DECEIT AND FORGIVENESS
Every morning before breakfast Titus went out to see his pigeons. He
really had not time to do much more than look at them, for he was not an
early riser. His real work in taking care of them was accomplished in
the afternoon, at the close of school.
Bethany had found out about this habit of his of visiting the pigeon
loft, and when he left his room in the morning he always found her
loitering outside, waiting for an invitation to visit the “dear birds.”
“Come on,” Titus always said, and taking her hand he would run out to
the stable.
The pigeons knew her as well as they knew him, and he often allowed her
to give them a few handfuls of hemp seed. This seed, being of an oily
nature, was not fed continuously to them, but they dearly loved it, and
when Bethany stretched out her palms the pigeons flocked round her.
She shivered with delight when she felt their soft necks against her
fingers, and she never laughed lest she should frighten them, although
Titus, standing in the background, was often convulsed with amusement.
The pigeons, in their anxiety to get the seed, would crowd each other.
Then there would be fights. The combatants, withdrawing from the others,
would seize each other by the heads and drag each other about, finally
coming back to find all the seeds gone. Their rueful faces when they
contemplated Bethany’s empty palms were very amusing, and with a foolish
air they always listened to the little girl’s gentle reproaches on the
subject of quarreling.
Sometimes they had dances. That was their nearest approach to play. If
they were particularly hungry when they saw Bethany coming with the hemp
seed, they would all flap their wings and dance about her, often lifting
themselves off their feet and turning round and round.
Since Dallas had come to Riverport he, too, had formed the habit of
going out to see the pigeons, but on the morning of the day on which he
was to leave, Titus and Bethany did not find him waiting for them.
“I-I-I don’t expect him,” said Titus. “I hope—I mean, I think—he’s
packing. His train leaves in an hour and a half. Come on in, Bethany.
I’ll run up and see if I can’t help him.”
Bethany trotted into the house and went into the dining room. The Judge
was just entering it, and presently the servants filed in for prayers.
After prayers came breakfast, and then as the Judge and Bethany sat at
the table Titus entered with a slow step and a rueful face.
“Dallas is ill, grandfather,” he said, slowly.
The Judge looked up. “What is the matter with him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Titus, in a peculiar manner. “His face is red,
and he keeps his head under the bedclothes.”
“He was quite well last evening,” said the Judge, and his mind ran back
to the night before, when, to his great relief, the English boy had been
cheerful and entertaining, instead of moping, as he had feared he would
do when he was informed that he must go back to New York.
“Yes, sir,” said Titus, “he played those games fast enough.”
“Perhaps he has taken cold,” said the Judge; “I will go up and see,”
and, throwing his napkin on the table, he went slowly upstairs.
Dallas was red and feverish, and his eyes were bright.
“Have you a headache?” asked the Judge.
“A splitting one,” replied the boy.
“And a pain in your back?”
“Fearful pain,” and the boy groaned.
“I will send for a doctor,” said the Judge. “Will you eat anything?”
“O, no, no; thank you,” and he shook his head.
The Judge went downstairs and telephoned to his physician. Then he went
back to the dining room and finished his breakfast.
As he left the dining room the doctor arrived. Not his own family
physician, to the Judge’s disappointment, but his assistant.
“I wished to see Dr. Moberly,” he said to the young man, who pleasantly
informed him that Dr. Moberly was in New York.
The Judge said nothing, but on accompanying him to the English boy’s
room he saw that the young man was considerably puzzled by the case.
One minute he said he thought the lad was sickening for measles, then he
inclined to scarlet fever, then to a feverish cold.
The Judge kindly but firmly told him that he would not require him to
prescribe for the case, and, bowing him out, he again went to his
telephone.
He would request the superintendent of the City Hospital to call. He had
been greatly impressed by his knowledge of boys.
An hour later Dr. Reynald drove up.
“Against my rules, you know,” he said, shaking his head at the Judge;
“no private practice, but I couldn’t refuse you. What do you want?”
The Judge told him. “I have an English boy staying with me. He was to
have gone to New York this morning. He is ill and can’t go; won’t eat,
and I am anxious about him.”
“Take me to him,” said Dr. Reynald.
They went upstairs together, and Dr. Reynald, after giving a sharp
glance round his patient’s room, went to the windows and pulled back the
curtains. Then he sat down by the bed and fixed his bright, gray eyes on
the boy.
Dallas became a more furious red than ever under his glance, and when
the doctor said, “Let me feel your pulse,” he half hesitated.
Dr. Reynald, however, gave a peremptory tap on the bedclothes, and the
boy put out his hand.
It was only detained a short time. The doctor bent over him, passed a
hand over his forehead, whispered a question, to which the boy gave a
reluctant reply, then, getting up, he nodded to the Judge and went out
of the room, followed by an ashamed, despairing glance from his patient.
The Judge took him in his study and shut the door. “Nothing dangerous, I
hope; not smallpox, for example.”
“Worse than that,” replied Dr. Reynald, shortly.
“Worse? What can it be?”
“A touch of moral leprosy—the boy is shamming.”
“Shamming!” exclaimed the Judge.
“Yes. I don’t know the reason; perhaps you can tell me.”
“He looks sick,” said the Judge, uneasily. “I don’t want to distrust
your word, but is it possible that you are mistaken?”
“Not possible. We sometimes have such cases at the hospital. Then I made
him confess himself that he was. Tell me something about this boy.”
The Judge immediately told him all that he knew, and he had only uttered
a few sentences when he became convinced that Dr. Reynald was right.
“It’s the old, old story,” he said, when he had finished what he knew of
Dallas’s antecedents. “I ought to know it better than most people. It is
easier to do wrong than to do right.”
Dr. Reynald smiled. “Yes, you ought to know; and yet I envy you your
beautiful faith in human nature which you have kept, in spite of your
profession.”
“God knows I have tried to hold on to it,” said the Judge, earnestly. “I
would be willing to lie down and die if for a moment I gave up my belief
that there is good in every human heart.”
“This is not a heinous case,” said Dr. Reynald. “In fact, it is rather
flattering. That storm-tossed lad finds this a quiet haven. He dreads to
leave it.”
“But his duplicity,” said the Judge. “I must be severe with him for
that. Now, evidently last evening when I told him he must leave he was
much shocked. Yet he hid his real feelings.”
“He was thinking out a plan,” said Dr. Reynald. “He is a skillful
diplomat. What are you going to do with him?”
“Tell him to get up and take the train for New York,” said the Judge,
firmly.
“And let him come back again next week.”
The Judge smiled.
“Come, now,” said Dr. Reynald, “confess that you are slightly pleased—an
old fellow like you finding a slip of young life clinging to you.”
The Judge laughed outright. “Ah! doctor, it is my environment that the
boy likes. His poor young soul craves comfort.”
“Not altogether,” and Dr. Reynald shook his head obstinately. “I’ve seen
luxurious interiors where a boy slip would not want to take root.
There’s something about you, Judge, attractive to young life. You ought
to have a dozen youngsters.”
His friend stretched out his hands. “Heaven forbid! but I will confess
it caused me a pang to send this boy back to the New York whirlpool.
Perhaps I am not sorry to shelter him for a time. Something else may
turn up for him. Would you like him?”
“No, thank you,” said Dr. Reynald, politely. “A hospital home and an old
bachelor father would be cold comforts for your boy. No, keep him, but
try to break him of that iniquitous habit of shamming.”
“Do you suppose he has been deceiving in other things?” asked the Judge,
anxiously.
“You said he had eaten no breakfast?”
“Yes, I did. He has eaten nothing this morning.”
“He has been cramming himself with soda crackers. I smelt them on his
breath.”
“But I cannot bring up such a boy as this with Titus,” remarked the
Judge, indignantly.
“Do you think he can deceive your grandson as easily as he deceives
you?” asked the doctor, sharply. “Ah! the _finesse_ of youth—nothing
equals it but the equal understanding of youth.”
The Judge reflected for a minute. Titus’s manner had been very peculiar
when he announced Dallas’s illness. He had also gone off to school
without showing any particular concern about the English boy.
“I believe Titus knew,” exclaimed the Judge.
“I believe he did,” said Dr. Reynald, coolly, “from what I know of
Titus. Don’t distress yourself about a little lying. Children all take
to it as ducks to water. The main thing is to get them out of it, before
they get their feathers wet—and it takes a lot of soaking to wet them.”
“Titus is no story-teller,” said the Judge, thoughtfully, “though he
does other provoking things.”
“How old is he?”
“Fourteen.”
“Then if he has not acquired the habit of lying he won’t get it now.
Don’t be afraid of the English boy, Judge. Give him a chance. It’s an
awful world for motherless and fatherless lads. I see them on the rocks
every day.”
“But I ought to send him back to New York,” said the Judge, weakly.
“No such thing. Go upstairs, give him a tremendous scolding, then
forgive him. You’re not bound to keep him if he proves outrageous. But
he won’t. He’s a delicate slip; he’s looking for some soft corner to
creep into like a sick cat or dog. Put yourself in his place, Judge; put
yourself in his place.”
The Judge did, and he shivered. “I will let him stay,” he said,
suddenly, “on your recommendation, but he must be talked to.”
“Good-bye,” said Dr. Reynald, with a mischievous face, “good-bye. Let me
know when you have a serious case again,” and he hurried out into the
hall and downstairs.
The Judge went thoughtfully up to Dallas’s bedroom.
The boy was half dressed, and when his friend and protector came into
the room he sank on the bed in an attitude of the deepest dejection.
From the depths of his good, kind heart the man was glad to see that the
boy was desperately ashamed of himself.
“Dallas,” he said, kindly, “what have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing,” said the lad, turning his face away.
“You have deceived me,” said the Judge, softly.
“Yes, I have deceived you,” said the boy, in a dull voice.
“You feel badly about it?”
“I don’t know,” said Dallas, wearily. “I suppose I do. I am so tired,
sir. I have heard my father speak of hunting in England. The fox turns
and twists; he does not know where to go.”
The boy’s attitude was so listless, his manner so utterly dejected, that
the Judge’s heart was touched with pity. No frantic protestations of
regret, no tears would have appealed to him as did this simple
hopelessness. The boy was done with stratagems.
“Dallas,” he said, gently, “do you like my grandson?”
“Pretty well, sir.”
“You have pretended to like him better than you do?”
“Yes, I have.”
“You have been making yourself agreeable, hoping that I would change my
mind about adopting you?”
“Yes, I have,” he replied, bitterly.
“And when you found you had to go back to New York, what did you plan to
do?”
“I didn’t plan to do anything,” said the boy, in a low, fierce tone.
“What could I do? Your friend, the clergyman, is as poor as a church
mouse; he couldn’t keep me. I’d have to work in some low, dirty place.
O, Lord! I wish I had strength enough of mind to poison myself.”
“Dallas,” said the Judge, “are you a lazy boy?”
“Is it laziness to hate smelling, poverty-stricken people and their
queer ways, to dread to rub elbows all the time with men and boys that
talk horrid, vulgar talk, and that don’t understand you?” asked the boy,
almost rudely.
“I asked you whether you disliked work,” said the Judge, firmly.
The boy stared at him. “I like to study, to handle nice, clean books and
hear nice, clean language; but what does it matter what I like? You have
washed your hands of me,” and, dropping his head, he miserably toyed
with an open penknife that he held in his hand.
The knife was red and stained, and the Judge eyed it suspiciously.
“Dallas,” he went on, decidedly, “deceit is easier to some natures than
to others. I want you to tell me in just how many ways you have tried to
make things appear other than they are since you have been here.”
The boy got up in a tired way, sauntered to a closet, and opened the
door. “There!” he said, bringing out a small box and setting it down on
the floor. “I’ve deceived you all about these ever since I came,” and
taking a little key from his pocket he opened the padlock on the box and
threw back the perforated lid.
The Judge started. There on a perch in the box sat two tiny owls—the
softest, grayest little owls he had ever seen. They sat close to each
other, seemingly not at all afraid, but fixing their large, beautiful
round eyes on Dallas they uttered a simultaneous and soft “Too whoo,
whoo, whoo whoo!”
“Well!” exclaimed the Judge, “well!”
“They are California screech owls,” said the boy, in a dull voice; “my
father’s pets. He loved birds, and bought these once in San Francisco
when he was touring. When he died he asked me to take care of them, and
I have done so for his sake, though I hate them.”
“You hate them!” said the Judge. Was it possible that he had at last
found a young person that did not like birds?
“Yes, I hate them,” said the boy, energetically. “I hate all birds. I’ve
been pretending to like pigeons to curry favor with your grandson. It
doesn’t matter about speaking the truth now that I am going away.”
The Judge looked from the bits of raw meat in the box to Dallas’s red
penknife.
“Where do you get food for them?”
“I buy meat or beg it; and, in fact, all the family but Titus think that
I’m taking a raw-meat cure. Titus caught on to me, though I don’t know
whether he understands what kind of creatures I’m feeding.”
“I hope you don’t keep them in that little box at night?”
“O, no; I let them fly about my room at night. They sleep all day.”
The Judge put on his eyeglasses and stared at the little feathered
creatures, who were sleepily blinking their eyes.
“Would they fly away if you let them out?”
“I don’t think so, sir. My father used to let them out at night, and
they would catch sparrows and bring them to our room and eat them.”
“How curious!” remarked the Judge. Then he went on, “We have no cats
about the house. Let them have their liberty, but give them plenty of
meat. We have not too many sparrows here.”
Dallas looked sharply at him, but the Judge, taking no notice of his
glance, calmly put his glasses in their case and returned them to his
pocket. Then he said, irrelevantly, “Dallas, are you wholly English?”
“No, sir; only on my father’s side. My mother was a Western girl.”
“Has she any relatives living?”
“Only distant ones, and all poor as poverty.”
“How long has your father been dead?”
“Three months.”
“You missed him when he died?”
The boy gave him a look, such a look of utter, hopeless grief, of
unavailing, stifled grief, that the Judge’s kind heart ached with a
sudden ache of pity and comprehension.
“Boy,” he said, “you want a new father.”
“Ah! that is something I shall never have,” exclaimed Dallas, his whole
soul rising in a protest of misery and revolt.
“Here is an unworthy substitute,” said the Judge, quietly tapping his
breast. “Stay with me, Dallas; be my boy.”
The lad once more looked at him. He was more demonstrative than Titus.
If conditions had been a little different he would have thrown himself
on the neck of the kind man before him, he would have sobbed out some of
his unhappiness to sympathetic ears. But the Judge was a comparative
stranger to him, and he was so miserable, and so ashamed of himself,
that it seemed as if he could not be happy for a time at least.
“Get back into bed,” said the Judge, softly. “You are tired and worn out
from mental stress and worry. Your meals will be served here to-day.
To-morrow, if you feel like it, come downstairs and take your place
among us. Only one thing I ask of you—be honest with me, Dallas. Will
you, my boy?”
The lad turned and threw himself full length on the bed. His whole frame
was shaking, and he could not utter a word.
The Judge did not insist, for he was a wise man. Softly closing the
door, and gently shaking his head, he went slowly downstairs.