The Debtor Part 72

"Oh, well, he is a boy yet, of course," he said, "but there is a man in him if fate doesn't put too many stumbling-blocks in his way."

"There is such a thing," said Anderson.

"Undoubtedly," said Carroll. "Moral hurdles for the strengthening of the spirit are all very well, but occasionally there is a spirit ruined by them."

"I think you are right," said Anderson; "still, when the spirit does make the hurdles--"

"Oh yes, it is a very superior sort, after that," said Carroll, laughing; "but when it doesn't-- Well, I hope the boy will have tasks proportioned to his strength, and I hope he will have a try at them all, anyhow."

"He seems to me like a boy that would," Anderson said. "What do you think of making of him?"

"I hardly know. It depends. His mother has always talked a good deal about Eddy's studying law, but I don't know. Somehow the law has always seemed to me the road of success for the few and a slippery maze to nowhere for the many."

A sudden thought seemed to strike Carroll; he looked a little disturbed. "By-the-way," he said, "I forgot. You yourself--"

Anderson smiled. "Yes, I studied law," said he.

"And gave it up?"

"Yes. I could not make a living with it."

Carroll regarded the other man with a curious, wistful scrutiny. He looked more and more like Eddy. His next question was as full of naivete as if the boy himself had asked it, and yet the charming, almost courtly state of the man never for one instant failed. "And so," he said, "you tried selling b.u.t.ter and eggs instead of legal wisdom?" The question might have been insolent from its purport, but it was not.

Anderson laughed. "Yes," he replied. "People must eat to live, but they can live without legal wisdom. I found b.u.t.ter and eggs were more salable."

Carroll continued to regard him with that pathetic, wondering curiosity. "And you have never regretted the change?" he asked.

"I don't say that, but, regret or not, I had to make it, and--I am not exactly sure that I do regret it."

"But this--this new occupation of yours cannot be--precisely congenial."

"That does not disturb me," Anderson said, a little impatiently.

Carroll looked at him with understanding. "I see you feel as I do about that," he said. "It is rather proving one's self of the common to hold back too strenuously from it, and yet"--he hesitated a moment--"it takes courage, though," he said. Suddenly his eyes upon the other man became full of admiration. "My daughter tells me, or, rather, my son told me princ.i.p.ally, that you are interested in entomology?" he said.

"Oh, I dabble a little in it," Anderson replied, smiling.

Carroll's eyes upon him continued to hold their wistful questioning, admiring expression. Anderson began to wonder what he had come for.

He was puzzled by the whole affair. Carroll, too, seemed to present himself to him under a new guise. He wondered if his reverses had brought about the change.

"I do not wish," said Carroll, "to display curiosity about affairs which do not concern me, and I trust you will pardon me and give me information, or not, as you choose; but may I ask how you happened, when you became convinced that you were not to make a success in law, why you chose your present business?"

"I have not the slightest objection to answering," said Anderson, although he began to wonder if the other had called simply for the purpose of gratifying his curiosity about his affairs--"not the slightest. I simply tried to think of something which I should be sure to sell, because people would be sure to buy, and I thought of--b.u.t.ter and cheese. It all seems exceedingly simple to me, the principle of obtaining enough money wherewith to live and buy the necessaries of life. It is only to look about and possibly within and see what wares you can command, for which people will be willing to give their own earnings. It is all a question of supply and demand.

First you must study the demand, and then your own power of supply.

If you can interpret law like Rufus Choate, why, sell that; if you can edit like Horace Greeley, sell that; if you can act like Booth or sing like Patti, sell that; if you can dance like Carmencita, sell that. It all remains with you, what you can do, sing or dance, or sway a mult.i.tude, or sell b.u.t.ter and eggs; or possibly, rather, it remains with the public and what it decides you can do--that is better for one's vanity."

"Decidedly," agreed Carroll, with an odd, reflective expression.

"If the public want your song or your novel or your speech, they will buy it, or your dance, and if they don't they won't, and you cannot make them. You have to sell what the public want to buy, for you yourself are only a unit in a goodly number of millions."

"And yet how extremely all-pervading that unit can feel sometimes,"

Carroll said, with a laugh.

He was silent again, puffing at his cigar, and again Anderson, leaning back opposite and also smoking, wondered why he was there.

Then Carroll removed his cigar and spoke. His voice was a little constrained, but he looked at Anderson full in the face.

"Mr. Anderson," he said, "I want to know if you will kindly tell me how much I owe you, for I am one of the consumers of b.u.t.ter and eggs."

Anderson continued to smoke a second before answering. "I cannot possibly tell you here, Mr. Carroll," he replied then.

"Of course I know I should have written and asked for the bill,"

Carroll said, "but I knew some had been paid, and--you have been most kind, and--"

Anderson waited.

"In short," said Carroll, speaking quickly and brusquely, "I am under a cloud here, and--your mother called to see my daughter this afternoon, and I thought that possibly you would pardon me if I put it all on a little different basis."

Carroll stopped, and again Anderson waited. He was becoming more and more puzzled.

Then Carroll spoke quite to the point. "I could have sent for the bill which you have so generously not sent, which you have so generously allowed my poor, little daughter to think was settled,"

said he, "but if you had sent it I simply could not have paid it. I could have written you what I wished to say, but I thought I could say it better. I wish to say to you that I shall be obliged if you will let me know the extent of my indebtedness to you, and if you will accept my note for six months."

"Very well," said Anderson, gravely.

"If you will have the bill made out and sent me to-morrow, I will send you my note by return mail," said Carroll.

"Very well, Mr. Carroll," replied Anderson.

Carroll arose to go. "You have a pleasant home here, Mr. Anderson,"

he said, looking around the room with its air of old-fas.h.i.+oned comfort, even state.

"It has always seemed pleasant to me," said Anderson. An odd, kindly feeling for Carroll overcame him. He extended his hand. "I am glad you called, Captain Carroll," he said. He hesitated a moment. Then he added: "You will necessarily be lonely with your family away. If you would come in again--"

"I cannot leave my daughter alone much," Carroll answered, "but otherwise I should be glad to. Thank you." He looked at Anderson with evident hesitation. There was something apparently which he was about to say, but doubted the wisdom of saying it.

"Your daughter is still with you?" Anderson said.

"Yes."

Then Anderson hesitated a second. Then he spoke. "Would you allow me to call upon your daughter, Captain Carroll?" he asked, bluntly.

Carroll's face paled as he looked at him. "On my daughter?"

"Yes. Captain Carroll, will you be seated again for a few minutes. I have something I would like to say to you."

Anderson was pale, but his voice was quite firm. He had a strange sensation as of a man who had begun a dreaded leap, and felt that in reality the worst was over, that the landing could in no way equal the shock of the start. Carroll followed him back into the sitting-room and sat down.

Anderson began at once with no preface. "I should like to marry your daughter, if she can love me well enough," he said, simply.