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 matter
absolutely 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 insurance was 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 hypothecating the 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 business
with 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, suddenly rousing 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--except for 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, even with 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 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 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.
[Illustration: "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 this conversation. 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 a friend 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 the fact 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 himself staggered 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."