“I could do that several times over, and be far from ruined then,” said the merchant, with just a touch of pride in his manner; “it is our name that is ruined, our name that is blemished; his name—he who was to be the pride of the land.”
“But the paper says the name of Tallant has risen higher than ever with your magnanimous and noble revenge,” said Phœbe, timidly, for she had never in all her life before spoken to her father of money and things appertaining to trade and commerce.
“The papers!” repeated the merchant, bitterly. “What can they say or do? Who cares for the papers in times like these, when the greatest houses in the country are tottering to their very foundation. The name of Tallant would have risen like a rock of gold in this panic, and been impressed for all time in the history of finance, but for this wretched, this miserable deception.”
“But your own name, father; your own honour,” said the girl.
“What do I care for myself,” said the merchant, interrupting her; “it was for him that I worked, and saved, and hoarded. Did I grudge him? No; he was his own master; he had the run of my own bank. But there, there, Phœbe, say no more upon the subject. We will try to talk of other things.”
“The Somertons, too, will be in great distress,” said Phœbe, “about their son.”
“Why?” asked the merchant.
“Did you not read it in the paper?”
“I have read nothing in the paper,” was the reply.
“In prison, and charged with robbery,” said Phœbe, softly; “but a counsel appeared for him and said it was a conspiracy.”