Brewsters Millions | Page 3

Ellis," cried Harrison, rushing to
the footman's side. Ellis, stolidly facing the young man, lifted his hand.
"No, thank you, sir," he said, respectfully. "Mr. Montgomery, if you'll
excuse me for breaking in, I'd like to give you three messages I've
brought here to-night."
"You're a faithful old chap," said Subway Smith, thickly. "Hanged if I'd
do A.D.T. work till three A.M. for anybody."
"I came at ten, Mr. Montgomery, with a message from Mr. Brewster,
wishing you many happy returns of the day, and with a check from him
for one thousand dollars. Here's the check, sir. I'll give my messages in
the order I received them, sir, if you please. At twelve-thirty o'clock, I
came with a message from Dr. Gower, sir, who had been called in--"
"Called in?" gasped Montgomery, turning white.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Brewster had a sudden heart attack at half-past eleven, sir.
The doctor sent word by me, sir, that he was at the point of death. My
last message--"
"Good Lord!"
"This time I bring a message from Rawles, the butler, asking you to
come to Mr. Brewster's house at once--if you can, sir--I mean, if you
will, sir," Ellis interjected apologetically. Then, with his gaze directed
steadily over the heads of the subdued "Sons," he added, impressively:

"Mr. Brewster is dead, sir."
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