“Proud and stubborn heart,” cried Richard. “Let me diagnose your case. You believe in certain novel theories, and have become a convert to various economic teachings that embrace more in their ultimate effects than a mere question of taxation. You are suddenly confronted by the fact that it is possible for even political economy to demand martyrs on the altars it has raised. Naturally, you object to being a martyr.”
“Your way of putting it, Richard,” said Fenton slowly, “may have a basis of truth. I admit that I seem to have come to a turning-point imperatively demanding a decision on my part that will have a radical effect on my life.”
“It is,” suggested Richard, “a question of hearts versus theories.”
“Not yet, perhaps,” answered Fenton; “but it may become so if I don’t call a halt at once in my present methods.”
“No man can serve two masters to-day, John, any more than our remote ancestors could when the proposition was first put into words. Of course you know, without any explanation on my part, how my sympathy lies in the struggle that is worrying you. In the first place, although I may be forced to admit the strength of the premises upon which the writer you call master bases his conclusions, I refuse to accept the conclusions. Chasing a rainbow seems to me to be a useless occupation, no matter how much we admire the rainbow. Furthermore, the personal element enters largely into my way of looking at this matter. I have grown very fond of you, John,” and Richard’s voice grew almost caressing in its tone, “and I should like to see you take the path to happiness that chance has thrown open to you.”
“We are talking in the air, my boy,” said Fenton earnestly, with a note of sadness in his intonation. “It is only excessive egotism on my part that could lead me to believe that the path to happiness of which you speak has really opened up before me.”
“But if,” persisted Richard, “you felt sure that by sacrificing what I take the liberty of calling your chimerical efforts to put salt on the tail of the millennium, you could win the joy that has suddenly met your gaze, would you not abandon your philanthropic but hopeless dreams for the alluring reality within your grasp?”
“Frankly, Richard,” answered Fenton, after a moment’s silence, “I cannot answer the question to-night. It takes a man in middle life a long time to overturn the results of ten years of reading and thinking and endeavor. But I am glad that you have put the problem in concrete form. I can look at it more calmly now that I have heard you put it into words. But it is late and I must go. I have been very selfish, Richard, I fear. Tell me, my boy, why have you wasted an entire evening looking at a bed of coals, and blowing smoke into the air?”
Richard smiled as he took Fenton’s outstretched hand.
“I have been trying to come to a decision, John.”