Tom Beauling/Chapter 12
THREE sights of a girl had taken aU the zest of wandering out of the heart of Mr. Beauling. So he said—most logically!—"I'm looking too high," and, with a soul as sad as tears, turned his back upon the girl, although her eyes had said as plainly as could be, "You are he," and wandered off to fish for pearls in the deep ocean. In a period measured by four seasons—it lasted ten thousand years and a few long days—he sent her six impersonal letters, and wrote her about three hundred and sixty-five personal ones. He fell low of a strange fever, and, coming out of the delirium, found that he had been writing adoring letters to the girl he loved. These he tore into little pieces and burned. Others he tore into even smaller pieces and cast upon many seas. If he had not loved her, he would have mailed whenever he pleased; loving her, he sent only as many letters as he dared—these of a descriptive cast. There was a spirit in his feet that kept saying, "Follow whither I lead, and you will come to the place where you would be," and the blockheadedness of the high-souled kept answering, "I am not 'born'; I am not worthy," and the man sided with the blockheadedness and in righteous agony spurned the wise spirit.
The selfish hulk thought only of himself, as is often the case with selfish persons, and not at all of the girl who would have given her pretty ears for the sight of him, who had said as plainly as eyes can say at parting, "You are he," and who, when she was spurned—for no other word will cover the monstrous density of the man—did not draw herself up haughtily and say to her proud heart, "Oh, very well!" but became meek and humble, sweet to people whom she had formerly twitted, and said in the privacy of her suffering soul, "How could he care for me!" And the pride which she held dearest was that she should love so far above her. So she wrote a few letters to the man, and made them as affectionate as she dared. And tore them up, and sent others that were less affectionate. And so it went on until one night at dinner her father spoke up and said:
"I can't get Beauling out of my head."
To this the girl's mind answered: "I can't get him out of my heart." But her many-wiled lips replied: "Can't you?"
"No," said her father. "I want him."
The girl's heart said: "Oh, my God, so do I!" Her lips said: "What for?"
"I could use him," said her father; "and I'm going to write and make him an offer."
The girl's mind, her heart, and her soul said: "I could die for him!" Her lips, "Why don't you?"
Then she slipped up-stairs and herself wrote many crafty pages. She told the man that he was wasting his life and talents. That she would like to respect him, but could not if he continued to hop about like a pea in a pan and amuse himself, for she could not regard his various enterprises as serious. That he was old enough to settle down and be useful; that she hoped he would. And that she would not care a snap if he were just an ordinary man, but she thought more highly of him than that, and was borne out by her father, who, etc. And she hoped he would not mind her taking enough interest in him to want him to be different. She wrote him a letter calculated to scorn him into compliance. She suggested that perhaps he had not sufficient strength of character, and that she was sorry if such proved the case. She dared him to settle down; she turned herself into an exquisite bully—she was already exquisite—and browbeat the only man in the world.
Down-stairs, Mrs. Dunbar said to Mr. Dunbar:
"She is very much changed since he went away."
And he said: "You know nothing about the man, and yet you want to fling our daughter at his head."
"So do you," said she.
"No," said he, "it isn't that; but if Phylis wants him, she—she shall have him."
"It's the same thing," said Mrs. Dunbar; "you and Phylis—she covertly, you openly—are quite mad about that man, and"—she smiled gaily—"so am I."
The maiden trip of a letter is apt to be a better managed affair than the latest excursion of an experienced globe-trotter. Phylis's letter and her father's hastened on their joint mission by train and steamer, and came to Beauling side by side on a brass platter stamped with gods, in the hands of a wrinkled Hindu, who was rather afraid of them—the letters, not the gods; familiarity breeds contempt Dunbar's letter, offering and requiring, was read first, for Beauling was a perfect child about his rice puddings, always keeping the raisins for the last. He devoured his raisin a dozen times, and, for all the scoldings and mockings, found that the taste was good. Then he waited till the moon rose, and going into the shadowy garden of the Taj, gave his imagination play.
Lest we should fall sick of life and die, the gods have given us two little times in every twenty-four hours when we may see ourselves as we would be. We may walk up the cool of the evening under the starry sky to the summit All-is-possible; or, in the early morning, between waking and rising, there is a moment when we are also allowed the direction of our dreams. These are the times when our scribblings are literature, our pockets filled, and our hands free. These are the times when the timid lover is bold, and the will of his heart spoken; when the forlorn hope is led, and the opportunity seized; when the prodigal rushes home to his old mother, and the arms of the forsaken are not empty.
So Beauling paced in the garden of the Taj, and gave glorious directions to glorious dreams. He paced the moon out of the sky and the stars to their beds; he paced away the night, and the dew rose under his feet. He paced up the dawn, but in the early hours of the white day he was rolled westward in a train of cars, his feet on the seat opposite, a pipe in his mouth, and a song in his heart. He saw the names upon the stations: Cawnpore—Lucknow—Delhi. He read them thus: "This is the way home, Tom Beauling." "This is the way to the haven where you would be." "This is the way to Phylis." But there were moments when he dared not believe that he had read her letter right.
The steamer Caledonia, with black smoke that gyrated in the sea-breeze pouring out of both funnels, stood in the harbor of Bombay, between the city and the emerald islands. An important puffy little donkey-engine was clacking up her anchor, and the pilot was fingering the brass bell-pull that should teach the engineer when to set the shafts revolving. Along the shoreward rail was a double line of people in thin white clothes and sun helmets. They looked like a company of animated mushrooms. Barefooted Hindus, in white blouses, red-turbaned and red-sashed, ran about, with luggage and chairs, and made loud, soft noises with their mouths. An old Don Quixote of a man, with a long, gray beard like a goat, interchangeable tan shoes, black alpaca clothes, shining as to the knees and elbows, flannel shirt, puffy brown helmet, with an audacious purple and white and gold cloth about it, and watery, weak blue eyes, elbowed the rail and looked mistily at the emerald shores. Beyond the lofty clock-tower, the government buildings, the sparkling white marble of Victoria, the resounding streets, the towers of silence, the shady avenues, the bubbling plague, the troubling crows, was a little piece of ancient history in which the old gentleman had been one of the little pawns. His hands trembled with martial reminiscence. He was in Lucknow Residence. Cannons roared. He saw again Henry Lawrence—"who tried to do his duty, may the Lord have mercy on his soul"—in his habit as he lived—and died. He saw the end descending, a pall striped with blood, and he heard again the distant pipes that had shrieked, "The Campbells are coming, O ho! O ho!" That was looking back many years. He looked back further, and came out to India again, in a sailing-ship, a brave, bright-cheeked boy, full of hope and conscientiousness. He had been brave and steadfast, a little part of history—a great failure. There are two kinds of admirables—the hard-working successes and the hard-working failures. The old gentleman belonged to the second class. But now he had done with it all—the hope and the bitterness, even the hard working. He was going back to the land of flowery hedges and delightful meadows; that was all that mattered to him. He was going away from the land of his unsuccess—going home, to look on a green field of England, and die. He spoke to the towering young man at his side.
"I have seen great doings in India, sir," he said—"great doings." They talked. The old gentleman told stories that he could not tell. He was a failure all around.
"I have seen great doings in India, sir—great doings."
Beyond that his imagination did not go.
The towering young man was full of life, ambition, and hope—he had nothing in common with the wreck of these things. Yet he was drawn to the old gentleman. He squired him like a son. And the two became real friends. Both were going home.
"I have seen great doings in India, sir—great doings," said the old gentleman.
The young man thought of a letter, and the moon on the Taj. He, too, had seen great doings in India.