The Little Grey House

by Marion Ames Taggart

Rob made a brave struggle to control her voice, helped by the low, even tones, and the little pats on her black sleeve which this good man was giving her—as if, she thought, she were a little child in need of comfort.

"My father had been working hard on a patent for years, Mr. Baldwin," said Rob. "He had angina pectoris, and the doctor warned him of the danger if he did not rest, but he could not rest, because we are poor, and he wanted to make us comfortable. He worked harder than ever, in fact, and now the machine is done. But the very day after a man came from here to see it, and told him it was a success, my dear father——"

Rob stopped short, and Mr. Baldwin patted her hand without speaking for a few moments.

"He had a sweet and beautiful nature, dear, and lived a life that was ideal, in many ways, and that end is mercifully quick. He must have been most happy to know that he had succeeded in providing for you," Mr. Baldwin said at last.

"The last words he said to Mardy and me were full of that thought, Mr. Baldwin. We left him to sleep, and when we came back he had gone," said Rob, trying to smile in the kind face smiling at her, though there were tears in the eyes of Sylvester Grey's old chum. "This was eleven days ago. I don't want to bother you, Mr. Baldwin, but it was to ask advice that I came. The invention Patergrey made was a bricquette machine. Nobody else understood it—not even Mardy—but I did, because I helped him on it for a long time—read his papers and worked the model, and handed him things, and all that, you know. Patergrey called me his 'son Rob'; we were especially much to each other. What I want is to ask you how much that invention is really worth? This Mr. Marston, the man who, as I told you, came to see it, asked Patergrey to let his firm have the option—don't you call it?—on the invention, and after he was gone Patergrey gave me your name and address, and said he intended writing you to ask you what its value was—I was to remind him to do it. But the next day he died, so suddenly, and we were left to dispose of the machine. We had a letter from Mr. Marston three days ago, offering us four thousand dollars for the invention, and telling us we must take it at once if we wanted it, or it would be withdrawn. All the rest want to accept it, but I begged hard to be allowed to come to see you, and for Mardy to write this man, telling him we must have a little time to think about it. For you see, Mr. Baldwin, Patergrey said he would not accept less than fifty thousand dollars, and I can't forget that. Besides, I think there must be something wrong about a man who offers so little, and wants us to take it that minute."

"What do you know about business, child?" asked Mr. Baldwin. "I wish witnesses on the stand stated matters so clearly."

"I only know what I tell you, Mr. Baldwin," said Rob, feeling cheered. "I suppose Mardy wouldn't have listened to me at all, but that I had been Patergrey's right-hand man all this time, and she felt as though he had given me a right in the case; as it was, I had an awful time getting her to let me come here and make Mr. Marston wait, and you can see that I must be frightened to take such responsibility, because if we did lose this offer, and got no other, it would be awful, and I should be to blame—no one else."

"I think you needn't be alarmed, Roberta—you said Roberta, didn't you? You are quite right in your reasoning; a genuine offer for a valuable thing would probably be open for a few days, and its owners should be allowed to investigate. Do you think he knows your father has gone, this Marston of yours?" asked Mr. Baldwin.

"Oh, yes; he spoke of it when he wrote," said Rob.

"Then you are more than ever right. Let me tell you, my child, that I admire your courage and strength of purpose very greatly. I'll send my clerk with a note to a friend of mine—a patent lawyer—and ask on general principles what such an invention might be worth, if it were worth anything—we see this is worth at least the sum offered. You lay off your hat while I write, and then you will sit here and talk to me while we wait the answer; I want to hear all about you, and my messenger won't be long." Mr. Baldwin drew up to the desk and wrote a note, rang a bell, and dispatched it, and then helped Rob divest herself of her coat and hat, and put her comfortably in the window while he won from her the story of the simple life lived in the little grey house, and learned to know the wife and children of his dead friend, whose family he had never met. Rob talked freely, drawn out of herself by the kindly charm which went far toward making Mr. Baldwin the successful lawyer that he was. He read between the lines, understanding much that Rob did not realize she was betraying, and he saw how fine had been the courage that had sustained his friend's wife while Sylvester had been accounted a failure, and how great had been the love for one another that had made life so sweet in the little grey house, while it lacked so much that less wise people consider more essential.