I
Saturday, October 20, 1900.
Dear Judy: I have what two weeks ago would have been mighty good news
for you and for us all. Uncle Phineas got home this afternoon with
$45,000 marked in his bank book. That is, you understand, he had
deposited a check for $45,000 in the Portland bank.
When he went prospecting down into Malheur County last June, he went
into the old placer-mining region. He located a quartz mine there. He
came home in August, and went straight on to Portland to try to
interest some Eastern capitalists, who were there at that time, in the
mine. He succeeded. And, finally, in late September, he got two big
bugs to go down to Malheur County with him to inspect the property.
They were coming out, on their way back to Portland to draw up the
papers and close the deal, when Uncle Phineas heard what had happened
here on Monday night, October the eighth. He came straight home, as
you know. But he made an engagement to meet the men in Portland,
toward the end of the week. This is his reason for going back to the
city this last time. Everything went through without a hitch. Uncle
Phineas banked the $45,000.
So, you see, all is smooth sailing from now on. With that amount, we
can bring the ranch through with flying banners, or I am a fool. Yes,
I know. But I am not a fool where ranching, and nothing else, is
concerned. Though when I realize what Father could have done, if he’d
had half such an opportunity as this, it makes me meek. Also, it makes
me pretty sore at Uncle Phineas. If it hadn’t been for his darn
foolishness, I’d have had a chance to know something, at least, about
how Father would have planned to go ahead with such an amount of
capital: how he would have expended it; saved it; what mortgages he
would have paid. As it is, I am in the dark with a case of cold feet
at the notion of so much money to be handled.
On the square, Judy, I hated this doggone secrecy of Uncle Phineas’s
from the beginning. When he came home last summer, he told me about
the location of the mine, what the ore had assayed, the accessibility
to the railroad and to water. It sounded so good that, in spite of
myself, and in spite of past experiences and even—shall I say—in spite
of Uncle Phineas, I had to believe in the future of the thing.
I was strong for telling the rest of the family, or at least some of
the rest of them, right then. He would not have it. He had used me as
a safety valve, because he had to confide or explode; but he would not
tell another soul. He insisted, rightly enough, on the difference
between locating a gold mine and getting a red cent out of it. On the
score of not building up the family’s hopes, only to dash them, he did
have a fair excuse for keeping quiet and for requiring that I should.
But I knew, and he knew, that at any other time in the history of Q 2
Ranch, he would have come shouting in with the big news, and allowed
us all to have what fun we could out of the hoping and planning—you
know how it has always been. No, sir, it was not fear of disappointing
the family that made Uncle Phineas swear me to secrecy.
It is a crumby thing to say, but, from the night she came here, Uncle
Phineas has hated Irene. He always liked Chris better than he liked
any of us, you know; so a mixture of Mother, Beatrice, and Griselda
would not have satisfied him for his precious boy. Admittedly, Irene
possessed no such combination of perfections. He was—and is, I
suppose—convinced that Irene had roped his cloyingly innocent nephew
by foul means. He thought all he had to do was to free Chris from the
lasso of propinquity, and then the infatuation would instantly end. He
tried to toll him off to Nome. When he had to give over that plan, he
decided that Irene, if she saw no chance of getting away from Q 2 with
Chris, would pick up some day and leave without him. He never for a
moment believed that Chris would sell the place. His point, all along,
was to save Chris. Mine, when I got mixed up with some mucky ideas of
the same sort, was to save the ranch.
Well, Uncle Phineas has saved the ranch. So I guess it is rotten of me
to start quibbling about his methods. If he did make rather a bad
mistake, he was more than paid out for it by the fiddle-de-dee effect
of his triumph this evening. His announcement, with his display of the
bank book, was the forlornest victory I have ever witnessed.
We are a sentimental herd, and there is no getting away from it. When
Uncle Phineas flashed the $45,000 on us, there wasn’t one of us,
except Irene, I suppose, who thought of anything but what that money,
or a tenth of it, would have meant to Father these last few years.
He sprang it on us just after we’d sat down to supper. We received it
as we might have received an announcement that he had had his
photograph taken; and we passed the bank book from hand to hand as we
might have passed the picture, though rather more quietly.
Of course, I had been more or less expecting it. Though I was not
prepared for any such sum as that. He had told me he was going to hold
out for $45,000; but I had $15,000 fixed in my mind as the highest
figure. One does, you know, always divide by at least three when it
comes to Uncle Phineas and his affairs. Still, since I had been
primed, I don’t know why I should have been so dumb. I might have
sounded forth a glad cry or two, it would seem, but I did not.
Lucy was the first to speak. She remarked: “Dear me! An enormous
amount of money. Money was bothering all of us—wasn’t it—only a few
weeks ago?”
Chris replied by shoving back his chair, rising, and walking out of
the room. Irene ran after him. Olympe burst into real tears. Aunt
Gracia ran to Grandfather and put her arm around his shoulders.
“Don’t you understand, Father,” she said, “Uncle Phineas has brought
us a fortune? All our money worries are over now. You must be glad,
dear. You must be glad!”
So take the “good news,” Judy. In spite of the neat blue figures in
the little leather book, I think none of us has quite got hold of the
idea as yet. Except—funny, how often I have to make this
exception—except, then, Irene. She has got Chris at their packing
already—but a far from sunny, rather new Christopher, who snaps at
one, and is surly, and who says that he will pack, if she likes her
things put away in trunks, but that he is not leaving Q 2 for a while.
Olympe is having a difficult time. She is torn between remorse for
having accused Uncle Phineas of iniquities, widely assorted from
neglect to infidelity, and anger at him for having kept the secret
from her for so long a time.
Poor Aunt Gracia seems to be in a trance. When you consider how hard
it is to think up excuses and decent motives for mere mortals, you can
imagine what a task it must be to have to find them for Omnipotence.
You understand? If Father had to die, on the very night of October
eighth, death would have been so much easier for him if he could have
known that he was leaving us all, and Q 2, safe. So, until Aunt
Gracia’s faith reconciles this seeming brutality with some obscure
justice, she is bound, I fear, to have a bad few days.
Grandfather has received the glad tidings by going straight to his
bed. Aunt Gracia seems seriously concerned about him. But I know
Grandfather, by this time. After weathering the past twelve days, as
he has, he won’t allow what, after all, is good fortune, to down him
now.
Uncle Phineas put my name in the pot when he made this deposit. In the
future, I am to write checks with the elders. I’ll celebrate by making
my first one out to you, and enclosing it in this letter. Thank the
Lord you can stop worrying about expenses. If you haven’t plenty of
room for Lucy, where you and Greg are now, find a larger, more
comfortable place. Or, if there is anything at all that will make you
happier—get it.
Your loving brother,
Neal.
II
Tuesday, October 23, 1900.
Dear Judy: Bless your heart for the letter that came to-day. None of
the folks see my hand in it. They are all a bit worried, in spite of
your denials, for fear Greg may be not so well. But, to the last man,
they are relieved beyond measure at the prospect of getting Lucy away
from this damnable, suspicion-ridden hole that used to be Q 2 Ranch,
and safely with you.
It is being no end good for Lucy. The notion that Judy-pudy needs her
has chirked her chin up almost to its erstwhile snobby slant. She
drank milk at dinner for the first time in ages. I knew why—strength
for efficiency. She is as busy as six bunnies getting her washing
done, and her clothes in order, and preparing “presents” for you and
Greg.
We’ll get her off on Thursday, I think. I’ll send you full details
about trains in a telegram on the day she leaves here. For gosh
sakes, Judy, don’t let there be any slip up about meeting her. I hate
like thunder to have to allow the kid to make the trip alone. If
Grandfather were only in a little better shape, I’d bring her, or
Aunt Gracia might. If Chris and Irene had any definite date for
departure, we’d have her wait for them. But, since Chris—and quite
rightly—doesn’t care to leave Q 2 until Grandfather is out of bed, I
suppose we’d better send Lucy along.
If, by Thursday, Grandfather should be up again as, in spite of Dr.
Joe’s pessimism, I rather think he may be, I’ll hop the train and
escort Lucy to Denver. Or, if he seems well out of the woods, by
to-morrow or the next day, we may have Lucy wait and go with Chris and
Irene. Don’t worry, if I have to wire that she is coming alone. I’ll
make friends with the conductor, and endow the porter.
Thank you, dear, for helping out.
Your loving brother,
Neal.
III
Wednesday, October 24, 1900.
Dear Judy: If I weren’t sure it would make things worse instead of
better, I should devote the first page of this letter to an
alphabetical classification of Neal Quilter, beginning with ass,
bounder, cad, dunce—it is remarkably easy—and ending with wise-guy,
yap, and zany.
This, of course, as a direct result of your ten-page letter, which
came to-day, in answer to my letter about the coroner’s inquest. The
entire plan of writing to you, as I did write, could have been
conceived only by an idiot—and the sound, fury, and significance have
been fittingly evinced.
Your attitude is the one reasonable attitude. I deserve every bit of
the big-sisterly sweetness, sympathy, reassurance, and comfort that
you are so determined to lavish upon me. I deserve it all; but I am
afraid that I can’t endure much more of it. Jude, we have to cry
quits.
I do not, and I never did, suspect Aunt Gracia nor Chris. Whatever
brain storm I had, has passed. I know, with no further need of
reassurance, that I am an innocent little lad. For gosh sakes, then,
Jude—stop it! I am not fool enough to ask you to forget what I have
written; but, if you can, forgive it; and, because you must, ignore
it.
In answer to your question, do as you think best about telling Lucy
that I have told you the truth. I have no right, and no particular
desire, to burden you with keeping your knowledge a secret from Lucy.
But I certainly do advise that you girls think of the affair as little
as possible; that you two spend no time in putting your heads together
and puzzling. It is a doggone unhealthy occupation, even for a man.
The less you kids think about it and talk about it, the better.
Dr. Joe—he came out again on Sunday—got word to-day from Mr. Ward that
the insurance people have decided to fight our claim on the grounds of
suicide. They base their lying contention on the supposition that the
Quilters, unwilling to have a suicide in their family, eager to
collect, illegally, a large sum of money, would have banded together
to dispose of the weapon, and to make the death seem to have been
murder. Mr. Ward wishes to fight it through to a finish. He says that
they are a rotten, one-horse, almost one-man, shyster outfit, with no
standing, and they should be shown up and forced out of business. He
says that the absence of powder burns proves, conclusively, that the
gun had been fired from a distance of at least five or six feet.
Again, bother ropes, and masks, and coal oil, and powder burns—or the
lack of them. I know that Father would not kill himself. I do not know
how they could tell whether or not there were powder burns, underneath
all that blood—— There I go again. Sorry.
What I began to say was, that this decision of the company’s puts us
in a nasty position. The Scylla of allowing them to get away with
their filthy claims, and the Charybdis of dragging the thing through
the courts, and of seeming eager to make Father’s death a paying
proposition.
We’ll do nothing until Grandfather is able to give us his best advice.
At present, Dr. Joe and Uncle Phineas are all for fighting the thing
through. Chris is, or seems to be, on the fence with Olympe and Irene;
Aunt Gracia and I are strong for dropping it, here and now.
Grandfather is not coming along as well as I wish he might. I think
that it is mostly a general letting down and relaxation, after shock.
The money sort of gave him an opportunity to rest. However,
Grandfather is much hurt because Uncle Phineas had not told him about
the mine, or asked his advice about any of the dealings.
Uncle Phineas tried to get square by explaining that he was afraid
Irene and Chris might have the same ability he—Uncle Phineas—had for
turning daydreams into realities. In that case, had they known that a
gold mine was in the offing, they might have hied them to New York on
the strength of their knowledge.
This helped not at all. Grandfather inquired why Uncle Phineas thought
that he would go directly to Irene and Christopher and inform them. He
went on to say that, in all his life, he had never betrayed a secret.
His voice fairly shook as he all but dared any one of us to mention
one instance of his having repeated the most trivial thing that had
been told him in confidence. He said that, at eighty years of age, the
discovery that his own brother dared not trust him with a minor
confidence was an immitigably painful revelation. Sound enough, sane
enough, just enough; but from Grandfather, at this time, rather
thoroughly appalling.
Aside from Grandfather, the rest of us are doing fairly well. The
money assuages a lot. And the thought of getting Lucy away from this
hellish place is a comfort. According to present plans, she is to
leave to-morrow. But you will have my telegram about that long before
you have this letter.
Your loving brother,
Neal.
IV
Thursday, October 25, 1900.
Dear Judy: I hope you won’t think that I am in the throes of another
brain storm, when you get the two almost identical telegrams about
Lucy’s departure and arrival. After I had sent the first, I remembered
the time the telegram we sent to Chris had miscarried. So I thought
I’d play safe, and send another.
It was darn crumby business, starting Lucy off alone on the train
to-day. Nothing but the thought of Grandfather, lying there in his
darkened room at home, kept me from hopping the train at the last
minute and going with her.
Grandfather is not pulling through as fast as I thought he would. He
was able to talk to me for a while this morning, though Dr. Joe keeps
time on us. Grandfather asked me, straight, about the insurance. I
told him how things stood. He advised, strongly, that we drop the
claim. He said that no one, now, including the insurance people
themselves, believed for an instant that Father’s death was a suicide.
But, he said, by the time we had aired the affair in court, and had
allowed those scoundrels to present their dishonest evidence, there
was no way of telling what some people might come to believe. He said
that Father’s honour needed no defence, and that we would make none.
He added that no retort we could offer would carry the dignity of
non-retort.
I can hardly say how thankful I am for this decision from Grandfather.
To start yowling and yapping for insurance money would seem to be the
final, filthy flourish. Thank the Lord that Uncle Phineas has made it
possible for us to drop it. Or, I guess, I should say that Chris has
made it possible for us to drop it.
After Grandfather and I had talked this morning, he insisted upon
seeing Chris this afternoon. Chris, strangely, or naïvely, told me all
this himself. Grandfather put it up to him whether we should fight for
the insurance money or not. He said that, unless Chris would give him
his solemn promise that never again, under any conditions, would he
consider selling the ranch, we should have to go to suit for the
money. Grandfather’s position was, that though now we are in bonanza,
if every few years we had to meet the same proposition we had to meet
when Chris came home this spring, we’d need, and we should have to
attempt to get, every red cent we could put our hands on. Chris
promised like a shot. Judging from Chris’s account of the interview,
Grandfather made a very impressive, almost but not quite Biblical
ceremony of receiving the promise.
So that is off our minds. Chris never would break a promise. He’d have
smashed us to bits by selling us out; but he’d never so much as trifle
with the pretty knickknack of his own punctiliousness. I am darn glad
of it. Why I should be beefing about it, I don’t know.
This small check I am enclosing is to be used, exclusively, for the
funny little fleshpots you and Lucy delight in. I fear I have been
remiss about sending messages to Greg; but I am certain that you have
been delivering, promptly, all the pleasant things I should have said.
I am better than that. I am certain that Greg would know that I meant
them, whether I had sent them or not. I am a mucker with messages—but
you know how I feel about Greg.
Your loving brother,
Neal.
V
Saturday, October 27, 1900.
Dear Judy: Thank you for the telegram that came this evening. I went
to Quilterville about five and hung around over there for three hours
waiting for it. If people’s bumps of sympathy were developed in
proportion to their bumps of curiosity, living would be a more
tolerable project. Not, Lord knows, that I bid for sympathy, or want
it—that is, unless sympathy might be expressed by decent silence.
No matter. It is great to know that Lucy is safe with you. That, with
the news of Greg’s improving health, is the best bit I have had for
many moons.
Grandfather seems about the same. I know that he will come through all
right; but Dr. Joe is worried. His staying right on here proves that
he is, more than anything he says.
Tell Lucy I’d like a lot of letters from her, and long ones, and that
I shall not be critical. The place, with you girls gone, is like a day
with the morning missing. How is that from your unpoetical, but most
loving brother,
Neal.
VI
Monday, November 12, 1900.
Dear Judy and Lucy: Aunt Gracia tells me that you two are worrying
because I have not written to you since Grandfather’s death. I am
sorry to have worried you. I should have written.
We are all fairly well here. The weather is cold, but sunny. Chris and
Irene are leaving for New York to-morrow.
If I can get Steve Roftus to take the job of running the ranch for a
year or two, I am planning to enter Oregon Agricultural College in
February. We know that Steve is looking for a job, since Justin sold;
but whether we can get him for what we can pay, I don’t know. We’ll go
fairly high, because he is the best man in the county, and, now, more
than ever before, I feel that I must have more adequate knowledge.
Getting Steve was Grandfather’s suggestion. I had the last talk with
him that anyone had. Two hours on the night of the thirtieth. As I
suppose the others have told you, that was the night before he died.
My best regards to Greg.
Your loving brother,
Neal.