Grown-up life began at once. His chief care hitherto had been as to
what others would do for him; now he was preoccupied with what he could
do for some one else. It was a matter of watching, planning, cheering,
comforting, and as he expressed it to himself, of bucking up. Of
bucking up especially he was prodigal. The man had become as limp as on
the day when he had thrown himself face downward in the grass. Mad once
with desire to act, he was terrified now at what he had done. Though,
as far as Tom could judge, no one blamed or suspected him, there was
hardly a minute in the day in which he did not betray himself. He
betrayed himself to the boy even if to no one else, though betraying
himself in such a way that there was nothing definite to take hold of.
"I'm sure--and yet I'm not sure," was Tom's own summing up. He stressed
the fact that he was not sure, and in this he was helped by the common
opinion of the countryside.
Toward the bereaved husband and his adopted son this was sympathetic.
The woman had always been neurasthenic, slipshod, and impossible. With
a wife to help him, Martin Quidmore could have been a success as a
market gardener as easily as anybody else. As it was, he would get over
the shock of this tragedy and find a woman who would be the right kind
of mother to a growing boy. Here, the mention of Bertha was with no
more than the usual spice of village scandal, tolerant and unresentful.
Of all this Tom was aware chiefly through the observations of Blanche,
the colored woman who came in by the day to do the housework.
"Law, Mr. Tom, yo' pappa don't need to feel so bad. Nobody in this
yere town what blame him, not a little mite. Po' Mis' Quidmo', nobody
couldn't please her nohow. Don't I know? Ain't I wash her, and iron
her, and do her housecleanin', ever since she come to this yere
community, and Mr. Quidmo' he buy this yere lot off old Aaron Bidbury?
No, suh! Nobody can't tell me! Them there giddy things what nobody
can't please 'em they can't please theirselves, and some day they go to
work and do somefin' despe'ate, just like po' Mis' Quidmo'. A little
cup o' tea, she take. No mo'n that. See, boy! I keep that there brown
teapot, what look as innocent as a baby, all the time incriminated to
her memo'y."
Nevertheless, Tom found his father obsessed by fear, with nothing to be
afraid of. The obsession had shown itself as soon as they entered the
house on their return from Harfrey. He was afraid of the house, afraid
of the kitchen especially. When Gimlets barked he jumped, cursing the
dog for its noise. When a buggy drove up to the door he peeped out at
the occupant before showing himself to the neighbor coming to offer his
condolences. If the telephone rang Tom hastened to answer it, knowing
that it set his father shivering.
As evening deepened on that first Wednesday, they kept out of doors as
late as possible, the boy chattering to the best of his ability. When
obliged to go in, Quidmore tried to say with solicitude on Tom's behalf:
"Expect you'll be lonesome now with only the two of us in the house.
Better come and sleep in the other bed in my room."
The boy was about to reply that he was not lonesome, and preferred his
own bed, when he caught the dread behind the invitation.
"All right, dad, I'll come. Sleep there every night. Then I won't be
scared."