“What we said to her here this afternoon evidently failed to arouse her. She either doesn’t understand, or she doesn’t care.”
“She understands perfectly,” said Merriam; “but it’s quite like her to wish to shield him. Her mother did it before her. It’s a shame for the money to have gone so; but it was inevitable, and I’m glad it’s over now.”
“If it is over—something might be saved for her.”
“We’ll let it all go. She’d better be a beggar than have her father published as a felon. Whatever I have shall be hers; and there’s my sister, with no one else to care for. The dread of her father’s doing something to disgrace her and all of us has hung over me all the year; I’m glad we’ve reached a crisis. She is like her mother; yes; she is like Margaret. Ah, Morris! it seems to me that I have seen nothing but failure in this world.”
Morris was silent. Rodney Merriam was growing old and the thought of it touched him deeply, for Rodney Merriam was his best friend, a comrade, an elder brother, who stood to him for manliness and courage, much as Carr represented in his eyes scholarship and professional attainment.
“You never saw Zelda’s mother?” asked Merriam, presently.
“No.”
“You never knew anything of her life?”
“No,” said Leighton. The old man’s head was bent and he did not look at Leighton; but the young man saw that he was moved by some memory.
“Your father and my sister were once engaged to be married,” said Merriam, still not looking up. He was silent for an interval.