THE LAST WORD
"I'll tell you about it later, dear," was all that Peggy, pleading,
could draw from him.
At midnight Mrs. Dan had remonstrated with her. "You must go home,
Peggy, dear," she said. "It is disgraceful for you to stay up so late.
I went to bed at eight o'clock the night before I was married."
"And fell asleep at four in the morning," smiled Peggy.
"You are quite mistaken, my dear. I did not fall asleep at all. But I
won't allow you to stop a minute longer. It puts rings under the eyes
and sometimes they're red the morning after."
"Oh, you dear, sweet philosopher," cried Peggy; "how wise you are. Do
you think I need a beauty sleep?"
"I don't want you to be a sleepy beauty, that's all," retorted Mrs. Dan.
Upon Monty's return from his trying hour with the lawyers, he had been
besieged with questions, but he was cleverly evasive. Peggy alone was
insistent; she had curbed her curiosity until they were on the way
home, and then she implored him to tell her what had happened. The
misery he had endured was as nothing to his reckoning with the woman
who had the right to expect fair treatment. His duty was clear, but the
strain had been heavy and it was not easy to meet it.
"Peggy, something terrible has happened," he faltered, uncertain of his
course.
"Tell me everything, Monty, you can trust me to be brave."
"When I asked you to marry me," he continued gravely, "it was with the
thought that I could give you everything to-morrow. I looked for a
fortune. I never meant that you should marry a pauper."
"I don't understand. You tried to test my love for you?"
"No, child, not that. But I was pledged not to speak of the money I
expected, and I wanted you so much before it came."
"And it has failed you?" she answered. "I can't see that it changes
things. I expected to marry a pauper, as you call it. Do you think this
could make a difference?"
"But you don't understand, Peggy. I haven't a penny in the world."
"You hadn't a penny when I accepted you," she replied. "I am not
afraid. I believe in you. And if you love me I shall not give you up."
"Dearest!" and the carriage was at the door before another word was
uttered. But Monty called to the coachman to drive just once around the
block.
"Good night, my darling," he said when they reached home. "Sleep till
eight o'clock if you like. There is nothing now in the way of having
the wedding at nine, instead of at seven. In fact, I have a reason for
wanting my whole fortune to come to me then. You will be all that I
have in the world, child, but I am the happiest man alive."
In his room the strain was relaxed and Brewster faced the bitter
reality. Without undressing he threw himself upon the lounge and
wondered what the world held for him. It held Peggy at least, he
thought, and she was enough. But had he been fair to her? Was he right
in exacting a sacrifice? His tired brain whirled in the effort to
decide. Only one thing was clear--that he could not give her up. The
future grew black at the very thought of it. With her he could make
things go, but alone it was another matter. He would take the plunge
and he would justify it. His mind went traveling back over the
graceless year, and he suddenly realized that he had forfeited the
confidence of men who were worth while. His course in profligacy would
not be considered the best training for business. The thought nerved
him to action. He must make good. Peggy had faith in him. She came to
him when everything was against him, and he would slave for her, he
would starve, he would do anything to prove that she was not mistaken
in him. She at least should know him for a man.
Looking toward the window he saw the black, uneasy night give way to
the coming day. Haggard and faint he arose from the couch to watch the
approach of the sun that is indifferent to wealth and poverty, to
gayety and dejection. From far off in the gray light there came the
sound of a five o'clock bell. A little later the shrieks of factory
whistles were borne to his ears, muffled by distance but pregnant with
the importance of a new day of toil. They were calling him, with all
poor men, to the sweat-shop and the forge, to the great mill of life.
The new era had begun, dawning bright and clear to disperse the gloom
in his soul. Leaning against the casement and wondering where he could
earn the first dollar for the Peggy Brewster that was Peggy Gray, he
rose to meet it with a fine unflinching fearlessness.
Before seven o'clock he was down stairs and waiting. Joe Bragdon joined
him a bit later, followed by Gardner and the minister. The DeMilles
appeared without an invitation, but they were not denied. Mrs. Dan
sagely shook her head when told that Peggy was still asleep and that
the ceremony was off till nine o'clock.
"Monty, are you going away?" asked Dan, drawing him into a corner.
"Just a week in the hills," answered Monty, suddenly remembering the
generosity of his attorneys.
"Come in and see me as soon as you return, old man," said DeMille, and
Monty knew that a position would be open to him.
To Mrs. Dan fell the honor of helping Peggy dress. By the time she had
had coffee and was ready to go down, she was pink with excitement and
had quite forgotten the anxiety which had made the night an age.
She had never been prettier than on her wedding morning. Her color was
rich, her eyes as clear as stars, her woman's body the picture of grace
and health. Monty's heart leaped high with love of her.
"The prettiest girl in New York, by Jove," gasped Dan DeMille,
clutching Bragdon by the arm.
"And look at Monty! He's become a new man in the last five minutes,"
added Joe. "Look at the glow in his cheeks! By the eternal, he's
beginning to look as he did a year ago."
A clock chimed the hour of nine.
"The man who was here yesterday is in the hall to see Mr. Brewster,"
said the maid, a few minutes after the minister had uttered the words
that gave Peggy a new name. There was a moment of silence, almost of
dread.
"You mean the fellow with the beard?" asked Monty, uneasily.
"Yes, sir. He sent in this letter, begging you to read it at once."
"Shall I send him away, Monty?" demanded Bragdon, defiantly. "What does
he mean by coming at this time?"
"I'll read the letter first, Joe."
Every eye was on Brewster as he tore open the envelope. His face was
expressive. There was wonder in it, then incredulity, then joy. He
threw the letter to Bragdon, clasped Peggy in his arms spasmodically,
and then, releasing her, dashed for the hall like one bereft of reason.
"It's Nopper Harrison!" he cried, and a moment later the tall visitor
was dragged into the circle. "Nopper" was quite overcome by the
heartiness of his welcome.
"You are an angel, Nopper, God bless you!" said Monty, with convincing
emphasis. "Joe, read that letter aloud and then advertise for the
return of those Boston terriers!"
Bragdon's hands trembled and his voice was not sure as he translated
the scrawl, "Nopper" Harrison standing behind him for the gleeful
purpose of prompting him when the writing was beyond the range of human
intelligence:
HOLLAND HOUSE, Sept. 23, 19--
"MR. MONTGOMERY BREWSTER,
"My Dear Boy:
"So you thought I had given you the slip, eh? Didn't think I'd show up
here and do my part? Well, I don't blame you; I suppose I've acted like
a damned idiot, but so long as it turns out O.K. there's no harm done.
The wolf won't gnaw very much of a hole in your door, I reckon. This
letter introduces my secretary, Mr. Oliver Harrison. He came to me last
June, out in Butte, with the prospectus of a claim he had staked out up
in the mountains. What he wanted was backing and he had such a good
show to win out that I went into cahoots with him. He's got a mine up
there that is dead sure to yield millions. Seems as though he has to
give you half of the yield, though. Says you grub-staked him. Good
fellow, this Harrison. Needed a secretary and man of affairs, so took
him into my office. You can see that he did not take me up into the
mountains to murder me, as the papers say this morning. Damned rot.
Nobody's business but my own if I concluded to come east without
telling everybody in Butte about it.
"I am here and so is the money. Got in last night. Harrison came from
Chicago a day ahead of me. I went to the office of G. & R. at eight
this morning. Found them in a hell of a stew. Thought I'd skipped out
or been murdered. Money all gone, everything gone to smash. That's what
they thought. Don't blame 'em much. You see it was this way: I
concluded to follow out the terms of the will and deliver the goods in
person. I got together all of Jim Sedgwick's stuff and did a lot of
other fool things, I suppose, and hiked on to New York. You'll find
about seven million dollars' worth of stuff to your credit when you
endorse the certified checks down at Grant & Ripley's, my boy. It's all
here and in the banks.
"It's a mighty decent sort of wedding gift, I reckon.
"The lawyers told me all about you. Told me all about last night, and
that you were going to be married this morning. By this time you're
comparatively happy with the bride, I guess. I looked over your report
and took a few peeps at the receipts. They're all right. I'm satisfied.
The money is yours. Then I got to thinking that maybe you wouldn't care
to come down at nine o'clock, especially as you are just recovering
from the joy of being married, so I settled with the lawyers and
they'll settle with you. If you have nothing in particular to do this
afternoon about two o'clock, I'd suggest that you come to the hotel and
we'll dispose of a few formalities that the law requires of us. And you
can give me some lessons in spending money. I've got a little I'd like
to miss some morning. As for your ability as a business man, I have
this to say: Any man who can spend a million a year and have nothing to
show for it, don't need a recommendation from anybody. He's in a class
by himself, and it's a business that no one else can give him a pointer
about. The best test of your real capacity, my boy, is the way you
listed your property for taxation. It's a true sign of business
sagacity. That would have decided me in your favor if everything else
had been against you.
"I'm sorry you've been worried about all this. You have gone through a
good deal in a year and you have been roasted from Hades to breakfast
by everybody. Now it's your turn to laugh. It will surprise them to
read the 'extras' to-day. I've done my duty to you in more ways than
one. I've got myself interviewed by the newspapers and to-day they'll
print the whole truth about Montgomery Brewster and his millions.
They've got the Sedgwick will and my story and the old town will boil
with excitement. I guess you'll be squared before the world, all right.
You'd better stay indoors for awhile though, if you want to have a
quiet honeymoon.
"I don't like New York. Never did. Am going back to Butte to-night. Out
there we have real skyscrapers and they are not built of brick. They
are two or three miles high and they have gold in 'em. There is real
grass in the lowlands and we have valleys that make Central Park look
like a half inch of nothing. Probably you and Mrs. Brewster were going
to take a wedding trip, so why not go west with me in my car? We start
at 7:45 P.M. and I won't bother you. Then you can take it anywhere you
like.
"Sincerely yours,
"SWEARENGEN JONES.
"P.S. I forgot to say there is no such man as Golden. I bought your
mines and ranches with my own money. You may buy them back at the same
figures. I'd advise you to do it. They'll be worth twice as much in a
year. I hope you'll forgive the whims of an old man who has liked you
from the start.
J."