As Fessenden left the train on Monday morning and walked down the
long crowded platform to the gates, he was nervous and happy and
sentimental, but full of vanity. Not as the prodigal son was he
returning to his father after these long years of disunion. Had not a
telegram from the president of his university acquainted Mr. Abbott
with his son’s brilliant climax? Was he not about to relieve his parent
of all further worries and responsibilities, to say naught of shedding
lustre upon the family name? He was sure that his father, if he had
chosen obscurity for his own portion, must still be in a position to
give him advice and immediate suggestion, of more value than gold.
He had arrayed himself in a new suit of summer gray, and with
considerable satisfaction, for he had spasms of personal vanity,
although only death could separate him permanently from the reprobates
of his wardrobe. His long body was still very slight, but it was
muscular and lithe. When his eyes were not hard or dreamy with
concentrated thought they were ready to laugh their response into any
friendly eyes they chanced to meet. Although as a rule he would have
scorned to admit that he knew whether he was good-looking or not, he
was in so gay a mood this fine summer morning that he frankly accepted
admiring glances for what they were worth, and was glad to add such
attractions as his ancestors had given him to the sum he was about
to present to one doting parent. Not that Fessenden was a handsome
boy; his present attractiveness lay for the most part in his youthful
armory of glancing and glinting expressions; but his hair was brown and
bright, his eyes were blue and dark, and his features cut by race, not
by chance. In his most disreputable alliances with old clothes he never
lacked distinction, and to-day, in spite of the eager restlessness of
his muscles--he was seldom in repose--he was very naturally mistaken by
the calculating feminine mind for a fledgling of the privileged class.
His progress in the dense crowd was slow, and his stride was naturally
long. It was not in him to submit to impeded progress, and he jumped
back into the train and made his way rapidly to the front car. As he
sprang to the ground near the gates he saw his father’s pale eager
face, and he stiffened suddenly lest he utter a mountain whoop or
imperil his dignity in the feminine manner. When he had forced his way
beyond the barriers, he nearly crushed Mr. Abbott’s firm bony hand,
then pulled it through his arm and--started for Forty-second Street.
“Come on! Come on!” he said through his teeth, “we can’t say anything
here.”
His father managed to steer him to the cab-stand, and, as they drove
down Madison Avenue, talked rapidly and somewhat at random. It was
evident that he was as nervous as his son, but equally manifest that he
was full of paternal pride and delight. Fessenden gripped his hand two
or three times, incoherent, but happy in the light of approval and the
warmth of an affection so long withheld.
The hansom stopped before an immense brown-stone house on a corner,
and Mr. Abbott descended, dismissing the cab. Fessenden wondered, but
assumed that his father lived in a private hotel. It was his last
moment of density. As the door was opened by an elderly butler, behind
whom stood four footmen in livery, a band of ghosts seemed to race past
his inner vision; as he entered the wide hall hung with tapestries,
doors on the right and the left showing the splendor of delicate
brocade and historic furnishing, his brain experienced a sharp and
clarifying shock. He had a dizzying vision of a little boy, in the
pride of his first trousers, flying down those massive banisters and
followed by a soft protesting shriek. For a moment every part of the
house seemed to be pervaded by that small child and the minor almost
querulous chords of a long-forgotten voice. His hand shook as he gave
his hat to a footman of preternatural dignity, as he met the stolid but
recognizing eye of the butler. He had not the courage to think, and he
was white and almost weak as he followed his father to the library at
the back of the house. It was a great room, lifted bodily from a ducal
castle--books, pictures, busts, weapons--in the devouring American
fashion. Fessenden, after one glance, fell into a chair and covered his
face with his hands. He had torn up the papers on that table more than
once, tobogganed his father in the deep chair opposite.
Mr. Abbott seated himself in the chair and grasped the arms firmly. His
face was more sallow than usual, but his glance was unwavering. “I see
that you are already beginning to suspect--to know,” he said. “I will
not insult you by circumlocution, but make my confession at once--”
Fessenden emerged suddenly from his lethargy, sprang to his feet,
and glared down upon his father. His eyes were almost black, his
nostrils were jerking, and the pallor under his tan made him look quite
ferocious. “What is there to say?” he almost shouted. “I can see the
cursed truth plainly enough. You are a rich man.”
His father met his glare steadily. “I am the richest man in the world,”
he said.
Again Fessenden was inarticulate, and under this merciless assault even
his anger fell. He stared at his father with paling eyes and coloring
face.
“Sit down, will you not? I have a great deal to say.”
Fessenden, bewildered with the knowledge that he stood on the threshold
of an unknown world which even now mocked his years of strenuous
endeavor, resumed his chair mechanically and fixed his eyes on his
father’s face that he might make sure he was hearing facts at least.
The flattering attentions of the university guests suddenly arose in
his memory, and he writhed in self-abasement. He felt the floor with
the heel of his boot to ascertain if it were secure beneath his feet.
“I suppose I had better begin at the beginning,” said Mr. Abbott. “I
saw little of your mother after the first year of our marriage. She
was born in the world of fashion, was a natural and determined leader;
and shortly after your birth she entered upon a career of extravagance
which has seldom been equalled even in this town. It was a matter
of indifference to me how much money she spent so long as she was
contented--she was badly spoiled--and as she was a beautiful and clever
creature I was very proud of her; moreover, too busy to regret that she
had so little time for me. Perhaps I should go back a step further here
and tell you that my father was also a man of large wealth--for his
day--and of great importance in the banking world. I was trained as his
successor from my earliest years, and fortunately took to it naturally.
In those days the sons of rich men were more serious than they are now;
but I sowed a few wild oats before I settled down, and, being of a
delicate constitution, they permanently impaired my health. This fact
will enable you more readily to understand my course in regard to you.
“But to return to your mother. Naturally she spoiled you--badly! You
were never permitted to draw a breath of fresh air except in fine
weather; you had whatever you cried for. There was every prospect that
you would grow up--if you survived childhood--the average nervous
dyspeptic American--worse still, the average worthless rich man’s
son. The day after her death, as I sat alone here in this room, with
you playing on the hearth-rug, I had an inspiration, and determined
at once to act upon it. I had known the Nettlebecks for many years; I
was in the habit of going into camp with several of my friends not far
from their farm. Only Fritz, who acted as our guide, knew that I was a
rich man, and I knew his capacity for silence. I had a sudden vision
of all you might become in that magnificent air, raised by frugal but
well-living Germans, who would obey my orders to the letter--removed
from all the debilitating influences and the temptations of
wealth--well! I did not wait to communicate with Nettlebeck. I whisked
you off the day after the funeral, and without warning to grandmothers
and aunts. I made Nettlebeck an offer which he accepted promptly, swore
him to secrecy, and left you in that wilderness as elated as if I had
scooped up Wall Street, hard as it was to leave you. Later came the
fortunate episode of my conversation with Stanley Morris’s father--”
Fessenden interrupted him with a sharp exclamation. “He, too, was in
the plot! You chose your tools well. I never received a hint.”
“Morris knew all. It is quite true, however, that he was the son of an
old college friend, suddenly impoverished, and that it was necessary
for him to live in a peculiar atmosphere. He was bent upon California,
but I offered him five thousand a year to live at the Nettlebecks’ and
prepare you for college; also twenty-five thousand dollars the day you
entered. He did not hesitate; moreover, I gave him carte blanche at the
best bookshops of New York and Boston, and offered to send to Europe
for anything which was not imported through the regular channels--”
“In other words, you bought him body and soul! Well, he was not much of
a man, anyhow. And no wonder he was so well fitted to impress me with
the value of money!”
“I have bought bigger men than Morris,” said Mr. Abbott dryly. “I
own twenty-eight members of Congress, seven of the most imposing
figure-heads of the British aristocracy, one sovereign, and several
minor presidents. But to proceed. So far, I have given you only my
paternal reasons for your bringing-up. I will say little now of what
the separation meant to me. I had never been too busy to play with
you, had haunted the nursery or had you brought down here during
every hour I could snatch for home. As I saw you improve up there in
the mountains, from a charming but sickly baby into such a sturdy,
bright, manly little chap, it took all the will I possessed to leave
you behind me when I returned. At last the effort cost too much, and
I dreaded failure. I took the drastic course and saw you no more. The
day you left New York for the West I stole a glimpse of you at the
station. Since then I have not seen you until to-day. During this last
year others have shared my secret besides Morris and Nettlebeck--the
president of your university and the close personal friends whom you
know only as prominent men who agreed to lecture on the subjects
which happened to absorb you. They were tremendously interested in my
experiment, and, as they are men who owe their success in life as much
to their talent for keeping their mouths shut as to anything else, I
had no fear that they would betray me. As for the president, of course
I knew I could trust him fully. But enough of this personal side. I had
another object in preserving you from the pitfalls, the physically and
mentally debilitating influences of wealth, which I should have pursued
had I been twenty times less a father. You were my only son, you must
carry on the traditions of our house, become the custodian of millions,
of the vast power they entailed--”
“And suppose your method has done its work too well,” cried Fessenden,
setting his jaw exactly as his father did while he listened to his
angry son. “You know something of the results of your--your intrigue,
but not all. You know that I have developed strength, power, but
not how much. You see only the obstacles I have conquered; you know
nothing of the ambition that discipline of yours has developed in
me--the inspirations of lives of men of not dissimilar--so far as I
knew--beginnings. And now! Good God, I feel like a mountebank!”
“Answer this question, and not too hastily: Have I done you an
injustice? Nothing could alter the fact that I was a rich man. Do you
regret that I did not run the risk first of your becoming a sickly
spoiled brat, then a dissipated fool? A few, a very few sons of rich
men in this country have turned out passably well--never what their
fathers were: circumstances did not compel them to or go to the wall;
and I dared not tell you--the risk was too great. I could see no other
way; and, looking back, I see none now.”
Fessenden rose and mechanically started for the log in the grate, but
it was June, and he kicked a stool instead. He was still seething; but
even so, his sense of justice dominated his desire to indulge to the
full his bitter indignation and disappointment. “No,” he said, after
a moment, “you were right enough. Doubtless in time I shall be duly
grateful to you. But that premonition does not mitigate in the faintest
degree what I feel now.” His eyes met his father’s, which were full
of affection and pride, and he suddenly descended a peg or two. “I
don’t mind telling you, sir--I believe you will not laugh at me--but I
felt--conceited ass that I was--that I was destined to become a great
man. I felt it was in me to accomplish anything, be anything I set my
brains upon. Of course it was all red blood--the result of precocious
development in solitude, of the little successes which your watchful
care enabled me to win; but the result was the same as if it had been
the real thing. I feel like a peacock with its tail pulled out. And
now please tell me what it has all been for. You say you need a strong
man--is that necessary for the custody of millions? An ordinary sober
honest hard-working agent could do as well, I should think; you must
have some estimable relatives.”
Mr. Abbott laughed. “Not suitable for my purpose,” he said. “Sit
down. I have still much to say. I never blinded myself to the fact
that I was running a great risk, my dear boy; that you might get far
beyond me, refuse to conform to my ultimate plans--especially after
you realized that I not only had been obliged to act a lie but to
utter more than one. One source of my great power is that my word has
never been questioned, and I can manipulate Wall Street by a simple
statement. I may add that my word is as unchallenged in Europe. I have
bitter enemies, and they have called me every opprobrious epithet
except liar. But for once I determined to play the Jesuit; and as you
have as truthful and honest a nature as one meets here below, I will
add that the man who cannot lie when some great issue is at stake is
too big an ass for this world. Well, to proceed. It does not so much
matter about the destiny of the average millionaire’s wealth; it is
usually cut up among relatives and benefactions--bids for immortality
in the third degree. At the worst it can be left in trust. But when
I follow my father, only ten millions will go to--to--relatives. You
must be the custodian of the bulk; and when I give you its present
figure--reminding you that such wealth rolls up wealth unceasingly, by
the mere force of momentum--it may dawn upon you that you still have
it in your power to become as great and as mighty as ever your boyish
imaginings dictated, and that you will need all the character you have
put in storage. What is your idea of a great fortune--an American
fortune?”
“I have thought very little about it. A million seems to me a huge
sum. I have heard of fortunes of fifty or sixty millions--I have
scarcely believed in them, although I perfectly comprehend the wealth
of nations. I am now prepared to hear you say you are worth anything.”
“I am worth four hundred millions.”
Fessenden gasped. The distant rumble of the streets came to his
sensitive ears like the sound of crashing worlds. In a moment he
laughed. “Go on,” he said. “I anxiously await the dawn, the arrival of
hope. I am utterly incapable of grasping such a sum. Have you got it in
gold coin in the bank? If you could show it to me in that concrete form
I might realize it--not otherwise.”
“You will realize it when you have spent several months examining my
papers; and when this natural bewilderment has passed you will recall
all you have recently mastered of banking and finance. You can lay your
hands on several millions in gold coin if you desire--and transfer them
to your own account, for that matter; no wish of yours will ever again
be ungratified by me. But the greater part represents the controlling
interests in the leading corporations, industries, and railroads in
this country, to say nothing of real estate, government bonds--of which
I have the largest share of any man or combination of men--and the bank
of which I am the president and principal shareholder. That is the
skeleton; the details require weeks of explanation on my part and close
application on yours. I have told you enough to demonstrate to you
that the day approaches when you may be the most powerful man in the
world if you choose. You will have heard that the Rothschilds dictate
to Europe--that a nation may be unable to go to war if they refuse to
advance the money. What the Rothschilds are as a family I am as an
individual--and doubly so, for I can act on the moment; I am obliged
to consult no one. When the coffers of the United States Treasury are
low I can fill them; if I refused, and lifted my warning finger to
others, they would remain empty. I can reduce the President of this
great country to a mere figure-head. When the right moment comes I
can push the United States into the front of nations, or force it to
continue to play a third-rate part. In time I can--and shall--make her
the most powerful, the most feared, the most hated of all the countries
on the globe--through such a concentration of capital as no one at the
present moment has had more than a tantalizing dream of. Fifteen years
from now this country will not only be the clearinghouse of the world,
but the autocrat of commerce. Do you begin to see light?”
“Yes, the dawn breaks; but by your leave I will go to my own room for a
while. My brain must have a brief respite. Where am I to hang out?”
“The corner suite on the third floor. I have had a swimming-tank put
in, a Russian bath, and a gymnasium. What you don’t like you will
change, of course.”
“Thanks. I shall probably put a cot in the gymnasium.”
“Don’t fear that I am stifling you with luxury. I have my idea of what
a man’s rooms should be, and I doubt if you find that it differs from
your own.”
As Fessenden opened the door he turned with a sudden flash in his eyes.
“Where is my sister?” he asked.
“She is visiting the Archduchess Ranata Theresia, daughter of the
Emperor--”
But Fessenden had closed the door with force and was bounding up the
stair. “Good God!” he thought, “is the world I am to live in made up
of superlatives? I feel like Gulliver fallen upon Brobdingnag.”