Tom Beauling/Chapter 8
TOM BEAULING was in his eighteenth year when it came time for Judge Tyler to die. The winter went out with three days of wind and wet snow, and on the second of those days the cold got into the old gentleman's bones, and he took to his bed. On the third day he was bright and feverish by turns. On the fourth day he talked for a long time behind closed doors with the new doctor, and learned what it was best for him to know. When the doctor was gone, he called upon them to open his windows wide and let in the spring.
Tom Beauling sat by the bedside of his good friend. His mind was innocent as to the change that was coming.
"Tommie," said the judge, "when I am up and about, you and I are just like boys together, aren't we? Just as careless and light-hearted as so many boys. But I've been thinking that some day we must have a serious talk about this and that. And what could be a better time than now? Here am I, comfortable in bed; there are you, comfortable in that chair. What do you say to having it out now?"
"Yes, sir," said Tommie.
Judge Tyler drew a deep breath. Then he thrust under the pillow, and came out with an old, faded photograph. He held it face down across his knee, and Tommie noticed that the stained, yellow back sported a gryphon's head, gilt, and, written across one corner in violet ink, his own name. He himself drew something of a long breath. The photograph promised an answer to certain questions.
"About your name, Tommie," said the judge; "did you ever wonder why you were called Beauling, and not Tyler after me?"
"Yes, sir," said Tommie, "I have wondered."
"M-m-m!" said the judge.
"I think I know a little, sir," said Tommie, "but I thought you would not like me to ask you if it was true or not."
"What do you know, Tommie?" asked the judge. "What have you heard?"
It was very hard for the boy to say it.
"I heard that I wasn't anybody," he said slowly. "Somebody tried to joke me about it—and since then nobody has felt like saying anything about it."
Judge Tyler was unable to suppress a grim chuckle. Then he said gravely: "To me you've been everything, Tommie—just everything."
"Never mind the rest, then," said Beauling; "it doesn't matter. I've always sort of known that I had no—that my mother wasn't married."
"And you never told me, Tommie?"
"Well, I thought it over, sir, and lay awake nights and felt bad about it, and then it struck me that I'd better feel bad about the things that were my fault, and not bother about the things that were other people's faults."
"I might have known you would take it that way," said Judge Tyler, his eyes full of love and pride. "I might have known it."
"Yes, sir," said Tommie.
Judge Tyler handed him the photograph.
"That is your father and your mother," he said. "Tommie," he said, "if ever you meet your father, you tell him that an old man was made happy by his sin."
Tommie looked at the photograph during an interval that was neither short nor long. Then, with a little gulp, he knelt by the judge and threw his arms about him.
"Tommie, sometime I will have to go and leave you. You're down in my will for everything I've got. It isn't much, but you need never want for most things. I'll hate to go and leave you, Tommie. What are you going to do with your life—boy?"
"What do you want me to do—father?"
The father turned his head to the wall, and whimpered for the joy of the naming. After a long time he said:
"My son, if you are to be what I want you to be, you will be a good man and a gentleman. Little else counts. Tom Beauling, after whom you are named, was a man who wanted to marry your mother when she was in great distress. He is dead now. He was a failure, I believe. But I take it that he was a good man and a gentleman. Be like that. Honorable in great matters and minute, a friend to those who need friends. And be clean. I"—the judge spoke almost bashfully—"am an old man, but I have come through as innocent as the day I was born. I am proud of you, Tommie; but I'm prouder of that. Go about the world, and the sea—friendly and honest—and some day, because you are a son of old earth, you will find the port where you would be, and there heave your pyramid. Make the world a little better for your presence in it. That's what I want you to do." The old gentleman smiled cunningly. "Tommie," he said, "I've been reading your favorite books behind your back, so as not to be behindhand. Listen. 'Thou, Sir Lancelot, there thou liest, that thou were never matched of earthly knight's hand.' Go on, Tommie."
Tommie, his voice faltering a little, took up the great threnody.
"'And thou were the courteoust knight that ever bare shield.'"
Then the judge:
"'And thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrad horse.'"
And again, Tommie:
"'And thou were the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman.'"
"'And thou were the kindest man that ever struck with sword.'"
"'And thou were the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights.'"
They spoke in hushed voices, as if saying a litany.
"'And thou was the meekest man and the gentlest that ever ate in hall among ladies.'"
"'And thou were the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest'"
They did not speak for some time, but looked out of the window at the spring.
"Be like that, Tommie," said the judge.
Toward evening Judge Tyler became feverish, and went out of his head a little, and needed the doctor. That passed. The room became dark.
"Shall I light up, sir?"
"No, Tommie, don't. I can see you."
There was a weakening in the judge's voice. After a period, he raised suddenly on his elbow.
"Tommie," he said, "I want to hear 'Glenlogie' again."
"Whenever you like, sir," said Tommie.
"Whenever—I—like," said the judge to himself. "O Lord!"
Tommie thrust up his chin and sang:
But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a';
Wi' his milk white steed and his bonnie black e'e
Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me."
"I want to hear more this night," he said when "Glenlogie" was ended.
"What one?"
The judge did not answer, but lay back with closed eyes.
"What one, sir?"
"'Mally O, Mally O!'" cried the judge, starting up.
Tommie sang.
Will ye go to Flanders, my bonnie Mally O?
Then we'll get wine and brandy,
And sack and sugar candy;
Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally O?"
Tom began the next verse:
He did not know that his old friend was listening to "Mally O" for the last time, but somehow—somehow he gulped, and had to begin again:
And see the chief commanders, my Mally O?
You'll see the bullets fly,
And the soldiers how they—[gulp]—die,
And the ladies how they cry, my Mally O."
"It's so good, Tommie—another, Tommie—tempus fugit—the best."
Tommie smiled at the old man, and lifting his voice, sweet and airy, sang:
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lo-mond;
Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lo-mond.
Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye:
But me and my true love, we'll never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lo-mond."
On the steep, steep side o' Ben Lo-mond,
Where in purple hue—the highland hills we view,
And the moon comin' out in the gloaming."
Tommie was conscious that the tapping had ceased. He quickened into the refrain:
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye—"
Faster, Tommie,—tempus fugit.
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lo-mond."
There is another verse, Tommie, but you need not trouble to sing it.