would revert to insurance.
“If it holds out such opportunities for others, why not for me?” he asked. “If others have entirely overlookedthe possibilities, why may not I be doing the same thing?”
He met the colonel on the street occasionally, and the way the colonel smiled at him was maddening. There could be no doubt that the colonel considered the game won, but he was not a man to take chances: he had Lake watched, and the latter’s every move was reported to him. Even when Lake made another trip to Bington and endeavored to arrange a shrewd deal with some of the majority stock-holders, the colonel promptly heard of it.