“Could you expect him to care for you as much?”
“I—I’d given up thinking he cared for me at all.”
“And this shows he did. In spite of all you made him suffer—and, what was probably worse in his eyes, made your mother suffer—he loved you still. I know you’re not thinking of the money, Frank.”
“No, I’m not; and that’s perfectly sincere.”
“You’re thinking of his affection for you; and now you’re assured of it. The amount of money he left you is secondary. That, and the way in which he left it to you, were determined by something else.”
I looked at him hard as I said, “And what was that?”
His look as he answered me was frank, straight, and fearless.
“The fact that he didn’t trust you.” I suppose he must have seen how I winced, for he went on at once: “That’s about the bitterest pill fellows like us have to swallow. In addition to everything else that we bring on ourselves we forfeit other people’s confidence. There’s the nigger in the woodpile, even when we buck up. Your father was fond of you, Frank; but he was afraid that if he did for you all he would have done if you’d gone straight it would only send you to the devil. Don’t you see that?”
With some relief as well as some reluctance I admitted that I did.
“It takes years, Frank, old boy, for men who’ve been where you and I have been to build up a life which gives a reasonable promise of making good. In seven or eight months you’ve done splendidly. I don’t know that we’ve ever had a fellow in the club whose been more game—”