Tom Beauling/Chapter 5
TOM BEAULING sat on the floor of Judge Tyler's study and played with a set of Indian chess-men, carved of ivory (he did not break one), while the earth was being filled into his mother's grave. Between Judge Tyler and the doctor across the way, the needful had been accomplished as rapidly as possible, and, with the assistance of sister Dorothy's littleness of soul, several important things had been discussed and decided. Harmony's identity had been concealed from the village; she had been buried as a stranger, and Tom Beauling, for all the village knew, was or was not the dead stranger's legitimate child.
Judge Tyler and the doctor walked slowly back from the funeral. The problem of Tom Beauling confronted them.
"I can't keep him." said Judge Tyler; "it's out of the question. You must see that for yourself."
"No," said the doctor, "I can't imagine you bringing up a child. You are totally unsuited."
"It isn't that," said Judge Tyler, with some resentment; "but it isn't my duty to saddle myself with somebody else's brat, and I won't do it."
"Poor little beggar!" said the doctor, reminiscently. And then, in a tone of convinced agreement: "You are absolutely right; it would be ridiculous self-imposition."
"Yes, wouldn't it!" said the judge, comforted.
"Of course he must go to Dorothy," began the doctor, slowly.
"No, he sha'n't!" said Judge Tyler, firmly.
"Wait—wait," said the doctor. "You will see it in a minute. After all, Dorothy is his aunt; she has children of her own, good principles—"
"Hunh!" exclaimed the judge.
"Yes, he must go to Dorothy," said the doctor, cheerfully.
"No, he sha'n't," said the judge; "even if Dorothy went down on her knees and begged to be allowed to have him,—and I dare say that is what her God or her holy husband is suggesting to her as a penance for her sins,—I would refuse. His mother was set against it, and for reasons which are obvious to all. I told her she would better go to Dorothy,—I assure you I spoke thoughtlessly,—and she said that was like advising her to bury her boy alive. Harmony was quite right."
The vehemence with which he said this left Judge Tyler quite out of breath.
"There!" he gasped.
"Poor little beggar!" said the doctor, reflectively.
"Harmony was quite right," repeated the judge.
"People who have had enough trouble usually are," said the doctor.
"I intend to do what is right," said the judge.
"Of course you do. I was sure of it," said the doctor, in an aggravating voice.
"What do you mean by that?" snapped the judge.
"Oh! you'll send him to some expensive institution, and—"
"Just what I will do," cried the judge.
"Poor little beggar!" said the doctor.
"He's damned lucky to have anybody do anything for him," said the judge, angrily.
"Quite so," said the doctor. . . . "He's a bright little cuss."
Two-o'clock dinner was served to the gentlemen. Little Beauling, an unabridged between him and his chair, joined them. But he sat silent and said never a word, for he had learned that his mother would not come back to him any more. He was too good a gentleman to cry at table, but he could not eat. Later, when dinner was over and the judge and the doctor took to their cigars, he was given in charge of the aged cook, and on her flat calico bosom he poured out his sorrow. And when the cup was empty of liquid bitterness, and no more tears would come, he was given to eat. But not real food; spoiled children food—bread spread with butter, butter spread high with brown sugar, crunching deliciously; jumbles, each with a hole in the middle which you could stick your finger through, raspberry shrub—the food upon which little gods are fed—tarts, and (I whisper it) a glass of apple brandy. With that he slept, and while his earthly disposition was being argued in the dining-room he dreamed of three divers dogs that gamboled gloriously in a meadow, and in his dream he gave delicious chase, and rolled over and over in the delightful grass. But the pitiful cook looked upon his face in sleep, and when he wrinkled up his little nose with the ardor of pursuit, rocked her body and wept, as is customary with the Irish when moved by little things or great.
"First and last," said Judge Tyler, "I will not allow my feelings to dictate to me in this matter. The boy is bright and pretty, and I won't say that it wouldn't be a pleasure to have him in the house for a time. But to keep him as he is at present—a quiet, shy, well-mannered little cuss—is, you must admit, out of the question. The ordinary boy grows up disappointing, and slaps his parents and benefactors right and left. I can't be expected to let myself in for anything of that kind. Furthermore, this boy comes of parents that were—I will not say vicious, though it is probable his father was—say, very indiscreet; stands a pretty poor show of turning out well—a worse show than most boys, and that's saying a great deal; and besides," concluded Judge Tyler, triumphantly, "even you will admit that a child ought to be brought up by a woman. There are things about children that only women understand."
The doctor winked to himself.
The gentlemen continued their discussion, when presently, while Judge Tyler was in the midst of another long protest, the door-bell rang, and after an interval Dorothy, pale and determined, walked into the dining-room. The gentlemen arose at exactly the same moment.
"I hope you will excuse me for coming in like this." said Dorothy, firmly; "but my husband thinks I owe you an apology, Judge Tyler, for letting you take so much trouble that we should have taken—"
Judge Tyler dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand.
"It's pretty hard to suffer for other people's faults," she went on. "But perhaps we are made to, to make up for something wrong we have done ourselves. Anyway, we can't judge about that, and so I've come to say that I am willing to take charge of Harmony's child. My husband thinks I ought to. So I've come to take him home."
Judge Tyler shot an instantaneous "I-told-you-so" at the doctor.
"Dorothy," he said, "I'm glad that you've come to see the matter in this light, and by making the offer you are doing your duty, I cannot believe gladly, but I will say cheerfully, and in a manner highly gratifying to me. But you can put your mind quite at rest, for I am not going to hold you to your offer."
Dorothy looked surprised.
"What do you mean?" she said.
"Simply this," said Judge Tyler; "if your sister wanted you to have her child she would have gone to you directly and said so. But she came instead to me, Dorothy, and made it very evident that she did not want her child to be brought up in your house. I need not go into the reasons. You and she looked at life differently. I will not say that your way was wrong, but it was not hers. The other day, when I called on you, your children were studying their lessons; your eldest child is five years old. It was a bright, beautiful afternoon. Well, Harmony's children would have been playing in the yard. Don't make me put it stronger."
Dorothy was pained and hurt for a moment.
"How like Harmony to hate me!" she said; "but, of course, I have no rights in the matter, and I may as well say that I am glad you don't want me to have the child. I only offered to take him because I thought it was my duty to."
Judge Tyler shifted uneasily.
"I suppose you are going to keep him, then," she said.
"I!" exclaimed the judge. "Certainly not."
"Too absurd!" put in the doctor, under his breath.
"Oh, no!" said the judge, "I sha'n't keep him."
"Then what are you going to do with him?" said Dorothy.
Judge Tyler cleared his throat, and, in the tone of one describing the landscape:
"I have the address of a home for orphans in New York, where I am told that children are well looked after by kindly people. I have quite made up my mind that unless something better offers—"
"Then you're not going to adopt him?" said Dorothy, as if the fact continued to surprise.
"Why should I?" said the judge—"Why should I?"
"Everybody thinks you are," said Dorothy.
"Then everybody is wrong," said the judge, sharply.
"Poor little beggar!" said the doctor.