Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - The Debtor

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

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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."

Chapter XXIII

When a strong normal character which has consciously made wrong
moves, averse to the established order of things, and so become a
force of negation, comes into contact with weaker or undeveloped
natures, it sometimes produces in them an actual change of moral
fibre, and they become abnormal. Instead of a right quantity on the
wrong track, they are a wrong quantity, and exactly in accordance
with their environments. In the case of the Carroll family, Arthur
Carroll, who was in himself of a perfect and unassailable balance as
to the right estimate of things, and the weighing of cause and
effect, who had never in his whole life taken a step blindfold by any
imperfection of spiritual vision, who had never for his own solace
lost his own sense of responsibility for his lapses, had made his
family, in a great measure, irresponsible for the same faults. Except
in the possible case of Charlotte, all of them had a certain measure
of perverted moral sense in the direction in which Carroll had
consciously and unpervertedly failed. Anna Carroll, it is true, had
her eyes more or less open, and she had much strength of character;
still it was a feminine strength, and even she did not look at
affairs as she might have done had she not been under the influence
of her brother for years. While she at times waxed bitter over the
state of affairs, it was more because of the constant irritation to
her own pride, and her impatience at the restraints of an alien and
dishonest existence, than from any moral scruples. Even Charlotte
herself was scarcely clear-visioned concerning the family taint. The
word debt had not to her its full meaning; the inalienable rights of
others faded her comprehension when measured beside her own right of
existence and of the comforts and delights of existence. Even to her
a new hat or a comfortable meal was something of more importance than
the need of the vender thereof for reimbursement. The value to
herself was the first value, her birthright, indeed, which if others
held they must needs yield up to her without money and without price,
if her purse happened to be empty. Her compunction and sudden
awakening of responsibility in the case of Randolph Anderson were due
to an entirely different influence from any which had hitherto come
into her life. Charlotte, although she was past the very first of
young girlhood, being twenty, was curiously undeveloped emotionally.
She had never had any lovers, and the fault had been her own, from a
strange persistence of childhood in her temperament. She had not
attracted, from her own utter lack of responsiveness. She was like an
instrument which will not respond to the touch on certain notes, and
presently the player wearies.

She was a girl of strong and jealous affections, but the electric
circuits in her nature were not yet established. Then, also, she had
not been a child who had made herself the heroine of her own dreams,
and that had hindered her emotional development.

"Charlotte," one of her school-mates, had asked her once, "do you
ever amuse yourself by imagining that you have a lover?"

Charlotte had stared at the girl, a beautiful, early matured,
innocently shameless creature. "No," said she. "I don't understand
what you mean, Rosamond."

"The next moonlight night," said the girl, "Imagine that you have a
lover."

"What if I did?"

"It would make you very happy, almost as happy as if you had a real
one," said the girl, who was only a child in years, though, on
account of her size, she had been put into long dresses. She had far
outstripped the boys of her own age, who were rather shy of her.

Charlotte, who was still in short dresses, looked at her, full of
scorn and a mysterious shame. "I don't want any lover at all,"
declared she. "I don't want an imaginary one, or a real one, either.
I've got my papa, and that's all I want." At that time Charlotte
still clung to her doll, and the doll was in her mind, but she did
not say doll to the other girl.

"Well, I don't care," said the other girl, defiantly. "You will
sometime."

"I sha'n't, either," declared Charlotte. "I never shall be so silly,
Rosamond Lane."

"You will, too."

"I never will. You needn't think because you are so awful silly
everybody else is."

"I ain't any sillier than anybody else, and you'll be just as silly
yourself, so now," said Rosamond.

After that, when Charlotte saw the child sitting sunken in a reverie
with the color deepening on her cheeks, her lips pouting, and her
eyes misty, she would pass indignantly. She remembered her in after
years with contempt. She spoke of her to Ina as the silliest girl she
had ever known.

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