CHAPTER II - SHADES OF ALADDIN
Montgomery Brewster no longer had
“prospects.” People could not now
point him out with the remark that some day he would
come into a million or two. He had “realized,”
as Oliver Harrison would have put it. Two days
after his grandfather’s funeral a final will
and testament was read, and, as was expected, the
old banker atoned for the hardships Robert Brewster
and his wife had endured by bequeathing one million
dollars to their son Montgomery. It was his without
a restriction, without an admonition, without an incumbrance.
There was not a suggestion as to how it should be
handled by the heir. The business training the
old man had given him was synonymous with conditions
not expressed in the will. The dead man believed
that he had drilled into the youth an unmistakable
conception of what was expected of him in life; if
he failed in these expectations the misfortune would
be his alone to bear; a road had been carved out for
him and behind him stretched a long line of guide-posts
whose laconic instructions might be ignored but never
forgotten. Edwin Peter Brewster evidently made
his will with the sensible conviction that it was
necessary for him to die before anybody else could
possess his money, and that, once dead, it would be
folly for him to worry over the way in which beneficiaries
might choose to manage their own affairs.
The house in Fifth Avenue went to
a sister, together with a million or two, and the
residue of the estate found kindly disposed relatives
who were willing to keep it from going to the Home
for Friendless Fortunes. Old Mr. Brewster left
his affairs in order. The will nominated Jerome
Buskirk as executor, and he was instructed, in conclusion,
to turn over to Montgomery Brewster, the day after
the will was probated, securities to the amount of
one million dollars, provided for in clause four of
the instrument. And so it was that on the 26th
of September young Mr. Brewster had an unconditional
fortune thrust upon him, weighted only with the suggestion
of crepe that clung to it.
Since his grandfather’s death
he had been staying at the gloomy old Brewster house
in Fifth Avenue, paying but two or three hurried visits
to the rooms at Mrs. Gray’s, where he had made
his home. The gloom of death still darkened the
Fifth Avenue place, and there was a stillness, a gentle
stealthiness about the house that made him long for
more cheerful companionship. He wondered dimly
if a fortune always carried the suggestion of tube-roses.
The richness and strangeness of it all hung about
him unpleasantly. He had had no extravagant affection
for the grim old dictator who was dead, yet his grandfather
was a man and had commanded his respect. It seemed
brutal to leave him out of the reckoning to
dance on the grave of the mentor who had treated him
well. The attitude of the friends who clapped
him on the back, of the newspapers which congratulated
him, of the crowd that expected him to rejoice, repelled
him. It seemed a tragic comedy, haunted by a severe
dead face. He was haunted, too, by memories, and
by a sharp regret for his own foolish thoughtlessness.
Even the fortune itself weighed upon him at moments
with a half-defined melancholy.
Yet the situation was not without
its compensations. For several days when Ellis
called him at seven, he would answer him and thank
fortune that he was not required at the bank that
morning. The luxury of another hour of sleep
seemed the greatest perquisite of wealth. His
morning mail amused him at first, for since the newspapers
had published his prosperity to the world he was deluged
with letters. Requests for public or private
charity were abundant, but most of his correspondents
were generous and thought only of his own good.
For three days he was in a hopeless state of bewilderment.
He was visited by reporters, photographers, and ingenious
strangers who benevolently offered to invest his money
in enterprises with certified futures. When he
was not engaged in declining a gold mine in Colorado,
worth five million dollars, marked down to four hundred
and fifty, he was avoiding a guileless inventor who
offered to sacrifice the secrets of a marvelous device
for three hundred dollars, or denying the report that
he had been tendered the presidency of the First National
Bank.
Oliver Harrison stirred him out early
one morning and, while the sleepy millionaire was
rubbing his eyes and still dodging the bombshell that
a dream anarchist had hurled from the pinnacle of
a bedpost, urged him in excited, confidential tones
to take time by the forelock and prepare for possible
breach of promise suits. Brewster sat on the edge
of the bed and listened to diabolical stories of how
conscienceless females had fleeced innocent and even
godly men of wealth. From the bathroom, between
splashes, he retained Harrison by the year, month,
day and hour, to stand between him and blackmail.
The directors of the bank met and
adopted resolutions lamenting the death of their late
president, passed the leadership on to the first vice-president
and speedily adjourned. The question of admitting
Monty to the directory was brought up and discussed,
but it was left for Time to settle.
One of the directors was Col.
Prentiss Drew, “the railroad magnate” of
the newspapers. He had shown a fondness for young
Mr. Brewster, and Monty had been a frequent visitor
at his house. Colonel Drew called him “my
dear boy,” and Monty called him “a bully
old chap,” though not in his presence.
But the existence of Miss Barbara Drew may have had
something to do with the feeling between the two men.
As he left the directors’ room,
on the afternoon of the meeting, Colonel Drew came
up to Monty, who had notified the officers of the
bank that he was leaving.
“Ah, my dear boy,” said
the Colonel, shaking the young man’s hand warmly,
“now you have a chance to show what you can do.
You have a fortune and, with judgment, you ought to
be able to triple it. If I can help you in any
way, come and see me.”
Monty thanked him.
“You’ll be bored to death
by the raft of people who have ways to spend your
money,” continued the Colonel. “Don’t
listen to any of them. Take your time. You’ll
have a new chance to make money every day of your
life, so go slowly. I’d have been rich years
and years ago if I’d had sense enough to run
away from promoters. They’ll all try to
get a whack at your money. Keep your eye open,
Monty. The rich young man is always a tempting
morsel.” After a moment’s reflection,
he added, “Won’t you come out and dine
with us to-morrow night?”