CHAPTER III
MRS. AND MISS GRAY
Mrs. Gray lived in Fortieth Street. For years Montgomery Brewster hadregarded her quiet, old-fashioned home as his own. The house had oncebeen her grandfather's, and it was one of the pioneers in that part ofthe town. It was there she was born; in its quaint old parlor she wasmarried; and all her girlhood, her brief wedded life, and her widowhoodwere connected with it. Mrs. Gray and Montgomery's mother had beenschoolmates and playmates, and their friendship endured. When old EdwinPeter Brewster looked about for a place to house his orphaned grandson,Mrs. Gray begged him to let her care for the little fellow. He wasthree years older than her Margaret, and the children grew up asbrother and sister. Mr. Brewster was generous in providing for the boy.While he was away at college, spending money in a manner that causedthe old gentleman to marvel at his own liberality, Mrs. Gray was wellpaid for the unused but well-kept apartments, and there never was amurmur of complaint from Edwin Peter Brewster. He was hard, but he wasnot niggardly.
It had been something of a struggle for Mrs. Gray to make both endsmeet. The property in Fortieth Street was her only possession. Butlittle money had come to her at her husband's death, and an unfortunatespeculation of his had swept away all that had fallen to her from herfather, the late Judge Merriweather. For years she kept the old homeunencumbered, teaching French and English until Margaret was well inher teens. The girl was sent to one of the good old boarding-schools onthe Hudson and came out well prepared to help her mother in the battleto keep the wolf down and appearances up. Margaret was rich infriendships; and pride alone stood between her and the advantages theyoffered. Good-looking, bright, and cheerful, she knew no naturalprivations. With a heart as light and joyous as a May morning, shefaced adversity as though it was a pleasure, and no one would havesuspected that even for a moment her courage wavered.
Now that Brewster had come into his splendid fortune he could conceiveno greater delight than to share it with them. To walk into the littledrawing-room and serenely lay large sums before them as their ownseemed such a natural proceeding that he refused to see an obstacle.But he knew it was there; the proffer of such a gift to Mrs. Gray wouldmean a wound to the pride inherited from haughty generations of mensufficient unto themselves. There was a small but troublesome mortgageon the house, a matter of two or three thousand dollars, and Brewstertried to evolve a plan by which he could assume the burden withoutgiving deep and lasting offense. A hundred wild designs had come tohim, but they were quickly relegated to the growing heap of subterfugesand pretexts condemned by his tenderness for the pride of these twowomen who meant so much to him.
Leaving the bank, he hastened, by electric car, to Fortieth Street andBroadway, and then walked eagerly off into the street of the numeral.He had not yet come to the point where he felt like scorning the cars,even though a roll of banknotes was tucked snugly away in a pocket thatseemed to swell with sudden affluence. Old Hendrick, faithful servitorthrough two generations, was sweeping the autumn leaves from thesidewalk when Montgomery came up to the house.
"Hello, Hendrick," was the young man's cheery greeting. "Nice lot ofleaves you have there."
"So?" ebbed from Hendrick, who did not even so much as look up from hiswork. Hendrick was a human clam.
"Mrs. Gray in?"
A grunt that signified yes.
"You're as loquacious as ever, Hendrick."
A mere nod.
Brewster let himself in with his own latch key, threw his hat on achair and unceremoniously bolted into the library. Margaret was seatednear a window, a book in her lap. The first evidence of unbiasedfriendship he had seen in days shone in her smile. She took his handand said simply, "We are glad to welcome the prodigal to his homeagain."
"I remind myself more of the fatted calf."
His first self-consciousness had gone.
"I thought of that, but I didn't dare say it," she laughed. "One mustbe respectful to rich relatives."
"Hang your rich relatives, Peggy; if I thought that this money wouldmake any difference I would give it up this minute."
"Nonsense, Monty," she said. "How could it make a difference? But youmust admit it is rather startling. The friend of our youth leaves hishumble dwelling Saturday night with his salary drawn for two weeksahead. He returns the following Thursday a dazzling millionaire."
"I'm glad I've begun to dazzle, anyway. I thought it might be hard tolook the part."
"Well, I can't see that you are much changed." There was a suggestionof a quaver in her voice, and the shadows did not prevent him fromseeing the quick mist that flitted across her deep eyes.
"After all, it's easy work being a millionaire," he explained, "whenyou've always had million-dollar inclinations."
"And fifty-cent possibilities," she added.
"Really, though, I'll never get as much joy out of my abundant richesas I did out of financial embarrassments."
"But think how fine it is, Monty, not ever to wonder where yourwinter's overcoat is to come from and how long the coal will last, andall that."
"Oh, I never wondered about my overcoats; the tailor did the wondering.But I wish I could go on living here just as before. I'd a heap ratherlive here than at that gloomy place on the avenue." "That sounded likethe things you used to say when we played in the garret. You'd a heapsooner do this than that--don't you remember?"
"That's just why I'd rather live here, Peggy. Last night I fell tothinking of that old garret, and hanged if something didn't come up andstick in my throat so tight that I wanted to cry. How long has it beensince we played up there? Yes, and how long has it been since I read'Oliver Optic' to you, lying there in the garret window while you satwith your back against the wall, your blue eyes as big as dollars?"
"Oh, dear me, Monty, it was ages ago--twelve or thirteen years atleast," she cried, a soft light in her eyes.
"I'm going up there this afternoon to see what the place is like," hesaid eagerly. "And, Peggy, you must come too. Maybe I can find one ofthose Optic books, and we'll be young again."
"Just for old time's sake," she said impulsively. "You'll stay forluncheon, too."
"I'll have to be at the--no, I won't, either. Do you know, I wasthinking I had to be at the bank at twelve-thirty to let Mr. Perkins goout for something to eat? The millionaire habit isn't so firmly fixedas I supposed." After a moment's pause, in which his growingseriousness changed the atmosphere, he went on, haltingly, uncertain ofhis position: "The nicest thing about having all this money isthat--that--we won't have to deny ourselves anything after this." Itdid not sound very tactful, now that it was out, and he was compelledto scrutinize rather intently a familiar portrait in order to maintainan air of careless assurance. She did not respond to this venture, buthe felt that she was looking directly into his sorely-tried brain."We'll do any amount of decorating about the house and--and you knowthat furnace has been giving us a lot of trouble for two or threeyears--" he was pouring out ruthlessly, when her hand fell gently onhis own and she stood straight and tall before him, an odd look in hereyes.
"Don't--please don't go on, Monty," she said very gently but withoutwavering. "I know what you mean. You are good and very thoughtful,Monty, but you really must not."
"Why, what's mine is yours--" he began.
"I know you are generous, Monty, and I know you have a heart. You wantus to--to take some of your money,"--it was not easy to say it, and asfor Monty, he could only look at the floor. "We cannot, Monty,dear,--you must never speak of it again. Mamma and I had a feeling thatyou would do it. But don't you see,--even from you it is an offer ofhelp, and it hurts."
"Don't talk like that, Peggy," he implored.
"It would break her heart if you offered to give her money in that way.She'd hate it, Monty. It is foolish, perhaps, but you know we can'ttake your money."
"I thought you--that you--oh, this knocks all the joy out of it," heburst out desperately.
"Dear Monty!"
"Let's talk it over, Peggy; you don't underst
and--" he began, dashingat what he thought would be a break in her resolve.
"Don't!" she commanded, and in her blue eyes was the hot flash he hadfelt once or twice before.
He rose and walked across the floor, back and forth again, and thenstood before her, a smile on his lips--a rather pitiful smile, butstill a smile. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at him.
"It's a confounded puritanical prejudice, Peggy," he said in futileprotest, "and you know it."
"You have not seen the letters that came for you this morning. They'reon the table over there," she replied, ignoring him.
He found the letters and resumed his seat in the window, glancinghalf-heartedly over the contents of the envelopes. The last was fromGrant & Ripley, attorneys, and even from his abstraction it brought asurprised "By Jove!" He read it aloud to Margaret.
September 30.
MONTGOMERY BREWSTER, ESQ.,
New York.
Dear Sir:--We are in receipt of a communication from Mr. SwearengenJones of Montana, conveying the sad intelligence that your uncle, JamesT. Sedgwick, died on the 24th inst. at M-- Hospital in Portland, aftera brief illness. Mr. Jones by this time has qualified in Montana as theexecutor of your uncle's will and has retained us as his easternrepresentatives. He incloses a copy of the will, in which you are namedas sole heir, with conditions attending. Will you call at our officethis afternoon, if it is convenient? It is important that you know thecontents of the instrument at once.
Respectfully yours,
GRANT & RIPLEY.
For a moment there was only amazement in the air. Then a faint,bewildered smile appeared in Monty's face, and reflected itself in thegirl's.
"Who is your Uncle James?" she asked.
"I've never heard of him."
"You must go to Grant & Ripley's at once, of course."
"Have you forgotten, Peggy," he replied, with a hint of vexation in hisvoice, "that we are to read 'Oliver Optic' this afternoon?"
Brewster's Millions Page 3
