He was pleased at her happy fable: for a moment he almost believed in a miracle of redemption, although the story was an old one to him.
“I hope you do,” he said.
“It would be nice. . . . Go on to bed now, why don’t you, mama?
It’s getting late.”
He rose.
“I’m going now.”
“Yes, son,” she said, getting up.
“You ought to.
Well, good-night.”
They kissed with a love, for the time, washed clean of bitterness.
Eliza went before him into the dark house.
But before he went to bed, he descended to the kitchen for matches.
She was still there, beyond the long littered table, at her ironing board, flanked by two big piles of laundry.
At his accusing glance she said hastily:
“I’m a-going.
Right away.
I just wanted to finish up these towels.”
He rounded the table, before he left, to kiss her again.
She fished into a button-box on the sewing-machine and dug out the stub of a pencil.
Gripping it firmly above an old envelope, she scrawled out on the ironing board a rough mapping.
Her mind was still lulled in its project.
“Here, you see,” she began, “is Sunset Avenue, coming up the hill.
This is Doak Place, running off here at right angles.
Now this corner-lot here belongs to Dick Webster; and right here above it, at the very top is —”
Is, he thought, staring with dull interest, the place where the Buried Treasure lies.
Ten paces N.N.E. from the Big Rock, at the roots of the Old Oak Tree.
He went off into his delightful fantasy while she talked.
What if there WAS a buried treasure on one of Eliza’s lots?
If she kept on buying, there might very well be.
Or why not an oil-well?
Or a coal-mine?
These famous mountains were full (they said) of minerals.
150 Bbl. a day right in the backyard.
How much would that be?
At $3.00 a Bbl., there would be over $50.00 a day for every one in the family.
The world is ours!
“You see, don’t you?” she smiled triumphantly.
“And right there is where I shall build.
That lot will bring twice its present value in five years.”
“Yes,” he said, kissing her.
“Good-night, mama.
For God’s sake, go to bed and get some sleep.”
“Good-night, son,” said Eliza.
He went out and began to mount the dark stairs.
Benjamin Gant, entering at this moment, stumbled across a mission-chair in the hall.
He cursed fiercely, and struck at the chair with his hand.
Damn it! Oh damn it!
Mrs. Pert whispered a warning behind him, with a fuzzy laugh.
Eugene paused, then mounted softly the carpeted stair, so that he would not be heard, entering the sleeping-porch at the top of the landing on which he slept.
He did not turn on the light, because he disliked seeing the raw blistered varnish of the dresser and the bent white iron of the bed.