I know they 're tremendous--I know I shall never repay them. I 'm
bankrupt! Do you know what that means?"
The poor lady sat staring, dismayed, and Rowland angrily interfered.
"Don't talk such stuff to your mother!" he cried. "Don't you see you 're
frightening her?"
"Frightening her? she may as well be frightened first as last. Do I
frighten you, mother?" Roderick demanded.
"Oh, Roderick, what do you mean?" whimpered the poor lady. "Mr. Mallet,
what does he mean?"
"I mean that I 'm an angry, savage, disappointed, miserable man!"
Roderick went on. "I mean that I can't do a stroke of work nor think
a profitable thought! I mean that I 'm in a state of helpless rage and
grief and shame! Helpless, helpless--that 's what it is. You can't help
me, poor mother--not with kisses, nor tears, nor prayers! Mary can't
help me--not for all the honor she does me, nor all the big books on art
that she pores over. Mallet can't help me--not with all his money, nor
all his good example, nor all his friendship, which I 'm so profoundly
well aware of: not with it all multiplied a thousand times and repeated
to all eternity! I thought you would help me, you and Mary; that 's why
I sent for you.
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