Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - The Debtor

M >> Mary E. Wilkins Freeman >> The Debtor

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Then suddenly Charlotte herself dispelled the illusion. She passed by
with her sister Ina and a young man. Anderson heard the low, sweet
babble of girls' tongues and a hearty, boyish laugh before they came
opposite the porch. He knew at once that Charlotte was one of the
girls. He could not see them very plainly when they passed, for the
moon had not yet risen and the shadows of the trees were dense. He
had glimpses of pale contours and ruffling white draperies floating
around the young man, who walked on the outside. He towered above
them both with stately tenderness. He was smoking, and Anderson noted
that with a throb of anger. He had an old-fashioned conviction that a
man should not smoke when walking with ladies. He was sitting
perfectly motionless when they came alongside, and all at once one of
the girls, Ina, the eldest, perceived him, and started violently with
an exclamation. All three laughed, and the young man said, raising
his hat, "Good-evening, Mr. Anderson."

Anderson returned the salutation. He thought, but was not quite sure,
that Charlotte nodded. He heard, quite distinctly, Ina remark, when
they were scarcely past, in a voice of girlish scorn and merry
ridicule:

"Is the grocer a friend of yours, Mr. Eastman?"

Anderson was sure that he heard a "Hush! he will hear you!" from
Charlotte, before young Frank Eastman replied, like a man:

"Yes, every time, Miss Carroll, if he will do me the honor to let me
call him one. Mr. Anderson is a mighty fine gentleman."

The girl's voice said something in response with a slightly abashed
but still jibing inflection, but Anderson could not catch it. They
passed out of sight, the cigar-smoke lingering in their wake.
Anderson inhaled it with no longer any feeling of disapprobation. He
slowly lit a cigar himself, and smoked and meditated. The presence on
the step above him was for the time dispelled by her own materiality.
The dream eluded the substance. Anderson thought of the young man who
had walked past with a curious feeling of something akin to
gratitude. "Frank Eastman is a fine young fellow," he thought. He had
known him ever since he had been a child. He had been one of the boys
whom everybody knew and liked. He had grown up a village favorite.
The thought flashed through Anderson's mind that here was a possible
husband for Charlotte, and probably a good husband.

"He is an only son," he told himself; "he will have a little money.
He is as good as and better than young men average, and he is
charming, a man to attract any girl."

Anderson, when he had finished his cigar and one more, and had gone
into the house to read a little before going to bed, quite decided
that Charlotte Carroll was to marry young Frank Eastman. He walked
remorselessly over the step where his fancy had placed her, and when
he glanced at her pretty little nook in the sitting-room, as he
passed through with his lamp and his book, it was vacant. Anderson
felt a rigid acquiescence, and read his book with interest until
after midnight.

In the mean time Charlotte, her sister Ina, and young Eastman
sauntered slowly along through the shadowy streets of Banbridge. The
girls held up their white gowns over their lace petticoats. They wore
no hats, and their pretty, soft, dark locks floated like mist around
their faces. The young man pressed Ina's arm as closely and lovingly
as he dared. He was yet young enough and innocent enough to be in his
heart of hearts as afraid of a girl as, when a child, he had been
afraid of his mother. He thought Ina Carroll something wonderful;
Charlotte he scarcely thought of at all except with vague approbation
because she was Ina's sister. He took the girls into Andrew Drew's
drug store for ice-cream soda. He watched, with happy proprietorship,
the girls dally daintily with the long spoons in the sweet, cold
mixture. Seen in the electric light of the store, they had a
bewildering and fairly dazzling splendor of youth and bloom. Their
faces, freshened to exquisite tints by the damp night air, shone
forth from the floating film of dark hair with the unquestioning
delight of the passing moment. There was in these young faces at the
moment no shadow of the past or future. They were pure light. Young
Eastman, eating his ice-cream, looked over his glass at Ina Carroll
and realized the dazzle of her in his soul. She felt his look and
smiled at him pleasantly, yet with a certain gay defiance. Charlotte
caught both looks. She stirred her ice-cream briskly into the liquid
and drank it.

"Come, honey," she said to Ina. "It is time to go home."

A man stood near the door as they passed and raised his hat eagerly.

"Who is that man?" Ina said to young Eastman when they were on the
sidewalk.

"His name is Lee."

When the party had gone out, Lee turned with his self-conscious,
consequential air. Ray, the postmaster, was standing at the counter.
Little Willy Eddy also was there. He lingered about the
soda-fountain. Nobody knew how badly he wanted a drink of soda. He
was like a child about it, but he was afraid lest his Minna should
call him to account for the five cents.

"Pretty fine-looking girls," observed Lee to Ray and Drew.

"Yes," assented Ray. "You know them?"

"Well, no, not directly, but Captain Carroll and I are quite intimate
in a business way."

The druggist looked up eagerly. "You think he is good?" he asked.

"I have heard some queer things lately," said the postmaster.

Lee faced them both. "Good?" he cried. "Good? Arthur Carroll good?
Why, I'd be willing to risk every dollar I have in the world, or ever
hope to have. He's the smartest business man I ever saw in my life. I
tell you he's A No. 1. He's got a business head equal to any on the
Street, I don't care who it is. Well, all I have to say, _I_ am not
afraid of him! No, sir!"

"I heard he had some pretty promising stock to sell," said the
postmaster.

"Promising? No, it is not promising! Promising is not the word for
it. It is sure, dead sure."

Little Willy Eddy drew very near.

"What is it selling at?" asked Ray.

"One dollar and sixty cents," replied Lee, with an intonation of
pride and triumph.

"Cheap enough," said Ray.

"Yes, sir, one dollar and sixty cents, and it will be up to five in
six months and paying dividends, and up to fifty, with ten-per-cent.
dividends, in a year and a half."

Little Willy Eddy had in the savings-bank a little money. Before he
left he had arranged with Henry Lee to invest it through his
influence with the great man, Carroll, and say nothing about it to
any one outside. Willy hoped fondly that his Minna might know nothing
about it until he should surprise her with the proceeds of his great
venture. Then Willy Eddy marched boldly upon the soda-fountain.

"Give me a chocolate ice-cream soda," he said, like a man.

Chapter XIII

Three days later, at dinner, Charlotte Carroll said something about
the difficulty she had had about getting the check cashed.

"It is the queerest thing," said she, in a lull of the conversation,
pausing with her soup-spoon lifted, "how very difficult it is to get
a check for even a small amount cashed in Banbridge."

Carroll's spoon clattered against his plate. "What do you mean?" he
asked, sharply.

Charlotte looked at him surprised. "Why, nothing," said she, "only I
went to every store in town to get your check for twenty-five dollars
cashed, and then I had to go to Anderson's finally. I should think
they must be very poor here. Are they, papa?"

Carroll went on with his soup. "Who gave you the check to cash?" he
said, in a low voice.

"Aunt Anna," replied Charlotte. "Why?"

Anna spoke quite eagerly, and it seemed apologetically. "Arthur,"
said she, "the girls were very anxious to go to the City."

"Yes," said Ina, "I really had to go that day. I wanted to get that
silk. I had that charged; there wasn't money enough; but it has not
come yet. I don't see where it is."

"I let Charlotte take the check," Anna Carroll said again, still with
an air of nervous apology, "but I saw no reason why-- I thought--"

"You thought what?" said Carroll. His voice was exceedingly low and
gentle, but Anna Carroll started.

"Nothing," said she, hastily. "Nothing, Arthur."

"Well, I just went everywhere with it," Charlotte said again; "then I
had to go to Anderson, after all. I just hated to. I don't like him.
He laughed when Eddy and I went there to take back the candy."

"He laughed because we took it back--a little thing like that," said
Eddy.

Carroll looked at him, and the boy cast his eyes down and took a
spoonful of soup with an abashed air.

"He was the only one in Banbridge that seemed to have as much as
twenty-five dollars in his money-drawer," said Charlotte. "I began to
think that Ina and I should have to give up going to New York."

"Don't take any more checks around the shops here to cash, honey,"
said Carroll. "Come to me; I'll fix it up some way. Amy, dear, are
you all ready for the drive?"

"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Carroll. She looked unusually pretty that
night in a mauve gown of some thin, soft, wool material, with her old
amethysts. Even her dark hair seemed to get amethystine shadows, and
her eyes, too.

Carroll regarded her admiringly.

"Amy, darling, you do get lovelier every day," he said.

The others laughed and echoed him with fond merriment.

"Doesn't she?" said Ina.

"Amy's the prettiest girl in this old town," said Eddy, and all the
Carrolls laughed like children.

"Well, I'm glad you all admire me so much," Mrs. Carroll said, in her
sweet drawl, "because--"

"Because what, honey?" said Carroll. The boy and the two girls looked
inquiringly, but Anna Carroll smiled with slightly vexed knowledge.

"Well," said Mrs. Carroll, "you must all look at me in my purple gown
and get all the comfort you can out of it; you must nourish
yourselves through your aesthetic sense, because this soup is all you
will get for dinner, except dessert. There is a little dessert."

Poor little Eddy Carroll made a slight, half-smothered exclamation.
"Oh, shucks!" he said, then he laughed with the others. None of them
looked surprised. They all laughed, though somewhat ruefully.

"Anna came this forenoon and asked me what she should do," Mrs.
Carroll said, in her soft tone of childlike glee, as if she really
enjoyed the situation. "Poor Anna looked annoyed. This country air
makes Anna hungry. Now, as for me, I am not hungry at all. If I can
have fruit and salad I am quite satisfied. It is so fortunate that we
have those raspberries and those early pears. Those little pears are
quite delicious, and they are nourishing, I am sure. And then it is
providential that we have lettuce in our own garden. And the grocer
did not object in the least to letting last week's bill run and
letting us have olive-oil and vinegar. I have plenty, so I can regard
it all quite cheerfully; but Anna, poor darling, is hungry like a
pussy-cat for real, solid meat. Well, Anna comes, face so long"--Mrs.
Carroll drew down her lovely face, to a chorus of admiring laughter,
Anna Carroll herself joining. Mrs. Carroll continued. "Yes, so long,"
and made her face long again by way of encore. "And I said, 'Why,
Anna, honey, what is the matter?' 'Amy,' said she, 'this is serious,
very serious. Why, neither the butcher nor the egg-man will trust us.
We have only money enough to part pay one of them, just to keep them
going,' says she, 'and what shall I do, Amy?' 'It's either to go
without meat or eggs,' says I. 'Yes, Amy, honey,' says she. 'And you
can't pay them each a little?' says I, 'for I am real wise about that
way of doing, you know.'" Mrs. Carroll said the last with the air of
a precocious child; she looked askance for admiration as she said it,
and laughed herself with the others. "'No,' says poor Anna--'no, Amy,
there is not enough money for two littles, only enough for one
little. What shall we do, Amy?' 'Well,' says Amy, 'we had chops for
lunch.' 'Those aren't paid for, and that is the reason we can't have
beef for dinner,' says Anna. 'Well,' says Amy, 'we had those chops,
didn't we? And the butcher can't alter that, anyway; and we are all
nourished by those chops, and dear Arthur has had his good luncheon
in the City, and there is soup-stock in the house, and things to make
one of those delicious raspberry-puddings, and we cannot starve, we
poor but honest Carrolls, on those things; and eggs are cheaper, are
they not, honey, dear?' 'Yes,' says Anna, with that sort of groan she
has when her mind is on economy--'yes, Amy, dear.' 'And,' says I,
'Arthur always wants his eggs for breakfast, and he does not like
cold meat in the morning, and if he went to business without his
eggs, and there was an accident on his empty stomach, only think how
we would feel, Anna. So we will have,' says Amy, 'soup and pudding
for dinner, and eggs for breakfast, and we will part pay the egg-man
and not the butcher.' And then Amy puts on her new gown and does all
she can for her family, to make up for the lack of the roast."

"Did you say it was raspberry-pudding, Amy?" asked Eddy, anxiously.

"Yes, honey, with plenty of sauce, and you may have some twice if you
want it."

"Ring the bell, dear," said Carroll.

"You don't mind, Arthur, do you?" Mrs. Carroll asked, with a
confident look at him.

Carroll smiled. "No, darling, only I hope none of you are really
going hungry."

They all laughed at him. "Soup and pudding are all one ought to eat
in such hot weather," Charlotte said, conclusively.

She even jumped up, ran to her father, and threw her arms around his
neck and kissed him, to reassure him. "You darling papa," she
whispered in his ear, and when he looked at her tears shone in her
beautiful eyes.

Carroll's own face turned strangely sober for a second, then he
laughed. "Run back to your seat and get your pudding, sweetheart," he
said, with a loving push, as the maid entered.

People thought it rather singular that the Carrolls should have but
one maid, but there were reasons. Carroll himself, when he first
organized his Banbridge establishment, had expressed some dissent as
to the solitary servant.

"Why not have more?" he asked, but Anna Carroll was unusually decided
in her response.

"Amy and I have been talking it over, Arthur," said she, "and we have
decided that we would prefer only Marie."

"Why, Anna?" Carroll had asked, with a frown.

"Now, Arthur, dear, don't look cross," his wife had cried. "It is
only that when the truce is over with the butcher and baker--and
after a while the truce always is over, you know, you poor, dear boy,
ever since you--ever since you were so badly treated about your
business, you know, and when the butcher and the baker turn on us,
Anna and I have decided it would be better not to have a trust in the
kitchen. You know there has always been a trust in the kitchen, and
two or even three maids saying they will not make bread and roast and
wash the dishes, and having a council of war on the back stoop with
the baker and grocer, are so much worse than one maid, don't you
know, precious?"

"The long and the short of it is, Arthur," Anna Carroll said, quite
bluntly, "it is much less wearing to get on with one maid who has not
had her wages, and much easier to induce her to remain or forfeit all
hope of ever receiving them, than with more than one."

Only the one maid was engaged, and now Anna's prophecy had come to
pass, and she was remaining for the sake of her unpaid wages. She was
a young girl, and pretty for one of her sisterhood, who perpetuate,
as a rule, the hard and strenuous lineaments and forms held to hard
labor, until they have attained a squat solidity of ungraceful
muscle. This little Hungarian Marie was still not overdeveloped
muscularly, although one saw her hands with a certain shock after her
little, smiling face, which still smiled, despite her wrongs. Nothing
could exceed the sweetness of the girl's disposition, although she
came of a fierce peasant line, quick to resort to the knife as a
redresser of injuries, and quick to perceive injuries.

Marie still danced assiduously about her tasks, which were manifold,
for not one of the Carroll women had the slightest idea of any
accountability in the matter of household labor. It never occurred to
one of them to make her bed, or even hang up her dress, but, instead,
to wonder why Marie did not do it. However, if Marie really had an
ill day, or, as sometimes happened, was up all night at a ball, they
never rebelled or spoke an impatient word. The beds simply remained
unmade and the dresses where they had fallen. The ladies always had a
kindly, ever-caressing smile or word for little Marie. They were
actually, in a way, fond of her, as people are fond of a pretty
little domestic beast of burden, and Marie herself adored them. She
loved them from afar, and one of her great reasons for wishing to
stay for her wages was to buy some finery after the fashion of
Charlotte's and Ina's. Marie had not asked for her wages many times,
and never of Captain Carroll, but to-night she took courage. There
was a ball that week, Thursday, and her poor, little, cheap muslin of
last season was bedraggled and faded until it was no longer wearable.
Marie waylaid Captain Carroll as he was returning from the stable,
whither he had been to see a lame foot of one of the horses. Marie
stood in her kitchen door, around which was growing lustily a wild
cucumber-vine. She put her two coarse hands on her hips, which were
large with the full gathers of her cotton skirt. Around her neck was
one of the garish-colored kerchiefs which had come with her from her
own country. It was an ugly thing, but gave a picturesque bit of
color to her otherwise dingy garb.

"Mr. Captain," said Marie, in a very small, sweet, almost infantile
voice. It was frightened, yet with a certain coquetry in it. This
small Hungarian girl had met with very few looks and words in her
whole life which were not admiring. In spite of her poor estate she
had the power of the eternal feminine, and she used it knowingly, but
quite artlessly. She knew exactly how to speak to her "Mr. Captain,"
in such a way that a smile in response would be inevitable.

Carroll stopped. "Well, Marie?" he said, and he smiled down into the
little face precisely after the manner of her calculation.

"Mr. Captain," said she again, and again came the feeler after a
smile, the expression of droll sweetness and appeal which forced it.

"Well, Marie," said Carroll, "what is it? What do you want?"

Marie went straight to the point. "Mine vages," said she, and a bit
of the coquetry faded, and her small smile waxed rather piteous. She
wanted that new dress for the ball sadly.

Carroll's face changed; he compressed his mouth. Marie shrank a
little with frightened eyes on his face.

"How much is it, Marie?" asked Carroll.

"Tree mont vage, Mr. Captain," answered Marie, eagerly, "I haf not
had."

Carroll took out his pocket-book and gave her a ten-dollar note.

Marie reached out for it eagerly, but her face fell a little. "It is
tree mont, Mr. Captain," she ventured.

"That is all I can spare to-night, Marie," said Carroll, quite
sternly. "That will have to answer to-night."

Marie smiled again, eying him timidly. "Yes, it will my dress get for
the ball, Mr. Captain."

Marie stood framed in her wild cucumber-vine, regarding the captain
with her pretty ingratiation, but not another smile she got. Carroll
strolled around to the front of the house, and in a second the
carriage rolled around from the stable. Marie nodded to the coachman;
there was never a man of her acquaintance but she had a pretty,
artless salutation always ready for him. She shook her ten-dollar
note triumphantly at him, and laughed with delight.

"Got money," said she. Marie had a way of ending up her words,
especially those ending in y, as if she finished them up with a kiss.
She pursed up her lips, and gave a most fascinating little nip to her
vowels, which, as a rule, she sounded short. "Money," said she again,
and the ten-dollar note fluttered like a green leaf from between the
large thumb and forefinger of her coarse right hand.

The coachman laughed back in sympathy. He was still smiling when he
drove up beside his employer at the front-door. He leaned from his
seat just as the flutter of the ladies' dresses appeared at the
front-door, and said something to Carroll, with a look of pleased
expectation. That money in Marie's hand had cheered him on his own
account.

Carroll looked at him gently imperturbable. "I am sorry, Martin. I
shall be obliged to ask you to wait a few days," he said, with the
utmost courtesy.

The man's honest, confident face fell. "You said--" he began.

"What did I say?" Carroll asked, calmly.

"You said you would let me have some to-night."

"Yes, I remember," Carroll said, "but I have had an unexpected demand
since I returned from the City, and it has taken every cent of ready
money. I must ask you to wait a few days longer. You are not in
serious need of anything, Martin?"

"No, sir," said the man, hesitatingly.

"I was going to say that if you were needing any little thing you
might make use of my credit," said Carroll. As the ladies, Mrs.
Carroll and Miss Carroll, came up to the carriage, Carroll thrust his
hand in his pocket and drew forth a couple of cigars, which he handed
to the coachman with a winning expression. "Here are a couple of
cigars for you, Martin," he said.

"Thank you, sir," replied the coachman.

He put the cigars in his pocket and took up the lines. As he drove
down the drive and along the shady Banbridge road he was wondering
hard if Marie had got the money which Carroll had intended to pay
him. He did not mind so much if she had it. Marie was Hungarian, and
Martin had not much use for outlandish folk on general principles,
but he had a sneaking admiration for little Marie. "Now she can go to
her ball," thought he. Marie said the word as if it had one l and a
short a--bal. Martin smiled inwardly at the recollection, though he
did not allow his face of important dignity to relax.

He thought, further, that, after all, he need not worry about his own
pay. Carroll had paid Marie and would pay him. He thought comfortably
of the cigars, which were sure to be good. His original respect and
admiration for his employer swelled high in his heart. He felt quite
happy driving his high-stepping horses over the good road. The
conversation of the ladies at his back, and of Carroll at his side,
passed his ears, trained not to hear, as unintelligibly as the babble
of the birds. Martin had no curiosity.

While their elders were driving, the Carroll sisters and the brother
were all out on the front porch. Ina was rocking in a rattan chair,
Charlotte sat on the highest step of the porch leaning against a
fluted white pillar, the boy sprawled miserably on the lowest step.

"It's awful dull," he complained.

Charlotte looked down at him commiseratingly from her semicircle of
white muslin flounces. "I'll play ball with you awhile, Eddy, dear,"
said she.

The boy sniffed. "Don't want to play ball with a girl," he replied.

Charlotte said nothing.

Eddy twitched with his face averted. Then suddenly he looked up at
his sister. "Charlotte, I love to play ball with you," said he,
sweetly, "only, you see, I can't pitch hard enough, your hands are so
awful soft, and I feel like I could pitch awful hard to-night."

"Well, I tell you what you may do, dear," said Ina.

"What?"

"Go down to the post-office and get the last mail."

Eddy started up with alacrity. "All right," said he.

"And you may run up-stairs to my room," said Charlotte, "and hunt
round till you find my purse, and get out ten cents and buy yourself
an ice-cream."

Eddy was up and out with a whoop.

"Are you expecting a letter, honey?" asked Charlotte of her sister.

Ina laughed evasively. "I thought Eddy would like to go," said she.

"Now, Ina, I know whom you are expecting a letter from; you can't
cheat me."

Ina laughed rather foolishly; her face was pink.

Charlotte continued to regard her with a curious expression. It was
at once sad, awed, and withal confused, in sympathy with the other
girl. "Ina," said she.

"Well, honey?"

"I think you ought to tell me, your own sister, if you are--"

"What--"

"Ina, I really think--"

"Oh, hush, dear!" Ina whispered. "Here comes Mr. Eastman."

Young Frank Eastman, in his light summer clothes, came jauntily
around the curve of the drive, his straw hat in hand, and the sisters
fluttered to their feet to greet him. Then Eddy reappeared with the
dime securely clutched, and inquired anxiously of Charlotte if she
cared whether he bought soda or candy with it. Young Eastman ran
after him down the walk and had a whispered conference. When the boy
returned, which was speedily, he had a letter for his sister Ina and
a box of the most extravagant candy which Banbridge afforded. The
young people sat chatting and laughing and nibbling sweets until
nearly ten o'clock. Then young Eastman took his leave.

He was rather desirous to be gone before Captain Carroll returned.
Although Carroll always treated him with the most punctilious
courtesy, even going out of his way to speak to him, the young man
always felt a curious discomfort, as if he realized some covert
disapprobation on the elder's part.

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