The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  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 tomorrow. 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’ today. I’ve done my duty to you in more ways than one. I’ve got myself interviewed by the newspapers and today 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 tonight. 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.”

  GRAUSTARK (1901)

  The Story of a Love Behind a Throne

  CHAPTER I

  MR. GRENFALL LORRY SEEKS ADVENTURE

  Mr. Grenfall Lorry boarded the east-bound express at Denver with all the air of a martyr. He had traveled pretty much all over the world, and he was not without resources, but the prospect of a twenty-five hundred mile journey alone filled him with dismay. The country he knew; the scenery had long since lost its attractions for him; countless newsboys had failed to tempt him with the literature they thrust in his face, and as for his fellow-passengers—well, he preferred to be alone. And so it was that he gloomily motioned the porter to his boxes and mounted the steps with weariness.

  As it happened, Mr. Grenfall Lorry did not have a dull moment after the train started.

  He stumbled on a figure that leaned toward the window in the dark passageway. With reluctant civility he apologized; a lady stood up to let him pass, and for an instant in the half light their eyes met, and that is why the miles rushed by with incredible speed.

  Mr. Lorry had been dawdling away the months in Mexico and California. For years he had felt, together with many other people, that a sea-voyage was the essential beginning of every journey; he had started round the world soon after leaving Cambridge; he had fished through Norway and hunted in India, and shot everything from grouse on the Scottish moors to the rapids above Assouan. He had run in and out of countless towns and countries on the coast of South America; he had done Russia and the Rhone valley and Brittany and Damascus; he had seen them all—but not until then did it occur to him that there might be something of interest nearer home. True he had thought of joining some Englishmen on a hunting tour in the Rockies, but that had fallen through. When the idea of Mexico did occur to him he gave orders to pack his things, purchased interminable green tickets, dined unusually well at his club, and was off in no time to the unknown West.

  There was a theory in his family that it would have been a decenter thing for him to stop running about and settle down to work. But his thoughtful father had given him a wealthy mother, and as earning a living was not a necessity, he failed to see why it was a duty. “Work is becoming to some men,” he once declared, “like whiskers or red ties, but it does not follow that all men can stand it.” After that the family found him “hopeless,” and the argument dropped.

  He was just under thirty years, as good-looking as most men, with no one dependent upon him and an income that had withstood both the Maison Doree and a dahabeah on the Nile. He never tired of seeing things and peoples and places. “There’s game to be found anywhere,” he said, “only it’s sometimes out of season. If I had my way—and millions—I should run a newspaper. Then all the excitements would come to me. As it is—I’m poor, and so I have to go all over the world after them.”

  This agreeable theory of life had worked well; he was a little bored at times—not because he had seen too much, but because there were not more things left to see. He had managed somehow to keep his enthusiasms through everything—and they made life worth living. He felt too a certain elation—like a spirited horse—at turning toward home, but Washington had not much to offer him, and the thrill did not last. His big bag and his hatbox—pasted over with foolish labels from continental hotels—were piled in the corner of his compartment, and he settled back in his seat with a pleasurable sense of expectancy. The presence in the next room of a very smart appearing young woman was prominent in his consciousness. It gave him an uneasiness which was the beginning of delight. He had seen her for only a second in the passageway, but that second had made him hold himself a little straighter. “Why is it,” he wondered, “that some girls make you stand like a footman the moment you see them?” Grenfall had been in love too many times to think of marriage; his habit of mind was still general, and he classified women broadly. At the same time he had a feeling that in this case generalities did not apply well; there was something about the girl that made him hesitate at labelling her “Class A, or B, or Z.” What it was he did not know, but—unaccountably-she filled him with an affected formality He felt like bowing to her with a grand air and much dignity. And yet he realized that his successes had come from confidence.

  At luncheon he saw her in the dining car. Her companions were elderly persons—presumably her parents. They talked mostly in French—occasionally using a German word or phrase. The old gentleman was stately and austere—with an air of deference to the young woman which Grenfall did not understand. His appearance was very striking; his face pale and heavily lined; moustache and imperial gray; the eyebrows large and bushy, and the jaw and chin square and firm. The white-haired lady carried her head high with unmistakable gentility. They were all dressed in traveling suits which suggested something foreign, but not Vienna nor Paris; smart, but far from American tastes.

  Lorry watched the trio with great interest. Twice during luncheon the young woman glanced toward him carelessly and left an annoying impression that she had not seen him. As they left the table and passed into the observation car, he stared at her with some defiance. But she was smiling, and her dimples showed, and Grenfall was ashamed. For some moments he sat gazing from the car window—forgetting his luncheon-dreaming.

  When he got back to his compartment he rang vigorously
for the porter. A coin was carelessly displayed in his fingers. “Do you suppose you could find out who has the next compartment, porter?”

  “I don’t know their name, sub, but they’s goin’ to New York jis as fas’ as they can git thuh. I ain’ ax um no questions, ’cause thuh’s somethin’ ’bout um makes me feel’s if I ain’ got no right to look at um even.”

  The porter thought a moment.

  “I don’ believe it’ll do yuh any good, suh, to try to shine up to tha’ young lady. She ain’ the sawt, I can tell yuh that. I done see too many guhls in ma time—”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not trying to shine up to her. I only want to know who she is—just out of curiosity.” Grenfall’s face was a trifle red.

  “Beg pahdon, suh; but I kind o’ thought you was like orh’ gent’men when they see a han’some woman. Allus wants to fin’ out somethin’ ’bout huh, suh, yuh know. ’Scuse me foh misjedgin’ yuh, suh. Th’ lady in question is a foh’ner—she lives across th’ ocean, ’s fuh as I can fin’ out. They’s in a hurry to git home foh some reason, ’cause they ain’ goin’ to stop this side o’ New York, ’cept to change cahs.”

  “Where do they change cars?”

  “St. Louis—goin’ by way of Cincinnati an’ Washin’ton.”

  Grenfall’s ticket carried him by way of Chicago. He caught himself wondering if he could exchange his ticket in St. Louis.

  “Traveling with her father and mother, I suppose?”

  “No, suh; they’s huh uncle and aunt. I heah huh call ’em uncle an’ aunt. Th’ ole gent’man is Uncle Caspar. I don’ know what they talk ’bout. It’s mostly some foh’en language. Th’ young lady allus speaks Amehican to me, but th’ old folks cain’t talk it ver’ well. They all been to Frisco, an’ the hired he’p they’s got with ’em say they been to Mexico, too. Th’ young lady’s got good Amehican dollahs, don’ care wha’ she’s been. She allus smiles when she ask me to do anythin’, an’ I wouldn’ care if she nevah tipped me, ’s long as she smiles thataway.”