But in spite of Anna Carroll's resolve, she went to Kentucky with the
others in two weeks' time. She had had quite a severe attack of
illness after that night, and it had left her so weakened in body
that she had not strength to stand against her brother's urging.
Then, too, Mrs. Carroll had displayed an unexpected reluctance to
leave. She had evinced a totally new phase of her character, as
people who are unconquerable children always will when least expected
to do so. Instead of clinging to her husband and declaring that she
could not leave, with an underlying submission at hand, she
straightened herself and said positively that she would not go. She
was quite pale, her sweet face looked as firm as her husband's.
"I am not going to leave you, Arthur," she said. "If your sister
stays with you, your wife can. Your sister can go, and take Eddy, but
your wife stays. I don't care what happens. I don't care if Marie and
Martin do go. Marie is not cooking so well lately, anyway, and I
never did like the way Martin went around corners. We can get new
servants I shall like much better. I shall go into the City myself
next week to the intelligence office. I am not afraid to go. I don't
like to cross Broadway, but I can take a cab from the station. I will
sit there in a row all day with those other women, until I get a
good maid, if it is necessary. I don't care in the least if Marie
and Martin do go. You can get another man who will turn the
corners more carefully. And I don't mind because somebody took that
rug--somebody--who was not paid. I think it was a very rude thing
to do. I think when you take things that way it is no better than
burglary, but I should not make any fuss about it. Let the woman have
the rug. Although it does seem as if anybody had the rug, it ought to
be that man we bought it of in Hillfield. You know he did not seem to
like it at all, because he was not paid for it. But maybe he did not
come by it honestly himself. He was a singular-looking man--a Syrian
or Armenian or a Turk, and one never knows about people like that. I
don't mind in the least; it is all right. And I don't care about the
teacups and things. One of the cups was nicked, and I really like
Sevres much better than Dresden. I should have got Sevres when I
bought them, only the man who had the Sevres I wanted would not give
us credit. We had no charge account there. I don't mind in the least;
but I think that dressmaker was very impolite to take the things,
because, of course, we shall never feel that we can conscientiously
give her any more of our custom; and we have given her a great deal
of work, with dear Ina's wedding and everything, more than anybody in
Banbridge. No, I don't mind in the least about these things. I can
rise above that when it is a question of my husband. And when you
talk of having to leave Banbridge, that does not daunt me at all. On
the whole, I would rather leave Banbridge. I should like to live a
little nearer the City, and I should like more grounds, and a house
with more conveniences. For one thing, we have no butler's pantry
here, and that is really a great inconvenience. Take it altogether,
the house, and the distance from New York, I shall not be at all
sorry to move. And" (Mrs. Carroll's sweet face looked hard and set,
her gently pouting mouth widened into a straight line; she had that
uncanny expression of docile and yielding people when they assume a
firm attitude), "I shall not go away and leave you, Arthur," she
repeated; "Anna shall not stay here with you and I go to Aunt
Catherine's. If any one stays, I stay. I am your wife, and I am the
one to stay. I know my duty."
"Amy, dear," said Carroll, "it will really make me happier to know
that you are more comfortable and happy than I can make you this
winter."
"I shall not be comfortable and happy," said she. "No, Arthur, you
need not pet me; I am quite in earnest. You treat me always as if I
were a child. You do, and all the rest, even my own children. And I
think myself that two-thirds of me is a child, but one-third is not,
and now it is the one-third that is talking, and quite seriously. It
is I who am going to stay with you, and not Anna."
"Anna is not going to stay either, sweetheart," Carroll said.
A quick change came over Mrs. Carroll's face. She looked inquiringly
at her sister-in-law. "Anna said she would not go," she said.
"She has thought better of it," Carroll said, quietly.
"Yes, Amy, I am going," Anna said, wearily, "and I don't think you
had better decide positively to-night whether you will go or not.
Leave it until to-morrow."
"But how could you get along without anybody to keep house for you
all winter, Arthur?" asked Mrs. Carroll.
"As thousands of men get along," Carroll replied. "I can take my
meals at the inn, and somebody could be got to come by the day and
see to the furnace and the house."
"I suppose somebody could," Mrs. Carroll agreed, a frown of
reflection on her smooth forehead.
She wept piteously when it came to parting, two weeks later, but she
went.
They all started early in the morning. Carroll accompanied them to
the station, and was well aware of an unusual number of persons being
present to see the train start. He knew the reason: a rumor had
gotten about that he as well as his family was to leave Banbridge and
the State. He knew that if he had made a motion to get on the train,
there might have been a scene, and he bade his family good-bye on the
platform, before his covert audience of creditors. Lee was there,
ostentatiously shaking hands with the ladies, but secretly watchful.
Tappan was surlily attentive, leaving his milk-wagon tied in front of
the station. Minna Eddy and Willy had driven down in their wagon from
their little farm. Four children were huddled in behind. Minna had
gotten out and stood on the platform. Willy sat on the seat holding
the baby and the reins. There had been a thaw; the roads outside were
heavy, and their old mule was harnessed up with their old horse.
Willy had been somewhat afraid to come.
"Suppose he should make a fuss about that," he said, pointing to the
Bokhara rug which adorned their little sitting-room.
"I ain't afraid of his making any fuss about that old mat," said
Minna; "I guess he knows what he's about. It's him that's afraid, an'
not me. An old mat that's worth about fifty cents! It ain't half so
pretty as one that Frank Olsen's wife got in New Sanderson for four
dollars and ninety-eight cents. I'm goin' to have some more of them
things, an' he ain't goin' to git out of Banbridge, if I have to hang
on to his coat-tails. You lemme go, Willy Eddy."
Therefore they came, starting before daylight in the frosty
morning. Carroll was conscious of them all, of the druggist and
the postmaster; of the two horsemen with whom he had had a
half-settlement, and who were now about to force the remainder; of
the two butchers and the dry-goods merchant, who had been exceedingly
nasty about the rug, and persisted in thinking that the Carrolls were
responsible for its disappearance. They had now other chattels in
view, and were only delayed from taking prompt measures by the
uncertainty as to what belonged to Carroll, or to his wife, or to the
owner of the house. There was also lurking around the corner of the
station, but quite ready for immediate action should it be necessary,
another man, who represented the arm of the local law. There was also
Madame Estelle Griggs, and, curiously enough, the sight of that
little, meagre-bedecked figure and that small, rasped, piteous face
of nervous suspicion affected Carroll more forcibly than did any of
the others. He was conscious of a sensation of actual fear as he
caught sight of the waving plume, of the wiry frizzes, of the sharp,
frost-reddened face, of those watchful, unhappy eyes. He realized
that if she should make a scene there, if he should hear again that
laugh and those wailing sobs, he could not answer for what he might
do. There even flashed across his mind a mental picture of the
on-rush of the train, and of a man hurling himself before it, to get
for once and all out of sight and sound of the unspeakable,
grotesque, unmanning shame of the thing. It was when he saw her that
he resolved that he would not put his foot on the train, lest she
might think he meant to go. However, she would probably have made no
manifestation. She was herself in mortal terror of retribution
because of the things which she had confiscated in payment of her
debt. She had little of Minna Eddy's strength of confidence in her
own proceedings. She had, however, consoled herself by the reflection
that possibly nobody knew that she had taken them. She had hidden
them away under her mattress, and slept uneasily on the edge of the
bed, lest she break the cups and saucers. If it had not been so early
in the morning, presumably too early for visitors from the City, she
would not have dared show herself at the station. In these days she
sewed behind closed doors, with her curtains down. She went to her
customer's houses for tryings-on, instead of having her patrons come
to her. She was always ready, working with her eyes at the parting of
the curtains, to flee down a certain pair of outside back-stairs, and
cut across the fields, should men be sent out from the City to
collect money. Rosenstein's store was under her little apartment, and
she knew she could trust him not to betray her. The dressmaker was in
these days fairly tragic in appearance, with a small and undignified,
but none the less real, tragedy. It was the despair of a small nature
over small issues, but none the less despair. Carroll would have paid
that bill first of all, had he had the money, but none but himself
knew how little money he had. Had the aunt in Kentucky not sent the
wherewithal for the railway fares, it was hard to be seen how the
journey could have been taken at all. It had even occurred to Carroll
that some jewelry must needs be sacrificed. He had made up his mind,
in that case, that Anna would be the one to make the sacrifice. She
had an old set of cameos from her grandmother, which he knew were
valuable if taken to the right place. Anna had considered the matter,
and would have spared him the suggestion had not the check come from
the aunt to cover all the expenses of the trip, with even some to
spare. With the extra, Mrs. Carroll insisted upon buying a new hat
for Charlotte. Charlotte that morning showed little emotion. She was
looking exceedingly pretty in the new hat and her little, blue
travelling-gown. Madame Griggs eyed that and reflected that she had
not made it herself, that it must have been a last winter's one,
although it had kept well in style, and she wondered if the
dressmaker who made it had been paid. Charlotte in parting from her
father showed no emotion. He kissed her, and she turned away directly
and entered the train. There was an odd expression on her face. She
had not spoken a word all the morning except to whisper to Eddy to be
still, when he remarked, loudly, on the number of people present at
the station.
"All this crowd isn't going, is it?" he demanded.
"Hush!" Charlotte whispered, peremptorily, and he looked curiously at
her.
"What is the matter with you this morning, anyhow?" he inquired,
loudly. Eddy had in a leash a small and violently squirming puppy,
which had lately strayed to the Carroll place, and been found wagging
and whining ingratiatingly around the stable. Eddy had adopted it,
and even meditated riding in the baggage-car to relieve its
loneliness should the conductor prove intractable concerning its
remaining in the passenger-coach. Eddy, of the whole party of
travellers, was the only one who presented an absolutely undisturbed
and joyously expectant countenance. He had the innocent selfishness
of childhood. He could still be single-eyed as to the future, and yet
blameless. He loved his father, but had no pangs at parting, when the
wonders of the journey and the new country were before him. His heart
also delighted in the puppy, leaping and abortively barking at his
side. He kissed his father good-bye as the train approached, and was
following the others, with the little dog straining at his leash,
when his onward progress was suddenly arrested, another grimy little
hand tugged at the leash.
"Say, what you goin' off with my dog for?" demanded the owner of the
hand, another boy, somewhat older than Eddy, and one of his
schoolmates.
Eddy, belligerent at once, faced about. He caught up the wriggling
puppy with such a quick motion that he was successful and wrenched
the other boy's hand from the leash.
"It isn't your dog. It's my dog. What you talking about?" he growled
back.
"You lie!"
"Lie yourself!"
"Gimme that dog!"
"It's my dog!"
"Where'd ye git it?" sneered the other, making clutches at the puppy.
"My papa bought him for me in New York."
"Hm! All the way your father could git a dog like that is to steal
him. Your father 'ain't got no money. You stole him. You steal jest
like your father. Gimme the dog."
The claimant boy laid such insistent hands on the puppy, and Eddy so
resisted, that the little animal yelped loudly.
Carroll stepped up. His lips were ashy. This last idiotic episode was
unnerving him more than all that had gone before. "Give that boy his
dog," he commanded Eddy, sternly.
Eddy clung more tightly to the little dog, and began to whimper.
"But, papa--"
"Do as I tell you."
"He came to our stable, and he didn't have any collar on, and a dog
without any collar on--"
"Do as I tell you."
But Eddy had found an unexpected ally. Anderson had come on the
platform as the train approached. He was going on business to New
Sanderson, and he had furtively collared the owner of the puppy,
thrust something into his hand, whispered something, and given him a
violent push. The boy fled. When Carroll turned, the boy who had been
imperiously aggressive at his elbow was nowhere to be seen. Several
of the by-standers were grinning. Anderson was moving along to be at
the side of his car, as the train approached. It had all happened in
a very few seconds. Eddy clung fast to the puppy. There was no time
for anything, and the female Carrolls were pressing softly about for
the last words.
"I don't think the puppy belonged to that boy," Mrs. Carroll said.
"He was just a little, stray dog."
She had seen nothing of what Anderson had done, and neither had the
others. There was manifestly nothing more to be done. It was an
absurdity for Carroll to load himself up with that squirming puppy,
when the ownership seemed so problematic. He bade them all good-bye
again, and they got on the train. The women's pretty, wistfully
smiling faces appeared at windows, also Eddy's, and the innocently
wondering visage of the puppy. Anderson was in the smoking-car. As
the train passed, Carroll saw his face at a window, and bowed,
raising his hat half-mechanically. Anderson was conscious of a
distinct sensation of pity for him, the more so that he was helpless
and rebelliously depressed himself. He meditated upon the
advisability of going into the other car, the Pullman, before the
arrival of the train at New Sanderson, and bidding Charlotte
farewell. He finally decided not to do so. He had no reason to think
that she would care especially to have him, and while his
self-respect, in spite of his perfect cognizance of the disadvantages
of his position, was sufficient not to make him hesitate on that
account, he had had a feeling against intruding upon the possible
sadness of the ladies when making what they must recognize as a
forced exit from their home under humiliating circumstances. It did
not occur to him that they might possibly not feel so.
Carroll, left on the platform while the train steamed out of sight,
in its backward trail of smoke full of rainbow lights in the frosty
air, turned to go home. He was going to walk. Martin had driven the
family to the station, and had himself gotten on the rear car of the
train. He was about seeking employment in New Sanderson. One of the
horsemen had driven off with the rig; the other was waiting for a
word with Carroll. The discussion was short, heated, and profane on
one side; calm, low, and imperturbable on the other.
"You'll have it in the end," Carroll said, as he turned to go.
"The end has got to come pretty darned quick," the other retorted,
jumping into his little trotting-gig and spinning off.
The others of the crowd had melted away rather quickly. Minna Eddy
had clambered into the wagon and gathered up the reins, while her
husband retained the wailing baby. In truth, in spite of her bravado,
she had some little doubts as to the wisdom of her confiscation of
the rug. Madame Griggs, actuated by a similar doubt, also fluttered
away swiftly down the street. The men also, upon making sure that
Carroll was not intending to abscond, retreated. Carroll was quite
alone when the horseman spun away in his gig, with its swift spokes
flashing in blinding rings of light as he disappeared around the
curve. It was one of those mornings in the fall when the air is so
clear that the sunlight seems intensified. There had been a hard
frost the night before, and a delicate rime was still over the
ground, only melting in the sunniest spots. Only the oak leaves, a
brownish-red shag mostly on the lower branches, were left on the
trees. The door-yards were full of dried chrysanthemums, the windows
gay with green-house plants. The air was full of the smell of smoke
and coffee and frying things, for it was Banbridge's breakfast-hour.
Men met Carroll on their way to the next train to the City, walking
briskly with shoulders slightly shrugged before the keen wind. They
bowed to him with a certain reserve. He met one young girl carrying a
music-roll, who wore on her face an expression of joy so extreme that
it gave the effect of a light. Carroll noticed it absently, this
alien joy with which he had no concern. As the girl passed him, he
perceived a strong odor of violet from her dainty attire, and it
directly, although he was unaware of the connection, caused him to
remember the episode of his discovering the two women, Mrs. Van Dorn
and Mrs. Lee, spying out the secrets in his house. That same odor had
smote his nostrils when he entered the door. He reviewed from that
starting-point the succeeding stages of his stay in Banbridge, the
whole miserable, ignominious descent from a fictitious prosperity to
plain, evident disgrace and want. He was returning to his desolate
house. Martin had gone, wretchedly and plainly incredulous of
Carroll's promise to finally pay him every cent he owed him. Maria
had packed her box, and tied two gay foreign handkerchiefs into bags
to contain her ragged possessions. He was to be entirely alone. He
could remain in the house probably only for a short time, until the
owner should find a new tenant. He walked along with his head up,
retaining his old stately carriage. As he turned the street corner on
which his house stood, he saw a figure advancing, and his heart stood
still. He thought he recognized Charlotte, incredible although it
was, since he had just seen her depart on the train. But surely that
was Charlotte approaching, although she carried strange parcels. The
girl was just her height, she even seemed to walk like her, and she
surely wore a dress of which Charlotte was very fond. It was of a
dusky red color, the skirt hanging in soft pleats. The hat was also
red with a white wing. There was fur on the coat, and Carroll could
see the fluff of it over the girlish shoulders. He could see the
stiff white gleam of the wing. Then he saw who it was--Marie, with a
yellow handkerchief gathered into a bag in one hand, and a little
kitten which she had cherished, in a paper bag in the other. The
kitten's black head protruded, and it was mewing shrilly. Marie was
radiant with smiles, and she wore Charlotte's dress. She had stolen
up-stairs and viewed herself in the mirror in Mrs. Carroll's room,
and she had hopes of herself in that costume even without any money
in her pocket. She was dreaming her humble little love-dream again.
She smiled up at Carroll in a charming fashion as they met.
"Good-bye," said she, with her pretty little purse of the mouth. They
had already had an interview concerning her wages that morning.
Carroll said good-bye with a stiff motion of his mouth. He realized
that Charlotte had given Marie her dress. Somehow the sight of Marie
in that dress almost made a child of the man.