The End
The glory of the morning turned the world to gold, and presently
Atherton awakened, strengthened and refreshed, and for the first time
since his accident, feeling that he was really himself once more.
Consciousness, or rather semi-consciousness, had returned a week ago,
and since that time he had dwelt in a state of delightful
convalescence, sleeping, eating, sleeping again, his body slowly
regaining the energy destroyed by the ravages of the fever. He had
been forbidden to talk, and at first, indeed, his brain had been too
incurious for him to wonder greatly concerning the events of the night
on which he had been struck down.
Helen herself was safe, for she had come often to relieve the nurse
and to sit by his side, while he had purposely feigned sleep for the
delight of watching her from half-closed eyes. And Mr. Hamilton was
unharmed, for he too had found time to make occasional visits to the
sick room. And therefore the success or failure of Stoat's mission had
seemed to him, at first, a matter of relative unimportance. But now,
as his strength returned, so did his interest in the whole affair, and
he found himself hoping that Stoat had achieved what he was after, for
that, he felt, would be the surest way of freeing the Hamilton
household from danger. And if successful, how, he wondered, were Mills
and Blagden progressing with their hair-brained scheme of acquiring
riches untold.
His curiosity was soon to be gratified, for that afternoon, after the
doctor had made his visit, Marshall Hamilton came into the room, and
drew up a chair beside the bed.
"Doctor Carrington informs me," he began, "that you are out of all
danger, and on the high-road to recovery."
Atherton felt instinctively that there was something behind the words,
and that they were not the mere commonplaces they seemed. "Yes,
indeed," he answered. "I'm feeling very fit. Almost as well as ever."
"That is good," the banker answered, "and I am doubly glad, because it
now becomes necessary for us to have a talk of some importance."
It was coming, then. Atherton mentally braced himself for the ordeal.
"I am ready," he said.
There was silence. Then, "You had two friends," said Marshall
Hamilton, "named Blagden and Mills."
Atherton gave him a quick glance, but the face of the financier was
inscrutable. Yet Atherton was sure that the "had" was no mere slip of
the tongue, and the significance of the word was not lost upon him.
"Yes," he answered, "that is so."
"They are dead," said Marshall Hamilton.
Atherton drew a quick breath, and though he heard with emotions
strangely mingled, yet sorrow was uppermost in his heart. With Blagden
he had differed, and Blagden had played him false, yet he had admired
the man's courage, his energy, his enthusiasm, while as for Mills,
poor old Tubby had always been a genial, kindly boy. And there was
moisture in his eyes and a tightening in his throat as the financier
went on, "They played with fire, and the flame consumed them. Yet
through no fault of their own. They played boldly for a high stake and
they played well. They must have been brave, ingenious, shrewd--"
He paused; then slowly and thoughtfully continued, "I have lived for
over fifty years. I have enjoyed this world. I have tried to observe
and study both myself and my fellow men. But to me the most
fascinating thing in life has been to watch Destiny play its game with
us all. Do you believe in God?"
Atherton hesitated. "No," he answered, "I do not think that I do."
"My own belief," said the banker, "is in a God, but not the God of the
Bible. Moore, the novelist, has described him in a phrase which I have
always admired. 'The Greater Aristophanes.' Isn't that perfect? He is
not the blameless, faultless God of Scripture, but infinitely more
human. He is a humorist; sometimes a grim one. Doubtless I appear to
you to be wandering, but I am not. Here is the point. This Greater
Aristophanes has played with us all--with you and your friends,
with me and my friends, with my family and with Bellingham, my
secretary--weaving us all into a strange, fantastic web, and always on
the side of your friends until the final moment. And then--a sudden
humor seizes him--he changes sides, and allows a blow to fall on your
head. You become ill--delirious--and in your ravings you lay bare the
whole mystery which has puzzled me for so long, and incidentally,
through no fault of your own, you sign the death warrant of your
friends."
Atherton, overwhelmed, lay silent. "Then you know," he said at length,
"what the burglary was for?"
For answer, the banker drew forth his watch, held it up before
Atherton's eyes, and replaced it in his pocket. "I know everything,"
he said. "This was no time for half measures. Rightly or wrongly, your
belongings have been searched, and I have found the paper which
explains the whole affair."
The pause lengthened. Apparently, it seemed to Atherton, the banker
was giving him time to assimilate this news, and surely he needed it.
And more and more, as he reflected, grew his wonder as to what his
position might be. Death had been meted out to Mills and Blagden for
their knowledge. Why should he escape? Instinctively he glanced at the
financier as if to read his thoughts, and as if he understood the
look--indeed, as if he had been expecting it--Hamilton spoke.
"You are, perhaps, wondering," he said, "as to my attitude toward
you."
"That," responded Atherton, "is precisely what I should like to know."
"I have been," the banker answered, "greatly puzzled, but it has
seemed to me that we should have a moment's talk of a most
confidential nature. And I am not," he added grimly, "going to extort
any pledge of secrecy. Knowing the fate of Bellingham, of Mills and of
Blagden, you will understand why I deem that unnecessary."
In spite of himself, Atherton shuddered. He felt weak, powerless, as
if he were lying bound in the path of some huge engine of destruction.
"This system, of which you are cognizant," continued the financier,
"really exists. It is our policy to deny it, but with you that would
hardly serve. It exists. It has existed for forty years. It is
international in its scope, and although vague rumors are occasionally
heard regarding it, and it is periodically assailed upon suspicion, so
far our secrets have been so well guarded, and the punishment meted
out to those who have spied upon us, or even talked about us, have
been so crushingly severe, that we have maintained an impregnable
defence. The system is open to criticism; I do not deny that. To many
men and women it has brought disaster, ruin, and even death. Yet
people so constituted that they must gamble in the stock market would
probably be unsuccessful in any event in whatever else they undertook;
they are the world's weaklings, and their loss means little to the
world. Moreover, somebody must rule this country; that is our real
defence. Democracy is a farce, a failure, an idle dream. In any land,
there must be an aristocracy of brains. Therefore we rule, and on the
whole, I think, wisely. We permeate everywhere; we dominate
everything; Politics, Commerce, the whole domain of Trade, they are
all ours; we are the Country's uncrowned kings. Thus the market is
only one source of our revenue, though our most important source.
Without us, there would exist a state of chaos. For forty years, we
have averted panics; steered the nation through crisis after crisis;
our function is really that of a mighty balance wheel. In a word, we
do evil that ultimate good may come. Do I make myself clear?"
Atherton had listened, spell-bound. At last doubt had changed to
certainty; the picture was complete. "Yes," he answered, "I
understand."
"And now," continued Hamilton, "as to your position. By all the rules
of the game, you should have ceased to trouble us, two weeks ago. One
thing has saved you. Unfortunately for me, it appears that my daughter
cares for you. Though why," he added whimsically, "she could not have
fallen in love with someone else, is more than I can see."
Atherton flushed. "I know," he began, "I'm not in the least worthy of
her--" But the banker cut him short. "There, there," he said, "I
wasn't really serious. I believe you are a clean and honorable young
man--you have shown that in many ways--and I think I may offer you a
choice. You may take a subordinate place in our organization. It will
have many attractions. You will prosper; you will make money; you may
rise, if you possess the ability, even to the greatest heights of all.
But you will give your undivided allegiance. You will rid yourself of
all emotions of pity. You will see the lambs led to the shearing; you
will help to lead them there. But you will gain the pride of place,
and glory in the eyes of men."
Before Atherton's eyes swept a vision of the seething brokerage
offices, the eager crowds, the whirring, clicking tickers, the
dreamers of dreams that were destined never to come true. And
unhesitatingly he answered, "Mr. Hamilton, never again, as long as I
live, do I wish to see the inside of a broker's office; never again do
I wish to hear the opening bell, to see the tape begin to tell its
lying story. Let me be a poor man all my life; but let me do some
honest work, if it's no more than turning out bolts or nails on a
machine. Anything in the world but what you offer me."
The banker regarded him, apparently not displeased. "I will not say,"
he answered, "that you are unwise. We play a great game, but a
dangerous one. Our fortunes swell to the bursting point; labor watches
and threatens; the people are not blind; it is a condition which may
bring about its own cure. There may come revolution, death and
destruction--no man can tell. Therefore, you are perhaps wise to
choose the factory and the chance to rise through your own endeavors.
And that, I take it, is your choice."
"There is nothing," Atherton answered, "that I should like better."
"Very well," the banker responded, "but remember this." And as he
spoke, his voice became low and stern. "You have done me more than one
favor; I do you one now. But I consider that by doing so we are quits,
and more than quits. Forget what you have seen, what you have heard,
what you know. Think of it as a dream, dissolving into air. For if
ever in the future you breathe one word, one whisper, of what you have
learned, you are that moment a dead man, and mine will be the first
hand raised to strike you down."
Atherton, without flinching, returned his gaze, realizing as never
before the power of this vast order which ruled with such an iron
hand, and realizing, too, his own insignificance, his utter
helplessness, his inability to do aught else than to comply. "I give
you my word," he answered. "What I know is forgotten."
The banker rose. "Then the whole incident," he said, "is closed. I
wish you a speedy recovery, and now I think there is another visitor
waiting to see you, no doubt impatiently."
He left the room, and Atherton, wearied, for a moment closed his eyes.
A splendor of sunshine flooded the world without; an oriole in the
swaying elm filled the air with song. All things spoke of youth and
life and joy.
So softly did she enter that he did not hear her cross the room, and
it was only when he opened his eyes again that he knew that dream and
reality were one, and that before them lay the long, bright years, for
him and the girl he loved to traverse, side by side.