Brewster’s Millions

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 sweatshop 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 downstairs 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 OK 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