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 crêpe 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?"