Old Adam died on a midnight of late November with
a pious compliment to his God on his thin lips.
He, who had been flattered so much, faded out flattering
the Omnipotent Abstraction which he fancied he might
have angered in the more lascivious moments of his
youth. It was announced that he had arranged
some sort of an armistice with the deity, the terms
of which were not made public, though they were thought
to have included a large cash payment. All the
newspapers printed his biography, and two of them
ran short editorials on his sterling worth, and his
part in the drama of industrialism, with which he
had grown up. They referred guardedly to the
reforms he had sponsored and financed. The memories
of Comstock and Cato the Censor were resuscitated
and paraded like gaunt ghosts through the columns.
Every newspaper remarked that he was survived by a
single grandson, Anthony Comstock Patch, of New York.
The burial took place in the family plot at Tarrytown.
Anthony and Gloria rode in the first carriage, too
worried to feel grotesque, both trying desperately
to glean presage of fortune from the faces of retainers
who had been with him at the end.
They waited a frantic week for decency, and then,
having received no notification of any kind, Anthony
called up his grandfather’s lawyer. Mr.
Brett was not he was expected back in an hour.
Anthony left his telephone number.
It was the last day of November, cool and crackling
outside, with a lustreless sun peering bleakly in
at the windows. While they waited for the call,
ostensibly engaged in reading, the atmosphere, within
and without, seemed pervaded with a deliberate rendition
of the pathetic fallacy. After an interminable
while, the bell jingled, and Anthony, starting violently,
took up the receiver.
“Hello ...” His voice was strained
and hollow. “Yes—I did leave
word. Who is this, please? ... Yes....
Why, it was about the estate. Naturally I’m
interested, and I’ve received no word about the
reading of the will—I thought you might
not have my address.... What? ... Yes ...”
Gloria fell on her knees. The intervals between
Anthony’s speeches were like tourniquets winding
on her heart. She found herself helplessly twisting
the large buttons from a velvet cushion. Then:
“That’s—that’s very,
very odd—that’s very odd—that’s
very odd. Not even any—ah—mention
or any—ah—reason?”
His voice sounded faint and far away. She uttered
a little sound, half gasp, half cry.
“Yes, I’ll see.... All right, thanks
... thanks....”
The phone clicked. Her eyes looking along the
floor saw his feet cut the pattern of a patch of sunlight
on the carpet. She arose and faced him with a
gray, level glance just as his arms folded about her.
“My dearest,” he whispered huskily.
“He did it, God damn him!”
