“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.”