"I hope you won't think me a cad, but--No, I'm not going to say a word about them, only I can't get accustomed to them and there's no use of my saying that I can. I couldn't treat any girl the way they are treated here. And I tell you another thing--none of the young girls whom I know at home would treat me as these girls treat the men they know. I'm queer, I guess, but I might as well make a clean breast of it all. I am an ingrate, perhaps, but I can't help thinking that the old life at home was the best. We loved our friends, and they were welcome at our table any hour, day or night. We had plenty of time for everything; we lived out of doors or in doors, just as we pleased, and we dressed to suit ourselves, and n.o.body criticised. Why, if I drop into the Magnolia on my way up-town and forget to wear a derby hat with a sack coat, or a black tie with a dinner-jacket, everybody winks and nudges his neighbor. Did you ever hear of such nonsense in your life?"

The boy paused as if the memory of some incident in which he was ridiculed was alive in his mind. Peter's eyes were still fixed on his face.

"Go on--I'm listening; and what else hurts you? Pour it all out. That's what I came for. You said last night n.o.body would listen--I will."

"Well, then, I hate the sham of it all; the silly social distinctions; the fits and starts of hospitality; the dinners given for show. Nothing else going on between times; even the music is hired. I want to hear music that bubbles out--old Hannah singing in the kitchen, and Tom, my father's old butler, whistling to himself--and the dogs barking, and the birds singing outside. I'm ashamed of myself making comparisons, but that was the kind of life I loved, because there was sincerity in it."

"No work?" There was a note of sly merriment in the inquiry, but Jack never caught it.

"Not much. My father was Judge and spent part of the time holding court, and his work never lasted but a few hours a day, and when I wanted to go fishing or shooting, or riding with the girls, Mr. Larkin always let me off. And I had plenty of time to read--and for that matter I do here, if I lock myself up in this room. That low library over there is full of my father's books."

Again Peter's voice had a tinge of merriment in it.

"And who supported the family?" he asked in a lower voice.

"My father."

"And who supported him?"

The question brought Jack to a full stop. He had been running on, pouring out his heart for the first time since his sojourn in New York, and to a listener whom he knew he could trust.

"Why--his salary, of course," answered Jack in astonishment, after a pause.

"Anything else?"

"Yes--the farm."

"And who worked that?"

"My father's negroes--some of them his former slaves."

"And have you any money of your own--anything your father left you?"

"Only enough to pay taxes on some wild lands up in c.u.mberland County, and which I'm going to hold on to for his sake."

Peter dropped his shading fingers, lifted his body from the depths of the easy chair and leaned forward so that the light fell full on his face. He had all the information he wanted now.

"And now let me tell you my story, my lad. It is a very short one. I had the same sort of a home, but no father--none that I remember--and no mother, they both died before my sister Felicia and I were grown up.

At twelve I left school; at fifteen I worked in a country store--up at daylight and to bed at midnight, often. From twenty to twenty-five I was entry clerk in a hardware store; then book-keeper; then cashier in a wagon factory; then clerk in a village bank--then book-keeper again in my present bank, and there I have been ever since. My only advantages were a good const.i.tution and the fact that I came of gentle people. Here we are both alike--you at twenty--how old?--twenty two?... Well, make it twenty-two.... You at twenty-two and I at twenty-two seem to have started out in life with the same natural advantages, so far as years and money go, but with this difference--Shall I tell you what it is?"

"Yes."

"That I worked and loved it, and love it still, and that you are lazy and love your ease. Don't be offended--" Here Peter laid his hand on the boy's knee. He waited an instant, and not getting any reply, kept on: "What you want to do is to go to work. It wouldn't have been honorable in you to let your father support you after you were old enough to earn your own living, and it isn't honorable in you, with your present opinions, to live on your uncle's bounty, and to be discontented and rebellious at that, for that's about what it all amounts to. You certainly couldn't pay for these comforts outside of this house on what Breen & Co. can afford to pay you. Half of your mental unrest, my lad, is due to the fact that you do not know the joy and comfort to be got out of plain, common, unadulterated work."

"I'll do anything that is not menial."

"What do you mean by 'menial'?"

"Well, working like a day-laborer."

"Most men who have succeeded have first worked with their hands."

"Not my uncle."

"No, not your uncle--he's an exception--one among a million, and then again he isn't through."

"But he's worth two million, they say."

"Yes, but he never earned it, and he never worked for it, and he doesn't now. Do you want to follow in his footsteps?"

"No--not with all his money." This came in a decided tone. "But surely you wouldn't want me to work with my hands, would you?"

"I certainly should, if necessary."

Jack looked at him, and a shade of disappointment crossed his face.

"But I COULDN'T do anything menial."

"There isn't anything menial in any kind of work from cleaning a stable up! The menial things are the evasions of work--tricks by which men are cheated out of their just dues."

"Stock gambling?"

"Yes--sometimes, when the truth is withheld."

"That's what I think; that's what I meant last night when I told you about the faro-bank. I laughed over it, and yet I can't see much difference, although I have never seen one."

"So I understood, but you were wrong about it. Your uncle bears a very good name in the Street. He is not as much to blame as the system.

Perhaps some day the firm will become real bankers, than which there is no more honorable calling."

"But is it wrong to want to fish and shoot and have time to read."

"No, it is wrong not to do it when you have the time and the money. I like that side of your nature. My own theory is that every man should in the twenty-four hours of the day devote eight to work, eight to sleep and eight to play. But this can only be done when the money to support the whole twenty-four hours is in sight, either in wages, or salary, or invested securities. More money than this--that is the surplusage that men lock up in their tin boxes, is a curse. But with that you have nothing to do--not yet, anyhow. Now, if I catch your meaning, your idea is to go back to your life at home. In other words you want to live the last end of your life first--and without earning the right to it.

And because you cannot do this you give yourself up to criticising everything about you. Getting only at the faults and missing all the finer things in life. If you would permit me to advise you--" he still had his hand on the lad's knee, searching the soft brown eyes--"I would give up finding fault and first try to better things, and I would begin right here where you are. Some of the great banking houses which keep the pendulum of the world swinging true have grown to importance through just such young men as yourself, who were honest and had high ideals and who so impressed their own personalities upon everybody about them--customers and employers--that the tone of the concern was raised at once and with it came a world-wide success. I have been thirty years on the Street and have watched the rise of half the firms about me, and in every single instance some one of the younger men--boys, many of them--has pulled the concern up and out of a quagmire and stood it on its feet. And the reverse is true: half the downfalls have come from those same juniors, who thought they knew some short road to success, which half the time was across disreputable back lots. Why not give up complaining and see what better things you can do? I'm not quite satisfied about your having stayed upstairs even to receive me.

Your aunt loves society and the daughter--what did you say her name was--Corinne? Yes, Miss Corinne being young, loves to have a good time.

Listen! do you hear?--there goes another waltz. Now, as long as you do live here, why not join in it too and help out the best you can?--and if you have anything of your own to offer in the way of good cheer, or thoughtfulness, or kindness, or whatever you do have which they lack--or rather what you think they lack--wouldn't it be wiser--wouldn't it--if you will permit me, my lad--be a little BETTER BRED to contribute something of your own excellence to the festivity?"

It was now Jack's turn to lean back in his chair and cover his face, but with two ashamed hands. Not since his father's death had any one talked to him like this--never with so much tenderness and truth and with every word meant for his good. All his selfrighteousness, his silly conceit and vainglory stood out before him. What an a.s.s he had been. What a c.o.xcomb. What a boor, really.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, a tone of complete surrender in his voice. The portrait and Peter were one and the same! His father had come to life.

"I don't know yet. We'll think about that another time, but we won't do it now. I ought to be ashamed of myself for having spoiled your evening by such serious talk (he wasn't ashamed--he had come for that very purpose). Now show me some of your books and tell me what you read, and what you love best."

He was out of the chair before he ceased speaking, his heels striking the floor, bustling about in his prompt, exact manner, examining the few curios and keepsakes on the mantel and tables, running his eyes over the rows of bindings lining the small bookcase; his hand on Jack's shoulder whenever the boy opened some favorite author to hunt for a pa.s.sage to read aloud to Peter, listening with delight, whether the quotation was old or new to him.

Jack, suddenly remembering that his guest was standing, tried to lead him back to his seat by the fire, but Peter would have none of it.

"No--too late. Why, bless me, it's after eleven o'clock! Hear the music--they are still at it. Now I'm going to insist that you go down and have a turn around the room yourself; there were such a lot of pretty girls when I came in."