Shortly after Captain Carroll started upon his search for his missing
son, Randolph Anderson, sitting peacefully in his back office, by the
riverward window, was rudely interrupted. He was mounting some new
specimens. Before him the great tiger cat lay blissfully on his red
cushion. He was not asleep, but was purring loudly in what resembled
a human day-dream. His claws luxuriously pricked through the velvet
of his paws, which were extended in such a way that he might have
served as a model for a bas-relief of a cat running a race. Now and
then the tip of his tail curled and uncurled with an indescribable
effect of sensuousness. The green things in the window-box had grown
luxuriantly, and now and then trailing vines tossed up past the
window in the infrequent puffs of wind. The afternoon was very warm.
The temperature had risen rapidly since noon. Down below the wide
window ran the river, unseen except for a subtle, scarcely
perceptible glow of the brilliant sunlight upon the water. It was a
rather muddy stream, but at certain times it caught the sunlight and
tossed it back as from the facets of brown jewels.
The murmur of the river was plainly audible in the room. It was very
loud, for the stream's current was still high with the spring rains.
The rustle of the trees which grew on the river-bank was also
discernible, and might have been the rustle of the garments of nymphs
tossed about their supple limbs by the warm breeze. In fact, a like
fancy occurred to Anderson as he sat there mounting his butterflies.
"I don't wonder those old Greeks had their tales about nymphs
closeted in trees," he thought, for the rustle of the green boughs
had suggested the rustle of women's draperies.
Then he remembered how Charlotte Carroll's skirts had rustled as she
went out of the store that last afternoon when he had spoken to her.
There was a soft crispness of ruffling lawns and laces, a most
delicate sound, a maidenly sound which had not been unlike the sound
of the young leaves of the willows overfolding and interlacing with
one another when the soft breeze swelled high. Now and then all the
afternoon came a slow, soft wave of warm wind out of the west, and
all sounds deepened before it, even the purring song of the cat
seemed to increase, and possibly did, from the unconscious assertion
of his own voice in the peaceful and somnolent chorus of nature. It
was only spring as yet, but the effect was as of a long summer
afternoon. Anderson, who was always keenly sensitive to all phases of
nature and all atmospheric conditions, was affected by it. He
realized himself sunken in drowsy, unspeculative contentment. Even
the strange, emotional unrest and effervescence, which had been more
or less over him since he had seen Charlotte Carroll, was in
abeyance. After all, he was not a passionate man, and he was not very
young. The young girl seemed to become merely a part of the gracious
harmony which was lulling his soul and his senses to content and
peace. He was conscious of wondering what a man could want more than
he had, as if he had suspected himself of guilt in that direction.
Then, suddenly, pell-mell into the office, starling the great cat to
that extent that he sprang from his red cushion on the window-ledge,
and slunk, flattening his long body against the floor, under the
table, came the boy Eddy Carroll. The boy stood staring at him rather
shamefacedly, though every muscle in his small body seemed on a
twitch with the restrained impulse of flight.
"Well," said Anderson, finally, "what's the trouble, sir?"
Then the boy found his tongue. He came close to the man.
"Say," he said, in a hoarse whisper, "jest let a feller stay in here
a minute, will you?"
Anderson nodded readily. He understood, or thought he did. He
immediately jumped to the conclusion that the teasing boys were at
work again. He felt a little astonished at this headlong flight to
cover of the boy who had so manfully stood at bay a few hours before.
However, he was a little fellow, and there had been a good many of
his opponents. He felt a pleasant thrill of fatherliness and
protection. He looked kindly into the little, pink-flushed face.
"Very well, my son," said he. "Stay as long as you like. Take a
seat." The boy sat down. His legs were too short for his feet to
touch the floor, so he swung them. He gazed ingratiatingly at
Anderson, and now and then cast an apprehensive glance towards the
door of the office. Anderson continued mounting his butterflies, and
paid no attention to him, and the boy seemed to respect his silence.
Presently the great cat emerged quite boldly from his refuge under
the table, crouched, calculated the distance, and leaped softly back
to his red cushion. The boy hitched his chair nearer, and began
stroking the cat gently and lovingly with his little boy-hand,
hardened with climbing and playing. The cat stretched himself
luxuriously, pricked his claws in and out, shut his eyes, and purred
again quite loudly. Again the little room sang with the song of the
river, the wind in the trees, and the cat's somnolent note. The
afternoon light rippled full of green reflections through the room.
The boy's small head appeared in it like a flower. He smiled tenderly
at the cat. Anderson, glancing at him over his butterflies, thought
what an angelic aspect he had. He looked a darling of a boy.
The boy, stroking the cat, met the man's kindly approving eyes, and
he smiled a smile of utter confidence and trust, which conveyed
delicious flattery. Then suddenly the hand stroking the cat desisted
and made a dive into a small jacket-pocket and emerged with a
treasure. It was a great butterfly, much dilapidated as to its
gorgeous wings, but the boy looked gloatingly from it to the man.
"I got it for you," he whispered, with another glance at the office
door. Anderson recognized, with the dismay of a collector, a fine
specimen, which he had sought in vain, made utterly worthless by
ruthless handling, but he controlled himself. "Thank you," he said,
and took the poor, despoiled beauty and laid it carefully on the
table.
"It got broke a little, somehow," remarked the boy; "it's wings are
awful brittle."
"Yes, they are," assented Anderson.
"I had to chase it quite a spell," said the boy, with an evident
desire not to have his efforts underestimated.
"Yes, I don't doubt it," replied Anderson, with gratitude well
simulated.
"It seemed rather a pity to kill such a pretty butterfly as that,"
remarked the boy, unexpectedly, "but I thought you'd like it."
"Yes, I like to have a nice collection of butterflies," replied
Anderson, with a faint inflection of apology. In reality, the
butterflies' side of it had failed to occur to him before, and he
felt that an appeal to science in such a case was rather feeble. Then
the boy helped him out.
"Well," said he, "I do suppose that a butterfly don't live very long,
anyhow; he has to die pretty soon, and it's better for human beings
to have him stuck on a pin and put where they can see how handsome he
is, rather than have him stay out in the fields, where the rain would
soak him into the ground, and that would be the end of him. I suppose
it is better to save anything that's pretty, somehow, even if the
thing don't like it himself."
"Perhaps you are right," replied Anderson, regarding the boy with
some wonder.
"Maybe he didn't mind dying 'cause I caught him any more than just
dying himself," said Eddy.
"Maybe not."
"Anyhow, he's dead," said the boy.
He watched Anderson carefully as he manipulated the insect.
"I'm sorry his wing got broken," he said. "I wonder why God makes
butterflies' wings so awful brittle that they can't be caught without
spoiling 'em. The other wing ain't hurt much, anyhow."
A sudden thought struck Anderson. "Why, when did you get this
butterfly?" he asked.
The boy flushed vividly. He gave a sorrowful, obstinate glance at the
man, as much as to say, "I am sad that you should force me into such
a course, but I must be firm." Then he looked away, staring out of
the window at the tree-tops tossing against the brilliant blue of the
sky, and made no reply.
Anderson made a swift calculation. He glanced at a clock on the wall.
"Where did you get this butterfly?" he inquired, harmlessly, and the
boy fell into the net.
"In that field just beyond the oak grove on the road to New
Sanderson," he replied, with entire innocence.
Anderson surveyed him sharply.
"When is afternoon school out?" asked Anderson.
"At four o'clock," replied the boy, with such unsuspicion that the
man's conscience smote him. It was too easy.
"Well," said Anderson, slowly. He did not look at the boy, but went
on straightening the mangled wing of the butterfly which he had
offered on his shrine. "Well," he said, "how did you get time to go
to that field and catch this butterfly? You say it took a long time,
and that field is a good twenty minutes' run from here, and it is a
quarter of five now." The boy kicked his feet against the rounds of
his chair and made no reply. His forehead was scowling, his mouth
set. "How?" repeated Anderson.
Then the boy turned on the man. He slid out of his chair; he spoke
loudly. He forgot to glance at the door. "Ain't you smart?" he cried,
with scorn, and still with an air of slighted affection which
appealed. "Ain't you smart to catch a feller that way? You're mean,
if you are a man, after I've got you that big butterfly, too, to turn
on a feller that way."
Anderson actually felt ashamed of himself. "Now, see here, my boy,"
he said, "I'm grateful to you so far as that goes."
"I didn't run away from school," declared Eddy Carroll, looking
straight at Anderson, who fairly gasped.
He had seen people lie before, but somehow this was actually
dazzling. He was conscious of fairly blinking before the direct gaze
of innocence of this lying little boy. And then his elderly and
reliable clerk appeared in the office door, glanced at Eddy, whom he
did not know, and informed Anderson, in a slightly impressed tone,
that Captain Carroll was in the store and would like to speak to him.
Anderson glanced again at his young visitor, who had got, in a
second, a look of pale consternation. He went out into the store at
once, and was greeted by Carroll with the inquiry as to whether or
not he had seen his son.
"My boy has not been seen since he started for school this morning,"
said Carroll. "I came here because another little boy, one of my
son's small school-fellows, who has succeeded in treading the paths
of virtue and obedience, volunteered the information, without the
slightest imputation of any guilty conspiracy on your part, that you
had been seen leading my son home to your residence to dinner," said
Carroll.
"Your son made friends with me on his way from school this noon,"
said Anderson, simply, "and upon his evident desire to dine with me I
invited him, being assured by him that his so doing would not
occasion the slightest uneasiness at home as to his whereabouts."
Anderson was indignant at something in the other man's tone, and was
careful not to introduce in his tone the slightest inflection of
apology.
He made the statement, and was about to add that the boy was at that
moment in his office, when Carroll interrupted. "I regret to say that
my son has not the slightest idea of what is meant by telling the
truth. He never had," he stated, smilingly, "especially when his own
desires lead him to falsehood. In those cases he lies to himself so
successfully that he tells in effect the truth to other people. He,
in that sense, told the truth to you, but the truth was not as he
stated, for the ladies have been in a really pitiable state of
anxiety."
"He is in my office now," said Anderson, coldly, pointing to the door
and beginning to move towards it.
"I suspected the boy was in there," said Carroll, and his tones
changed, as did his face. All the urbanity and the smile vanished. He
followed Anderson with a nervous stride. Both men entered the little
office, but the boy was gone. Both stood gazing about the little
space. It was absolutely impossible for anybody to be concealed
there. There was no available hiding-place except under the table,
and the cat occupied that, and his eyes shone out of the gloom like
green jewels.
"I don't see him," said Carroll.
Then Anderson turned upon him.
"Sir," he said, with a kind of slow heat, "I am at a loss as to what
to attribute your tone and manner. If you doubt--"
"Not at all, my dear sir," replied Carroll, with a wave of the hand.
"But I am told that my son is in here, and when, on entering, I do
not see him, I am naturally somewhat surprised."
"Your son was certainly in this room when I left it a moment ago, and
that is all I know about it," said Anderson. "And I will add that
your son's visit was entirely unsolicited--"
"My dear sir," interrupted Carroll again, "I assure you that I do not
for a moment conceive the possibility of anything else. But the fact
remains that I am told he is here--"
"He was here," said Anderson, looking about with an impatient and
bewildered scowl.
"He could not have gone out through the store while we were there,"
said Carroll, in a puzzled tone.
"I do not see how he could have done so unobserved, certainly."
"The window," said Carroll, taking a step towards it.
"Thirty feet from the ground; sheer wall and rocks below. He could
not have gone out there without wings."
"He has no wings, and I very much fear he never will have any at this
rate," said Carroll, moving out. "Well, Mr. Anderson, I regret that
my son should have annoyed you."
"He has not annoyed me in the least," Anderson replied, shortly. "I
only regret that his peculiar method of telling the truth should have
led me unwittingly to occasion your wife and daughters so much
anxiety, and I trust that you will soon trace him."
"Oh yes, he will turn up all right," said Carroll, easily. "If he was
in your office a moment ago, he cannot be far off."
There was the faintest suggestion of emphasis upon the "if."
Anderson spoke to the elderly clerk, who had been leaning against the
shelves ranged with packages of cereal, surmounted by a flaming row
of picture advertisements, regarding them and listening with a
curious abstraction, which almost gave the impression of stupidity.
This man had lived boy and man in one groove of the grocer business,
until he needed prodding to shift him momentarily into any other.
In reality he managed most of the details of the selling. He heard
what the two men said, and at the same time was considering that he
was to send the wagon round the first thing in the morning with pease
to the postmaster's, and a new barrel of sugar to the Amidons, and he
was calculating the price of sugar at the slight recent rise.
"Mr. Price," said Anderson to him, "may I ask that you will tell this
gentleman if a little boy went into my office a short time ago?"
The clerk looked blankly at Anderson, who patiently repeated his
question.
"A little boy," repeated the clerk.
"Yes," said Anderson.
Price gazed reflectively and in something of a troubled fashion at
Anderson, then at Carroll. His mind was in the throes of displacing a
barrel of sugar and a half-peck of pease by a little boy. Then his
face brightened. He spoke quickly and decidedly.
"Yes," said he, "just before this gentleman came in, a little boy,
running, yes."
"You did not see him come out while we were talking?" asked Anderson.
"No, oh no."
Carroll asked no further and left, with a good-day to Anderson, who
scarcely returned it. He jumped into his carriage, and the swift tap
of the horse's feet died away on the macadam.
"Sugar ought to bring about two cents on a pound more," said the
clerk to Anderson, returning to the office, and then he stopped short
as Anderson started staring at an enormous advertisement picture
which was stationed, partly for business reasons, partly for
ornament, in a corner near the office door. It was a figure of a
gayly dressed damsel, nearly life-size, and was supposed by its
blooming appearance to settle finally the merit of a new health food.
The other clerk, who was a young fellow, hardly more than a boy, had
placed it there. He had reached the first fever-stage of admiration
of the other sex, and this gaudy beauty had resembled in his eyes a
fair damsel of Banbridge whom he secretly adored.
Therefore he had ensconced it carefully in the corner near the office
door, and often glanced at it with reverent and sheepish eyes of
delight. Anderson never paid any attention to the thing, but now for
some reason he glanced at it in passing, and to his astonishment it
moved. He made one stride towards it, and thrust it aside, and behind
it stood the boy, with a face of impudent innocence.
Anderson stood looking at him for a second. The boy's eyes did not
fall, but his expression changed.
"So you ran away from your father and hid from him?" Anderson
observed, with a subtle emphasis of scorn. "So you are afraid?"
The boy's face flashed into red, his eyes blazed.
"You bet I ain't," he declared.
"Looks very much like it," said Anderson, coolly.
"You let me go," shouted the boy, and pushed rudely past Anderson and
raced out of the store. Anderson and the old clerk looked at each
other across the great advertisement which had fallen face downward
on the floor.
"Must have come in from the office whilst our back was turned, and
slipped in behind that picture," said the clerk, slowly.
Anderson nodded.
"He is a queer feller," said the clerk, further.
"He certainly is," agreed Anderson.
"As queer as ever I seen. Guess his father 'll give it to him when he
gits home."
"Well, he deserves it," replied Anderson, and added, in the silence
of his mind, "and his father deserves it, too," and imagined vaguely
to himself a chastening providence for the eternal good of the father
even as the father might be for the eternal good of his son. The
man's fancy was always more or less in leash to his early training.
Just then the younger clerk, Sam Riggs, commonly called Sammy,
entered, and espying at once with jealous eyes the fallen state of
his idol in the corner, took the first opportunity to pick her up and
straighten her to her former position.