Elliott Flower - The Best Policy

“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 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 would be 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.

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