Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “But you’re goin’ to get well,” her grandson assured her. “What I want to know is: When are you goin’ to let me bring that baby to see you? Mother says you don’t — —”

  “No, no,” she interrupted peevishly. “I don’t want to see any babies.”

  “But, grandma, you’ve never seen any baby like — —”

  “No, no!”

  “But you don’t understand what a baby can be like,” he persisted. “I don’t know I ever thought much of babies generally, either; but I’ve found out there’s just as much difference between ’em as there is between people. Think of this, for instance: one day I was bendin’ down over him, just lookin’ at him — and this was before he was even four weeks old, remember — and all at once he took the notion I must be kind of funny. He broke right out in a laugh! He did! It was a real laugh, too, though a good many people might think I imagined it; because I’ve asked everybody I know, pretty near, and not one of ’em said they ever heard of a baby only four weeks old that could — —”

  “Stop!” she protested. “I didn’t send for you to talk about your baby.”

  “But, grandma, if you’d just let me bring him to see you — —”

  “I don’t want to hear anything about him, and I’ve only got one thing to say about him myself. You better not let him listen to his mother when he learns to talk, or to Harlan either — not if you want to save him from that affected Eastern way of talking. You’ve had enough to do with Eastern people, young man! You take care of yourself and have as little to do with ’em after this as you can manage. They may seem mighty fine and highty-tighty, and let you think it’s a great thing to be in with ’em, but all they’re after is to get something out of you; and after they’ve got it, they’ll give you the go-by quick enough! Now I haven’t got strength enough to talk very long, and I don’t want to talk any more about your baby.”

  “All right,” he said submissively. “What do you want to talk about, grandma?”

  She turned her head on the pillow to look at him; and it seemed to him that her eyes were vague, as if they found him indistinct; — she frowned plaintively in an effort to see him more clearly, and was silent for a time.

  “It’s Dan, is it?” she said finally.

  “Why, yes, grandma,” he answered in surprise. “We’ve just been talkin’ about the baby, grandma; and how much better you are and everything.”

  “I know,” she returned with a feeble petulance. “I know what we’re talking about. I wanted you to come to-night because I want to tell you something.”

  “Yes, grandma?”

  “It’s this,” she said; then closed her eyes, and when she opened them, asked again: “Is it Dan?”

  “Why, yes, of course, grandma! You just said — —”

  “I know what I said! I wanted to tell you — to tell you — —”

  “Yes, grandma,” he said, and added indulgently, “Tell me anything you like to.”

  “I wanted to tell you not to mind,” she went on. “You mustn’t mind anything that happens. I mean anything I have to do with.”

  “No; of course,” he returned without any idea of what she might mean. “Of course I won’t. I won’t mind it.”

  “You must be sure not to,” she insisted. “You won’t understand, but you mustn’t let it make you feel hurt with me. You mustn’t — —”

  “Of course I won’t. Why, I’d never dream of feelin’ hurt with you about anything in the world, grandma.”

  “Listen, Dan. I’ve always liked you best since you were a little boy. If you don’t understand something that happens, you remember I said this, will you? What may happen is for your own good and to help you, though it may seem just the other way to you. Will you promise to remember?”

  “Of course,” he returned promptly; but she was not satisfied.

  “No; I want you to think what you’re saying. You speak too quickly to make me sure you’ll remember. Say it slower, Dan. Say, ‘I promise to remember.’”

  “I promise to remember,” he repeated slowly, to indulge this whim of hers; and then asked, “To remember what, grandma?”

  “What I’ve just told you. That’s all I have to say, Dan.”

  “All right, grandma; — I hope I haven’t stayed long enough to tire you,” he said, and patted her hand as he rose. “I expect you want to drowse a little now. Good-night, grandma.”

  “Good-bye,” she said. And her cold and bent fingers feebly clasped his hand, giving it an impulse which he allowed it to follow until he found it resting against her cheek. “Dear boy!” she said faintly; and he was touched by this, the first caress she had given him since he was a child. She retained his hand, keeping it against her cheek a moment longer; then relinquished it gently and said “Good-bye” again.

  “Not ‘good-bye,’ grandma,” he protested heartily. “‘Good-night,’ not ‘good-bye.’ You are better, and the doctor himself says so. Why, by next week — —”

  “Next week?” she said in the faintest voice in the world and with the remotest shadow of an elfin smile to herself. “Next week? Yes. You can — you can bring the baby to see me — next week.”

  She just reached the end of that permission, her voice was so infinitely small and so drowsy; and her eyes closed before the last word; — she seemed to fall asleep even while she spoke. Dan tiptoed out, nodding to the nurse, who had been close at hand in the hall and came into the room as he left it.

  Downstairs he found the courteous Nimbus waiting, as always, to unlatch the front door. But to-night the elderly servitor was solemn and unloquacious beyond his custom. “Goo’-ni’, suh,” he said. “I reckon you’ grammaw ‘bout ready to let that big door swing. Yes, suh. Goo’-ni’, suh.”

  Dan walked home, wondering what door Nimbus conceived himself to be talking about, and wondering more what his grandmother had meant him to remember. But at his own door he was abruptly enlightened upon Nimbus’s meaning about a “big” one. Harlan met him there and told him that the nurse had just telephoned.

  Mrs. Savage would never explain what she had asked him to remember; she would never explain anything — never, forever.

  Chapter XVII

  THE DAY AFTER her funeral Mr. Oliphant brought home a copy of her will and read it to his wife and their sons and daughter-in-law in the library. He read slowly, while his four auditors sat in a silence broken only once, though the document was a long one. The single interruption was a vocal sound from Dan when the bequest to himself was mentioned, an exclamation the import of which was not determinable by the others.

  But before the reading Mr. Oliphant made some introductory remarks as he wiped his glasses: The estate appeared to be “somewhat larger than anticipated,” he said, as Mrs. Savage’s boxes in the bank’s deposit vaults contained securities she had never mentioned; — she had always been “very reticent in such matters.” The value of her possessions might be “estimated roughly at probably upward of eight hundred thousand dollars, in addition to her house and a small amount of other real estate.” Then he took up the typewritten sheets of the will.

  Mrs. Savage had always been known in the town as “pretty close”; for her early youth was of the “old-settler” days when people who failed to be thrifty might also fail to keep themselves alive; and something of this quality had the air of striving to survive her in the posthumous expression of her wishes. She had left one hundred and thirty-five dollars to each of her three elderly servants; and seven hundred and fifty dollars to every “established charitable institution of worth and merit” in the city, the “worth and merit” to be determined by her executors, those two discreet men of substance, Mr. George Rowe and Mr. John P. Johns.

  Mr. Oliphant’s throat seemed to trouble him when he came to the next clause, for he read it huskily, the papers trembling slightly in his hand. The paragraph concerned Mrs. Savage’s “dearly and well-beloved grandson, Daniel Oliphant” and carefully explained her reasons for making what might seem an unfair division of h
er property.

  Inasmuch as my said grandson, Daniel, has not seen fit to avail himself of the sound advice of those more experienced, and in particular has acted directly contrary to my own counsel for his well-being, both in the conduct of his business and in other affairs, wherein I have endeavoured to assist him and offer him guidance, and although I intend this clause in no manner to reflect upon or in any way impugn his probity and honour, which have always been above reproach, I am compelled to draw the conclusion that he has not shown that discretion in the management of his affairs which would convince me that in his hands any large sum or parcel of my estate might not soon be dispersed and disappear without profit to himself. Therefore, out of regard to his welfare, as well as to my own peace of mind, and as a token only of the sincere affection I bear him, I devise and bequeath to my said grandson, Daniel Oliphant, to be paid to him in cash by my executors out of the sum remaining on deposit to my credit at the First National Bank of this city after my funeral expenses and other just debts and the above mentioned bequests shall have been paid, the sum of thirty-five hundred dollars.

  It was then that the indeterminable vocal sound came from the corner where Dan sat — a sound not unlike a slight, irrepressible gasp, though not distinctly that; nor was the nature of the emotion producing it indicated by the sound itself. No one looked at Dan, and his father hastily went on with the reading.

  To Mrs. Oliphant her mother had left the income to be derived from “securities to the value of two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, these securities to be held in trust for her.” Mrs. Oliphant was to have the income from them during her life, but she could not sell them or give them away, though she was left at liberty to bequeath them to whom she pleased. And the rest of the estate, much the greater part of it, was left without condition — and also without defining him as “dearly and well-beloved” — to her grandson, Harlan, the residuary legatee.

  “Good Lord!” Harlan said loudly, and, without further explanation of his feelings, sat staring blankly at the wall opposite him.

  Wiping her eyes, Mrs. Oliphant looked at Dan; and her husband also turned in that direction.

  “Dan, old fellow,” he began, in a distressed voice, “you mustn’t think — —”

  But Lena interrupted him. She jumped up from her chair, and her cheeks and temples were alive with a colour that outdid all the extraneous tinting her grandmother-in-law had so hated. “This is aimed at me!” she cried. “I understand perfectly the real meaning of that precious document! Heaven knows why, but she must have disliked me before Dan ever brought me here! She showed spite at her first sight of me, and tried to hurt me, and did hurt me. And now she cuts us off with nothing and gives it all to Harlan just to show she thought that all I care about is money — yes, and to prove she can still injure me and insult me even after she’s dead!”

  But here the hot little voice was choked with anger and tears; — she ran to the door. “What are such people?” she sobbed, stopping there for a moment, and addressing to the upper air of the room this inquiry of passionate wonderment. “Oh, my heavens! What are these people I’ve got to spend my life among?”

  Then she ran through the hall and up the stairs, sobbing more and more uncontrollably, and audible below until the vigorous action of her splendidly constructed bedroom door produced a sonorous climax, followed by instantaneous silence. Dan had risen, apparently intending to follow her, but he paused as his father spoke to him.

  “I believe I wouldn’t, if I were you, Dan.”

  “Wouldn’t what, sir?”

  “I think I’d just let her alone to have it out with herself. I’ve noticed it seems to work better, she gets herself in hand sooner that way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dan said, and moved to depart.

  “Wait just a minute. I think your mother has something she wants to say to you.” Mrs. Oliphant, who was holding her handkerchief to her eyes, had made a slight gesture, which her husband thus interpreted, and Dan turned back quickly and stood before her.

  “What is it, mother?”

  She caught his hand and held it, speaking brokenly:

  “You — you mustn’t think —— Mother loved you — she did! She — she left it so that I could always — always take care of you, if you — if you needed it. She didn’t mean anything unkind to you.”

  Mr. Oliphant supplemented this. “I believe your mother’s entirely right, Dan. The division may seem unfair, but I’m strongly of the opinion there was no intention to be unkind or to — or to hurt you!”

  “‘Hurt me!’” Dan exclaimed loudly. His face was aglow and his eyes were shining. “Hurt me? Why, she didn’t leave you anything, sir, and you’re not hurt. And just look what she’s done for me! Why, even you and mother had begun to think I couldn’t hold on to Ornaby this time, but grandma’s left me not only enough to tide me over, but to go ahead with! I’m goin’ to set out the stakes for that automobile factory to-morrow!”

  He turned again toward the door as he spoke; and his father again mistook his intention. “Dan, I — I really wouldn’t go up to talk to Lena just now. If we all just let her alone when she’s in one of these — ah — that is, I’ve noticed if we keep away — —”

  “Yes, so have I,” Dan agreed heartily. “That’s not where I’m headed for, sir.”

  His mother had retained his hand in spite of his movement to go, and now she tried to draw him nearer her. “Stay with us, dear,” she pleaded. “You’re so plucky, you poor boy, but I know it has hurt you. I know you want to get outdoors and walk and walk and grieve to yourself, but if you’d stay with your father and me — —”

  “I can’t,” he said, and detached his hand from hers though she still sought to keep it. “I got to go, mother.”

  “But where?” she begged. “Where do you want to go at such a time as this, dear?”

  “Where?” he cried triumphantly. “Why, to see those executors and get that money! I’m goin’ to make George Rowe and old John P. Johns agree to advance it to me the first thing to-morrow morning. Grandma’s saved Ornaby for me, God bless her!”

  He waved an exultant hand over his head and departed at a long and rapid stride, leaving his father and mother to stare at one another with pathetic inquiry; but after a moment or two of this Mr. Oliphant laughed vaguely, sighed, shook his head, and said: “Why, he means it!”

  “You don’t think he’s just covering up what he feels? Pretending — —”

  “Pretending? No!” her husband returned. “All your mother’s will means to him is that he can go on with his Addition!”

  “But he can’t. Thirty-five hundred dollars won’t — —”

  “No, not long,” Mr. Oliphant admitted. “But it looks like a million to him to-day, because it pulls him around this particular corner. Of course in a little while there’ll be another corner that he can’t get pulled around, but he doesn’t see that one now. All he’s thinking about — —”

  “But he expects to begin a factory!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t a doubt he’ll try to.”

  “Neither have I; and that’ll bring the corner he can’t turn just so much nearer.”

  “It seems so pitiful,” the mother lamented. “I’ll help him all I can. There’s the income of what she’s given me — —”

  “It won’t go very far,” Oliphant informed her, ruefully amused. “Not with the kind of plans Dan’ll be making now that he’s got hold of thirty-five hundred dollars!”

  “Well, but then,” she said brightly, yet with a little timidity, “you see, there’s Harlan. Harlan could — —” She hesitated; and both of them turned, though not confidently, toward their younger son who still continued to sit motionless in his chair, in the bay window, staring at the opposite wall. He seemed unaware that they were looking at him, until his mother addressed him directly. “Harlan, you would, wouldn’t you?”

  He merged from his deep interior of thought like a man blinking in the sun after exploring a cavern. “What?”


  “I said, wouldn’t you — —”

  “Oh, yes,” he interrupted. “Yes, I heard what you said, though I was thinking of something else. I wonder if either of you understand just what grandma was up to.”

  “It seems to be plain enough,” his father said. “She’d always been a pretty sharp business woman; she was convinced that your grandfather’s success was mainly due to her advice, and I expect it was, myself — anyhow a good deal of it — so she thought Dan ought to’ve listened to her when she opposed his putting what your grandfather left him and all he could borrow besides into this real-estate venture. I’m afraid she felt rather bitter when he went ahead with it in spite of all she said against it. So it seems pretty clear that she thought if she left him anything substantial it would all be thrown away on a scheme she thinks is bound to fail — she couldn’t imagine the city’s ever growing out that far — and she didn’t want her money wasted. So she left it to you. I don’t see anything particularly enigmatic about it, Harlan.”

  “No,” Harlan agreed, though his dry smile was evidence that he withheld his true thought on the matter; “I suppose not. At least, there’s nothing enigmatic about it to me.” He was obviously not elated over his good fortune; and his mother saw fit to commend him for this.

  “I think — I think it’s so sweet of you, dear,” she said timidly;— “I mean especially while Dan was here — your not showing any pleasure in having so much come to you. I think it’s noble, Harlan.”

  “You do?” he asked, and he laughed briefly without any merriment. “Perhaps I’d better explain what I believe grandma really meant. She never liked me, and she always adored Dan. It’s curious, too, because Dan’s disposition is like grandfather’s, and she certainly never seemed to think much of grandfather! Well, she did hate Dan’s throwing his money away on a wild scheme that can’t possibly do anything in the end but leave him bankrupt; and she certainly understood him — she knew no matter how much he could lay his hands on, he’d pour it all in after the rest — and it’s true she didn’t want her money wasted that way, and knew I wouldn’t let it be wasted at all, if she left it to me; but that wasn’t what she really had in mind. Lord, no!”