PART I (continued 2)

“Is he an inventor?” asked Fessenden eagerly. “Is that the mystery? Is that the reason he wants me to study all these new things—that I may be of use to him?”

“Well, he is something of an inventor, and you certainly can be of great use to him—more than anybody on earth can be.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before? Now I have a double object. I’ll work like a logger. What’s his line?”

Morris groaned; but as he disposed his hand-baggage neatly about him he had another inspiration. “All!” he announced. “That is to say, a combination of all this very modern university can teach you. The result may be extraordinary.”

Fessenden fell back on his seat and stared out of the window, seeing nothing. His imagination was fired with the vision of his lonely potential devoted father experimenting in obscurity with a revolutionizing idea, whose bare elementary threads—awaiting himself in the Northwest—filled him with such excitement and exhilaration that he wanted to get out and race the train. Fortunately his deep emotions always rendered him speechless, and Morris was permitted to sleep peacefully during the greater part of the journey.

XIII

Although Morris had never reached the heart-strings of his pupil, the youth was his one human interest—his father was dead long since; and as Fessenden fully realized his debt of gratitude to the capable and conscientious tutor, as well as being a person in whom habit struck long roots, the parting was unexpectedly affecting. As Fessenden returned from the station of the little town of Turbine, where he was to spend the greater part of the next four years, he suddenly conceived a violent antipathy for his new surroundings, and a desire to flee back to his mountains. This flat interminable prairie, this cheap town, not an elevation in sight, much less the mountains which had gone far into the modelling of his nature—there was nothing here resembling the great world of which he had dreamed. He longed for real solitude, feeling for the first time the miserable substitute the crowd offers; and suddenly understood how much closer to the great realities of life it brings a man than any actual juxtaposition.

But in a few days he was too busy and interested for either homesickness or dreams. Morris had drilled him so thoroughly in English, the dead languages, German, French, in history and mathematics, that he could have entered Yale or Harvard with sails spread, and in the younger university he took a rank at once which gave him the more time for the course known as “Training for Business.” Almost immediately it seemed to him that sleeping things rose in his brain, things whose existence he had never suspected, and strove to put themselves in touch with inspiring forces without. Fessenden, who had made up his mind to place himself in a neutral receptive state, to give no more thought to the future and to ambition until he had learned all that the university could teach him, was some time recognizing that these new-comers were talents, and that they responded to all that was inventive and practical in his initial course.

He recognized them in time, however, as day by day he grew more absorbed in the mysteries of the engine and electricity; and the glimpses he had, in his first year, of finance and political economy stirred him like old love-letters. His imagination idealized and personified the engine he worked upon as it had his canoe; and on the day when he finally mastered the difficult art of taking it to pieces and putting it together again without help or hitch, he challenged the strong man of the college to combat, and polished him off with such enthusiasm that once more he occupied the proud position of champion. This satisfied his masculine vanity, besides delivering him from the chaffing and petty persecutions provoked by his mountain hues; he was henceforth permitted to indulge his passion for sweaters and old hats, even on Sundays, unchallenged, while his remarkable abilities were as frankly acknowledged.

The military drill did not give him enough exercise, and he had promised his father he would waste no time on sport. “Your passion to excel,” Mr. Abbott had written, “would make you neglect your studies; so be wise and get your exercise some other way.” Fessenden was feeling nervous and somewhat confused one Friday afternoon when he suddenly bethought himself of his axe. He brought it forth, fingered it lovingly in a rush of memories, then shouldered it and started for the open country. He was not long finding a farmer who was willing to have his wood cut for nothing, and thereafter Fessenden spent an hour every evening and half of Saturday, either felling Mr. Lunt’s trees or sawing his logs; and the exercise relieved his brain and kept his muscles hard.

The military drill not only dismissed his mountain slouch and gave him a free and upright carriage, but inspired him with dreams of war and glory. The martial music quickened his blood, and secretly he fancied himself very much in his uniform. It was not long before he became restless in the ranks and announced to the West Point officer in charge his desire to become captain. The officer stared, laughed, then reminded him that military rank was—as a rule—or should be (he was a victim of politics himself), the result of superior accomplishments and talents, to say naught of hard work. Thereafter, three times a week during two of the afternoon hours, Fessenden dismissed books and machinery from his brain and concentrated that energetic instrument upon military drill alone.

But he spent the greater part of his time and thought in the shops and yards. Aside from the ambition and the superabundant energy which prompted him to excel in all he undertook, his imagination was absorbed in the rapture of unravelling certain mysteries of science—was at work on far-distant but great and picturesque results. He was in no hurry to invent, but even while signalling and switching at night he saw trains of unimaginable beauty and grace and lightness skim by in the dark, and great fleets of ships, invincible and terrible in war, forcing the Monroe Doctrine down the throat of Europe, perhaps annexing the rotten old monarchies altogether. That the red hair of a daughter of the Cæsars would one day entangle itself in his wondrous electrical stores, and jerk them far afield, he did not forebode then, poor Fessenden; he was happy in his dreams and ideals.

XIV

As the college year was drawing to its close he received the following letter from his father:

“My dear Boy,—I am sorry to be obliged to inform you that you must manage somehow to pay your own expenses during the remaining three years at the university. Five hundred dollars a year are a good deal, and you are younger than I am, remember. I can let you have a hundred, but that is all, and I have every confidence that you will be able to make the rest for yourself. Perhaps you may imagine what it means to me to reflect that I have such a son to lean on in my old age! I know of no man living that I envy. I am informed of your progress, and I am proud of you beyond the power of any poor words of mine to express.

Your affectionate Father.”

For the moment Fessenden was shocked and bewildered; but not only did the subtlety of Mr. Abbott’s letter begin its work at once, but his mettle flew to its opportunity. He promptly turned to with that absolute lack of doubt which, in a man well equipped, compels success. There were a number of relatively wealthy men in the university whose patriotism for the West and contempt for the effete East had led them, or their fathers, to patronize the home institution. Fessenden imperiously persuaded these men that they needed a course of practical lessons in forestry and longed for a summer in camp in the Adirondacks not far from the cooking of Christina. The summer was pleasant and profitable for all, but particularly for Fessenden, who found many hours to dream alone among his mountains and into the sympathetic ear of Pocahontas. She was haughty and evasive for several days after his enthusiastic arrival, turned him over twice, and took advantage of every abstraction to make for submerged stumps and shore. But having made him sufficiently miserable, she gradually restored him to favor, and the old happy bond was re-established. But although he was glad of the long hours of rest and of pondering over the world of science into which he had been precipitated by the intuition and foresight of his father, he was soon eager to get back to the practical application. He returned to the university with half the money he needed, and he could easily make up the remainder by coaching. The day after his return he walked out to Mr. Lunt’s and announced his intention of living with him and paying for his board with his axe, or in any other reasonable manner. The farmer was taken aback, and somewhat displeased at the idea of paying for what he had grown accustomed to accept as his right; but finally admitted the justice of Fessenden’s argument, especially as he had no such enthusiast for hard labor on his farm. Shortly after, Fessenden, in a burst of adolescent pride, returned his father’s contribution, having persuaded his forestry class that they needed private lessons in German, which in truth they did, although they enjoyed the study of Fessenden more. They never connected him with the author of his being, but they thought him unique and perennially interesting. Occasionally they marvelled at his sublime audacity, a quality as a rule born of the easy assurance of wealth and social position, particularly when well-bred and unconscious; but they never got beyond the conclusion that it was the result of an unusual brain and a gift for leadership. That he should become the captain of his company before the end of his first year, and prove an ardent disciplinarian, did not so much surprise them; but his talents were less easy to account for, and those interested in heredity approached him on the subject. Fessenden was determined to keep his father’s secret, whatever it might be; and as he could be diplomatic when diplomacy seemed more advisable than throwing an impertinent man out of the window, he sent the curious away with the impression that he came of plain mountain people.

XV

During this year he took up modern history, the development of railway intercourse in Europe and America, and pursued his studies and experiments of the previous year with unabated ardor. He likewise became violently interested in politics, and let off a good deal of steam in public speaking. He also took up the cudgels for the East, partly because his father was a New-Yorker, partly because in this attitude he stood practically alone. Privately he thought the West had cause for grievance in the absurd and ignorant attitude of the East; but it was impossible for him to run with the majority, and there certainly was much to be said for the older civilization. The question of strikes and all the manifestations of the antagonism between capital and labor did not engage his attention until the following year; and when it did his sympathies were entirely with the poor man, as he informed his father in long and impassioned letters. In answer, Mr. Abbott invariably reminded him that as yet he knew nothing of the rich, and advised him to suspend judgment. But although Fessenden by this time was an intolerant democrat, wore his oldest sweaters, and even persuaded Miss Lunt to patch his trousers, there was something curiously aristocratic in his attitude and personality, which his associates felt rather than analyzed. There was not a man in the college who would have dared to emulate his utter disregard of appearance, his indifference to comment on the streets of Turbine, the catholicity of his acquaintance, the manner in which he ignored the very existence of those he did not like, the recklessness with which he thought out loud, apparently unconscious that anything could affect his standing, popularity, and reputation, and the indefinable touch of patronage in his most extreme democracy. And although even at that period, when he was full of vanity, he did not swagger, still it was noticeable that he carried himself as if the world were his. He made enemies, but he either fought them or accepted them with philosophy, and he had an army of disciples, who followed his imaginative flights and his most radical theories to the bitter end.

But his fellow-men interested Fessenden less at this period than the wonderful excursions he was making daily into the new realms of thought and research. It was during the middle of the third year that he gave himself up more particularly to the study of finance, the development of banking, and political economy. He pursued these studies with a curious sense of reviving old memories; he surprised himself at his love of dry details—that even here his imagination saw picturesqueness in the possibilities of concentrating vast sums of money and yet filling the veins of a great country with a life-blood of liquid gold. During his democratic madness he had seriously doubted whether his conscience would permit him to be a rich man; but now, with a chastened yet no less sincere democracy, he made up his mind that for a man of the people to acquire millions and then use them for the amelioration of his less-gifted fellows, to say nothing of glorifying his country, was both wise and poetical. Having satisfied his mind on this point, he astonished the university and Turbine by appearing at church in a suit of clothes not only of harmoniously assorted pieces, but manifestly made to order. He sustained the balance by looking worse than usual during the week.

In the vacation preceding Fessenden’s fourth year the university received, from a source which was to remain unknown to all but the president, a large bequest for the departments of banking and finance. The bequest was accompanied by the condition that during the ensuing year certain eminent authorities were to be asked to lecture. Somewhat to the surprise but greatly to the satisfaction of the faculty, invitations to lecture were promptly accepted by the Secretary of the Treasury, the President of the Pennsylvania Railroad, the owner of a great department store, and three leading bank presidents. These gentlemen did not confine themselves to generalities; they described the practical workings of their respective systems, enriched by a wealth of comparison with corresponding systems in other countries; they pointed out the defects and disadvantages of both sides, and analyzed the causes of the remarkable progress of so young a country as the United States; they emphasized the necessity of a sleepless alertness, and the demand for new ideas which should be bold without recklessness and safe without conservatism. Fessenden listened with tingling nerves and legs moving restlessly. He wrote to his father that he regarded this timely benefaction as a direct interposition of Providence in his behalf, and that although he certainly had to work harder than any one in the world, he believed that he had been born under a star of remarkable magnitude. His ambitions had revived long since. He had in his imagination a union of steel and electricity so madly romantic that he dared not confide even in his father. He must make a large sum of money first, for he would trust no one with his secret. He believed that he could make his country invincible, the ruler, if she chose, of two hemispheres, and he looked back somewhat patronizingly upon his old heroes. Other times, other gods! The pendulum in him was still swinging wildly, the balance was not yet; but the depth and tenacity of purpose, the clear creative intellect, quick and versatile in grasp, and of an extraordinary energy; the high enthusiasm and real capacity for the passion of patriotism were all modelling and biding their time within the exterior made up of their defects.

So passed the four years, with their intervals of mountain-life, when, in spite of his ever-increasing classes, he drew renewed strength and courage from solitude and the invigorating air of high altitudes. Hard work told little on him, for his body was full of red mountain-blood and clamped with magnificent muscles.

He hoped that his father would come and witness his triumphs of Commencement Day, but he received this letter instead:

“My dear Boy,—It is a matter of very great regret to me that I cannot be with you at this time, but I will explain my absence to your entire satisfaction when we meet. Thank God that will be almost immediately. At a very bitter price to myself I have relentlessly pursued a plan conceived the day after your mother’s death; and my compensation so far has been its entire success. Will you come to New York on Monday? It had been my intention to meet you in the Adirondacks and tell my story there, for I dislike anything savoring of drama, but business imperatively commands me to stay here, and I must ask you to come to me. I have sent for Pocahontas. I enclose a postal order for a hundred dollars. May I ask you not to arrive in a sweater? New York is not Turbine. Moreover, a natural weakness makes me wish to see you, after so many years, at the best possible advantage.

“Your very affectionate “Father.”

Fessenden pondered over this letter. It was enigmatic, and Mr. Abbott’s brief communications were usually remarkable for their clarity. He had made up his mind four years ago that his father was an inventor, and denuded him of all mystery. It also occurred to him with startling abruptness that he had never seen his father’s signature. As he stood staring at the paper, shadowy images, impressions, chance words, blurred pictures rose from some forgotten well in his mind, endeavored to sharpen, to cohere; but they faded away impotently; the vital interests of the morrow rushed in and claimed place; he shrugged his shoulders and sent his father a telegram.

XVI

“Fess,” said Jeremiah Keene, on the night of Commencement Day, “what are you going to do with yourself? You are the most expansive—nay, sentimental and emotional creature on one side of you, and on the other the most secretive! I’ve turned myself inside out to you over and over again. You know all my hopes, aspirations, plans—who doesn’t? What have I been digging away at this school of mines for? But you’ve gone in for everything, distinguished yourself in pretty nearly everything—and we are none the wiser. In these days you’ve got to be one thing—one thing—there’s no chance for any but the specialist, and you are as well aware of that as any one else. So I know, we all know, that you must have made up your mind—that you know what you are about. It isn’t only curiosity that prompts me to ask for your secret—there is no necessity for maunderings on my part. I’d like to know; we may not meet again for years—you go East, I go West—I’ve never taken a liberty with you before; forgive me this.”

Fessenden made no reply for a moment. He was spending his last night in Turbine in the rooms of his chum. The day had been crowded with triumphs. He was dazzled, elated, a trifle bewildered. Compliments and flattering predictions had fallen thick upon him. The president had congratulated him publicly, invited him to dinner to meet the distinguished guests, and he had been the only student so honored. Among the guests were several of the eminent men who had condescended to illuminate the university during the past year, and they had singled out Fessenden and paid him such marked attentions, besides interrogating him so closely as to his interest in his more important studies, that both faculty and students, highly as they thought of their star, were astonished: the successful self-made American takes very little interest in unmade futures. It was a great and notable tribute to personality, and Fessenden’s chest had risen and his head bulged more than once. He was feeling his strength at every nerve-point, he knew himself to be ready to go out and conquer the world at once; his mind had flashed back during the exciting day to the long course of training, from his babyhood until this last week of his twenty-first year, which had modelled his inherited forces in brain and character, slowly and safely, given him the physical endurance to keep pace with the restless energies of his mind. He was filled with gratitude for his father, but he also thought very well of himself. The self-made American was his type, the ideal he had set on high; whether born in a log-cabin, on a Virginia plantation, or a romantic British isle, was immaterial. All the great men of his country had started with a reasonable amount of poverty, and certainly the youthful record of none was more brilliant than his. He had had his disappointments, his disillusionments, even in Turbine; he had been deceived and tricked and tripped and hurt like all men; but he lived too much in imagination, in the future, and his application to study had been too severe for brooding on the shortcomings of the world. He still thought well of it, and his consistent admiration for his friend Keene had gone far to nurse his optimism. Life never did a kinder thing for him than in bestowing so abundant a measure of contentment in these last hours of his boyhood.

He stood up in a moment, turning over his chair. Keene was lying on a divan, smoking. The lamp was low. The windows were open, but to silence only. It was very late.

“Well—well—well—” said Fessenden. “I don’t know. I should have to tell you so much—and my ambitions are defined and at the same time rather nebulous. You see, I have to find out just what my father wants of me first—what he is—”

“What he is? There is a mystery, then? You’ve bluffed us pretty well.”

“I’m no maker of mysteries. I don’t know, myself—but—and you’re the only person living I’d say this to, and I’d break even your head if you gave a hint before he was ready—I think he is a great inventor and wanted me to have this training that I might help him.”

It was on the tip of Keene’s tongue to remark upon the uselessness of Mr. Abbott’s secrecy so far as his son was concerned, but congratulated himself a few moments later that Fessenden had given him no time for comment.

“I have not seen him for years, but not through lack of affection—he asked me to trust him and I have done so. I had a curious letter from him on Tuesday—I have thought a good deal about it since—and now that I am to see him and know all so soon, I may permit myself to indulge in curiosity. I’ll read it to you if you like.”

He held Mr. Abbott’s last letter to the lamp and read it aloud; then plunged his hands into his pockets, planted himself squarely on his feet, and told Keene of his peculiar relations with his father since his mother’s death. He made it all very vivid; the brief visits of Mr. Abbott, the concise pregnant conversations, the firm careful finger always modelling at the foundations of his character, the cleverness and foresight with which his father had secured the services of Stanley Morris, who through seven monotonous years had pined for California. Much of this was revealed unconsciously in the narrative of his mountain-life. While he was in the midst of his story Keene sat up suddenly; a moment later interrupted him to ask for a description of Mr. Abbott. Fessenden had answered: “Small, thin, but with an immense lot of presence—even up there where one man is exactly the same as another, where there is real equality and no bluff about it—they all bowed down to him instinctively—even Morris, who is a deep scholar and thinker and belongs to one of the best families in the country—if you care for that sort of American rot. Even when I was a little chap and he used to pet and fondle me, I could feel the power come out of him, and I told Morris once that if he wasn’t a rich man it must be his own fault—he made you feel he could be anything he chose. His face is beautiful to me, perhaps because I love him, for Morris remarked rather nastily once that he was not generally considered a beauty; but he has eyes that can light up, and his face always changed for me anyhow, if it did look rather cold—perhaps hard—at other times. Nettlebeck swore once that it was hard, but I never could see it. His features are well cut, too, his nose looks as if it could go through a stone wall, and there is not an indefinite curve in his mouth—there you have him, as well as I can describe anybody.”

But Keene, long since, had rolled over and buried his face in the sofa cushions.

The next day, as the two men parted at Chicago, Keene, who was far more mature than Fessenden, having less of the eternal boy in him, put his arm about his friend’s shoulder and said hesitatingly: “Remember—there are terrible disappointments awaiting you out here in the great world—as for all of us. Take everything that comes along as philosophically as you can—everything is for the best, I suppose. Above all, don’t let any shock embitter you. I am sure, I am sure that your father is all that you imagine him to be—that whatever he does in regard to you—has done—is right.... I wish he were not so poor, however; I wish he were the Abbott.”

“Who is the Abbott?”

“Of course you never read the newspapers, and it is odd how he manages to keep out of the illustrated magazines—I should think he must pay them. The Abbott, my dear boy, is richer than the whole Rothschild outfit condensed into the singular.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s not that sort of Abbott,” said Fessenden indifferently. “Thank God I can show my mettle and start from the ground up.”

The words left no trail in Fessenden’s mind; the parting which followed affected him deeply, and he was too excited at the prospect of seeing his father again to recall what had impressed him as a mere chance remark.

XVII

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.”

XVIII

He found no fault with his rooms. They were not those of a poor student with a great future, but they were severe, masculine, and entirely adequate. When he had taken a cold swim in his marble tank, and exercised for half an hour in his gymnasium, the blood which his father’s millions had shocked to his brain receded and left it clear and logical again. But he was by no means reconciled to his lot; he feared the stifling influences of wealth, of which he had read in so many books. To make a great fortune in constant warfare with all the difficulties, acquiring a painful knowledge of the value of every dollar, was an achievement which might easily lead to greater accomplishment still, but to fling a man on his back without warning and pour gold over him by the ton—

He left his room abruptly and walked slowly downstairs. “What’s the use of thinking about it? or about what was to have been?—my absurd impossible past, which I shall put away in lavender and cherish like a dead love. There is nothing to be done but to make the best of a bad business, re-adapt myself—mortals are always doing that, anyhow. I shall ask for a respite before settling down to it, however.”

When he reached the main floor he turned into the reception-room and strolled through the several large and lofty rooms which ended in a music-room of immense proportions. He inferred that it was the largest in New York; and, still feeling sore and satirical, returned to a more appreciative inspection of the other rooms. That their harmonies were exquisite he needed no telling, and he thought the pale soft tints, as faded and elusive as charming old memories, a pleasant contrast to his beloved Nature. That the few pictures were as great in art as they must be in price he also knew instinctively, and found consolation in the reflection that his father did not belong to the class of millionaires who furnished with a single check and leaned upon the agent and the decorator. The rich worn oddly built furniture looked as if brooding in cold aloofness upon an historic past, yet not wholly dissatisfied with its present. Where there were no pictures, bits of brocade, which looked as if a breath might waft them in search of their makers, had been inserted with such skill that they were a part of the background of tarnished gold. Not a chair, not a table, not a cabinet, was formed like anything Fessenden had ever seen, and there were numberless objects for which he had no name; but he approved of everything; indeed, they gave him a distinct pleasure—caressed the raw edges of his resentment, and inclined his mind more philosophically to his new condition.

When his eye had mastered the general effect, it took note of the exceeding repetition of one object, the photograph of a girl. There were perhaps twenty of these large photographs in the different rooms, framed in silver, in gold, in brilliants, in semi-precious stones, on tables, on easels, on shelves. One massive gold frame, incrusted with jewels, bore aloft the double eagle of the House of Hapsburg. Across all these pictures was dashed, rather than written, the name Ranata, followed by an inscription in German, French, English, or in another language for which Fessenden had no name. The girl herself was taken in full, in profile, on horseback, sitting in throne-like chairs, leaning on balustrades, at any age from ten to eighteen, and in as many different costumes as there were photographs. Fessenden sniffed at the vanity of woman, but concluded that he had never seen such a seat in the saddle, and that she certainly looked as if she knew her own mind. Whether he admired her or not he was unable to determine. She had an antique profile, and her eyes were as American as his own—shrewd, alert, eager, powerful. One of the photographs was colored, and the hair blazed, but the eyes were gray. Fessenden thought it romantic to have a princess in the family, and examined the pictures with much interest. The greater number had been given to her much-loved Alexandra, but one was apparently the property of his father, and another of a Mrs. Abbott, of whom he knew nothing. He was not the youth to fall in love with a photograph, however, and as he walked towards the library the Archduchess Ranata Theresia made way in his mind for other matters which at that stage concerned him far more deeply.

XIX

His father was standing on the hearth-rug, awaiting his return with some uneasiness. Fessenden gave his hand a mighty grip. “It’s all right,” he said. “I was born into this family, and that is the end of it. I’d never go back on you, anyhow. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go up to the mountains for a while. I’d like it awfully if you would come, too, of course—it’s only that I can think better there than anywhere else—and it occurs to me for the first time that I am rather tired—the examinations were very stiff, and I went in for an unusual amount.”

“The Adirondacks, by all means, if you prefer them; and I am badly in need of a holiday; but how would you like a yachting cruise for a change? I have a new steam-yacht of 7000 tons that I think would interest—”

“A steam-yacht of 7000 tons!” cried Fessenden, his terrible responsibilities forgotten. “I can think of nothing on earth—what sort of machinery has she got? How fast can she go? Can I run her?”

While Mr. Abbott was answering questions, luncheon was announced, and he passed his hand through his son’s arm. “We are lunching earlier than usual on your account, and the time has run away,” he said haltingly. “I don’t wish to give you too many shocks in one day, but I must make another confession. You have—I married again some years ago.”

“My dear father,” replied his son dryly, “if you told me that you had married Queen Victoria and annexed the British realm—in fact I expect it. Are there—have I any more brothers and sisters scattered about among the palaces of Europe?”

Mr. Abbott laughed. “No, I did not marry another young wife. Your step-mother is ornamental in her way; but I selected her partly for companionship—I had known her always—partly because I wanted some one to bring up your sister with common-sense and care. I am perfectly satisfied with her; and, as she is a woman of infinite tact, I am sure you will get on with her whether you like her or not. She will probably be a little late for luncheon—she has so many morning engagements—charities—”

But this was not the occasion for Mrs. Abbott’s tact to fail her. She had given the father and son their uninterrupted morning; but to hasten home and preside at luncheon at the unseemly hour of half-past twelve, to make such a performance appear both natural and a compliment, was an occasion for subtlety too rare to be missed. She was standing in the dining-room as they entered, one hand resting on the table, her eyes fixed in pleasant anticipation on the Gobelin which hung before the door. She still wore her hat, she was slightly flushed, her wrap was half removed—her whole appearance was stamped with delicate haste. As she shook hands warmly with Fessenden, smiling and talking rapidly in a very cultivated voice, her step-son wondered at her extreme unlikeness to any woman of her probable age that he had ever seen. She was tall, slender, as willowy as youth; her hair was as black as her eyes, her skin, although sallow, was without wrinkle or line, and her features were mobile. She wore a gown of light summer silk and a large hat, yet both were made and worn with such tact that the painful affectation of lost youth was not suggested: she looked what she was, a woman of the ever-receding middle age, fashionably dressed. Whatever use she might make of modern science to avert age, she employed no art to simulate youth, and as her year was various and crowded, both mind and face were plastic. Whatever her temperament may have been originally, she had made it equable long since; and while she escaped the stigma of amiability, her self-control carried her evenly through the smooth waters of her life. No one ever knew whether she were a really intellectual woman or a brilliantly superficial one, for she had a delicately masterful habit of changing the conversation, as if the end of living were to avert the monotonies. Even in the soft vagueness of chiffon and lace she looked well groomed, and on the promenade and in her carriage no one outshone her in distinction. Distinction, indeed, was the keynote of her personality; and it is doubtful if she would not have sacrificed all other possible gifts to this. An efficient housekeeper managed her twenty servants, her pin-money would have kept an ambitious family of the middle class in affluence, her life was far more luxurious than royalty’s; she was the leader of the most exclusive old set in New York, presided over the most important charities, and yet found time to read the foreign news and play with intellect. With it all she had the rare good sense to be content with her lot and to keep her health.

But in spite of this charming personage who diffused ease as with unseen wings, discontent had assailed Fessenden again. The immense dim baronial room, the automatic butler, the catlike footmen, absurdly tall in their livery, the gold and crystal and floral splendor of the table, made him long gloomily for Pocahontas and a “hunk” of Christina’s bread. He was grateful, however, that Mrs. Abbott talked constantly, in her sprightly abrupt manner. She had been educated as thoroughly as an Englishwoman, trained in a deportment which was a nice mixture of reserve and graciousness—Fessenden inferred that she would treat a servant with the utmost consideration, and never permit a liberty from a friend—and she had cultivated the art of conversation, of appearing spontaneous—rarely finishing a long sentence—and of adapting herself to all men, from a reforming drunkard in the slums straight up to royalty. She presently divined her step-son’s mental state, and diverted him by talking of his sister.

“Alexandra spends her winters with the Archduchess, with whom she was brought up, you know. She hates New York, but is fond of our home on the Hudson, and will go with me this summer to Newport—makes her début, you know—she is just eighteen, but went to court functions during the year preceding Rudolf’s death. The Archduchess—they are the same age—came out at sixteen—the Empress being so much away made a difference. Alexandra has rather Americanized her, although in her way she is as much of an individual as the German Emperor—if she only becomes American enough, I believe Europe will hear of her—do you observe your father smile? It’s too bad, really—if you rush off yachting like this, you won’t see Alexandra for months; she has remained later than usual this year, for the Archduchess is still in terrible distress over the death of her brother—a greater tragedy for Europe than for her, however! I wonder how you and Alexandra will like each other? How odd for you to meet for the first time at your age! She is most brilliantly educated, very clever, and a really remarkable linguist; speaks even Hungarian with fluency, and already has quite a knowledge of the world—foreign men are such an education; but I don’t think she will marry early. She is a handsome girl—looks like your mother, but less beautiful; not in the least susceptible—has a remarkably level head; is singularly like your father in many respects. We hardly fancy she will marry a foreigner. If she does, her choice is sure to be a wise one; her head is very cool, and she is in a position to take any step with her eyes open.”

Fessenden had all the young, or the untravelled, American’s contempt for the foreigner. As his step-mother paused for breath, he elevated the nose that England had given him. “I should hope she wouldn’t,” he said emphatically. “Aren’t there enough men in America? Why don’t you make her live over here? I think hobnobbing with royalty is ridiculous for an American.”

Mrs. Abbott laughed pleasantly. “If you could only be an American woman for five minutes! But don’t worry; your sister is as good an American as you are—we have seen to that—and, as I have said, remarkably level-headed; Europe has merely improved, not changed her. I am positive you will be delighted with her, and what she can’t tell you of la haute politique!— She is tremendously interested in you—but I must run! I have an engagement with the housekeeper, and she has the vice of promptness. She is moving us to The Abbey, and we are late this year—I love New York; and as your father was going abroad, and Alex is so far behind time—you will excuse me, I know; and mind you come to tea with me in my own little room at half-past five. You are included in that invitation, my lord.” And, nodding brightly, she left the room with an elastic step that in no way detracted from the light dignity of her carriage.

Fessenden drew a long breath.

“It is not always so,” said Mr. Abbott, with a smile. “As I remarked before, she has great tact. She saw that you were bored, and was determined to entertain you; but when another wants the floor, I do not know any one who can yield it more gracefully. But of course she lives in an atmosphere of flattery—you must expect to find her rather spoiled; but if you really are a good American, you won’t mind that. Alexandra is far less so; she has been educated in a severer school, and she has a far juster sense of proportion—knows exactly what the flattery of the courtier amounts to. That is one reason I have permitted her to be over there so much—one of many reasons.”

He lapsed into the dreamy condition his son remembered so well; but he emerged in a few moments, and waved his hand. The servants disappeared. Mr. Abbott concentrated his gaze on his son. “Fessenden,” he said slowly, “I will tell you my programme for the next year; and please remember, as you listen, that if you do not like it you are at liberty to follow one of your own. I shall never do more than suggest again; for I admit that I have had my day, and that it is your turn now. To prove my entire sincerity in this respect, I shall deposit a million dollars to your credit to-morrow. That will make you your own master—”

Fessenden had flung himself half-way across the table. “I know what I will do with it,” he cried eagerly. “I never dreamed I could get to work so soon—but pardon me; go ahead, sir. Mine will keep.”

“I have no doubt that plans will come to you very thickly, but I want you to learn something of Europe before settling down. I shall take three secretaries on the yacht with me—I should break down if I relaxed altogether—and in the course of the journey you will learn a great deal about my affairs. After that preliminary course I want you to stay over there for a time, and apply yourself to the study of Europe. If churches and picture-galleries happen to interest you, polish them off as quickly as possible, and then get down beneath the surface. Study politics, governments, the financial and commercial conditions of the first-rate powers—make yourself master at first hand of national traits and idiosyncrasies; you will have letters that will carry you everywhere. There are going to be two controlling forces in the world in the next thirty years, yourself and William of Germany—if he lives!—if he lives! Keep a hawk-eye on him, and don’t make the common shallow mistake of underrating him. He alone can block the progress of the United States; all the other nations put together are not worth considering. He only needs certain conditions to scoop in Europe like another Charlemagne. It may be that he will create these conditions. It may be that you will help him to them, if you both happen to pull in the same direction. That of course is for the future. I will see that you meet him informally this summer. But if he fascinates you—as he probably will—make always this reserve: your future friendship for him depends upon his course towards the United States. It is not too soon to begin checkmating him, and it can always be done by this country; but it must be done by the individual. Washington is blind by too much occupation with other things. Would you like to walk down-town and see our offices? Historical landmarks, too—Washington—Hamilton— Let me hear your plans.”

XX

Fessenden walked slowly towards the rift in the great wall of rock which marked the land entrance to the fjord. Pocahontas was dancing just beyond that narrow gate, but although his fingers tingled for her sail, his step still halted; he knew that she would bring him swiftly within range of the keen thumping of a typewriter, possibly of more than one. He was dutifully and even deeply interested in his father’s vast affairs, and there were nights when he went to bed with the sensation that the Earth was his pillow; there were days when he dared to hope the time would come when he could with pleasure embroider the scenery with figures and puncture the silences of Nature with a typewriter. But the time was not yet. Four days since he had awakened his father at three in the morning, informed him that he was off for a solitary tramp into Norway, and promised to return at the end of a week. Conscience was driving him home sooner than he had intended, for he had revelled in the stillness and solitude of his wild and lonely tramp. He missed at first the friendliness of the Adirondacks, the only other mountains he knew; but the harsh and terrible grandeur about him companioned his mood—finally inspired him with a passionate sense of gratitude. For he was in a desperate state of rebellion. The philosophy he had invoked on the heels of Mr. Abbott’s revelation had but deferred the inevitable moment. He did not doubt that the future presented to him by his father would bring him power, but that future was—he sincerely hoped—far distant, and at present he was little more than a glorified clerk in training. His inheritance and his education permitted him to grasp the stupendous details with a sufficient facility, and there were moments when he was staggered and overwhelmed with the thought of such world-manipulating power, at others intoxicated with dreams of a future when himself should be a ruler of many times the strength of any monarch in Europe. In such moments he felt arrogant, and contemptuous of sovereigns who were but the tools of a people or a cabinet, no matter what the euphemisms, longed for the time to come when he could demonstrate to them the absolutism of concentrated capital in the hands of an uncrowned ruler of a great republic. But reaction under the lonely stars invariably chastened him. What did he amount to now? Who would recognize in him more than his famous father’s second? He was bursting with energy, with ambition for himself and the United States, and, in spite of his father’s love and sincere indulgence, he felt like a prisoner on parole. It is true that when he had confided his cherished ideal, the great and beneficent conception which was to have worked his fingers to the bone and made him old in his youth, Mr. Abbott had waved his golden wand. A Western desert hummed and echoed, and even now a huge building was rising on its foundations, and the first of the world’s electricians, for a yearly salary which made Fessenden’s head swim, had agreed to occupy this building with a corps of assistants and work upon the idea which a youth had conceived. The author of the idea felt no temptation to take charge himself. The mere fact that more experienced genius could be bought delivered him from the thrall of his ideal, although he still took a scientific and patriotic interest in its accomplishment.

Robbed of this dream of immortality, he had dropped the curtain upon his inner life and endeavored to fulfil his immediate destiny. As his powers of concentration were very great, he had succeeded for a time. During the fortnight before sailing, novelty and wonder had sustained him, and for a time at sea the long conversations with his father were agreeably varied by instructions in the science of yachting. But Fessenden was Fessenden—a personality, a young man bursting with precocious energy, ambition, independence. His reassertion was slow but persistent, and during one sleepless night alone on deck the naked truth confronted him that he was at the end of his endurance, that however he might conform to his father’s wishes in the future, for the present he must not only have an interval of personal liberty, but arrange his nebulous ambitions and satisfy them. He restrained his impatience until three o’clock, then awakened Mr. Abbott—who smiled and slept again—and plunged without a guide into Norway.

He bathed in streams, he slept under the stars, he saw no one but peasants, he hardly uttered a word for three days; and he was completely happy. When he was not in mountain gorges he was in pine forests; everywhere he had Nature in her magnificence, and he was alone. For two days he refused to think—it was enough to forget, to feel the freedom of the years when he believed himself innocent of fortune, with a glorious and self-made future stretching through infinite horizons. But on the evening of the third day he turned his back on the scenery, sat down on the grass, and thought.

That the prospect before him was hateful and hideous he admitted aloud, lest he should seem to blink any modicum of the truth. The abstract fact that he was a rich man instead of a poor one dwindled to comparative insignificance beside the million details which made up the sum of that fact. Had he been the author of those details, his inherited and financial instincts, so quick at college, would no doubt possess him and obliterate the dreams of his youth. But that mountain of particulars, massive and petty, had fallen upon him without a moment’s warning, and he was not its illustrious author, but its future custodian. The youth in him was rampant, and his strong vein of romance unsatisfied. He admitted—again aloud—that he was as romantic as he was practical. He would train to succeed his father, but meanwhile would distinguish himself in his own manner. He would use the wealth at his disposal, but the manner should be picturesque.

Without admitting that he intended to demand a period of liberty, his imagination in the past weeks had toyed with many plans. At first, when he learned of the more than thousands in his father’s employ, he had been fired with the desire to ameliorate the lot of the working-man; and in his enthusiasm had awakened his father from his afternoon nap on deck and talked to him for an hour. Mr. Abbott, who revelled in the very sound of Fessenden’s voice, and would have attempted to give him the North Pole had he wanted it, listened indulgently; but when his turn came to speak he was smiling grimly.

“My dear boy,” he had said, “what reason have I given you to think me a fool? There are those who will tell you that the day must come when the streets of our great cities will run red with blood, when not one stone on Fifth Avenue will remain upon another; that, in short, the great civil war between capital and labor can be delayed only until a strong leader of organized labor arises who cannot be bought. I do not go so far as to say that I—or you—can avert that calamity, for our rotten municipal governments have destroyed the respect of the thinking laboring man for authority, and these tremendous aggregations of capital I have in hand, which will make the United States strong and feared among nations, may be carried to an excess which will lessen the chances of individual achievement and curtail personal liberty. If rich men—that is to say, the manipulators—make fools of themselves, and in their greed for wealth and power reduce wages and sow further seeds of discontent, there is no telling what may happen. But although I make no denial of my own greed for wealth and power, and although these concentrations of many small industries into one huge enterprise will double my fortune, I make no such mistake as that. I have always maintained that a man may get rich and still share a certain portion of his gains with his assistants; and my working-men all receive good salaries, perquisites, heavy Christmas presents, and pensions in their old age. I make no pretence at philanthropy. There is no man who needs friends as the rich man does; there are no friends so valuable as an army of employés. I know many of mine personally; at some time or other I have managed to come into contact with most of them. They like me. They are content. They never go on strike. They are the one formidable bulwark against united labor in the country. When you return, I wish you to go about among those men, show them your personal interest in them as human beings, make them love you as much as they like me; then, if an industrial war ever comes, you will make yourself their leader and take whichever side you think wisest. But the thing to do is to avert war and use that great following for another purpose. Either with or without civil war the time must come for the reform of municipalities, the reduction of state power, and, possibly, an interval of benevolent despotism. There is the rôle I have cut out for you; but meanwhile work with me to avert the worst calamity which could visit this country—set it back a hundred years. My men are not overpaid; they receive strict justice, that is all. I have harangued for hours with almost every great employer in the country, appealing to his common-sense, even his cupidity, but in most cases in vain. The average rich man in the United States is lowly born. He has worked himself up from the ranks. There never was a real democrat who was not born an aristocrat. The risen plebeian is a tyrant, is insatiable in his greed, glories in the thought of grinding the life out of thousands of his own class, delights in the hatred and envy which are but another signal of his success; in short, he is a damned fool, and deserves to wake up and find his throat cut. I suppose all revolutions are the result of stupidity. Ours, if it comes, will arise from no other cause whatever. If you have the genius in you that I believe, you will avert this war or control it. Now I will sleep again if you will permit me.”

The words had kept Fessenden awake all night, but after several days his enthusiasm cooled. Again he was willing to take the helm whenever the time came, and with all his energies; but the idea was his father’s, not his. His young ego, uniquely developed, demanded creation.

During the last day of his tramp he had looked down twenty avenues of possible greatness, and turned his back upon all. He was not discouraged, for he knew that inspiration comes suddenly, even if it be the final result of industrious raking. He was now returning to demand a vacation of some months, during which he would tramp and study Europe in his own way. But inspiration was closer than he knew, and although he was to tramp Europe again and again with various and, in one case, extraordinary results, there were to be intervening years.

As he jumped into his canoe and set his sail, he saw that the Alexandra was no longer the solitary inhabitant of the fjord. Not half a mile from his father’s yacht was what looked to be a miniature man-of-war. It was painted white, and had a heavily gilded figure-head. In a few moments he was close enough to see the colors and design on the standard. He whistled and experienced a glow of anticipation.

“The German Emperor! I hardly know whether I am more anxious to see him or his yacht. Ours is the biggest in the world—of course!—his is the most original; but that may only mean resource: he couldn’t get the money voted any other way. The more I hear of Europe the rottener it appears, with the exception of Germany. This man seems to be making an American city out of Berlin, and to have plenty of sand all-round. Some one has said of him that he is an autocrat with a Yankee head on his shoulders; and, if that is the case, he may be worth studying for future points.”

Nevertheless, when a half-hour later his father told him that the Emperor had invited him to visit the Hohenzollern the day of his return, he sniffed with youthful Americanism.

“I don’t fancy waiting till I’m spoken to,” he announced—“for his high-mightiness to introduce every subject. He may be interesting in himself, but he is a monarch, and I have no use for any of them. They are a burlesque in the end of the nineteenth century.”

“Tell that to William, if you like, and introduce what subjects interest you—if you get a chance. He observes little formality up here, and less with Americans. Now please go and exchange that sweater and those pants—they are not trousers—for a suit of flannels.”

XXI

Fessenden drew a long and audible breath. It had not occurred to him soon enough to keep tally, but he felt justified in assuming that he had answered eight hundred questions. The power and magnetism of the Emperor still impressed him, but the fascination had waned. When he had boarded the yacht early in the afternoon, excited with a sensation that was half eager curiosity, half aggressive fear of being patronized, and had received a hearty greeting from a man as informal as he was charming, Fessenden had promptly conceived his first enthusiasm for a contemporary. He had as promptly reminded himself that he too intended to inspire enthusiasms—that his was not the rôle of the follower; nevertheless he had beamed back upon his imperial host; and, in spite of a flinty reserve in the background of both pairs of eyes, a mutual friendship was conceived at once. The Emperor had taken care to cement his personal fascination by exhibiting the machinery of his new yacht to his curious young guest, and a twenty-minutes’ argument on a subject of which one had much practical knowledge and the other almost as much by theory and observation, established a respect as strong as the sentiment. But when they were seated alone on deck, the Emperor’s inquiring mind was no longer to be restrained. A conversation with Mr. Abbott the day before had excited his curiosity; his interrogations began upon Fessenden’s babyhood; and then, with the rapid strokes of a minute impressionist, never losing sight of causes and effects, he built up a complete picture of a self-made boy with a beneficent providence in the background. In three-quarters of an hour he not only knew the boy in the wilderness as well as the boy had known himself, but the history of the Nettlebecks, the size and condition of their farm, their attitude—or, as he discovered, their lack of attitude—towards Germany, the area of the Adirondack tract, the attention—or lack of attention—given it by the government, the inferior condition, as compared with Germany, of its forests, its roads, its bridges. His questions and comments showed such grasp and activity of intelligence that for a time Fessenden was as interested as the Man of Questions, and there were intervals when he was permitted to give a bit of thrilling description, notably of logging-camps and “driving,” which, as the Emperor’s eyes kindled and his horned upper lip twitched, flattered him for five or six consecutive minutes.

But from the Adirondacks, William passed swiftly to the Western University, and here his curiosity threatened to be insatiable. His questions indicated that Harvard and Yale could tell him no secrets, but of this more modern institution he had never heard until the day before; and an enterprise so novel, practical, and cheap appealed irresistibly to a ruler bent upon modernizing his country and making it the strongest industrially in Europe. He made no secret of the cause of his interest, and Fessenden sympathized heartily with the ambitious and energetic young monarch, and glowed at the thought of flinging a handful of American seeds broadcast upon the German Empire. But at the end of an hour and a quarter, when he had not only presented a picture of the university in all its complex details, from its methods of military drill to the last drop of grease in the machine-shops, but had sketched the personalities of all the professors and the most notable of the students, the strident tones of the august interlocutor seemed to be banging about in his brain, the abrupt rapid firing to have torn his nerves to tatters. The impatient action of his lungs receiving no attention from his host, whose eyes were concentrated and glittering, he sprang suddenly to his feet.

“Look here!” he exclaimed. “I really can’t stand it any longer. I’ll come back to-morrow, if you like. I think you are a great man, and I’m only too delighted to help you in any way I can, but if you ask me another question to-day I’ll jump off the yacht.”

For a second the Emperor’s eyes had flashed with a haughty surprise which gave Fessenden a passing glimpse of outraged majesty, but he recovered himself swiftly, and before the plaint finished he had sprung to his feet and grasped Fessenden’s hand, looking like a contrite school-boy.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “How inhospitable!—I never was so tactless in my life. But you have interested me so deeply. You are the most extraordinary young man—will you forgive me? and will you do me the honor to return for dinner? Mr. Abbott comes too.”

A warm responsiveness rushed through Fessenden’s veins and flashed from his frank impatient eyes; and he returned the hearty grasp of the other’s hand. But although the two men were mutually and strongly attracted, almost to the point of effusiveness, they nevertheless, and almost unconsciously, stared hard and long at each other. For the moment, despite aggressive differences, they looked alike. Their personalities pushed aside the mask of their features and snatched the knowledge that for them it was love or hate, friendship or enmity, mutual assistance or a bitter lifelong struggle, which might waste their energies and thwart their most passionate hopes.

William was the older and subtler. He laid his hand affectionately on his new friend’s shoulder. “I have suspected something of your father’s ultimate plans for you,” he said. “Now I am sure. I can help you as much as you can help me. The next time we are alone, turn the tables and ask me as many questions as you like. There is no reason why you should ever remind yourself that I am an Emperor—why our friendship should not be as informal and sincere as that of your charming sister and the daughter of the Emperor of Austria.”

“Do you know my sister?”

“Of course, and since she was twelve years old. But her chosen friend is my sworn enemy.”

That night, in the retirement of his state-room, Fessenden brushed his hair backward and his mustache upright. The Emperor at dinner had drawn his coils more closely. He had been brilliant, demonstrative, instructive, humorous, almost unegotistical. He had made Fessenden shine without asking a question, and he had toasted Mr. Abbott in the effusive rhetoric with which one ripened sovereign disguises his fear of another. Fessenden forgot his long array of self-made heroes—even those who had been cradled in purple and yet ridden victoriously through the pages of history. He took up an autographed picture of William, presented at parting, and studied it attentively, then regarded his own smooth young face with dissatisfaction.

“However,” he thought, “in his earlier photographs he had even less character than I have. It’s since he got his own way that he’s put it on with a brush. I suppose I can have that eagle roll of the eye in time, too, if I choose, and square my iron jaw, and look as if I were hewn out of finely tempered steel. He has a sensitive mouth, all the same.”

In a moment he parted his short hair rapidly and brushed his mustache into a dejected curve. “I’d like to see myself!” he thought, with some irritation. “He would have the laugh on me to-morrow!”

He sat for an hour and pondered deeply on all that had passed between himself and the Emperor of Germany that day. Then he started up suddenly, opened the door of the adjoining state-room, and awakened his father.

“What does William want?” he demanded.

“Europe and South America,” murmured Mr. Abbott sleepily.

XXII

The tremendous walls of the fjord were black, but the moon poured in a flood of light. There had been a sharp breeze earlier in the evening, and Fessenden had invited the Emperor out in Pocahontas; then, perceiving the difficulty of keeping him quiet, had given him the sheet. The Emperor had accepted the invitation with alacrity—he was not only happy and at home in a canoe, but although he had now had several long conversations with the young American, something in this new personality evaded him, and he was determined to find it. Fessenden, on the other hand, was studying him attentively, his interest in the most remarkable specimen of living royalty quite distinct from his liking for the man. William had not refrained from questions during this past week, and Fessenden had been permitted to learn Germany from the Throne. When he had mentioned that he intended, a year or two hence, to tramp the Empire and study it from another point of view, the Kaiser had promptly extracted a promise to bring the burden of his information to Berlin.

William expressed a lively sympathy for his young friend’s desire for immediate distinction, and confided some of the difficulties of majesty in getting its own way. Nevertheless he felt that Fessenden, despite his romantic enthusiasm for himself, was frank only to a certain point. He thought of all in his own depths that he could give to no man, and forbore to press him too closely; but his abnormally acute brain suspected something in that deliberate reserve which concerned himself, and he had accepted the proposal of the lonely sail in the hope of an impulsive confidence. He had no suspicion that the younger man had brought him out for the purpose of making this confidence.

The wind fell, and they left the canoe to stretch their legs.

“Do you really believe in the divine right of kings?” asked Fessenden abruptly. “I mean you.”

The Emperor stared, then laughed outright. “Certainly!” he announced in that harsh abrupt voice which conveyed the impression that he had not the patience to lie. Then, having his own reasons for expanding under the influence of the lonely moon, he added: “Is not a peasant a peasant by divine law? How much more a hereditary ruler with his terrible responsibilities! With our vast fund of inherited knowledge and traditions, our instinct for rule, our gift of commanding respect and obedience, we are far more successful as rulers than your presidents, chosen every four or eight years from all sorts and conditions of life, and more often for some unworthy political reason than for any merit in the man.” He added deliberately: “The monarchs of the earth are the chosen deputies of God in Heaven; they rule their people by right divine. The time will come when you will feel this as deeply as I do now. Of course my understanding is illumined with the torch of the centuries; but there must be a beginning,” he added graciously.

“And you disassociate yourself absolutely from the race?”

“Certainly. So will you one day.”

“I am a good democrat, and I believe in the principles of the American Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.”

“Quite so—as long as they are permitted to hold; but when your revolution comes they will go down with the rest, and then you will no longer be a democrat.” The pronounced roll of William’s r-r-r-r’s made him utter the last word as if he hated it.

“And I suppose you think the Monroe Doctrine would go too?”

“It would be as well to begin a new government on a sensible international basis,” said the Emperor dryly. “That doctrine only maintains its fictitious life by the courtesy, or perhaps I should say the indifference—the present indifference—of Europe. It means nothing until you have established it by force of arms. It would be better to abandon it gracefully while there is yet time.”

The two men were picking their way through an uneven pass. Fessenden halted and leaned against the wall of rock. He fixed his eyes, which in the brilliant night light shone like steel, on the imperious and searching orbs that swung round him abruptly.

“It is by converting the Monroe Doctrine from a theory into a principle of international law without a war with Europe that I propose to make my fame,” he said.

William’s pale face twitched, then settled into its hardest lines. He returned Fessenden’s stare, and there was neither friendship nor good-fellowship in his eyes; he was a monarch on the alert in the presence of the enemy. It was a moment before he spoke; then he said coldly:

“It is a large and, no doubt, patriotic idea. I shall be interested to watch the method develop. When shall you get to work? When shall Europe have its first astonished glimpse of your purpose?”

“Europe will know nothing until it is too late to interfere; but I shall tell you the whole scheme now.”

“Tell me!” cried the German Emperor in his astonishment.

“I owe the idea to you, and, crazy as it may appear, I shall confide it to you. I should be rather base if I did not; and I rely, if not on your generosity, then on your foresight, to let me alone. You can have Europe, and welcome, and when the time comes that you need my help you will get it; but you can’t have South America—not an inch of it; and now I’ll tell you why—”

“Suppose I decline to listen?”—and none but himself could know what it cost him to admit that possibility. But the excitable color had flashed into his face, and his eyes were glittering. “If I do listen,” he added in a moment, “I decline to commit myself beforehand.”

“It won’t matter. Even if you betrayed me you could not obstruct my purpose. Of course I wish my secret kept. Only the fool takes the world into his confidence. I only tell you—well, not so much for the reason I just gave, as because you have given me your friendship, and I like you better than any one on earth except my father. You would have suggested the idea in any case; and if we had been cut out for enemies I’d have left the next day, and it would have been a year before you would have known what I was up to.”

The Emperor’s face did not soften. He felt anything but sentimental. “Why are you so sure that Europe—that I—could not balk you?” he asked.

“Because I have a hundred million dollars at my disposal at the present moment, and the work will be done before you can cook up a war with the United States.”

The Emperor turned gray, and let his temper fly. “Damn your American billions!” he cried. “If I could lay my hands on that amount—”

“Well,” said Fessenden. “When the time comes you can have it.”