Oh, Money! Money! a Novel
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 10: WHAT DOES IT MATTER?
The days immediately following the receipt of three remarkable letters by the Blaisdell family were nerve-racking for all concerned. Held by Mrs. Jane’s insistence that they weren’t sure yet that the thing was true, the family steadfastly refused to give out any definite information. Even the eager Harriet yielded to Jane on this point, acknowledging that it would be mortifying, of course, if they should talk, and nothing came of it.
Their enigmatic answers to questions, and their expressive shrugs and smiles, however, were almost as exciting as the rumors themselves; and the Blaisdells became at once a veritable storm center of surmises and gossip—a state of affairs not at all unpleasing to some of them, Mrs. Harriet in particular.
Miss Maggie Duff, however, was not so well pleased. To Mr. Smith, one day, she freed her mind—and Miss Maggie so seldom freed her mind that Mr. Smith was not a little surprised.
“I wish,” she began, “I do wish that if that Chicago lawyer is coming, he’d come, and get done with it! Certainly the present state of affairs is almost unbearable.”
“It does make it all the harder for you, to have it drag along like this, doesn’t it?” murmured Mr. Smith uneasily.
“For—ME?”
“That you are not included in the bequest, I mean.”
She gave an impatient gesture.
“I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t thinking of myself. Besides, as I’ve told you before, there is no earthly reason why I should have been included. It’s the delay, I mean, for the Blaisdells—for the whole town, for that matter. This eternal ‘Did you know?’ and ‘They say’ is getting on my nerves!”
“Why, Miss Maggie, I didn’t suppose you had any nerves,” bantered the man.
She threw him an expressive glance.
“Haven’t I!” she retorted. Then again she gave the impatient gesture. “But even the gossip and the questioning aren’t the worst. It’s the family themselves. Between Hattie’s pulling one way and Jane the other, I feel like a bone between two quarrelsome puppies. Hattie is already house-hunting, on the sly, and she’s bought Bessie an expensive watch and a string of gold beads. Jane, on the other hand, insists that Mr. Fulton will come back and claim the money, so she’s running her house now on the principle that she’s lost a hundred thousand dollars, and so must economize in every possible way. You can imagine it!”
“I don’t have to—imagine it,” murmured the man.
Miss Maggie laughed.
“I forgot. Of course you don’t. You do live there, don’t you? But that isn’t all. Flora, poor soul, went into a restaurant the other day and ordered roast turkey, and now she’s worrying for fear the money won’t come and justify her extravagance. Mellicent, with implicit faith that the hundred thousand is coming wants to wear her best frocks every day. And, as if she were not already quite excited enough, young Pennock has very obviously begun to sit up and take notice.”
“You don’t mean he is trying to come back—so soon!” disbelieved Mr. Smith.
“Well, he’s evidently caught the glitter of the gold from afar,” smiled Miss Maggie. “At all events, he’s taking notice.”
“And—Miss Mellicent?” There was a note of anxiety in Mr. Smith’s voice.
“Doesn’t see him, apparently. But she comes and tells me his every last move (and he’s making quite a number of them just now!), so I think she does see—a little.”
“The young rascal! But she doesn’t—care?”
“I think not—really. She’s just excited now, as any young girl would be; and I’m afraid she’s taking a little wicked pleasure in—not seeing him.”
“Humph! I can imagine it,” chuckled Mr. Smith.
“But it’s all bad—this delay,” chafed Miss Maggie again. “Don’t you see? It’s neither one thing nor another. That’s why I do wish that lawyer would come, if he’s coming.”
“I reckon he’ll be here before long,” murmured Mr. Smith, with an elaborately casual air. “But—I wish you were coming in on the deal.” His kindly eyes were gazing straight into her face now.
She shook her head.
“I’m a Duff, not a Blaisdell—except when they want—” She bit her lip. A confused red suffused her face. “I mean, I’m not a Blaisdell at all,” she finished hastily.
“Humph! That’s exactly it!” Mr. Smith was sitting energetically erect. “You’re not a Blaisdell—except when they want something of you!”
“Oh please, I didn’t mean to say—I didn’t say—that,” cried Miss Maggie, in very genuine distress.
“No, I know you didn’t, but I did,” flared the man. “Miss Maggie, it’s a downright shame—the way they impose on you sometimes.”
“Nonsense! I like to have them—I mean, I like to do what I can for them,” she corrected hastily, laughing in spite of herself.
“You like to get all tired out, I suppose.”
“I get rested—afterward.”
“And it doesn’t matter, anyway, of course,” he gibed.
“Not a bit,” she smiled.
“Yes, I suspected that.” Mr. Smith was still sitting erect, still speaking with grim terseness. “But let me tell you right here and now that I don’t approve of that doctrine of yours.”
“‘Doctrine’?”
“That ‘It-doesn’t-matter’ doctrine of yours. I tell you it’s very pernicious—very! I don’t approve of it at all.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“No?” Miss Maggie said then, demurely. “Oh, well—it doesn’t matter—if you don’t.”
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