THE PERVERSE BEHAVIOUR OF AN OLD MAN AND A YOUNG MAN

When old Allan Delcher slept with his fathers ­being so found in the big chair, with the worn, leather-bound Bible open in his lap ­the revived but still tender faith of Aunt Bell Hardwick was bitten as by frost.  And this though the Bible had lain open at that psalm in which David is said to describe the corruption of a natural man ­a psalm beginning, “The fool hath said in his heart, ‘There is no God.’”

For it straightway appeared that the dead man had in life done a perverse and inexplicable thing, to the bitter amazement of those who had learned to trust him.  On the day after he sent a blasphemous grandson from his door he had called for Squire Cumpston, announcing to the family his intention to make an entirely new will ­a thing for which there seemed to be a certain sad necessity.

When he could no longer be reproached it transpired that he had left “to Allan Delcher Linford, son of one Clayton Linford,” a beggarly pittance of five thousand dollars; and “to my beloved grandson, Bernal Linford, I give, devise and bequeath the residue of my estate, both real and personal.”

Though the husband of her niece wore publicly a look of faith unimpaired, and was thereby an example to her, Aunt Bell declared herself to be once more on the verge of believing that the proofs of an overseeing Providence, all-wise and all-loving, were by no means overwhelming; that they were, indeed, of so frail a validity that she could not wonder at people falling away from the Church.  It was a trying time for Aunt Bell.  She felt that her return to the shadow of the cross was not being made enough of by the One above.  After years of running after strange gods, the Episcopal service as administered by Allan had prevailed over her seasoned skepticism:  through its fascinating leaven of romance ­with faint and, as it seemed to her, wholly reverent hints of physical culture ­the spirit may be said to have blandished her.  And now this turpitude in a man of God came to disturb the first tender rootlings of her new faith.

The husband of her niece had loyally endeavoured to dissuade her from this too human reaction.

“God has chosen to try me for a purpose, Aunt Bell,” he said very simply.  “I ought to be proud of it ­eager for any test ­and I am.  True, in these last years I had looked upon grandfather’s fortune as mine ­not only by implied promise, but by all standards of right ­even of integrity.  For surely a man could not more nearly forfeit his own rights, in every moral aspect, than poor Bernal has ­though I meant always to stand by him.  So you see, I must conclude that God means to distinguish me by a test.  He may even subject me to others; but I shall not wince.  I shall welcome His trials.  He turned upon her the face of simple faith.”

“Did you speak to that lawyer about the possibility of a contest ­of proving unsound mind?”

“I did, but he saw no chance whatever.”

Aunt Bell hereupon surveyed her beautifully dimpled knuckles minutely, with an affectionate pride ­a pride not uncritical, yet wholly convinced.

“Of course,” added Allan after a moment’s reflection, “there’s no sense in believing that every bit of one’s hard luck is sent by God to test one.  One must in all reverence take every precaution to prove that the disaster is not humanly remediable.  And this, I may say, I have done with thoroughness ­with great thoroughness.”

“Bernal may be dead,” suggested Aunt Bell, brightening now from an impartial admiring of the toes of her small, plump slippers.

“God forbid that he should be cut off in his unbelief ­but then, God’s will be done.  If that be true, of course, the matter is different.  Meantime we are advertising.”

“I wish I had your superb faith, Allan.  I wish Nancy had it....”

Her niece’s husband turned his head and shoulders until she had the three-quarters view of his face.

“I have faith, Aunt Bell.  God knows my unworthiness, even as you know it and I know it ­but I have faith!”

The golden specks in his hazel eyes blazed with humility, and a flush of the same virtue mantled his perfect brow.

Such news of Bernal Linford as had come back to Edom, though meagre and fragmentary, was of a character to confirm the worst fears of those who loved him.  The first report came within a year after his going, and caused a shaking of many heads.

An estimable farmer, one Caleb Webster, living on the outskirts of Edom, had, in a blameless spirit of adventure, toured the Far West, at excursion rates said to be astounding for cheapness.  He had met the unfortunate young man in one of the newer mining towns along his exciting route.

“He was kind of nursin’ a feller that had the consumption,” ran the gossip of Mr. Webster, “some one he’d fell in with out in them parts, that had gone there to git cured.  But, High Mighty! the way them two carried on at all hours wasn’t goin’ to cure no one of nothin’!  Specially gamblin’, which was done right in public, you might say, though the sharpers never skinned me none, I’ll say that!  But these two was at it every night, and finally they done just like I told the young fools they’d do ­they lost all they had.  They come into the Commercial House one night where I was settin’ lookin’ over a time-table, both seemin’ down in the mouth.  And all to once this sick young man ­Mr. Hoover, his name was ­bust out cryin’ ­him bein’ weak or mebbe in liquor or somethin’.

“‘Every cent lost!’ he says, the tears runnin’ down those yellow, sunk cheeks of his.  But Bernal seems to git chipper again when he sees how Mr. Hoover is takin’ it, so he says, ’Haven’t you got a cent left, Hoover?  Haven’t you got anythin’ at all left?  Just think,’ he says, ’what I stood to win on that last turn, if it’d come my way ­at four to one,’ he says, or somethin’ like that; them gamblin’ terms is too much for me.  ‘Hain’t you got nothin’ at all left?’ he says.

“Then this Hoover ­still cryin’, mind you ­he says, ’Not a cent in the world except forty dollars in my trunk upstairs that I saved out to bury me with ­and they won’t send me another cent,’ he says, ’because I tried ‘em.’

“It sounded awful to hear him talkin’ like that about his own buryin’, but it didn’t phase Bernal none.

“‘Forty dollars!’ he says, kind of sniffy like.  ’Why, man, what could you do for forty dollars?  Don’t you know such things are very outrageous in price here?  Forty dollars ­why,’ he says, ’the very best you could do would be one of these plain pine things with black cloth tacked on to it, and pewter trimmin’s if any,’ he says.  ’Think of pewter trimmin’s!’

“‘Say,’ he says, when Hoover begun to look up at him, ’you run and dig up your old forty and I’ll go back right now and win you out a full satin-lined, silver-trimmed one, polished mahogany and gold name-plate, and there’ll be enough for a clock of immortelles with the hands stopped at just the hour it happens,’ he says.  ‘And you want to hurry,’ he says, ‘it ought to be done right away ­with that cough of yours.’

“Me?  Gosh, I felt awful ­I wanted to drop right through the floor, but this Hoover, he says all at once, still snufflin’, mind you:  ’Say, that’s all right,’ he says.  ‘If I’m goin’ to do it at all, I ought to do it right for the credit of my folks.  I ought to give this town a flash of the right thing,’ he says.

“Then he goes upstairs, leaning on the balusters, and gets his four ten-dollar bills that had been folded away all neat at the bottom of his trunk, and before I could think of anythin’ wholesome to say ­I was that scandalised ­they was goin’ off across the street to the Horseshoe Gamin’ Parlour, this feller Hoover seemin’ very sanguine and asking Bernal whether he was sure they was a party in town could do it up right after they’d went and won the money for it.

“Well, sir, I jest set there thinkin’ how this boy Bernal Linford was brought up for a preacher, and ‘Jest look at him now!’ I says to myself ­and I guess it was mebbe an hour later I seen ’em comin’ out of the swingin’ blinds in the door of this place, and a laffin’ fit to kill themselves.  ‘High Mighty! they done it!’ I says, watchin’ ’em laff and slap each other on the back till Hoover had to stop in the middle of the street to cough.  Well, they come into the Commercial office where I am and I says, ‘Well, boys, how much did you fellers win?’ and Hoover says, ‘Not a cent!  We lost our roll,’ he says.  ’It’s the blamedest funniest thing I ever heard of,’ he says, just like that, laffin’ again fit to choke.

“‘I don’t see anythin’ to laff at,’ I says.  ‘How you goin’ to live?’

“‘How’s he goin’ to die?’ says Bernal, ‘without a cent to do it on?’

“‘That’s the funny part of it,’ says Hoover.  ’Linford thought of it first.  How can I die now?  It wouldn’t be square,’ he says ­’me without a cent!’

“Then they both began to laugh ­but me, I couldn’t see nothin’ funny about it.

“Wal, I left early next mornin’, not wantin’ to have to refuse ’em a loan.”