The $30,000 Bequest by Mark Twain (top 5 ebook reader TXT) 📖

The little newspaper which Aleck had subscribed for was a Thursday sheet;

it would make the trip of five hundred miles from Tilbury’s village

and arrive on Saturday. Tilbury’s letter had started on Friday,

more than a day too late for the benefactor to die and get into

that week’s issue, but in plenty of time to make connection for the

next output. Thus the Fosters had to wait almost a complete week to

find out whether anything of a satisfactory nature had happened to him

or not. It was a long, long week, and the strain was a heavy one.

The pair could hardly have borne it if their minds had not had the

relief of wholesome diversion. We have seen that they had that.

The woman was piling up fortunes right along, the man was spending them—

spending all his wife would give him a chance at, at any rate.

At last the Saturday came, and the WEEKLY SAGAMORE arrived.

Mrs. Eversly Bennett was present. She was the Presbyterian

parson’s wife, and was working the Fosters for a charity.

Talk now died a sudden death—on the Foster side. Mrs. Bennett

presently discovered that her hosts were not hearing a word she

was saying; so she got up, wondering and indignant, and went away.

The moment she was out of the house, Aleck eagerly tore the wrapper

from the paper, and her eyes and Sally’s swept the columns for the

death-notices. Disappointment! Tilbury was not anywhere mentioned.

Aleck was a Christian from the cradle, and duty and the force of

habit required her to go through the motions. She pulled herself

together and said, with a pious two-per-cent. trade joyousness:

“Let us be humbly thankful that he has been spared; and—”

“Damn his treacherous hide, I wish—”

“Sally! For shame!”

“I don’t care!” retorted the angry man. “It’s the way YOU feel,

and if you weren’t so immorally pious you’d be honest and say so.”

Aleck said, with wounded dignity:

“I do not see how you can say such unkind and unjust things.

There is no such thing as immoral piety.”

Sally felt a pang, but tried to conceal it under a shuffling attempt

to save his case by changing the form of it—as if changing the form

while retaining the juice could deceive the expert he was trying

to placate. He said:

“I didn’t mean so bad as that, Aleck; I didn’t really mean

immoral piety, I only meant—meant—well, conventional piety,

you know; er—shop piety; the—the—why, YOU know what I mean.

Aleck—the—well, where you put up that plated article and play

it for solid, you know, without intending anything improper,

but just out of trade habit, ancient policy, petrified custom,

loyalty to—to—hang it, I can’t find the right words, but YOU

know what I mean, Aleck, and that there isn’t any harm in it.

I’ll try again. You see, it’s this way. If a person—”

“You have said quite enough,” said Aleck, coldly; “let the subject

be dropped.”

“I’M willing,” fervently responded Sally, wiping the sweat from

his forehead and looking the thankfulness he had no words for.

Then, musingly, he apologized to himself. “I certainly held threes—

I KNOW it—but I drew and didn’t fill. That’s where I’m so often

weak in the game. If I had stood pat—but I didn’t. I never do.

I don’t know enough.”

Confessedly defeated, he was properly tame now and subdued.

Aleck forgave him with her eyes.

The grand interest, the supreme interest, came instantly to the

front again; nothing could keep it in the background many minutes

on a stretch. The couple took up the puzzle of the absence

of Tilbury’s death-notice. They discussed it every which way,

more or less hopefully, but they had to finish where they began,

and concede that the only really sane explanation of the absence

of the notice must be—and without doubt was—that Tilbury was

not dead. There was something sad about it, something even a

little unfair, maybe, but there it was, and had to be put up with.

They were agreed as to that. To Sally it seemed a strangely

inscrutable dispensation; more inscrutable than usual, he thought;

one of the most unnecessary inscrutable he could call to mind,

in fact—and said so, with some feeling; but if he was hoping

to draw Aleck he failed; she reserved her opinion, if she had one;

she had not the habit of taking injudicious risks in any market,

worldly or other.

The pair must wait for next week’s paper—Tilbury had

evidently postponed. That was their thought and their decision.

So they put the subject away and went about their affairs

again with as good heart as they could.

Now, if they had but known it, they had been wronging Tilbury

all the time. Tilbury had kept faith, kept it to the letter;

he was dead, he had died to schedule. He was dead more than four

days now and used to it; entirely dead, perfectly dead, as dead

as any other new person in the cemetery; dead in abundant time to get

into that week’s SAGAMORE, too, and only shut out by an accident;

an accident which could not happen to a metropolitan journal,

but which happens easily to a poor little village rag like the SAGAMORE.

On this occasion, just as the editorial page was being locked up,

a gratis quart of strawberry ice-water arrived from Hostetter’s

Ladies and Gents Ice-Cream Parlors, and the stickful of rather

chilly regret over Tilbury’s translation got crowded out to make

room for the editor’s frantic gratitude.

On its way to the standing-galley Tilbury’s notice got pied.

Otherwise it would have gone into some future edition, for WEEKLY

SAGAMORES do not waste “live” matter, and in their galleys “live”

matter is immortal, unless a pi accident intervenes. But a thing

that gets pied is dead, and for such there is no resurrection;

its chance of seeing print is gone, forever and ever. And so,

let Tilbury like it or not, let him rave in his grave to his fill,

no matter—no mention of his death would ever see the light in the

WEEKLY SAGAMORE.