“You’re looking as jaunty as a man should with the choice of the land before him. Lucky! lucky! charming little wife, large fortune at your disposal.... Pompey left one of the solidest estates in this section. Opportune for you, very ... miraculous, if I may say so. But there, you ornament the money as well as any other. You are right too—a free hand; yours is the time for liberality, no cares—they come later. Ah, Gordon, have you examined the details of your late father-in-law’s property? Have you searched through all the items, made yourself familiar with all the—er, petty and laborious details?”
“No, not just yet, I have been intending—”
Simmons stopped him with an upraised palm. “No more, I understand your thought exactly. It’s a tiresome business. Yours is the time for liberality, no cares. However, I had a slight knowledge of Pompey Hollidew’s arrangements. He was accustomed to discussing them with me. He liked my judgment in certain little matters; and, in that way, I got a general idea of his enterprises. He was a great hand for timber, your father-in-law; against weighty advice at the time of his death he was buying timber options here and there in the valley. Though what he wanted with them ... beyond ordinary foresight.—No transportation, you see; no railroad nor way of getting lumber out. But then, he had some visionary scheme or other. He held some thousand acres, most of it bought at a nominal figure. No good to anybody now; but I have got the timber fever myself—something may turn up in the far future, perhaps in another generation.... What would you say to a flat eight dollars an acre for the options, the money banked right to your credit? A neat little sum for current pleasures. Ah—” in spite of himself, Valentine Simmons became grave at the contemplation of the amount involved. “I don’t say I would take all, but the best, certainly the greater part.”
“Why, I don’t know,” Gordon spoke slowly from an old-time suspicion of the other. “It’s my wife’s property.”
“But such a dutiful little wife—the husband’s word. Remember, the money in your hand.”
“It certainly sounds all right. Lettice would have the cash to show. I’ll speak to her.”
“Better not delay. There are other options; owners are glad to sell. I have given you the privilege first—old friend, old Presbyterian friend. The time is necessarily limited.”
As he mentally revolved the proposal Gordon could find no palpable objection: the options, the timber, was obviously standing fallow, with no means of transportation to a market, in exchange for ready money. Lettice would easily see the sense in the deal; besides, he had brought in her name only for form’s sake—he, Gordon Makimmon, held the deciding vote in the affairs of his home.
“I don’t rightly see anything against it,” he admitted finally.
“Good!” Simmons declared with satisfaction; “an able man, you can see as far as the next through a transaction. I’ll have the county clerk go over the options, bring you the result in a couple of weeks. Don’t disturb yourself; yours is the time for pleasures, not papers.”