The immediate results of Fessenden’s enslavement and deliverance were
a terror of women, which he called contempt, an augmented interest in
the great men of history, and a daily mounting ardor for his country.
He had the usual school-boy’s idea of the isolated grandeur of the
American Republic, and a corresponding resentment against the rest of
the world for having annoyed it occasionally. Mr. Abbott, who liked all
healthy manifestations in a youth, had asked Morris to let him keep
his illusions until he was old enough to accept their loss without
bitterness. Fessenden, who had been patriotic enough in all conscience
before he met Grace, now burned with a holy fire, built an altar in the
depths of the forest, and solemnly devoted his life and energies to the
service of the United States--thought of her, dreamed of her, poured
upon her all the rejected passion of his nature. But as yet no light
had been shed upon the manner in which he should best serve her, and
one day he abruptly broached the subject to Morris. The tutor came to
attention at once. He had been in correspondence with Mr. Abbott for
some time, and was awaiting his opportunity to speak: Fessenden was a
delicate subject.
“I have been thinking it over,” he said. “Of course your father’s
wish--and mine--has been that you should go to Harvard, but in the few
years since I left college things have changed so in America--I am not
old as years go, and judging from the occasional newspaper and magazine
that comes my way, the world seems to have run by me.” He spoke
hesitatingly, as if the subject had been presented to him too abruptly,
after all; and Fessenden, who did not count patience among his virtues,
beat a roll-call on the window-pane. The woods were green and warm;
_Pocahontas_ was making imperious little motions on the lake. A hint, a
stimulus, was all he expected from Morris; the final solution would be
found in solitude.
“Why not Harvard?” he asked, as Morris continued to look out upon the
world in mute reproach. “Of course I expect to go to Harvard. And my
father says the world’s all right.”
“Whatever is is right. I am philosopher enough to believe that--but
this is the point: the great universities, like Harvard, are for
the sons of rich men, or at all events for those of that privileged
class who do not have to enter into the great struggle the moment
they graduate. If you had even a small income, and purposed to become
a man of letters, if you had in you the makings of a professor or a
clergyman, I should say Harvard without hesitation, even though you
would have to skimp through in a manner that is very humiliating to a
gentleman; but I have studied you closely now for seven years, and I
cannot associate you with any of the old-fashioned callings. You are
peculiarly energetic and practical. You have tremendous ideals, but you
would never have the patience to angle for them in an ink-pot, and you
have too much common-sense to stump the world as a propagandist. The
way for you to achieve great ends is through the medium of money--no
one in this country to-day respects anything as much--and through
that medium you could make yourself understood at once, and have
what following you chose. It seems to me that you could make money
in very large amounts--you were born with concentration, obstinacy,
and industry; you must excel in all you undertake or burn to ashes
in the attempt, and you have an uncommonly good brain. Of course I
have only been able to cultivate its intellectual part, and there are
a thousand things you must study in the next few years--men, your
country, other countries, the great industrial, financial, commercial,
and political problems which make up the machinery of the world. Now,
if you were merely to be a dilettante in these matters, I should again
say Harvard; but as it seems to me that you were born to take an
active part in the great world problems, and as you have your living
to make, I have thought it expedient to suggest the University of the
Northwest--” He paused again and turned away his head; the polite
scholar loathed the thought of the Western college. As Fessenden stared
at him in earnest attention, he proceeded, in a moment.
“It is quite a remarkable institution in a way, and very cheap. As
it is in a small Western town, living costs next to nothing; and as
it is not patronized by rich men’s sons, the scale of living is very
low--there are no expensive clubs and other constant demands. Of
course it is your duty to consider this, as well as the more complete
freedom which it would give you. It is my private opinion that the
great colleges are no place for a man who cannot spend money like a
gentleman. If my father had lost his money earlier I should not have
gone to Harvard.”
“Well, what should I get at this Western university that would send me
straight from the log-cabin to Aladdin’s cave--it used to be the White
House.”
“That is what you would decide after you had been there a year or two.
The point is that you would find there special courses on electricity,
mechanics, banking, transportation, agriculture, international
relations, politics, all the industrial problems. Through some one
of these great modern avenues you will make your way to wealth, and
you will have the inestimable advantage of starting from the ground
up--of mastering, for instance, all the details of a machine-shop, of
an engine, of railway tracks, of the progressive development of that
most mysterious of all forces, electricity, while your mind is still
plastic. There is still another reason for making yourself familiar
with all these things while you are young and enthusiastic--even if
you happened to make your money in some field outside them all.” He
hesitated again, but proceeded almost immediately, and in the tone of
a man resolute to pursue any subject as far as analysis would take
him. “Suppose, for instance, you should make a very great fortune,
modern conditions would place you in the most complex relations
with all the subjects which this university specializes. You would
be elected upon the boards of companies without end, perhaps become
president, vice-president, of others; and, as a rule, directors know
next to nothing of the industries over which they preside; employers
know too little of what is _a b c_ to the men under them. Railroad
presidents cannot know too much about mechanics and electricity if they
want to pay heavier dividends than their rivals--in a word, it is the
millionaire who knows most of those subjects of which most millionaires
know nothing who rules all the other millionaires. You see, I have let
my imagination run away with me--I already saw you aloft on a gold
pedestal. Perhaps I am too sanguine for you--one dreams much when one
lives the solitary life--”
“The millionaire proposition seems to me a good deal of a come-down
after all my fine dreams and ambitions, but if it’s the short cut-- I
haven’t much patience-- Is money really so easy to make?”
“There is nothing less easy to make. My argument is that you are one of
the few who could make it if you would.”
“Well, the harder the better. I wouldn’t give a red cent for anything
that could be had for the asking.”
Again Morris turned his head and stared into the fire. He heartily
wished that Mr. Abbott had come up and done his own talking.
“Your life is likely to be strenuous enough,” he said, after a pause.
“When you are rich--if you ever are--you will work as hard, if not
harder, than before. Will you think over what I have said about this
university, and write to your father? He told me once that he should
leave the matter to you; but, of course, he must know soon, as you
could enter any college this autumn.”
“I do not need to think it over. How long do you suppose it takes me to
make up my mind? I shall go to the Western University.”