During the progress of the tea at the Andersons' Eddy kept furtively
glancing at his sister with an expression which signified
congratulation.
"Ain't you glad you stayed?" the expression said, quite plainly.
"Did you ever have such nice things to eat? And only think what a
snippy meal we should have had at home!"
Charlotte met the first of the glances with a covertly chiding look
and an imperceptible shake of her head; then she refused to meet
them, keeping her eyes away from her exultant brother. She herself
was actually hungry, poor child, for the truth was that for the last
few days it had been somewhat short commons at the Carrolls', and
Charlotte was one of the sort who, under such circumstances, are
seized with a sudden loss of appetite. She had really eaten very
little for some hours, and now, in spite of a curious embarrassment
and agitation, which under ordinary circumstances would have lessened
her desire for food, she herself ate eagerly. The meal was both
dainty and abundant. Mrs. Anderson had always prided herself upon the
meals she set before guests. There was always in the house a store of
sweets to be drawn from on such occasions, and while Anderson had
been binding up Eddy's wound, the maid had been sent to the market
for a chicken to supplement the beefsteak which had been intended for
the family supper. So there was fried chicken and celery salad, and
the most wonderful cream biscuits, and fruit and pound cake, and
quince preserves--quarters of delectable, long-drawn-out flavor in a
rosy jelly--and tea and thick cream and loaf-sugar in the old, solid
service with its squat pieces finished with beading. Eddy gloated
over it all openly. He fairly forgot his manners, for, after all, he
was, although in a desultory sort of way, a well-bred boy. The
Carrolls, as far as their manners went, were gentlefolk, and came of
a long line of gentlefolk. But it happened that the china which had
come to them from their forebears had for the most part been broken
in the course of their wanderings from place to place, and in its
place was an ornate and rather costly, and unpaid-for, set. Eddy now
quite openly lifted the saucer of thin, pink-and-gold china, in which
his teacup rested, and held it to the light.
"Whew, ain't it thin?" he ejaculated.
"Why, Eddy!" Charlotte cried, flushing with dismay.
"I don't care. It is awful thin," persisted the boy. He held the
saucer before his eyes. "I can see you through it; yes, I can," said
he.
But Mrs. Anderson, although her old-fashioned ideas of the decorous
behavior due from children at table were somewhat offended, and she
later told her son that it did seem to her that the boy must have
been somewhat neglected, was yet very susceptible to flattery of
those teacups, which had descended to her from her own mother, and
which she had always regarded as superior to any of the Anderson
family china, of which there was quite a store. So she merely smiled
and remarked gently that the china was very old, and she believed
quite rare, and it was, indeed, unusually thin, yet not a piece of
the original set had been broken.
"Why didn't we have china like this instead of that we have?"
demanded Eddy of Charlotte.
"Hush, dear," said Charlotte. "This china is so very old and
valuable, you know, that not every one could--that we could not-- I
believe we had some very pretty china in our family, but it all got
broken," she added.
"It didn't begin to be so pretty as this," said Eddy. "I remember it.
The cups were like bowls, and there were black wreaths around them.
There weren't any handles, either. I don't see why we couldn't have
got some china as pretty as this. Suppose it was valuable. Why, I
don't believe that we have now is paid for. What difference would it
make?"
Charlotte blushed so that Mrs. Anderson felt an impulse to draw the
poor, little, troubled head upon her shoulder and tell her not to
mind.
"Let me give you some more of the quince preserve, dear," she said,
in the softest voice; and Charlotte, who did not want it, passed her
little glass dish to take advantage of the opportunity afforded her
to cover her confusion.
"What difference would it make, say, Charlotte?" persisted Eddy.
"Hush, dear," said Charlotte, painfully.
"Here, son, pass your plate for this chicken," said Anderson; and
Eddy, with a shrewd glance of half-comprehension from one to the
other, passed his plate and subsided, after a muttered remark that he
didn't see why Charlotte minded.
"Wasn't that a bully supper?" he whispered, pressing close to his
sister when they entered the sitting-room after the meal was finished.
"Hush, dear," she whispered back.
"Ain't you glad you stayed? You wouldn't, if it hadn't been for me."
Charlotte turned and looked at him sharply. Mrs. Anderson had
lingered in the dining-room to give some directions to the maid, and
Anderson had stepped out on the porch for a second's puff at a cigar.
"Eddy Carroll," said she, in a whisper, "you didn't?"
Eddy faced her defiantly. "Didn't what?"
"You didn't tell a lie about that?"
Eddy lowered his eyes, frowned, and scraped one foot in a way he had
when embarrassed. "Amy did say something about it was such a pleasant
day and Addison," he replied, doggedly.
"But did she say they were really going there, and would not be back?"
"Anna said if they went there they could not get back."
"But did she say they were going? Tell me the truth, Eddy Carroll."
Eddy scraped.
"I see they did not," said Charlotte, severely.
"Eddy, I don't know what papa will say."
"I know," said Eddy, simply, with a curious mixture of ruefulness and
defiance. Then he added: "If you want to be mean enough to tell on a
feller, after he's been the means of your having such a supper as
that (and you were hungry, too; you needn't say you wasn't; you ate
an awful lot yourself), you can."
"I am not going to tell unless I am asked, when I certainly shall not
tell a lie," replied Charlotte; "but papa will find it out himself, I
am afraid, Eddy."
"I shouldn't wonder if he did," admitted Eddy.
"And then, you know--"
"Yes, I know; but I don't care. I have had that bully supper, anyhow.
He can't alter that. And, say, Charlotte."
"What?" asked Charlotte, severely. "I am ashamed of you, Eddy."
"I don't see why papa don't get a store, like him"--he jerked an
expressive shoulder towards the scent of the cigar smoke--"and then
we could have things as good as they do."
But then Charlotte turned on him with fierceness none the less
intense, although necessarily subdued. "Eddy Carroll," she whispered,
with a long-drawn sibilance, "to turn on your father, a man like
papa! Eddy Carroll! Poor papa does the best he can, always, always."
"I suppose he does," said Eddy, quite loudly. "My, Charlotte, you
needn't act as if you were going to bite a feller. I've had enough
of--"
"What?" asked Charlotte.
"Nothing," said Eddy. His arm was paining him quite severely. It had
been quite an ordeal for him to manage his knife and fork at supper
without betrayal.
"What were you going to say?" persisted Charlotte.
"Nothing," said Eddy, doggedly--"nothing at all. Don't act so fierce,
Charlotte. It isn't lady-like. Amy never speaks so awful quick."
Charlotte began putting on her hat, which had been left on the
sitting-room table. "I am ashamed of you," she whispered again. "I
was ashamed of you all tea-time."
Eddy whistled in a mannish fashion. Charlotte continued adjusting her
hat and smoothing her fluff of dark hair. Her face, in the mirror
which hung between the two front windows, looked not so angry as
sorrowful, and with a dewy softness in the pretty eyes, and a slight
quiver about the soft mouth. Eddy glanced several times at this
reflected face; then he stole, with a sudden, swift motion, up behind
his sister, threw his arms around her neck, although it hurt him
cruelly, and laid his boyish cheek against her soft, girlish one.
"No, you need not think that will make up," whispered Charlotte. But
she herself pressed her cheek tenderly against his, and then laughed
softly. "Try not to do so again, dear," she said. "It mortified me,
and it is not being a credit to papa. Think a little and try to
remember how you have been brought up."
"Charlotte," whispered Eddy, in the softest, most furtive of
whispers, casting a glance over his shoulder.
"What is it, dear?"
"I suppose they"--he indicated by a motion of his shoulder his host
and hostess--"are just as nice people as--we are--as the Carrolls."
"Of course they are," replied Charlotte, hastily. She pushed Eddy
away softly and began to fuss again with her hat. "We must go home
right away," she said, "or they will worry."
"There is no need of his going home with you, as long as I am here,"
said Eddy.
"Of course not," replied Charlotte.
But it seemed that Anderson himself had other views, and his mother
also, for although a sudden and not altogether easy suspicion had
come to her, she whispered aside to him that he must certainly
accompany the two home.
"It is quite dark already," she said, "and it is not fit for that
child to go alone with nobody but that boy, after the fright she has
had this afternoon. She is just in the condition now when a shadow
might upset her. You really must go with her, Randolph."
"I have no intention of doing anything else, mother," Randolph
replied, laughing. He had been, indeed, taking his overcoat from the
tree in the hall when his mother had come out to speak to him.
Charlotte had said, on rising from the table, that she must go home
at once.
Mrs. Anderson enveloped the girl in her large, gentle,
lavender-scented embrace, and received with pleasant disclaimers her
assurances of obligations and thanks; then she stood in the window
and, with a little misgiving, and a ready imagination for future
trouble, watched them emerge from the little front yard and disappear
down the street under the low-growing maple branches which were
turning slowly, and flashed gold over their heads in electric lights.
She reflected judicially that while Charlotte was undoubtedly a sweet
girl, and very pretty, very pretty, indeed, and, while her own heart
was drawn to her, yet she would make no sort of wife for her son. She
remembered with a shudder Eddy's remarks at the table.
"He is a pretty little boy, too," she thought, with a maternal
thrill, remembering her own son at that age. When she returned to the
dining-room to wash the pink-and-gold cups and saucers, in her little
bowl of hot water on the end of the table, as was her custom when the
best china had been used, the maid, who was clearing the table, and
who had been encouraged to conversation from the lack of another
woman in the house, and her mistress's habit of gentle garrulity,
spoke upon the subject in her mind.
"Them was them Carrolls that lives in the Ranger place, was they
not?" said she. The maid was a curious product of the region, having
somewhat anomalously graduated at a high-school in New Sanderson
before entering service, and gotten a strange load of unassimilated
knowledge, which was particularly exemplified in her English. She
scorned contractions, but equally scorned possessives and legitimate
tenses. She wrote a beautiful hand, using quite ambitious words, but
she totally misinterpreted the meaning of these very words in current
literature, particularly the cook-book. Her bread was as heavy with
undigested facts as is the stomach of a dyspeptic with food, but she
was, in a way, a good servant, very faithful, attached to Mrs.
Anderson, and a guileless purveyor of gossip, which rendered her
exceedingly entertaining. She sniffed meaningly now in response to
Mrs. Anderson's affirmative with regard to the identity of the recent
guests.
"They did not fail to eat enough," said she, presently, packing up
the plates and looking at her mistress, who was drying carefully a
pink-and-gold cup on a soft towel.
"Yes, they seemed to relish the food," responded Mrs. Anderson.
The maid sniffed again, and her sniff meant the gratification of the
cook who sees her work appreciated, and something else--an indulgent
scorn. "Well, I guess there is reason enough for them relishing it,"
said she.
Mrs. Anderson made a soft, interrogatory noise, all that was
consistent with her dignity and her sense of honor as a recent
hostess towards departed guests.
The maid went on. "They do say," said she, "them as knows, that them
Carrolls do not have enough to eat."
Mrs. Anderson made a little exclamation expressive of horror and pity.
"Yes, they do say so," the maid went on, solemnly. "They do say, them
that knows, that them Carrolls be owing everybody in Banbridge, and
have cheated folks that have trusted in them awful."
"Well, I am sorry if it is so," said Mrs. Anderson, with a sigh, "but
of course this young lady who was here to-night and her little
brother can't be to blame in any way, Emma."
The maid sniffed with a deprecating disagreement. "Mebbe they be
not," said she. She was rather a pretty girl, in her late girlhood,
thin and large-boned, with a bright color on her evident cheek-bones,
and with small, sparkling, blue eyes. She was extremely neat and
trim, moreover, in her personal habits, and to-night was quite
gorgeously arrayed in a light silk waist and a nice black skirt. She
was expecting her beau to take her to evening prayer-meeting. She was
a very religious girl, and had reclaimed her beau, who had had a
liking for the gin-mills previous to keeping company with her.
"Of course they are not," said Mrs. Anderson, with some warmth of
partisanship, remembering poor little Charlotte's pretty, anxious
face and her tiny, soft, clinging hands. She glanced, as she spoke,
at the maid's large, red-knuckled fingers with a mental comparison.
The maid was fixed in her own rendering of English verbs, and had
told her beau that her mistress did not speak just right, like most
old folks.
"Mebbe they be not," she said, with firm doubt. Then she added, "It
would not hurt them Carroll ladies, that young lady, nor her mother,
nor her aunt, if they was to take hold, and do the housework them own
selves, instead of keeping a girl, who they do not never pay."
"Oh, dear! Do you know that?"
"Indeed I do know that! Ed, he told me. He had it straight from them
Hungarians who live in the house back of his married sister's. The
Carroll girl, she goes there, and she told them, and them told Ed's
sister."
"Perhaps she has had some of her wages. You don't mean she has not
been paid at all?" Mrs. Anderson said.
"I mean not at all," the maid said, firmly. "That girl that works for
them Carrolls has not been paid, not at all."
"Why does she remain there, then?"
"She would have went a long time ago if she not been afraid, lest, if
she had went, it would have come about that she would have lost all
she was going to lose as well as that which she had lost before,"
replied the girl, and Mrs. Anderson, being accustomed to her method
of expression, understood.
"It is dreadful," she said.
"They say he has about ruined a great many of the people in Banbridge
who have trusted them," said the maid, with a sly, keen glance at her
mistress. She had heard that Mr. Anderson was one of the losers, and
she wondered.
"They have paid my son promptly, I believe," said Mrs. Anderson,
although a little reluctantly. She always disliked alluding to the
store to her maid, much more so than towards her equals. But that the
maid misunderstood. She often told her beau that Mrs. Anderson was
not a bit set up nor proud-feeling, if her son _did_ have a store.
Therefore, to-night she understood humility instead of pride from her
mistress's tone, and looked at her admiringly as she daintily
polished the delicate pink-and-gold cups.
"I am very glad, indeed, that Mr. Randolph has not lost nothing
through them," she replied.
"No, he has not," Mrs. Anderson repeated. "I dare say it is all
exaggerated. The young lady who was here to-night seems like a very
sweet girl."
Mrs. Anderson said that from a beautiful sense of loyalty and
justice, while in her mind's eye she saw her beloved son walking
along through the early night with the young lady on his arm, and
perhaps falling desperately in love, even at this date, and beginning
to think of matrimony with a member of a family about which such
tales were told in Banbridge.
But the harm had been done long before she had dreamed of it, and her
son had been very much in love with the girl on his arm before he had
scarcely known her by sight. Anderson that night felt in a sort of
dream. He was for the first time practically alone with Charlotte,
for Eddy accompanied them very much after the fashion of an extremely
lively little dog. He ran ahead, he lagged behind, and made dashes
ahead with wild whoops. He hid behind trees, and sprang out at them
when they passed. He was frequently startlingly obvious, but could
not be said to actually be with them. He had wondered frankly, before
they started, as to why Anderson wished to accompany them at all.
"I don't see why you want to go 'way up to our house when Charlotte
has got me," he said. "Ain't you tired?"
Something in Anderson's persistency seemed to strike him as
significant, for he walked behind them quite soberly, with his eye
upon their backs in a speculative fashion at first; then he seemed to
be seized with wild excitement, and began frantic demonstrations to
attract Anderson's attention. In reality the boy was jealous,
although nobody dreamed of such a thing.
"A man will never notice a feller when a pretty girl's around; and
she ain't so very pretty, either," he said to himself. He regarded
Anderson as his find, and was naturally indignant with Charlotte. So
all the way home he darted and veered about them, in order to divert
the man's mind from the girl to the faithful little boy, but with no
avail. Once or twice Charlotte spoke reproachfully to him, and that
was all. Anderson never spoke a word to him, and his grief and
jealousy grew.
Anderson, walking along the shadowy street with Charlotte's little
hand in his arm, would have been oblivious to much more startling
demonstrations than poor Eddy's. He was profoundly agitated, stirred
to the depths, and for that very reason he acquitted himself with
more dignity and quiet calm than usual. He held himself with such a
tight rein that his soul ached, but he never relaxed his hold. He
told himself that it would be monstrous if by a word or gesture, by a
tone of the voice, he betrayed anything to this little, innocent,
timid, frightened girl on his arm. He never dreamed of the remotest
possibility of dreams on her part. The soul beside him, seemingly
separated only by thin walls of flesh, was in reality separated by an
abyss of the imagination. But every minute his heart seemed to
encompass her more and more tenderly, seemed to enfold her, shielding
her from itself with its own love. Now and then he looked down at
her, and the sight of the little, pale, flower-like face turned
towards his with a serious, guileless scrutiny, like a baby's, caused
him to fairly tremble with his passion of protection and adoration.
They talked very little. Charlotte, if the truth were told, in spite
of the tender nursing she had received, was still feeling rather
shaken, and she had also a curious sense of timid and excited
happiness, which tied her tongue and wove her thoughts even into an
incoherent dazzle. When Anderson spoke, it was very coolly, on quite
indifferent topics, and Charlotte answered him in her soft, rather
unsteady little voice, and then conversation lagged again. It was on
Anderson's tongue to question her closely as to her entire recovery
from her fright of the afternoon, but he did not even do that, being
afraid to trust his voice.
As they drew near the Carroll house, a doubt and perplexity which had
been haunting Charlotte, assumed larger proportions, and Anderson
himself had a thought also of the complication. Charlotte was
wondering if she should ask him in. She was wondering what her mother
and aunt would think. She knew what they would do, of course--that
is, so far as their reception of the man who had befriended her, and
whose mother had befriended her was concerned. They were gentlewomen.
And she knew quite certainly about her father. But she wondered as to
their real attitude, their mental attitude, and she wondered still
more with regard to Anderson. Would he expect to be invited in? In
what fashion did he read his own social status in the village.
Anderson also was considering, during the last of the way, if he
should enter the Carroll house and present his apologies and his
mother's for having urged the fugitive members of the family to
remain, and he wondered a good deal as to the desirable course for
him to adopt, even supposing he were invited. While he had no
consciousness whatever of any loss of prestige among people whom he
had always known in the village, while, in fact, he never gave it a
thought--yet he knew reasonably that outsiders might possibly look at
matters differently, that his own unshaken estimate of himself, the
estimate which was the same in a grocery-store as in a lawyer's
office, might not be accepted. He recognized the fact with amusement
rather than indignation, but he recognized it. He wondered how the
girl would look at it all, whether she would ask him in to make the
acquaintance of her family, and whether, if she did so he should
accept.
But Charlotte came to have no doubt whatever that she should ask him.
Suddenly a great wave of loyalty towards this new friend came over
her, loyalty and great courage.
"Of course I shall ask him, when he has done all he has for me, he
and his mother," she decided. "I shall, and I don't care what they
think. I don't care. He is a gentleman, as much a gentleman as papa."
Charlotte walked more erect, the pressure of her hand on Anderson's
arm tightened a little unconsciously. When they reached the Carroll
grounds she spoke very sweetly, and not at all hesitatingly.
"You will come in and let my family thank you for your kindness to
me, Mr. Anderson," she said.
Anderson smiled down at her, and hesitated. "I do not require any
thanks. What I have done was only a pleasure," he said. In his
anxiety to control his voice, he overdid the matter, and made it
exceedingly cool.
"He means he would have done just the same for any other girl, and it
is silly for me to think he needs to be thanked so much for it,"
thought Charlotte, like a flash. She was full of the hair-splitting
fancies of young girlhood in their estimate of a man. Her heart sank,
but she repeated, still sweetly, though now a little more formally:
"Then please come in and meet my father and mother and aunt. I should
like to have you know them, and I am sure it would be a great
pleasure to them."
"Thank you, Miss Carroll," Anderson said, slowly. Then, while he
hesitated, came suddenly the sound of a shrill, vituperating voice
from the house, a voice raised in a solo-like effect, the burden of
which seemed both grief and rage, and contumely.
Eddy, who had given one of his dashes ahead, when they reached the
grounds, came flying back. "Say," he said, "there's an awful shindy
in the house. The dressmaker is pitching into papa for all she is
worth, and there are some other folks, but she's goin' it loudest;
but they are all going it! Cracky! Hear 'em!"
Indeed, at that second the solo became a chorus. The house seemed all
clamorous with scolding voices. The door stood open, and the
hall-light streamed out in the hall.
"Marie, she's in there, too," said Eddy, in an odd sort of glee, "and
Martin. They are all pitching into papa for their money, but he's
enough for them." It became evident why the boy's voice was gleeful.
He was pitting his father, with the most filial pride and confidence,
against his creditors.
Anderson held out his hand to Charlotte. "Good-night," he said,
hastily, "and I hope you will feel no ill effects to-morrow from your
fright." Then he was gone before Charlotte could say anything more.
"It's an awful shindy," Eddy said, still in that tone of strange
glee, to his sister. To his great amazement, she caught him suddenly
by his arm, the hurt one, but he did not flinch.
The girl began to cry. "Oh, Eddy!" she sobbed, pitifully. "Oh, Eddy
dear!"
"What are you crying for, Charlotte?" asked Eddy, giving his head a
rough caressing duck against hers. "Papa's enough for them; you know
that. He ain't a mite scared."