It was a week to a day after the wedding, and Anderson had been to
the office for the morning mail, and was just returning to the store
when a watching face at a window of Madame Griggs's dress-making
establishment opposite suddenly disappeared, and when Anderson was
mounting the steps of the store piazza he heard a panting breath and
rattle of starched petticoats, and turned to see the dress-maker.
"Good-morning," she gasped.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Griggs," returned Anderson.
"Can I see you jest a minute on business? I have been watching for
you to come back from the office. I want to buy a melon, if it ain't
too dear, before I go, but I want to see you jest a minute in the
office first, if you ain't too busy."
"Certainly. Come right in," responded Anderson; but his heart sank,
for he divined her errand.
The dress-maker followed him into the office with a nervous teeter
and a loud rattle of starched cottons. That morning she was clad in
blue gingham trimmed profusely with white lace, and her face looked
infinitesimal and meagre in the midst of her puffs of blond frizzes.
"I should think that woman was dressed in paper bags by the noise she
makes," Sam Riggs remarked to the old clerk when the office door had
closed behind her.
"I should think it would kinder take her mind off things she starts
out to do," remarked Price. The rattle of the oscillating petticoats
had distracted his own mind from a nice calculation as to the amount
of a bill for a fractional amount of citron at a fractional increase
in the market-price. The old clerk was about to send a cost slip with
some goods to be delivered to a cash customer.
"Yep," responded Sam Riggs. "I should think she'd git rattled with
sech a rattlin' of her petticoats." The boy regarded this as so
supernaturally smart that he actually blushed with modest
appreciation of his own wit, and tears sprang to his eyes when he
laughed. But when he glanced at his fellow-clerk, Price was
calculating the cost of the citron, and did not seem to have noticed
anything unusual in the speech. Riggs, who was easily taken down,
felt immediately humiliated, and doubtful of his own humor, and
changed the subject. "Say," he whispered, jerking his index-finger
towards the office door, "you don't suppose she is settin' her cap at
the boss, do you?"
"Well, I guess she'd have to take it out in settin'," replied the old
clerk, in scorn. He had now the price of the citron fixed in his
head, and he trotted to the standing desk at the end of the counter
to enter it.
"I guess so, too," said Riggs. "Guess she'd have to starch her cap
stiffer than her petticoats before she'd catch him." Again Riggs
thought he must be funny, but, when the other clerk did not laugh,
concluded he must have been mistaken.
The conference in the office was short, and Price had hardly gotten
the slip made out when Madame Griggs emerged. Indeed, she had not
accepted Anderson's proffer of a chair.
"No," said she, "I can't set down. I 'ain't got but a minute. Two of
my girls is went on their vacation, an' I 'ain't got nobody but
Bessie Starley, an' I've promised Mis' Rawdy she should have her new
silk skirt before Sunday to wear to Coney Island. Mr. Rawdy has made
so much on hiring his carriages for the weddin' that he has bought
his wife a new black silk dress, an' now he is goin' to take her to
Coney Island Sunday, and hire the Liscom boy to take his place
drivin'. Now what I come in here for was--" Madame Griggs lowered her
voice; she drew nearer Anderson, and her anxious whisper whistled in
his ear. "What I want to know is," said she, "here's Mr. Rawdy, an' I
hear the caterer, were paid in advance, an' Blumenfeldt was paid the
day after the weddin', an' I ain't, an' I wonder if I'm goin' to be."
"Have you sent in your bill yet?" inquired Anderson.
"No, I 'ain't, but Captain Carroll asked Blumenfeldt for his bill an'
he paid the others in advance, an' he 'ain't asked for my bill."
"I do not see why you distress yourself until you have sent in your
bill," Anderson said, rather coldly.
"Now, don't you think so?"
"I certainly do not."
"Well," said she, "to tell the truth, I kinder hated to send it too
quick. I hated to have it look as if I was scart. It's a pretty big
bill, too, an' they seem like real ladies, an' the sister, the one
that ain't married, is as nice a girl as I ever see--nicer than the
other one, accordin' to my way of thinkin'. She ain't stuck up a
mite. The rest of them don't mean to be stuck up, but they be without
knowin' it. Guess they was brought up so; but Charlotte ain't. Well,
I kinder hated, as I say, to send that bill, especially as it is a
pretty big one. I made everything as reasonable as I could, but she
had a good many things, an' Charlotte had her bridesmaid's dress,
too, an' it's mounted up to considerable, an' I hated to have 'em
think I was dreadful scart. I 'ain't never been in the habit of
sendin' in a bill to nobody, not for some weeks after the things was
did, an' I didn't like to this time. But I says to myself, as long as
there had been so much talk round 'mongst folks about the Carrolls
not payin' their bills, I'd wait a week an' then I'd send it in. Now
it's jest a week ago to-day since the weddin', an' there ain't a
word. I thought mebbe they'd ask for the bill the way they did with
Blumenfeldt, an' now I want to know if you think I had better send
the bill or wait a little while longer."
Anderson replied that he thought it would do no harm, that he did not
like to advise in such a case.
The dress-maker eyed him sharply and with a certain resentment. "Now,
I want to know," said she. "I want you to speak right out and tell
me, if you think I'm imposin'."
"I don't quite understand what you mean," Anderson replied, in
bewilderment. He was horribly annoyed and perplexed, but his manner
was kind, for the memory of poor little Stella Mixter with her shower
of blond curls was strong upon him, and there was something
harrowingly pathetic about the combination of little, veinous hands
twitching nervously in the folds of the blue gingham, the painstaking
frizzes, the pale, screwed little face, and the illogical feminine
brain.
But the dress-maker's next remark almost dispelled the pathos. "I
want you to tell me right out," said she, "if it would make any
difference if I paid you. Of course I know you've given up law, an' I
'ain't thought of offerin' you pay for advice. I've traded all I can
in your store, though I always think you are a little dearer, and I
didn't know but you'd think that made it all right; but--"
"I do think it is all right," Anderson returned, quickly, "I assure
you, Mrs. Griggs, and I have never dreamed of such a thing as your
paying me. Indeed, I have given you no advice which I should have
felt justified in sending in a bill for, if I were practising my
profession."
"Well, I didn't think you had told me anything worth much," said
Madame Griggs, "but I know how lawyers tuck on for nothin', and I
didn't know but you might feel--"
"I certainly do not," said Anderson.
"Well," said Madame Griggs, "I am very much obliged to you. I'll send
the bill a week from to-day, and I feel a great deal better about it.
I don't have nobody to ask, and sometimes I feel as if I didn't have
a friend or a brother to ask whether I'd better do anything or not, I
should give up. I'm very much obliged, Mr. Anderson."
"You are very welcome to anything I have done," replied Anderson,
looking at her with a dismay of bewilderment. It was as if he had
witnessed some mental inversion which affected his own brain.
Anderson always pitied Madame Griggs, but never, after his
conferences with her concerning the Carrolls, did he in his heart of
hearts blame her husband for running away.
Madame Griggs's coquettish manner developed on the threshold of the
office. She smirked until her little, delicate-skinned face was a
net-work mask, and all the muscles quivered to the sight through the
transparent covering. She moved her thin, crooked elbows with a
flapping motion like wings as she smirked and thanked him again.
"I should think you'd like the grocery business a heap better than
law," said she, amiably, as she went out. "Oh, I want to get a melon
if they ain't too dear." She evidently expected Anderson himself to
wait upon her, and was a little taken aback that he did not follow
her. She lingered for a long time haggling with Price, with a
watchful eye on the office door, and finally departed without
purchasing.
Shortly after she had gone, Sam Riggs came for Anderson to inspect
some vegetables which had been brought in by a farmer. "He's got some
fine potatoes," said he, "but he wants too much for 'em, Price
thinks. He's got cabbages, too, and them's too high. Guess you had
better look at 'em yourself, Price says."
So Anderson went out to interview the farmer, sparsely bearded, lank,
and long-necked and seamy-skinned, his face ineffectual yet shrewd, a
poor white of the South strung on wiry nerves, instead of lax
muscles, the outcome of the New Jersey soil. He shuffled determinedly
in his great boots, heavy with red shale, standing guard over his
fine vegetables. He nodded phlegmatically at Anderson. He never
smiled. Occasionally his long facial muscles relaxed, but they never
widened. He was indefinably serious by nature, yet not melancholy,
and absolutely acquiescent in his life conditions. The farmer of New
Jersey is not of the stuff which breeds anarchy. He is rooted fast to
his red-clinging native soil, which has taken hold of his spirit. He
is tenacious, but not revolutionary. He was as adamant on the prices
of his vegetables, and finally Anderson purchased at his terms.
"You got stuck," Price said, after the farmer, in his rusty wagon,
drawn by a horse which was rather a fine animal, had disappeared down
the street.
"Well, I don't know," Anderson replied. "His vegetables are pretty
fine."
"Folks won't pay the prices you ought to ask to make a penny on it."
"Oh, I am not so sure of that. People want a good article, and very
few raise potatoes or cabbages or even turnips in their own gardens."
"Ingram is selling potatoes two cents less than you, and I rather
think turnips, too."
"Not these turnips."
"No, guess not. He has his from another man, but they look pretty
good, and half the folks don't know the dif."
"Well," Anderson replied, "sell them for less, if you have to, rather
than keep them. Selling a superfine article for no profit is
sometimes the best and cheapest advertisement in the world."
Anderson stood a while observing the display of vegetables and fruit
piled on the sidewalk before his store and in the store window. He
took a certain honest pleasure of proprietorship, and also an
artistic delight in it. He observed the great green cabbages, like
enormous roses, the turnips, like ivory carvings veined with purplish
rose towards their roots, the smooth russet of the potatoes. There
were also baskets of fine grapes, the tender pink bloom of Delawares,
and the pale emerald of Niagaras, with the plummy gloss of Concords.
There were enormous green spheres of watermelons, baskets of superb
peaches, each with a high light of rose like a pearl, and piles of
bartlett and seckel pears. There was something about all this
magnificent plenty of the fruits of the earth which was impressive.
It was to an ardent fancy as if Flora and Pomona had been that way
with their horns of plenty. The sordid question of market value,
however, was distinctly irritating, and yet it was justly so. Why
should not a man sell the fruits of the earth for dollars and cents
with artistic and honorable dignity as anything else? All commodities
for the needs of mankind are marketable, are the instruments of
traffic, whether they be groceries or books, boots and shoes, dishes
or furniture, or pictures; whether they be songs or sermons or corn
plasters or shaving-soap; whether they be food for the mind or the
body. What difference did it make which was dispensed? It was all a
question of need and supply. The minister preached his sermons for
the welfare of the soul; the Jew hawked his second-hand garments;
everything was interwoven. One must eat to live, to hear sermons, to
hear songs, to love, to think, to read. One must be clothed to tread
the earth among his fellows. There was need, and one supplied one
need, one another. All need was dignified by the man who possessed,
all supply was dignified if one looked at it in the right way. There
was a certain dignity even about his own need of two cents more on
those turnips, which were actually as beautiful as an ivory carving.
Anderson finally returned to his office, feeling a little impatient
with himself that, in spite of his own perfect contentment with his
business, he should now and then essay to justify himself in his
contentment, as he undoubtedly did. It was like a violinist screwing
his instrument up to concert-pitch, below which it would drop from
day to day.
Anderson had not been long in his office before he heard a quick
patter of feet outside, the peculiar clapping sound of swift toes,
which none but a child's feet can produce, and Eddy Carroll entered.
The door was ajar, and he pushed it open and ran in with no ceremony.
He was well in the room before he apparently remembered something. He
stopped short, ran back to the door, and knocked.
Anderson chuckled. "Come in," he said, in a loud tone, as if the door
was closed.
Then Eddy came forward with some dignity. "I remembered after I got
in that I ought to have knocked," said he. "I hope you'll excuse me."
"Certainly," said Anderson. "Won't you have a seat?"
Eddy sat down and swung his feet, kicking the round of the chair,
with his eyes fastened on Anderson, who was seated in the other
chair, smoking. "How old were you when you began to smoke?" the boy
inquired, suddenly.
"Very much older than you are," replied Anderson.
Eddy sighed. "Is it very nice to smoke?" said he.
Anderson was conscious that he was distinctly at a loss for a reply,
and felt like a defaulting Sunday-school teacher as he cast about for
one.
"Is it?" said Eddy again.
"Different people look at it differently," said Anderson, "and the
best way is for you to wait until you are a man and decide for
yourself."
"Is it nicer to be a man than it was to be a boy?" inquired Eddy.
"That, also, is a matter of opinion," said Anderson.
"You can do lots of things that a boy can't," said Eddy. "You can
smoke, and you can keep store, and have all the candy you want." Eddy
cast an innocent glance towards the office door as he spoke.
"Sam!" called Anderson; and when the young clerk's grinning face
appeared at the door, "Will you bring some of those peppermint-drops
here for this young man."
"I'd rather have chocolates, if you can't sell 'em any better than
the peppermint-drops," Eddy said, quickly.
When Sam reappeared with chocolates in a little paper bag, Eddy was
blissful. He ate and swung his feet. "These are bully," said he. "I
should think as long as you can have all the chocolates you want,
you'd rather eat those than smoke a pipe."
"It is a matter of taste," replied Anderson.
"I'm always going to eat chocolates instead of smoking," said Eddy.
"He gave me a lot. Say, I don't see how a boy can steal candy, do
you?"
"No. It is very wrong," said Anderson.
"You bet 'tis. I knew a boy in New York State, where we used to live
before we came here, that stole candy 'most every day, and he used to
bring it to school and give the other boys. He used to give me much
as a pound a day. Some days he used to give me much as five pounds."
Then Eddy Carroll, after delivering himself of this statement, could
not get his young, black eyes away from the fixed regard of the man's
keen, blue ones, and he began to wriggle as to his body, with his
eyes held firm by that unswerving gaze. "What you looking at me that
way for?" he stammered. "I don't think you're very polite."
"How much candy did that boy give you every day?" asked Anderson.
Eddy wriggled. "Well, maybe he didn't give me more 'n half a pound,"
he muttered.
"How much?"
"Well, maybe it wasn't more 'n a quarter. I don't know."
"How much?" persisted Anderson.
"Well, maybe it might have been three pieces; it was a good many
years ago. A fellow can't remember everything."
"How much?" asked Anderson, pitilessly.
"One piece."
"How much?"
"Well, maybe it wasn't any at all," Eddy burst out, in desperation,
"but I don't see what odds it makes. I call it an awful fuss about a
little mite of candy, for my part."
"Now about that boy?" inquired Anderson.
"Oh, shucks, there wasn't any boy, I s'pose." Eddy gazed resentfully
and admiringly at the man. "Say," he said, without the slightest
sarcasm, rather with affection and perfect seriousness, "you are
awful smart, ain't you?"
Anderson modestly murmured a disclaimer of any especial smartness.
"Yes, you are awful smart," declared Eddy. "Is it because you used to
be a lawyer that you are so smart?"
"The law may make a difference in a man's skill for finding out the
truth," admitted Anderson.
"Say," said the boy, "I've been thinking all along that when I was a
man I would rather be a grocer than anything else, but I don't know
but I'd rather be a lawyer, after all. It would be so nice to be able
to find out when folks were not telling the truth, and trying to hide
when they had been stealing and doing bad things. 'No, you don't,'
I'd say; 'no, you don't, mister. I see right through you.' I rather
think I'd like that better. Say?"
"What is it?" asked Anderson.
"Why didn't you come to the wedding? I saved a lot of things for you."
"I told you I thought I should not be able to come. I was very much
obliged for the invitation," said Anderson, apologetically.
"I looked for you till eleven o'clock. You ought to have come, after
I took all that trouble to get an invitation for you. I don't think
you were very polite."
"I am very sorry," murmured Anderson.
"I think you ought to be. You don't know what you missed. Ina looked
awful pretty, but Charlotte looked prettier, if she wasn't the bride.
Don't you think Charlotte is an awful pretty girl?"
"Very," replied Anderson, smiling.
"You'd better. I heard her say she thought you was an awful handsome
man, the handsomest man in this town. Say, I think Charlotte would
like to get married, now Ina is married. I guess she feels kind of
slighted. Why don't you marry Charlotte?"
"Wouldn't you like some of those molasses-peppermints, now you have
finished the chocolates?" asked Anderson.
"No, I guess not, thank you. I don't feel very well this morning.
Say, why don't you? She's an awful nice girl--honest. And maybe I
would come and live with you. I would part of the time, anyway, and I
would help in the store."
"You had better run out and ask Sam to give you some peppermints,"
repeated Anderson, desperately.
"No, thank you. I'm real obliged, but I guess I don't feel like it
now. But I tell you what I had a good deal rather have?"
"What is that?"
"What are you going to have for dinner?"
"Now, see here, my son," said Anderson, laughing. "We are going to
have a fine dinner, and I should be exceedingly glad to have you as
my guest, but this time there must be no dining with me without your
mother's knowledge."
"Oh, Amy won't care."
"Nevertheless, you must go home and obtain permission before I take
you home with me," said Anderson, firmly.
"I don't think you are very polite," said Eddy; but it ended in his
presently saying that, well, then, he would go home and ask
permission; but it was not of the slightest use. "They would all want
me to stay, if they thought anything of me. I know Amy would. Amy
said this morning I was the worst off of them all, because I had such
a misfortunate appetite." The boy's ingenuous eyes met the man's
fixed upon him with a mixture of amusement and compassion. "You see,"
added Eddy, simply, "all the things left over from the wedding, the
caterers let us have; papa said not to ask him, and Amy wouldn't, but
Aunt Anna did, and there was a lot, though folks ate so much. There
was one gentleman ate ten plates of salad--yes, he did. I saw him. He
was the doctor, so I suppose he wasn't ill afterwards. But there was
a lot left. Of course the ice-cream melted, but it was nice to drink
afterwards, and there was a lot of salad and cake and rolls. The
cakes and rolls lasted longest. I got pretty tired of them. But now
those are all gone, and the butcher won't let us have any more meat,
though he trusted us two days after the wedding, because he heard
papa paid the florist and the liveryman, but now he has stopped
again. Of course we have things from here, but you don't keep meat.
Why don't you keep meat?"
The absurd pathos of the whole was almost too much for Anderson. He
rose and went to the window and looked out as he replied that it was
not unusual for a grocer to include meat in his stock of trade.
"I know it isn't," said Eddy, "but it would be so nice for us if you
did, and all the poor people the butcher wouldn't trust. Did you ever
get real hungry, and have nothing except crackers and little
gingersnaps and such things?"
"No, I don't know that I ever did."
"Well, it is awful," said Eddy, with emphasis. He started up. "Well,"
he said, "I'm going to run right home and ask Amy. She'll let me
come. What did you say you were going to have for dinner?"
"Roast beef," replied Anderson.
"Goody!" cried the boy, and was off.
Anderson, left alone, sat down and thought disturbedly. The utter
futility of any efforts to assist such a family was undeniable.
Nothing could be done. For a vivid instant he had an idea of rushing
to the market and setting up surreptitiously a term of credit for the
Carrolls, by paying their bills himself, but the absurdity of the
scheme overcame him. The ridiculousness of his actually feeding this
whole family because of his weakness in giving credit when not
another merchant in the town would do so struck him forcibly. Yet
what else could he do? He had done a foolish thing in allowing his
thoughts and imaginations which were not those of a youth, and were
susceptible of control had he made the effort, to dwell upon this
girl, who had never even thought of him in the same light. It was
romance gone mad. He, an older man who had passed beyond the period
when dreams are a part of the physical growth, and unrestrainable,
had indulged himself in dreams, and now he must pay in foolish
realities. He thought uneasily what a laughing-stock he would become
if by any means the fact of his continued credit to this non-paying
family were to become known, and he saw no earthly reason why it
should not become known. However, no one could possibly suspect the
reason for his unbusiness-like credulity. It was simply impossible
that it should enter into any one's head to suspect him of a passion
for that little Carroll girl, as they would express her. If he had
been extending sentimental credit to the Egglestons, people might
have been quick to discover the reason in a lurking and extremely
suitable affection for one of them, but this was out of the question.
However, Anderson had not a very long time for his reflections, for
Eddy Carroll was back, beaming. "Yes, Amy says I can come," he
announced.
"That is good," Anderson replied, hospitably, but he eyed him
sharply. "You went very quickly," said he.
"Got a ride on the ice wagon," said he. "The ice-man is a good
feller. I asked him why he had stopped bringing us ice, and he said
if he was running the business, instead of jest carting for the boss,
he'd give us all the ice we wanted for nothing. He was going up past
our house, and when we got there he gave me a big chunk of ice, and I
went and got Marie, and we lugged it into the kitchen together. Lucky
Aunt Anna or Charlotte didn't see me."
"Why?" asked Anderson.
"Oh, nothing, only they wouldn't have let me take it. Say, Marie was
crying. Her eyes looked as red as a rabbit's. I asked her what the
matter was, and she said she hadn't been paid her wages. Say, isn't
it too bad everybody makes such a fuss about being paid. It worries
Aunt Anna and Charlotte awfully. Women are dreadful worriers, ain't
they?"
"Perhaps they are," replied Anderson, and got out a book with colored
plates of South American butterflies. "I think you will like to look
at these pictures," said he. "I have some letters to write."
"All right," said Eddy, and spread his little knees to form a place
for the big book. "I am glad I wasn't a girl," he said, in pursuance
of his train of thought. "Golly, what a whopper butterfly!"
"Yes, that is a big fellow," said Anderson.
"I caught one once twice as big as that in a place where we used to
live."
"Don't talk any more, son," said Anderson.
"All right," returned Eddy, generously, and turned the pages in
silence.
It was nearly noon when Sam Riggs came to the office door to announce
Charlotte; but she followed closely behind, and saw her brother over
the butterfly-book. She was so surprised that she scarcely greeted
Anderson.
"Why, Eddy Carroll, you here?" said she.
"Yes, Charlotte," replied Eddy, with a curious meekness.
"How long have you been here, dear?"
"Oh, quite a while, Charlotte. Mr. Anderson has given me this
beautiful book to look at. It's full of butterflies."
"That is very kind," said Charlotte. "You must be very careful."
"Yes, I am," replied Eddy. "I ate up the candy before I touched it.
Mr. Anderson gave me some bully candy, Charlotte."
"That was kind," Charlotte replied, smiling a little uneasily,
Anderson thought.
Then she turned to him. She had been all the time fumbling with a
dainty little green purse, and Anderson saw, with a comical dismay, a
check appear. She held it fluttering between a rosy thumb and finger
in his direction. "Mr. Anderson, I brought in this check," she began,
a little hesitatingly, "and--"
"You would like it cashed?" asked Anderson.
"No, not this time," said she. "Papa left it this morning for my
mother, and I-- Mr. Anderson, I know we are owing you, and this is a
check for twenty-five dollars, and I should like to pay it to you for
your bill." At the last Charlotte's hesitation vanished. She spoke
with pride and dignity. In reality the child felt that she was doing
a meritorious and noble thing. She was taking money which had been
left to spend, to pay a bill. Moreover, she had not the slightest
idea that the twenty-five dollars did not discharge the whole of the
indebtedness to Anderson. She had quite a little dispute with her
mother to obtain possession of it for that purpose.
"I think you are very foolish, dear," Mrs. Carroll had said. "You
might get Mr. Anderson to cash it, and then go to New York and get
yourself a new hat. You really need a new hat, Charlotte."
"I would rather pay that bill," Charlotte replied.
"But I don't see why, dear. It would really be much wiser to pay the
butcher's bill, and then we could have some meat for dinner. All we
have is eggs. Don't you think Charlotte is very foolish, Anna?"
"I have nothing to say," replied Anna Carroll.
"Why not, Anna? You act very singularly lately, dear."
"I want Charlotte to do as she thinks best, and as you think best,
Amy," replied Anna Carroll, who was looking unusually worn, in fact
ill, that morning.
"I think Charlotte had much better get the check cashed and go to New
York and buy herself a new hat," said Mrs. Carroll.
"No, I don't need a new hat," said Charlotte, and it ended in her
going with the check to Anderson to pay his bill.
In spite of his annoyance, the utter absurdity of the whole thing was
too much for Anderson. He had little doubt that the check was no more
valuable than its predecessors, and now in addition this was supposed
to liquidate a bill of several times the amount which it was supposed
to represent. But his mind was quickly made up. Rather than have
brought a cloud over the happy, proud face of that girl, he would
have sacrificed much more. He cast a glance around. Luckily Price,
the elder clerk, was engaged in the front of the store, and Riggs was
assisting the man who delivered the goods to carry some parcels to
the wagon. Therefore no one witnessed this folly.
"Thank you, Miss Carroll," he said, pleasantly, and took the check
from the hand which trembled a little. Charlotte was pale that
morning. It was quite true that she had not sufficient nourishing
food for several days. But she was very proud and happy now, and she
looked at Anderson as he received the check with a different
expression from any which her face had hitherto worn for him. In
fact, for the first time, although she was in reality simple and
humble enough, she realized him on a footing with herself. And she
could not have told what had led to this reversion of her feelings,
nor would it have been easy for any one to have told. The forces
which stir human emotions to one or another end are as mysterious
often as are the sources of the winds which blow as they list. The
check was indorsed by Anna Carroll, to whom it had been made payable.
She had taken it from her brother that morning with a fierce nip of
thumb and finger, as if she were a mind to tear it in two. She had no
idea that it was of any value, but, in fact, at the moment of her
receiving it the money was in the bank. Before Anderson had sent it
in the account was again overdrawn. Arthur Carroll was getting in
exceedingly deep waters, to which his previous ventures had been as
shallows.
Charlotte smiled at Anderson as he took the check. She did not think
of a receipt, and Anderson did not carry the matter to the farcial
extent of giving her one. He put the check in his pocket-book and
inquired whether she had any orders to give, and she did order some
crackers, cheese, and eggs, which he called to Riggs to carry to the
delivery wagon.
After that was settled, Charlotte turned again to Eddy. "When are you
coming home, dear?" said she.
"Pretty soon," replied Eddy, with an uneasy hitch.
Anderson, who had had his suspicions, spoke. "I have invited your
brother to dine with me, and he has been home to ask permission, he
tells me," said Anderson, and Eddy cast a bitterly reproachful glance
at him, as if he had been betrayed by an accomplice.
"Did you go home to ask permission, Eddy?" asked Charlotte, gravely.
Eddy nodded and hitched.
"Whom did you ask?"
Eddy hesitated. He was casting about in his mind for the lie likely
to succeed.
"Whom?" repeated Charlotte.
"Amy."
"Amy just asked me if I knew where you were," said Charlotte,
pitilessly.
Eddy looked intently at his butterfly-book. "This is a whopper," said
he.
"Come, Eddy," said Charlotte.
"This is the biggest one of all," said Eddy.
"Eddy," said Charlotte.
Eddy looked up. "I'm going to dinner with Mr. Anderson," said he.
"Aunt Anna said I might."
"You said Amy said you might," said Charlotte. "Eddy Carroll, don't
you say another word. Come right home with me."
Then suddenly the boy broke down. All his bravado vanished. He looked
from her to Anderson and back again with a white, convulsed little
face. Eddy was a slight little fellow, and his poor shoulders in
their linen blouse heaved. Then he wept like a baby.
"I--want to--go," he wailed. "Charlotte, I want to--g-o. He is going
to have--roast beef for dinner, and I--am hungry."
Charlotte turned whiter than Eddy. She marched up to her brother. She
did not look at Anderson. "Begging!" said she. "Begging! What if you
are hungry? What of it? What is that? Hunger is nothing. And then you
have no reason to be hungry. There is plenty in the house to
eat--plenty!" She glanced with angry pride at Anderson, as if he were
to blame for having heard all this. "Plenty!" she repeated, defiantly.
"Plenty of old cake left over from Ina's wedding, and dry old
crackers, and not enough eggs to go round," returned Eddy. "I am
hungry. I am, Charlotte. All I have had since yesterday noon is five
crackers and three pickles and one egg and a piece of chocolate cake
as hard as a brick, besides one little, round, dry cake with one
almond on top in the middle. I'm real hungry, Charlotte. Please let
me go!"
Anderson quietly went out of the office. He passed through the store
door, and stood there when presently Charlotte and Eddy passed him.
"Good-morning," said Charlotte, in a choked voice.
Eddy looked at him and sniffled, then he flung out, angrily, "What
you going to take to our house?" he demanded of the consumptive man
gathering up the reins of the delivery-wagon.
"Hush!" said Charlotte.
"I won't hush," said Eddy. "I'm hungry. What are you taking up to our
house? Say!"
"Some crackers and cheese and eggs," replied the man, wonderingly.
"Crackers and cheese and old store eggs!" cried Eddy, with a howl of
woe, and Charlotte dragged him forcibly away.
"What ails that kid?" Riggs asked of the man in the wagon.
"I believe them folks are half starved," replied the man.
Riggs glanced cautiously around, but Anderson had returned to his
office. "I don't believe anybody in town but us trusts 'em," said he,
in a whisper.
"Well, I'm sorry for his folks, but he'd ought to be strung up," said
the man. "Why in thunder don't he go to work. I guess if he was
coughin' as bad as I be at night, an' had to work, he might know a
little something about it. I ain't in debt, though, not a dollar."