Tom Beauling/Chapter 19
THE room which Beauling always occupied when he stayed with the Dunbars, with a fine view of Pelham Bay over the hillside wood, Long Island, burnt siena in the distance, and many ships passing up and down the Sound, was not without traces of his frequent occupations. In the attached dressing-room were two pairs of smart boots in trees, his riding-things, several pairs of flannel trousers, tennis shoes, a Mmona, and an assortment of hats which he always liked to have about and which he never wore. A small steamer trunk contained other possessions, and a huge pigskin bag those necessaries which he brought when he came and took when he went Mr. Lilac, a perfect piece of mechanism from the Old World, had just completed the unpacking of this—writing-case, ebony-backed hair-brushes, evening clothes, shirts, studs, etc. The new millionaire—it meant that in the short—was just in from a stroll with Phylis. But the only sign of his being in the vicinity was the roaring noise of a shower-bath. Mr. Beauling spent the most of his vacations in doing one of four things-exercising, bathing, changing his clothes, or violently restraining himself from telling Phylis what was in his heart. And she was satisfied to have it so. Some day he would speak. She knew that. So did he. What had occurred during the particular stroll in question is not known, but when he was about half dressed Mr. Beauling threw himself into a loungingchair and communed thus:
"One thing or the other," he said; "I've got to tell her or go away forever. On the one hand, I'm nobody at all, and I haven't been honest, for I should have told them that in the beginning; on the other hand, she—she cares for me. I know I am a blind fool—I've just seen it And she's been caring all along, just as I have, ever since the beginning—and I didn't guess. She does—I know it now. Oh, I know it now! If she didn't care, I could just stay on and love her and try not to bother her, and it would be all right, because I would be the only one hurt. But she does care—and I am nobody, a man without a father—and it isn't right for me to go to her and say, 'Phylis, will you take for your husband a man that is handicapped like that?' Why, her people are everything; they've done everything for me, and I think they like me; but if they knew!—even if she said it didn't make any difference—and, bless her! that's what she would say—they couldn't be expected to hear of it. And I'm hanged if I'd have the face to go against them—considerin' how kind they've been to me. If they say no, it's got to be no—no matter what I say, no matter what she says. The best thing for me to do is to go to her and say, 'Phylis, I've tried to be a mountain, but I'm only a rolling stone—no good to anybody—and I've got the call and I want out, and if you like me a little you must forget all about it. I'm no good, and I'm going—good-by,' and a string of lies like that, and then go. Yes, that will be kindest in the long run. And the rest! I couldn't forget, but somehow—somehow there must be uses for a maimed man and things for him to do. There is the friendly old sea, and deserts and forests, and places other people can't get to. I'll go to those, and write about 'em, and live clean and not forget' and be as faithful to her as if she belonged to me, and endure and know that I have done right.
"That's about the selfishest line of thought I've ever had," he said. "If she cares for me—and she does—and I care for her, why, there is nothing else in God's world that counts—family, position, money—lack of family, lack of position, lack of money! By George, I'll be the head of a new family! I've nothing to be ashamed of, and I'll hold my head as high as a mast' and so shall my sons and their sons after them. Go back far enough, and there's a nobody in the pedigree of everybody. There is no tongue in this world sharp enough to hurt me. I'll go to her, and say—and say—I won't have to say anything. She knows, and I know.
"Oh, you Phylis! . . ." he said.
"I can see her coming up to me, so tall and straight and beautiful and everything—music playing—everybody craning necks to look at her—the men eating their hearts out with envy. 'Who taketh this woman!' 'That do I, Tomas Beauling, for ever and ever, God bless her, Amen.' 'Who is this woman?' 'She is the woman that everybody has been wanting ever since the beginning of the world, and will go on wanting till the end of the world, and afterward. But Tomas Beauling has got her, and she is going to belong to him for ever and ever and afterward! Oh, you Phylis! . . .'"
Beauling looked at his watch.
"If I hurry," he said, "perhaps I can get a moment with her before dinner, and—"
He arose, faced the glass, and began to destroy white ties. The fourth one proved more facile, and tied to his satisfaction. He surveyed himself.
"Who are you?" he said. And back came the blues.
"It isn't rights" he said. "I mustn't do it I must go away, and never come back. I must go to-night after dinner—now. I can get the German steamer for Gibraltar, catch the Caledonia for Australia, and be back in the old diggings before the world is a month older. Why didn't I play fair, and tell them in the first place? Why didn't I? But somehow you can't go around doing that. If somebody asks you to lunch, you can't answer, 'I will come with pleasure, if you have no objection to my being a—' It isn't fair. It isn't done. You've got to hide lots of things about yourself—even if you've got nothing that's specially criminal to hide. It isn't criminal being nobody—and somehow it never before seemed criminal to hide the fact. But I see it now. I should have told her father. I said, ever so many years ago, 'It's what I am, not what I come from, and I'll prove it.' God knows I've tried. Out in the East, where nobody knows who anybody is or cares, it works splendidly—but here, it's so different. Why, if people knew they wouldn't ask me about, they wouldn't let me know their daughters, they would influence their sons against associating with me—here in this free and equal country, where a man's a man for what he is—here where the names of Hamilton and Jefferson are held in great esteem—here where the sins of the fathers are not supposed to be visited upon the children—here's the place to anchor if you want to see pride of descent! And since it is so, I will go away and not bring any troubles of that kind on her. If I haven't been honest before, I'll be honest now—God help me! I'll go away."
He took her letters out of the writing-case and turned them over lovingly. In the same compartment with them was the old photograph of his father and mother. He kept it always near him. He took it out now, and laid it beside the letters. It was greatly faded with the years.
"Poor mama!" he said, "I wonder if he will be punished for all the troubles he has brought on you and met I suppose not; it isn't the way of the world. Do you know what I promised to say to him, though! I'm to say—if ever I find him—'One old man was made happy by your sin.' That's the good that you and I have done in the world, mama. One old man was glad we existed. I wish we could talk it all over with him. He was so wise and gentle and just. We are in awful trouble, mama. 'Ohé, mama! Ohé, mama!'"
Beauling addressed the tall, smoothfaced young man in the picture.
"If ever I find you," he said, "I'll first tell you about the old man you made happy, and then I think I'll tear your head off your shoulders."
He turned to the letters. At first he could see his name on the envelope, and the names of the various places to which they had been sent. The contents of each he knew by heart—and soul. Then things began to swim, and for a second or two he was quite blind.
"And you care for me," he said hoarsely, "and I have been planning to run away!"
He looked at his watch.
"If I hurry." he said, "perhaps I can see her a moment before dinner."