100, 000, the great bulk of which was solidly founded in juicy well chosen pieces of property of Eliza’s selection, yielding them a monthly rental of more than $200, which, added to their own earning capacities at the shop and Dixieland, gave them a combined yearly income of $8, 000 or $10, 000. Although Gant often cried out bitterly against his business and declared, when he was not attacking property, that he had never made even a bare living from his tombstones, he was rarely short of ready money: he usually had one or two small commissions from country people, and he always carried a well-filled purse, containing $150 or $200 in five— and ten-dollar bills, which he allowed Eugene to count out frequently, enjoying his son’s delight, and the feel of abundance.
Eliza had suffered one or two losses in her investments, led astray by a strain of wild romanticism which destroyed for the moment her shrewd caution. She invested $1, 200 in the Missouri Utopia of a colonizer, and received nothing for her money but a weakly copy of the man’s newspaper, several beautiful prospectuses of the look of things when finished, and a piece of clay sculpture, eight inches in height, showing Big Brother with his little sisters Jenny and Kate, the last with thumb in her mouth.
“By God,” said Gant, who made savage fun of the proceeding, “she ought to have it on her nose.”
And Ben sneered, jerking his head toward it, saying:
“There’s her $1, 200.”
But Eliza was preparing to go on by herself. She saw that co— operation with Gant in the purchase of land was becoming more difficult each year. And with something like pain, something assuredly like hunger, she saw various rich plums fall into other hands or go unbought. She realized that in a very short time land values would soar beyond her present means. And she proposed to be on hand when the pie was cut.
Across the street from Dixieland was the Brunswick, a well-built red brick house of twenty rooms. The marble facings had been done by Gant himself twenty years before, the hardwood floors and oak timbering by Will Pentland. It was an ugly gabled Victorian house, the marriage gift of a rich Northerner to his daughter, who died of tuberculosis.
