CHAPTER XVIII
ZELDA LIFTS A BURDEN
Copeland, the lawyer who never practised, knew Mariona pretty well, and he was responsible for the remark that while women in High Street continued to admonish their maids from second-story windows as to the relation between employer and employee, there was no manner of use in trying to be a city.
Mariona was still a good deal of a village and gossip spread through its streets like news in the Sudan. But it must be said that the Mariona gossips who had been expecting an explosion among the Merriams since Zelda Dameron came home were greatly disappointed. Zelda’s life differed in no important particular from that of other girls of her circle. She lived with her father, which was wholly proper; she went about to luncheons, teas and balls and derived amusement from them in a perfectly normal, natural way; she had a voice, and when she was asked to sing, she sang; and she struck every one as being thoroughly unaffected and amiable. It became known that she could tell a story, and her reputation among girls as a raconteur soon dimmed that which her singing had earned for her. A girls’ luncheon in Mariona, as elsewhere, is a function where a dozen girls, more or less, assemble to eat unwholesome combinations of food to the accompaniment of rapid exclamations about nothing in particular. Zelda gained a hearing at first because she was a new girl in town, but her audience was assured when it became known that she could tell a story.
She told her stories with the gravity that is second nature in the born story-teller; and her fund of anecdotes of personal misadventure was seemingly inexhaustible. Her account of the way in which she and her aunt had been ushered by mistake into a train bearing a royal funeral party at Berlin, and of how an aged duke had worked himself into a state of apoplexy in trying to determine just who the Americans were; and of how, finally, when a countess and her daughter, for whom the Americans had been mistaken, were missed, the train was carried back to the Berlin station,—this incident related with trifling but illuminative details,—of how the people looked, of the yells of the duke to his servant not to forget the lunch basket; the grim rage of the master of ceremonies when he discovered that Zelda and her aunt had been put aboard by mistake,—made a story that convulsed her auditors.
Zelda saw much of Morris during the winter. He went often to the old house in Merriam Street in spite of the fact that he assured himself constantly that she did not interest him more than other girls. She continued to delight in plaguing him, particularly before her uncle, who learned, however, not to praise Morris to Zelda. Mrs. Forrest pretended to be a diligent chaperon, but Mariona social affairs did not amuse her, and she went out very little. Frequently Merriam took Zelda to the theater; now and then he connived with Morris to the end that Olive should be asked, and the four would go afterward for a supper at Merriam’s house. Zelda brought Olive more and more into touch with her own life. She knew no happier day than Christmas, when Mrs. Forrest,—not, however, without urging,—gave a family dinner to which Ezra Dameron, Olive and her mother sat down at the same board, with Rodney presiding. There were times when Zelda’s courage failed,—when the shadow of her mother’s unhappiness fell darkly upon her; but she made no sign to the world. So the winter passed, and in the first bright wistful days she went forth with Zan to find the spring.
“I have not heard you speak of your aunt and uncle of late,” said Ezra Dameron to Zelda one day, after she had been for an outing with Olive.
“I saw Aunt Julia this afternoon. She isn’t well; she suffers a great deal.”
“She doesn’t look like a sick woman. She was always quite robust.”
“She’s robust enough, but her nerves aren’t. She has asked me to go away with her again,—she likes going about, and she has planned to visit a number of summer places.”
“If you don’t go, what will she do?” and the old man looked at Zelda with a gleam of humor in his small gray eyes.
“Well, I have asked her to come to the farm.”
A smile crossed Ezra Dameron’s face.
“I am very glad you did. It would be a capital arrangement.”
“But she won’t come. She does not like that sort of thing. She likes to be where there’s something doing.”
“Yes, yes; a worldly woman; a very worldly woman,”—and Dameron wagged his head as he buttered his roll. He was silent for several minutes, and when he spoke it was in a tone of kindness.
“And so you are coming with me, Zelda? I had hoped you would. I have wished it so much that I have not pressed you to commit yourself. I knew that your aunt would be likely to offer something more attractive than a summer at The Beeches.”
“Yes, father; of course I shall go with you. I have never had any other intention.”
“You are very good to me, Zee. I am grateful to you for many things. An old man is very poor company for a young girl. I had feared that you might not be satisfied here. Your uncle and aunt have never treated me fairly. We have nothing in common. I am glad to find that they have not estranged you and me; the paternal relation is a very beautiful one; very beautiful.”
The black maid was changing their plates, and Zelda rested her arms on the edge of the table and looked at him with deep, searching eyes. She knew instantly when he passed from words that represented honest feeling to his more usual note of hypocrisy.
“Your mother,” the old man continued, and she started, for he had rarely mentioned her mother; “your mother was a very gentle woman. She had none of your uncle’s violence—Rodney is very violent—and she was not a worldly woman like your Aunt Julia. She had her fling. She had enjoyed a gay youth, but with marriage she settled down. She was an admirable woman—an admirable woman.” He grew pensive as he stirred his coffee. He started slightly when he looked up and found Zelda’s eyes bent gravely upon him. She said nothing, and he went on.
“You are very like your mother. You have her looks—and she was very beautiful; but she had not quite—your spirit. No; she was a more subdued type. I could always understand your mother; but I am not always sure that I understand you, Zee. But you are very kind. I am very proud to have you here with me.”
She rose and walked into the living-room. He always waited for her to pass, bowing his stooped figure slightly; and to-night he smiled at her; but she passed swiftly and did not look at him. There were times when it was impossible for her to speak to him.
Her father had spoken often during the winter of the farm. Zelda’s willingness to go there was a great relief to him; and when she suggested that she should like to ask Olive to spend the whole of her vacation with them he made no objection. He knew that she saw Olive frequently; Zee had asked her cousin to the house for meals several times since the Dramatic Club episode, and her father had treated Olive with his usual formal courtesy. The main thing with Ezra Dameron was to keep Zelda away from her aunt and uncle; and it flattered his vanity that she remained with him so steadfastly and took apparently so filial an interest in his happiness and comfort.
Zelda went to Olive at once with her invitation.
“I’d be delighted, of course, Zee; but you mustn’t make it hard for me to refuse. This is my busy summer; we have to move!”
“Oh!” said Zelda.
“We’re mortgaged; that’s the trouble with us; we’re not only mortgaged, but we can’t pay! So we hope to find another house somewhere and get out of the way.”
It was the first reference Olive had made to any financial difficulty, and she tried to pass it off lightly.
“I suppose,” said Zelda, who was thinking very hard, “that one simply has to have a mortgage; just as though it were measles or croup or scarlet fever.”
“Oh, mortgages aren’t at all serious—not necessarily fatal—if you don’t take cold or expose yourself before it’s over.”
“How does one contract a mortgage?” said Zelda. “Are there microbes?”
“I caught mine at college,” said Olive. “We blew our substance on education. I just found it out recently. Mother has been carrying the burden of it all by herself. The subject isn’t pleasant. Let us talk of something else.”
“Where do you keep your mortgage?” asked Zelda, half-seriously. “How does one get at the beast?”
“Ours seems to be in a bank just at present,” answered Olive, evasively.
“That sounds formidable. But it’s too bad that you have to move. Harrison Street is the most charming street in town. I can’t think of you as living anywhere else except in this pretty house.”
“You’ll have to, for we move almost at once, as they say in stories.”
Zelda’s father continued to pay a sum every month to her credit at the bank, and money matters were rarely or never mentioned between them. She did not understand how anxious he was to avoid any clash with Rodney Merriam over the management of her property; and she did not appreciate the smallness of the sum he gave her compared with the full amount her property should have earned. Zelda was spoken of in Mariona as an heiress, and it was the general belief that she would have not only the property left her by her mother, but the large estate which Ezra Dameron had been accumulating through many years. There, too, were Mrs. Forrest and Rodney Merriam, who were childless; both were rich by local standards.
When, one afternoon a week later, she decided to speak to her father about Olive’s perplexity, she went to his office in the Dameron Block and made no effort to conceal the fact that she had come on business. Her father was poring over his accounts as she stood suddenly on the threshold of the private room.
“Why, Zee, what brings you here?” he exclaimed.
The sight of her gave him a shock, as she had been in his mind; the book over which he had been poring was the cash book of his trusteeship. He marked his place with a scrap of paper and turned to her.
“I came on an errand,” said Zelda. “I don’t think your housekeeping is well done,” she added, glancing about the room.
“It serves me very well,” said the old man. “Business is only to be considered as business.”
“I suppose that’s a warning; but I really came on a little business, father.”
“Oh!” He had no idea that she had ever visited the office before. He thought on the instant that she had come for money.
“I have just heard that Olive Merriam and her mother are in trouble,—that is, money trouble.”
He looked at her quickly, and searched her with his sharp eyes. The Merriams had been trading on Zelda’s friendship, he decided, and he smiled to himself as he settled back in his chair, determined to thwart any quixotic plan that Zelda might broach in their behalf.
“I imagine that they have very little—very little,” he said.
“I know nothing of their affairs; but I have just learned that they expect to move, and when I asked Olive why, she said they owed a debt they couldn’t pay.”
“They live on Harrison Street. I have seen the place. It’s a very comfortable cottage, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It’s a charming little house. But it’s their things; it’s what Olive is and does that makes it attractive. Do you happen to know what this debt is?” she asked. He thought there might be a pitfall here and he answered at once:
“Yes; I hold the mortgage. It’s in the bank for collection.”
“She didn’t tell me that you held it. She said a bank had it. The money was borrowed to pay Olive’s way through school. Did you know that was the way of it?”
“I think perhaps Mrs. Merriam said so.”
“If she said so of course that was the reason. She is a very good woman; quite fine, I think.”
“Certainly. I didn’t mean to imply that she had not been quite frank with me. But people are sometimes tempted by their necessities into slight prevarications.”
He smiled and chuckled at his own wisdom in having learned this great fact in human nature.
“Mrs. Merriam has a debt to pay, and if she can’t pay it she will lose the house,” continued Zelda. “The debt is to you.”
“To me as trustee,” he corrected.
“Is it, then, something of mine, father?”
Dameron bowed his head.
“Your surmise is quite correct. I hold, as trustee for you, several notes, given by Mrs. Merriam. They’re now in default and in the bank for collection.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know that earlier, father. I wish you had told me. I have been seeing a good deal of my Cousin Olive. I like her immensely; I have been to her house familiarly, and she has been to see me pretty often, when she could get away from her work. I didn’t know, of course, that I was even remotely their creditor. The situation isn’t exactly comfortable, now that I know it.”
“I’m sorry that the matter should have risen; but there is no reason why they should transfer their burdens to your shoulders, Zee.”
“I hope you understand that they have never mentioned this subject or hinted that they owed you or me. I only know that they feel they must leave the house. I fancy that they are being pushed by the bank—to pay the money.”
“The bank has, of course, no alternative in the matter. It’s their business to collect.” And this fact seemed to give Ezra Dameron pleasure.
“But if the owner of the note doesn’t want to push the people who made the debt,—”
“It is very bad business to carry overdue paper. New notes have to be given in such cases.”
It was clear to Zelda that her father had no sympathy with her liking for the Merriams or her wish to help them in their difficulty. She was sure that she could manage in some way to stop the pressure that was being brought to bear on them, and she hoped to do it through her father without going to her uncle, who would, she knew, give her any money she might ask, after he had made a row about it. But it pleased her to carry the matter through with her father.
“What is the amount, father?”
“Two thousand dollars,—with interest; with accumulated interest.”
Zelda smiled in relief. She could comprehend two thousand dollars.
“And how much is the house worth?”
“About five thousand, possibly. But there is no market for such property just at present. The trend of real estate is all in another direction.”
“Then they’d better stay there, if no one would want the house. I’m sure we can’t move.”
The old man smiled patronizingly.
“You don’t understand business, my child. It is well that your affairs are in trust. I have lent a good deal of money for you, and I am proud to say that I have never lost a cent, principal or interest.”
“I’m sure you have done the best that could be done for me, but now I’m going to ask a favor. I want to carry this loan, if it has to be carried, personally. I want you to make it over to me, and then take it out of my allowance, or charge it to me in the trusteeship. I suppose I might buy it of you,—that would be more businesslike; but I haven’t more than two hundred dollars. Maybe you’d sell it to me for that, father, as a special favor?”
The old man shook his head and laughed.
“It is to guard you against just such philanthropy that I am your trustee. You had better know nothing of these things, Zee.”
“But my own aunt and cousin! I hope all my money isn’t lent to my relatives.”
“No; relatives are poor pay,” said the old man, and he rubbed his hands together and chuckled; but he was pondering the matter seriously. At that moment he really needed all the money he could accumulate, and he had every intention of bringing suit on the Merriam notes and foreclosing the mortgage; but, after all, the amount was small, and it was better to let Zelda have her way than to risk an appeal to her uncle, who might take it into his head to ask embarrassing questions about the condition of the trusteeship. Ezra Dameron had gone his own way so long that the idea of submitting his affairs to the scrutiny of another was altogether repugnant to him.
“My dear child, your kindness of heart pleases me. It is a very beautiful Christian spirit that prompts you to help carry another’s burdens.”
He bent his head slightly; he was afraid to refuse to grant Zelda’s wish; but perhaps in permitting her to help her unfortunate relatives he would gain the favor of Heaven.
“I will draw the notes from the bank and let the matter rest for the present, Zee, if you very much wish it.”
“If that will save them further trouble, that will do.”
“I shall give the bank notice in a day or two,” said Dameron, reluctantly. He wished that Zelda would go. He did not at all like the idea of having her visit him in his office, and to-day he was engrossed with important computations. He wished to be rid of her, but she rose so suddenly that he was startled.
“Why, father, I couldn’t think of troubling you with a thing of this sort when you’re doing it as a favor to me! What bank is it? The one where I keep my account? Oh, I know them over there. I’m going down that way anyhow, and I’ll tell them you don’t want those notes collected. Thank you ever so much.”
“No, no; I’ll have to see about it personally. You mustn’t interfere in the matter at all!” he almost shouted at her. But she had no idea of trusting him, and she walked straight toward the door, at which she turned.
“It’s splendid of you to let me do it. And please don’t be late for dinner again to-night. It’s a new trick of yours, and Polly doesn’t like it at all. Good-by.”
Two thousand dollars looked smaller to Ezra Dameron now than ever before in his life. His thoughts were with larger matters than mortgage loans. It was better to drop the Merriam loan altogether than to invite a scrutiny of the affairs of his trusteeship, he reflected; and Zelda had hardly reached the street before he was again deep in his figures.
Zelda went directly to the bank and sought Burton, the cashier, whom she had met several times at parties. He gave her a seat by his desk near the front window. He was sure that she had come to solicit for a charity, and she was so handsome that he rather enjoyed his peril.
“I have come from my father to speak about a business matter. He is very sorry that he can’t come himself. There are some notes here for collection, given by Mrs. Thomas Merriam to my father. He thought, or—I mean, they were to have been collected, but it was all a mistake about them. He wished me to say that nothing was to be done.”
“Excuse me one moment, Miss Dameron.”
He went to the note-teller’s cage and brought the notes, which were pinned to the mortgage.
“Your father wishes nothing done in the matter?” he asked, laying the slips of paper before Zelda.
“No,” she answered slowly, eying the notes curiously. “I suppose I may as well take them with me,—to save my father the trouble of coming for them.”
“That’s a little—irregular, I suppose,” said the young man, doubtfully, but he laughed.
“I suppose it is,” said Zelda, “but father was very anxious that nothing should be done, so I’ll just take them along. Your bank is so big that some one might forget a little thing like this.”
The young man hesitated and was lost. Zelda crumpled the papers between her gloved fingers and closed her fist upon them.
“There’s something else I have intended speaking to you about,” she said, dismissing the notes carelessly. “You haven’t had any nice new money in your bank for a long time, Mr. Burton. And old bills are perfectly horrible. I shouldn’t think people would stand it—these old, worn-out bills. Suppose a new bank should start up with a lot of new money—you wouldn’t last a day.”
The cashier laughed; Miss Dameron had a reputation for saying amusing and unexpected things.
“I’ll ask the teller to keep a fresh supply for you. We don’t want to lose your account, Miss Dameron.”
“Thank you, so much. And if father should come in please tell him I have the notes. I might miss him, you know.”
The cashier found a moment of leisure in which to speak to the president, an elderly gentleman with a well-trimmed beard and a fondness for red scarfs.
“There’s something doing in the Dameron family,” Burton announced.
“Has the old man murdered the girl or is he just torturing her to prolong the agony?” said the president.
“The girl’s all right. She has the whip hand.”
“She may think she has; but he’s a keen one, is Ezra.”
“Miss Dameron was just in to get those notes of Thomas Merriam’s widow we have for collection. The old man told me yesterday to go ahead and collect them without delay. The daughter came in this afternoon and said her father was very anxious that Mrs. Merriam should not be disturbed. He was even so worried about it that he sent Miss Dameron around to get the notes. I imagine he was troubled to death about it.”
The cashier thrust his hands into his pockets and grinned.
“I suppose she gave you a receipt for the notes.”
“No. One doesn’t ask Miss Dameron for receipts,” replied the cashier. “I’d have given her all the government bonds in the vault if she had asked for them.”
“You speak as though you were sorry she hadn’t.”
“I guess the old man has met his match,” said the cashier. “Miss Dameron has struck up an intimacy with her cousin, Olive Merriam, whose mother owes E. Dameron, Esquire, money. When E.’s daughter heard the money was to be collected she told him it was no good and pulled him off. And being a bright young woman she came around herself for the notes. She’s on to the old man like a million of brick.”
“Well,” said the president, conservatively, “he’s an old customer of ours. We must not lose him.”
“That would be a real loss,” said the cashier. “The daughter comes in once a week to cash a check, and I couldn’t bear to part with that. The sight of her coming in in that sweepy, on-wings-from-heaven way of hers lifts my spirit like a cocktail.”
“You have it bad,” said the president. “If you’re going to that clearing-house meeting you’d better skip.”
Zelda locked the mortgage and notes in her own desk, with no intention of giving them to her father, unless he should demand them. When he came home in the evening he seemed to be lost in meditation, and after a silent meal he studied his papers while Zelda sat and read.
She had no longer the consolation of the open fire, which, though an ugly thing of coal, had nevertheless made many of the winter evenings tolerable. The open windows now admitted the street noises, and the cries of the neighborhood children at play stole into the room. There was something stifling in her life; she felt sometimes that she could not breathe. She sat for long with a book in her hands, but with her eyes upon the wall; and, as she was thus lost in her thoughts, she was aware suddenly that her father’s eyes were bent upon her.
“Oh, Zee,” he said when she turned to him, “what was it you asked me to-day about Mrs. Merriam’s loan? I have been so occupied that I don’t quite remember what we decided to do about it.”
There was a senile quaver in his voice; but she knew that he did not speak the truth.
“You said you would withdraw the notes from the bank, and you let me go to explain about it. I brought the papers home and put them away in my desk.”
“Yes, yes; I believe that was it. Yes; to be sure. So you have the notes. Well, you’d better hand them to me,—quite at your convenience.”
“Certainly, father.”
He was satisfied and turned again to his endless computations.