“The truth is, Mr. Grant, I’d completely forgotten the existence of an uncle,” he responded.
“It is not surprising,” said Mr. Grant, genially. “Every one who knew him in New York nineteen or twenty years ago believed him to be dead. He left the city when you were a very small lad, going to Australia, I think. He was off to seek his fortune, and he needed it pretty badly when he started out. This letter from Mr. Jones comes like a message from the dead. Were it not that we have known Mr. Jones for a long time, handling affairs of considerable importance for him, I should feel inclined to doubt the whole story. It seems that your uncle turned up in Montana about fifteen years ago and there formed a stanch friendship with old Swearengen Jones, one of the richest men in the far West. Sedgwick’s will was signed on the day of his death, September 24th, and it was quite natural that Mr. Jones should be named as his executor. That is how we became interested in the matter, Mr. Brewster.”
“I see,” said Montgomery, somewhat puzzled. “But why do you say that I am both fortunate and unfortunate?”
“The situation is so remarkable that you’ll consider that a mild way of putting it when you’ve heard everything. I think you were told, in our note of yesterday, that you are the sole heir. Well, it may surprise you to learn that James Sedgwick died possessed of an estate valued at almost seven million dollars.”
Montgomery Brewster sat like one petrified, staring blankly at the old lawyer, who could say startling things in a level voice.
“He owned gold mines and ranches in the Northwest and there is no question as to their value. Mr. Jones, in his letter to us, briefly outlines the history of James Sedgwick from the time he landed in Montana. He reached there in 1885 from Australia, and he was worth thirty or forty thousand dollars at the time. Within five years he was the owner of a huge ranch, and scarcely had another five years passed before he was part owner of three rich gold mines. Possessions accumulated rapidly; everything he touched turned to gold. He was shrewd, careful, and thrifty, and his money was handled with all the skill of a Wall Street financier. At the time of his death, in Portland, he did not owe a dollar in the world. His property is absolutely unencumbered—safe and sound as a government bond. It’s rather overwhelming, isn’t it?” the lawyer concluded, taking note of Brewster’s expression.
“And he—he left everything to me?”
“With a proviso.”
“Ah!”
“I have a copy of the will. Mr. Ripley and I are the only persons in New York who at present know its contents. You, I am sure, after hearing it, will not divulge them without the most careful deliberation.”
Mr. Grant drew the document from a pigeon-hole in his desk, adjusted his glasses and prepared to read. Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, he laid the paper down and turned once more to Brewster.
“It seems that Sedgwick never married. Your mother was his sister and his only known relative of close connection. He was a man of most peculiar temperament, but in full possession of all mental faculties. You may find this will to be a strange document, but I think Mr. Jones, the executor, explains any mystery that may be suggested by its terms. While Sedgwick’s whereabouts were unknown to his old friends in New York, it seems that he was fully posted on all that was going on here. He knew that you were the only child of your mother and therefore his only nephew. He sets forth the dates of your mother’s marriage, of your birth, of the death of Robert Brewster and of Mrs. Brewster. He also was aware of the fact that old Edwin Peter Brewster intended to bequeath a large fortune to you—and thereby hangs a tale. Sedgwick was proud. When he lived in New York, he was regarded as the kind of man who never forgave the person who touched roughly upon his pride. You know, of course, that your father married Miss Sedgwick in the face of the most bitter opposition on the part of Edwin Brewster. The latter refused to recognize her as his daughter, practically disowned his son, and heaped the harshest kind of calumny upon the Sedgwicks. It was commonly believed about town that Jim Sedgwick left the country three or four years after this marriage for the sole reason that he and Edwin Brewster could not live in the same place. So deep was his hatred of the old man that he fled to escape killing him. It was known that upon one occasion he visited the office of his sister’s enemy for the purpose of slaying him, but something prevented. He carried that hatred to the grave, as you will see.”
Montgomery Brewster was trying to gather himself together from within the fog which made himself and the world unreal.
“I believe I’d like to have you read this extraor—the will, Mr. Grant,” he said, with an effort to hold his nerves in leash.
Mr. Grant cleared his throat and began in his still voice. Once he looked up to find his listener eager, and again to find him grown indifferent. He wondered dimly if this were a pose.
In brief, the last will of James T. Sedgwick bequeathed everything, real and personal, of which he died possessed, to his only nephew, Montgomery Brewster of New York, son of Robert and Louise Sedgwick Brewster. Supplementing this all-important clause there was a set of conditions governing the final disposition of the estate. The most extraordinary of these conditions was the one which required the heir to be absolutely penniless upon the twenty-sixth anniversary of his birth, September 23d.
The instrument went into detail in respect to this supreme condition. It set forth that Montgomery Brewster was to have no other worldly possession than the clothes which covered him on the September day named. He was to begin that day without a penny to his name, without a single article of jewelry, furniture or finance that he could call his own or could thereafter reclaim. At nine o’clock, New York time, on the morning of September 23d, the executor, under the provisions of the will, was to make over and transfer to Montgomery Brewster all of the moneys, lands, bonds, and interests mentioned in the inventory which accompanied the will. In the event that Montgomery Brewster had not, in every particular, complied with the requirements of the will, to the full satisfaction of the said executor, Swearengen Jones, the estate was to be distributed among certain institutions of charity designated in the instrument. Underlying this imperative injunction of James Sedgwick was plainly discernible the motive that prompted it. In almost so many words he declared that his heir should not receive the fortune if he possessed a single penny that had come to him, in any shape or form, from the man he hated, Edwin Peter Brewster. While Sedgwick could not have known at the time of his death that the banker had bequeathed one million dollars to his grandson, it was more than apparent that he expected the young man to be enriched liberally by his enemy. It was to preclude any possible chance of the mingling of his fortune with the smallest portion of Edwin P. Brewster’s that James Sedgwick, on his deathbed, put his hand to this astonishing instrument.
There was also a clause in which he undertook to dictate the conduct of Montgomery Brewster during the year leading up to his twenty-sixth anniversary. He required that the young man should give satisfactory evidence to the executor that he was capable of managing his affairs shrewdly and wisely,—that he possessed the ability to add to the fortune through his own enterprise; that he should come to his twenty-sixth anniversary with a fair name and a record free from anything worse than mild forms of dissipation; that his habits be temperate; that he possess nothing at the end of the year which might be regarded as a “visible or invisible asset”; that he make no endowments; that he give sparingly to charity; that he neither loan nor give away money, for fear that it might be restored to him later; that he live on the principle which inspires a man to “get his money’s worth,” be the expenditure great or small. As these conditions were prescribed for but a single year in the life of the heir, it was evident that Mr. Sedgwick did not intend to impose any restrictions after the property had gone into his hands.
“How do you like it?” asked Mr. Grant, as he passed the will to Brewster.
The latter took the paper and glanced over it with the air of one who had heard but had not fully grasped its meaning.
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“It must be a joke, Mr. Grant,” he said, still groping with difficulty through the fog.
“No, Mr. Brewster, it is absolutely genuine. Here is a telegram from the Probate Court in Sedgwick’s home county, received in response to a query from us. It says that the will is to be filed for probate and that Mr. Sedgwick was many times a millionaire. This statement, which he calls an inventory, enumerates his holdings and their value, and the footing shows $6,345,000 in round numbers. The investments, you see, are gilt-edged. There is not a bad penny in all those millions.”
“Well, it is rather staggering, isn’t it?” said Montgomery, passing his hand over his forehead. He was beginning to comprehend.
“In more ways than one. What are you going to do about it?”
“Do about it?” in surprise. “Why, it’s mine, isn’t it?”
“It is not yours until next September,” the lawyer quietly said.
“Well, I fancy I can wait,” said Brewster with a smile that cleared the air.
“But, my dear fellow, you are already the possessor of a million. Do you forget that you are expected to be penniless a year from now?”
“Wouldn’t you exchange a million for seven millions, Mr. Grant?”
“But let me inquire how you purpose doing it?” asked Mr. Grant, mildly.
“Why, by the simple process of destruction. Don’t you suppose I can get rid of a million in a year? Great Scott, who wouldn’t do it! All I have to do is to cut a few purse strings and there is but one natural conclusion. I don’t mind being a pauper for a few hours on the 23d of next September.”
“That is your plan, then?”
“Of course. First I shall substantiate all that this will sets forth. When I am assured that there can be no possibility of mistake in the extent of this fortune and my undisputed claim, I’ll take steps to get rid of my grandfather’s million in short order.” Brewster’s voice rang true now. The zest of life was coming back.
Mr. Grant leaned forward slowly and his intent, penetrating gaze served as a check to the young fellow’s enthusiasm.
“I admire and approve the sagacity which urges you to exchange a paltry million for a fortune, but it seems to me that you are forgetting the conditions,” he said, slowly. “Has it occurred to you that it will be no easy task to spend a million dollars without in some way violating the restrictions in your uncle’s will, thereby losing both fortunes?”
CHAPTER V
THE MESSAGE FROM JONES
A new point of view gradually came to Brewster. All his life had been spent in wondering how to get enough money to pay his bills, and it had not occurred to him that it might be as difficult to spend as to acquire wealth. The thought staggered him for a moment. Then he cried triumphantly, “I can decline to accept grandfather’s million.”
“You cannot decline to accept what is already yours. I understand that the money has been paid to you by Mr. Buskirk. You have a million dollars, Mr. Brewster, and it cannot be denied.”
“You are right,” agreed Montgomery, dejectedly. “Really, Mr. Grant, this proposition is too much for me. If you aren’t required to give an immediate answer, I want to think it over. It sounds like a dream.”
“It is no dream, Mr. Brewster,” smiled the lawyer. “You are face to face with an amazing reality. Come in tomorrow morning and see me again. Think it over, study it out. Remember the conditions of the will and the conditions that confront you. In the meantime, I shall write to Mr. Jones, the executor, and learn from him just what he expects you to do in order to carry out his own conception of the terms of your uncle’s will.”
“Don’t write, Mr. Grant; telegraph. And ask him to wire his reply. A year is not very long in an affair of this kind.” A moment later he added, “Damn these family feuds! Why couldn’t Uncle James have relented a bit? He brings endless trouble on my innocent head, just because of a row before I was born.”
“He was a strange man. As a rule, one does not carry grudges quite so far. But that is neither here nor there. His will is law in this case.”
“Suppose I succeed in spending all but a thousand dollars before the 23d of next September! I’d lose the seven millions and be the next thing to a pauper. That wouldn’t be quite like getting my money’s worth.”
“It is a problem, my boy. Think it over very seriously before you come to a decision, one way or the other. In the meantime, we can establish beyond a doubt the accuracy of this inventory.”
“By all means, go ahead, and please urge Mr. Jones not to be too hard on me. I believe I’ll risk it if the restrictions are not too severe. But if Jones has puritanical instincts, I might as well give up hope and be satisfied with what I have.”
“Mr. Jones is very far from what you’d call puritanical, but he is intensely practical and clear-headed. He will undoubtedly require you to keep an expense account and to show some sort of receipt for every dollar you disburse.”
“Good Lord! Itemize?”
“In a general way, I presume.”
“I’ll have to employ an army of spendthrifts to devise ways and means for profligacy.”
“You forget the item which restrains you from taking anybody into your confidence concerning this matter. Think it over. It may not be so difficult after a night’s sleep.”
“If it isn’t too difficult to get the night’s sleep.”
All the rest of the day Brewster wandered about as one in a dream. He was pre-occupied and puzzled, and more than one of his old associates, receiving a distant nod in passing, resentfully concluded that his wealth was beginning to change him. His brain was so full of statistics, figures, and computations that it whirled dizzily, and once he narrowly escaped being run down by a cable car. He dined alone at a small French restaurant in one of the side streets. The waiter marveled at the amount of black coffee the young man consumed and looked hurt when he did not touch the quail and lettuce.
That night the little table in his room at Mrs. Gray’s was littered with scraps of pad paper, each covered with an incomprehensible maze of figures. After dinner he had gone to his own rooms, forgetting that he lived on Fifth Avenue. Until long after midnight he smoked and calculated and dreamed. For the first time the immensity of that million thrust itself upon him. If on that very day, October the first, he were to begin the task of spending it he would have but three hundred and fifty-seven days in which to accomplish the end. Taking the round sum of one million dollars as a basis, it was an easy matter to calculate his average daily disbursement. The situation did not look so utterly impossible until he held up the little sheet of paper and ruefully contemplated the result of that simple problem in mathematics.
It meant an average daily expenditure of $2,801.12 for nearly a year, and even then there would be sixteen cents left over, for, in proving the result of his rough sum in division, he could account for but $999,999.84. Then it occurred to him that his money would be drawing interest at the bank.
“But for each day’s $2,801.12, I am getting seven times as much,” he soliloquized, as he finally got into bed. “That means $19,607.84 a day, a clear profit of $16,806.72. That’s pretty good—yes, too good. I wonder if the bank couldn’t oblige me by not charging interest.”
The figures kept adding and subtracting themselves as he dozed off, and once during the night he dreamed that Swearengen Jones had sentenced him to eat a million dollars’ worth of game and salad at the French restaurant. He awoke with the consciousness that he had cried aloud, “I can do it, but a year is not very long in an affair of this kind.”
It was nine o’clock when Brewster finally rose, and after his tub he felt ready to cope with any problem, even a substantial breakfast. A message had come to him from Mr. Grant of Grant & Ripley, announcing the receipt of important dispatches from Montana, and asking him to luncheon at one. He had time to spare, and as Margaret and Mrs. Gray had gone out, he telephoned Ellis to take his horse to the entrance to the park at once. The crisp autumn air was perfect for his ride, and Brewster
found a number of smart people already riding and driving in the park. His horse was keen for a canter and he had reached the obelisk before he drew rein. As he was about to cross the carriage road he was nearly run down by Miss Drew in her new French automobile.
“I beg your pardon,” she cried. “You’re the third person I’ve run into, so you see I’m not discriminating against you.”
“I should be flattered even to be run down by you.”
“Very well, then, look out.” And she started the machine as if to charge him. She stopped in time, and said with a laugh, “Your gallantry deserves a reward. Wouldn’t you rather send your horse home and come for a ride with me?”
“My man is waiting at Fifty-ninth Street. If you’ll come that far, I’ll go with pleasure.”
Monty had merely a society acquaintance with Miss Drew. He had met her at dinners and dances as he had a host of other girls, but she had impressed him more than the others. Something indescribable took place every time their eyes met. Monty had often wondered just what that something meant, but he had always realized that it had in it nothing of platonic affection.
“If I didn’t have to meet her eyes,” he had said to himself, “I could go on discussing even politics with her, but the moment she looks at me I know she can see what I’m thinking about.” From the first they considered themselves very good friends, and after their third meeting it seemed perfectly natural that they should call one another by their first names. Monty knew he was treading on dangerous ground. It never occurred to him to wonder what Barbara might think of him. He took it as a matter of course that she must feel more than friendly toward him. As they rode through the maze of carriages, they bowed frequently to friends as they passed. They were conscious that some of the women, noticeably old Miss Dexter, actually turned around and gazed at them.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 3
