Part 68 (1/2)

”I told Eddy that you could not be left alone with n.o.body to cook for you, and he must get on the train and not make any fuss, and tell the others, and be a good boy, and he said he would. I saw him safely on the train.”

”How did you get here from Lancaster, child?”

”I took the trolley,” Charlotte said. ”There is a trolley from Lancaster to New Sanderson, you know, papa.”

Charlotte did not explain that the trolley from Lancaster to New Sanderson was not running, and that she had walked six miles before connecting with the trolley to Banbridge. ”I got the meat in New Sanderson,” said she. ”I got some other things, too. You will see. We have a beautiful supper, papa.”

Carroll looked at her, and she answered the question he was ashamed to ask. ”Aunt Catherine sent me a little money,” she said. ”She sent me twenty-five dollars in a post-office order. She wrote me a letter and sent me the money for myself. She said the shops were not very good down there--you know they are not, papa--and I might like to buy some little things for myself in New York before coming. I said nothing about the money to Amy or the others, because I had this plan. I even let Amy take that extra money and buy me the hat. I was afraid I was mean, but I could not tell her I had the money, because I wanted to carry out this plan, and I did not see how I could get back or do anything unless I kept it, for I had no money at all before. I have written a letter to Aunt Catherine, and she will get it as soon as they get there. I don't think she will be angry; and if she is, I don't care.” Charlotte's voice had a ring of charming defiance. She looked gayly at her father. ”Come, papa,” said she, ”the beefsteak is hot. Sit right up, and I will bring in the tea and toast. There are some cakes, too, and a salad. I have got a beautiful supper, papa. I never cooked any beefsteak before, but just look how nice that is. Come, papa.”

Carroll obediently drew his chair up to the table. It was daintily set; there was even a little vase of flowers, rusty red chrysanthemums, in the centre on the embroidered centrepiece.

Charlotte spoke of them when she brought in the tea and toast. ”I suppose I was extravagant, papa,” she said, ”but I stopped at a florist's in New Sanderson and bought these. They did not cost much--only ten cents for all these.” She took her seat opposite her father, and poured the tea. She put in the lumps of sugar daintily with the silver tongs. Her face was beaming; she was lovely; she was a darling. She looked over at her father as she extended his cup of tea, and there was not a trace of self-love in the little face; it was all love for and tender care of him. ”Oh, I am so glad to be home!” she said, with a deep sigh.

Carroll looked across at her with a sort of adoration and dependence which were painful, coming from a father towards a child. His face had lightened, but he still looked worn and pale and old. He was become more and more conscious of the chloroform in his pocket, and the shame and guilt of it.

”Why did you come back, honey?” he asked.

”I didn't want to go,” Charlotte said, simply. ”I wasn't happy going away and leaving you alone, papa. I want to stay here with you, and if you have to leave Banbridge I will go with you. I don't mind at all not having much to get along with. I can get along with very little.”

”You would have been more comfortable with the others, dear,” said Carroll. He did not begin to eat his supper, but looked over it at the girl's face.

”You are not eating anything, papa,” said Charlotte. ”Isn't the beefsteak cooked right?”

”It is cooked beautifully, honey; just right. All is. I am glad to see you come back. You don't just know what it means to me, dear, but I am afraid--”

Charlotte laughed gayly. ”I am not,” said she. ”Talk about comfort--isn't this comfort? Please _do_ eat the beefsteak, papa.”

Carroll began obediently to eat his supper. When he had fairly begun he realized that he was nearly famished. In spite of his stress of mind, the needs of the flesh rea.s.serted themselves. He could not remember anything tasting so good since his boyhood. He ate his beefsteak and potatoes and toast; then Charlotte brought forward with triumph a little dish of salad, and finally a charlotte-russe.

”I got these at the baker's in New Sanderson,” said she. She was dimpling with delight. She looked very young, and yet the man continued to have that sense of dependence upon her. She exulted openly over her supper, her cooking, and her return. ”I don't know but I was very deceitful, papa,” she said, but with glee rather than compunction. ”Amy and Anna had no idea that I did not mean to go with them to Aunt Catherine's, and oh, papa, what do you think I did? What do you?”

”What, dear?”

”My trunk was packed with, with--some old sheets and blankets and newspapers--and all my clothes are hanging in my closet up-stairs.”

Charlotte laughed a long ring of laughter. ”I knew I was deceitful,”

she said again, and laughed again.

Carroll did not laugh. He was thinking of the Hungarian girl in Charlotte's red dress, but Charlotte thought he was sober on account of her deceit.

”Do you think it was very wrong, papa?” she asked, with sudden seriousness, eying him wistfully. ”I will write and tell Amy to-night all about it. I couldn't think of any other way to do, papa.”

”I met Marie as I was coming home from the station this morning,”

Carroll said, irrelevantly.

Charlotte looked at him quickly, blushed, and raised her teacup.

”I thought at first, though I knew it could not be, that I saw you coming,” said he; ”something about her dress--”

”Papa,” said Charlotte, setting down her cup, and she was half-crying--”papa, I had to. Marie was so shabby, and she said that her lover had deserted her because she was so poorly dressed; and though of course he could not be a very good man, nor very loyal to desert her for such a reason as that, yet those people are different, perhaps, and don't look at things as we do; and Marie has got another place; but--but she--didn't have any money, you know, and she didn't really have a dress fit to be seen, and that dress I gave her I did not need at all--I really did not, papa. I have plenty besides, and so I gave it to her, and my little Eton jacket, and I told her she would certainly have every cent we owed her, and she seemed very happy. She is going to a party to-night and will wear that dress. She thinks she will get her lover back. Those Hungarian men must be queer lovers. Marie said he would not marry her, anyway, until she had some money for her dowry, but she thinks she may be able to keep him until then with my red silk dress, and I told her she should certainly have it all in time.” Charlotte's voice, in making the last statement, was full of pride and confidence without a trace of interrogation.

”She shall if I live, dear,” said Carroll. All at once there came over him, stimulated with food for heart and body, such a rush of the natural instinct for life as to completely possess him. It seemed to him that as a short time before he had hungered for death, he now hungered for life. Even the desire to live and pay that miserable little Hungarian servant-maid was a tremendous thing. The desire to live for the smallest virtues, ambitions, and pleasures of life was compelling force.