Tom Beauling/Chapter 2
"YOU know what sort of a home life I had," said the lady. "I used to call my father and my mother the last of the Puritans. They were so good and strict, such church-goers, so upright, so God-fearing, so hard on children. I think my father and my mother were never children themselves. They were born grown up. They were never tempted by light things. Dorothy was like them. She used to sew little samplers, and ask God to punish her if she was wicked. But I wasn't like that. I was very joyous, and glad that I was pretty. I used to stick flowers in my hair and dance before a glass. You remember our house—all horse-hair and mahogany, a stuffed duck under glass in the parlor. Fancy! The rooms were always darkened when the sun was shining its brightest. Our house was cool on the hottest days. But the air in it was never fresh, always stuffy—old-fashioned air. I remember when my uncle died. I saw him in his coffin. Fancy letting a child—a little child—see a dead person in a coffin! It seemed to me that his coffin was like a small edition of our house—a stricter interpretation of the spirit of our house. I remember thinking, though I was only a little child, that my father and my mother and my sister and I had all been born buried, and that when we really and truly died we would simply be put into smaller coffins. Our house was a coffin that you could breathe in; a real coffin was smaller and you could not breathe in it—that was the only difference.
"My father and my mother loved me. I know that because one day they prayed for the heathen in foreign lands, and I asked them why they did that, and they said it was because they loved the heathen in foreign lands. And they used to pray for me, so they must have loved me too. But they didn't love me the way I wanted to be loved. They never kissed me when I had flowers in my hair and red cheeks from dancing, when I looked pretty and most like a child, but every morning, after morning prayers, and every evening before going to bed. They never kissed me on Sunday. When I had diphtheria—you remember how sick I was—and the danger was past, they did not cry over me and be fatherly and motherly, but called up the servants and read a lot of stiff prayers, and then they kissed me solemnly, and said they were glad their little girl had not been taken. And Dorothy, little Dorothy—what do you think she said? She said it was a great relief to her that I had not died then, for, in her judgment, I was not fit to die.
"I was never the kind that is 'fit to die,' Judge Tyler. I was only fit to live, to be gay, to laugh, to dance, to sing, to play, to make people laugh, and later to make some man happy. For I was a good girl, even if I was only fit to live. If I could only make you understand how terrible home was to me. I—"
The lady pressed the handkerchief to her lips lightly and coughed. Then she went on:
"Children can bear almost anything. They have to. But when I grew up, I could not bear it any longer. I was eighteen that spring. They did many things to poor New England in the old days, and in our days. They drove out love and gaiety and the pride of life, but they could not drive out spring. Every year spring came to New England, and begged people to live and be happy. But people only stopped their ears, and hid in their houses, and prayed to a stiff God, when the real God had sent them spring. That spring I had it out with my father and my mother. And when I had told them about life and sunlight and gladness, they sighed and said I was no child of theirs, but a penance for their sins. And they believed it. And they prayed for me and for strength to bear their burden. When they had done praying, I went away."
"It broke their hearts," said the judge, coldly. "They loved you very deeply, Harmony."
"Yes," said she, "I broke their hearts, for theirs was a gospel of forgiveness, and they could not find it in their hearts to forgive. They would not take me back. Did you know that? When I saw how I had hurt them, I offered to go back. Did you know that? I offered to go back and live in that house. And when I made that offer, I had done nothing in any way shameful. But they said I had made my bed and I must lie in it. And I was glad of that, for, though it was hard and narrow, I loved the bed I had made for myself. The sun waked me.
"That summer I sang at Peaks Island in Portland Harbor. And the people up there liked me and the songs I sang. And the other people in the company were friendly with me because I was good and only wanted to live and let live. One night a man who was going to put on a comic opera in New York heard me sing, and offered me a part in it. Think how happy I was! Think of getting to New York the very first year! I was so triumphant, so gay—and it was then that I offered to go back and live with my people. Think of what it must have cost to make the offer, for I was sure—oh, so sure!—they would want me, and I didn't—I couldn't want to go!
"So when summer was over I went to New York, full of the part I was to sing, and so happy and eager to have people like me and be a success. And then troubles began. It seemed that nobody had a clear title to the new opera, and there were disputes and litigations, and finally the manager washed his hands of the whole thing and put on a play instead. But there was no part in it for me, and by that time winter was half over, and I could not get any work. I went from manager to manager, and the high and mighty ones I could not even get to see, and the others had no place for me, and I could not get any other kind of work to do that I could do. And I had no money—no money, nothing to pawn, no one to turn to. Do you know I thought, then, of coming to you? But I was ashamed. I was ashamed to then—and—and—now I'm not."
"It would perhaps have been better if you had." said the judge.
"Yes, I wish I had," said she, "and—and I don't. Even when I thought that I might have to starve, I was happier than I had been in my father's house. That winter my father died. And I could not go to his funeral, because I could not buy a ticket to Mitford. It was so pitiful, his dying like that, because I thought that if it hadn't been for me he would have lived longer. At the very end of winter I got work to do. But it was too late."
A feverish color spread up from the lady's throat over her cheeks and forehead, and she had another fit of coughing.
"This is too much for you, Harmony," said the judge.
"No," she said; "it's all I'll have to do. I've got just enough strength to do it. Please get me some water."
The judge hurried out, and presently returned with a glass of water. The lady took a sip, and then, balancing the glass on the chair arm, continued:
"One day there was a wet snow falling, and nothing but hopelessness in the world. And a man came into my life. He only meant to be friendly; I know that. And we were just good friends. He helped me through the winter, and I took his help because I promised myself that I would pay him back—every penny. And we were just good friends for a long, long time. And when we stopped being that, it was all my fault. I got to care about him, you see. I got to care about him. Then I got a part in a melodrama that was going on the road—but it was too late.
"So you see I made life very terrible for myself. People don't realize how terrible a look can be. I got plenty of terrible looks, and from worse women than I was. And I made up my mind one night—we were on board the City of Cleveland, going to Detroit—that when the rest had gone to bed I would get out through my stateroom window, and over the rail, and have done with it. I hoped my body would sink and never be found. I don't know quite what happened, but suddenly I knew that it wasn't myself I loved any more, but some one else. And then I couldn't bear to die. Things got easier after that, because I was standing them for some one else—for my little son. And now—now that I have done my best and worked my hardest for him, and it wasn't good enough or hard enough—what is to become of him—what is to become of him? That's why I have come to you to help me. Won't you tell me what will become of him?"
"Do I understand that you are out of work now?" said the judge.
"Out of work!" she cried excitedly. "It isn't that—you don't understand. I'm dying!"
Judge Tyler could not find anything to say. He stuttered a word, and waited for her to finish.
"Don't you suppose," she said, "that people know when they are dying? I have known for three years that it had to come. I have known it ever since the night I was Caesar's wife, and it was so cold. I got this cough then, and it's done for me. Won't you tell me what to do about Tom? I have been a good mother to him, Judge Tyler. I have worked and slaved for him, and it's got to count for something. Won't you tell me what's to be done—won't you?"
This last very pitifully. Judge Tyler was not unmoved, but his keen sense of justice told him that the woman should not have come to him.
"Harmony," he said, "was there no one else to whom you could go?"
"What do you mean?" she said. "I thought you—"
"You don't understand, perhaps," said he. "I'm going to ask you a question—a painful question."
"Yes."
"Harmony, what was the man's name?"
She breathed in once, hard.
"I don't know," she said.