Part 7 (1/2)

”But I can't!” cried Wentworth. ”I haven't the money, and I must provide for the little woman and the baby. My G.o.d! 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 p.r.o.nouncing 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 divertis.e.m.e.nt 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”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 a.s.sure 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.”