“The old-fashioned way of wearing the hair makes a difference; but to all intents and purposes this is Zee. As Margaret was our youngest, we had a little different feeling about her. I had—I was the oldest—and the rest of them had. She had known no trouble; she was light of heart,—the brightest and cheeriest girl in town; and there seemed no reason why she should not marry happily and never know care or trouble. It was understood in the family that they were to be married, though there was never any formal announcement. Your father meanwhile was establishing himself. Then Margaret went East to visit a friend of hers. That was thirty years ago. I was going to Washington to appear before an army board that was investigating some claims that grew out of the war, and I went with her and left her in New York. We made a fine lark of the trip. When I left her with her friends I said, ‘Don’t forget Morris; he’s back there working for you.’
“My errand in Washington kept me longer than I expected. Margaret went home alone finally, and when I got back, a little later, I found that it was all off between her and your father. The girl had never been away from home before, and the people she visited put her through lively paces. It was easy to admire her, and the admiration from strangers went to her head. Mariona wasn’t very gay in those days, and Margaret had missed a good deal of the social life that she was entitled to.”
The old man paused, lost in thought, and Morris was glad of the silence. He was trying to construct for himself the past,—to see his father as Rodney Merriam had painted him, and to see, too, Margaret Merriam as she had been when his father knew and loved her.
Merriam was feeling about for matches,—a sign that he was ready to resume; and Morris again struck a light for him.
“There’s no use going into it. She stopped writing to your father without any warning that she had changed. She was completely carried away with the excitement of her New York experiences. Morris came to Washington and asked me what to do, and I sent him to New York to see her and fix it up; but it did no good. She was not ready to settle down yet a while, she told him. I supposed it would all come right, for I had faith in her. She was a true-hearted, gentle woman, but she was proud and headstrong; and your father had his pride, too. I don’t blame him for taking it hard. He closed his office here and went back to Tippecanoe. I don’t believe they ever saw each other again. When she came home she was her old self; she had been having her fling, and she didn’t understand that the same glamour hadn’t blinded all of us.
“She really expected your father to meet her on the old footing. She had cared for him a great deal, and it was the first great shock of her life to find that a man whose heart she had trifled with did not seek her again when she was ready for him. But it had cut into him deep; your father took things hard. It was temperamental, I suppose. I was a loser, too, in all this. I lost the first and best friend I ever had. I rarely saw him after that. He stayed close to the old college town. He made himself its best lawyer. He was sent to the legislature and Congress. He went just so far in politics and then stopped. I always had an idea that he was merely testing his powers. He wanted to see what he could do; and finding that he could make it go, he decided that it wasn’t worth the candle.”
Merriam rose, threw away his cigar and filled his pipe.
“It doesn’t seem quite square to be telling you this. I had never expected to tell you. I shouldn’t be telling you now if it hadn’t been,—if it hadn’t been—”
He crossed to where Morris sat and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Yes; I know,” said Morris,—“please don’t say it;” knowing that it was of Zelda that Merriam was thinking.