THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN
After what seemed an age to Monty, the "Flitter," in tow of the
freighter "Glencoe," arrived at Southampton. The captain of the freight
boat was a thrifty Scotchman whose ship was traveling with a light
cargo, and he was not, therefore, averse to taking on a tow. But the
thought of salvage had caused him to ask a high price for the service
and Monty, after a futile attempt at bargaining, had agreed. The price
was fifty thousand dollars, and the young man believed more than ever
that everything was ruled by a wise Providence, which had not deserted
him. His guests were heartsick when they heard the figure, but were as
happy as Monty at the prospect of reaching land again.
The "Glencoe" made several stops before Southampton was finally reached
on the 28th of August, but when the English coast was sighted every one
was too eager to go ashore to begrudge the extra day. Dan DeMille asked
the entire party to become his guests for a week's shooting trip in
Scotland, but Monty vetoed the plan in the most decided manner.
"We sail for New York on the fastest boat," said Monty, and hurried off
to learn the sailings and book his party. The first boat was to sail on
the 30th and he could only secure accommodations for twelve of his
guests. The rest were obliged to follow a week later. This was readily
agreed to and Bragdon was left to see to the necessary repairs on the
"Flitter" and arrange for her homeward voyage. Monty gave Bragdon
fifteen thousand dollars for the purpose and extracted a solemn promise
that the entire amount would be used.
"But it won't cost half of this," protested Bragdon.
"You will have to give these people a good time during the week
and--well--you have promised that I shall never see another penny of
it. Some day you'll know why I do this," and Monty felt easier when his
friend agreed to abide by his wishes.
He discharged the "Flitter's" crew, with five months' pay and the
reward promised on the night of Peggy's rescue, which was productive of
touching emotions. Captain Perry and his officers never forgot the
farewell of the prodigal, nor could they hide the regret that marked
their weather-beaten faces.
Plans to dispose of his household goods and the balance of his cash in
the short time that would be left after he arrived in New York occupied
Monty's attention, and most men would have given up the scheme as
hopeless. But he did not despair. He was still game, and he prepared
for the final plunge with grim determination.
"There should have been a clause in Jones's conditions about 'weather
permitting,'" he said to himself. "A shipwrecked mariner should not be
expected to spend a million dollars."
The division of the party for the two sailings was tactfully arranged
by Mrs. Dan DeMille. The Valentines chaperoned the "second table" as
"Subway" Smith called those who were to take the later boat, and she
herself looked after the first lot. Peggy Gray and Monty Brewster were
in the DeMille party. The three days in England were marked by
unparalleled extravagance on Monty's part. One of the local hotels was
subsidized for a week, although the party only stayed for luncheon, and
the Cecil in London was a gainer by several thousand dollars for the
brief stop there. It was a careworn little band that took Monty's
special train for Southampton and embarked two days later. The "rest
cure" that followed was welcome to all of them and Brewster was
especially glad that his race was almost run.
Swiftly and steadily the liner cut down the leagues that separated her
from New York. Fair weather and fair cheer marked her course, and the
soft, balmy nights were like seasons of fairyland. Monty was cherishing
in his heart the hope inspired by Peggy's action on the night of the
storm. Somehow it brought a small ray of light to his clouded
understanding and he found joy in keeping the flame alive religiously
if somewhat doubtfully. His eyes followed her constantly, searching for
the encouragement that the very blindness of love had hidden from him,
forever tormenting himself with fears and hopes and fears again. Her
happiness and vivacity puzzled him--he was often annoyed, he was now
and then seriously mystified.
Four days out from New York, then three days, then two days, and then
Brewster began to feel the beginning of the final whirlwind in
profligacy clouding him oppressively, ominously, unkindly. Down in his
stateroom he drew new estimates, new calculations, and tried to balance
the old ones so that they appeared in the light most favorable to his
designs. Going over the statistics carefully, he estimated that the
cruise, including the repairs and return of the yacht to New York,
would cost him $210,000 in round figures. One hundred and thirty-three
days marked the length of the voyage when reckoned by time and, as near
as he could get at it, the expense had averaged $1,580 a day. According
to the contract, he was to pay for the yacht, exclusive of the cuisine
and personal service. And he had found it simple enough to spend the
remaining $1,080. There were days, of course, when fully $5,000
disappeared, and there were others on which he spent much less than
$1,000, but the average was secure. Taking everything into
consideration, Brewster found that his fortune had dwindled to a few
paltry thousands in addition to the proceeds which would come to him
from the sale of his furniture. On the whole he was satisfied.
The landing in New York and the separation which followed were not
entirely merry. Every discomfort was forgotten and the travelers only
knew that the most wonderful cruise since that of the ark had come to
an end. There was not one who would not have been glad to begin it
again the next day.
Immediately after the landing Brewster and Gardner were busy with the
details of settlement. After clearing up all of the obligations arising
from the cruise, they felt the appropriateness of a season of
reflection. It was a difficult moment--a moment when undelivered
reproofs were in the air. But Gardner seemed much the more melancholy
of the two.
Piles of newspapers lay scattered about the floor of the room in which
they sat. Every one of them contained sensational stories of the
prodigal's trip, with pictures, incidents and predictions. Monty was
pained, humiliated and resentful, but he was honest enough to admit the
justification of much that was said of him. He read bits of it here and
there and then threw the papers aside hopelessly. In a few weeks they
would tell another story, and quite as emphatically.
"The worst of it, Monty, is that you are the next thing to being a poor
man," groaned Gardner. "I've done my best to economize for you here at
home, as you'll see by these figures, but nothing could possibly
balance the extravagances of this voyage. They are simply appalling."
With the condemnation of his friends ringing in his troubled brain,
with the sneers of acquaintances to distress his pride, with the jibes
of the comic papers to torture him remorselessly, Brewster was fast
becoming the most miserable man in New York. Friends of former days
gave him the cut direct, clubmen ignored him or scorned him openly,
women chilled him with the iciness of unspoken reproof, and all the
world was hung with shadows. The doggedness of despair kept him up, but
the strain that pulled down on him was so relentless that the struggle
was losing its equality. He had not expected such a home-coming.
Compared with his former self, Monty was now almost a physical wreck,
haggard, thin and defiant, a shadow of the once debonair young New
Yorker, an object of pity and scorn. Ashamed and despairing, he had
almost lacked the courage to face Mrs. Gray. The consolation he once
gained through her he now denied himself and his suffering, peculiar as
it was, was very real. In absolute recklessness he gave dinner after
dinner, party after party, all on a most lavish scale, many of his
guests laughing at him openly while they enjoyed his hospitality. The
real friends remonstrated, pleaded, did everything within their power
to check his awful rush to poverty, but without success; he was not to
be stopped.
At last the furniture began to go, then the plate, then all the
priceless bric-à-brac. Piece by piece it disappeared until the
apartments were empty and he had squandered almost all of the $40,350
arising from the sales. The servants were paid off, the apartments
relinquished, and he was beginning to know what it meant to be "on his
uppers." At the banks he ascertained that the interest on his moneys
amounted to $19,140.86. A week before the 23d of September, the whole
million was gone, including the amounts won in Lumber and Fuel and
other luckless enterprises. He still had about $17,000 of his interest
money in the banks, but he had a billion pangs in his heart--the
interest on his improvidence.
He found some delight in the discovery that the servants had robbed him
of not less than $3,500 worth of his belongings, including the
Christmas presents that he in honor could not have sold. His only
encouragement came from Grant & Ripley, the lawyers. They inspired
confidence in his lagging brain by urging him on to the end, promising
brightness thereafter. Swearengen Jones was as mute as the mountains in
which he lived. There was no word from him, there was no assurance that
he would approve of what had been done to obliterate Edwin Peter
Brewster's legacy.
Dan DeMille and his wife implored Monty to come with them to the
mountains before his substance was gone completely. The former offered
him money, employment, rest and security if he would abandon the course
he was pursuing. Up in Fortieth Street Peggy Gray was grieving her
heart out and he knew it. Two or three of those whom he had considered
friends refused to recognize him in the street in this last trying
week, and it did not even interest him to learn that Miss Barbara Drew
was to become a duchess before the winter was gone. Yet he found some
satisfaction in the report that one Hampton of Chicago had long since
been dropped out of the race.
One day he implored the faithful Bragdon to steal the Boston terriers.
He could not and would not sell them and he dared not give them away.
Bragdon dejectedly appropriated the dogs and Brewster announced that
some day he would offer a reward for their return and "no questions
asked."
He took a suite of rooms in a small hotel and was feverishly planning
the overthrow of the last torturing thousands. Bragdon lived with him
and the "Little Sons of the Rich" stood loyally ready to help him when
he uttered the first cry of want. But even this establishment had to be
abandoned at last. The old rooms in Fortieth Street were still open to
him and though he quailed at the thought of making them a refuge, he
faced the ordeal in the spirit of a martyr.