Nothing but the knowledge that the boy was drunk had kept him from striking back there and then. His temper was a hot one. It came in fierce gusts, which stormed off quickly. The quickness saved him now. Before he was home in bed he had reconciled himself to bearing this thing too. It was bigger to bear it, more masculine, more civilized. He would never forget his racking remorse after the last fight.
He didn't lose his eye, but he was obliged to see an oculist. The oculist pronounced it a close shave.
"Where in thunder did you get that?" Guy demanded, a day or two after the occurrence.
Tom thought it an opportunity to learn whether or not the boy had been conscious of what he did. "Ask Tad Whitelaw."
"What? You don't mean to say you've had another row with him! Gee whiz!"
"No, I haven't had another row with him; but all the same, ask him."
Guy asked him, with no information but that the mucker would get another if he didn't keep out of the way. It was all Tom needed to know. He had not been too drunk to strike with deliberate intention, and to remember that he had struck.
Guy must have told Hildred, because she wrote
[Pg 361]
 begging Tom to come to see her. He wasn't to mind his black eye, because she knew all about it. She was tender, consoling.
"I don't believe he's a cad any more than I believe that of Lily," she said, while giving him a cup of tea, "but they're both spoiled with money and a sense of self-importance. You see, losing the other child has made their mother foolish about them. She's lavished everything on them, more than anyone, not a born saint, could stand. It would have been a great deal better if they'd had to fight their way—some of their way at any rate—like you."
"Oh, I'm another breed."
"Another figurative breed—yes. As to the breed in your blood—"
"Oh, but, Hildred, you don't believe that poppy-cock."
Her eyes were on the teapot from which she was pouring. "I don't believe it exactly because I don't know. It only strikes me as being very queer."
"Queer in what way?"
"Oh, in every way. They think so too."
"Then why do they seem to hate me so?"
"I shouldn't say they did that. They're afraid of you. You disturb them. They're—what do they call it in the Bible?—kicking against the pricks. That's all there is to it. When they'd buried the whole thing you come along and make them dig it up again. They don't want to do that. They feel it's too late. You can see for yourself that for Tad and Lily it would be awkward. When you've been the only two children, and such spoiled ones at that, to have an
[Pg 362]
 elder brother you didn't know anything about suddenly hoisted over you—"
"Of course! I understand that."
"Mr. Whitelaw feels the same, only he feels it differently. He'd accept him, however hard it was."
"And Mrs. Whitelaw?"
"Oh, poor dear, she's suffered so much that all she asks is not to be made to suffer any more. I don't believe it matters to her now whether he's found or not, so long as she isn't tortured."
"And does she think I'd torture her?"
"They haven't come to that. It isn't what you may do, but what they themselves ought to do that troubles them."
"I wish if you get a chance you'd tell them that they needn't do anything."
"They wouldn't take my word for it, or yours either. It rests with themselves and their own consciences."
"A good deal of it rests with me."
"Yes, if you were willing to take the first step; but since you're not—"
 
MRS. ANSLEY TOOK HIM AS AN AFFLICTION
They dropped it at that because Mrs. Ansley lilted in, greeting Tom with that outward welcome and inward repugnance he had had to learn to swallow. He knew exactly where he stood with her. She took him as an affliction. Affliction could visit the best families and ignore the highest merits. Guy, dear boy, was extravagant, and this was the proof of his extravagance. He was infatuated with this young man, who had neither means, antecedents, nor connections. She had heard the Whitelaw Baby theory, of course; but so long as the Whitelaws themselves
[Pg 363]
 rejected it, she rejected it too. The best she could do was to be philanthropic. Philip, Guy, Hildred, were all convinced that this young man was to make his mark. Very well! It was in her tradition, it was in the whole tradition of old Boston, to help those who were likely to get on. It was part of what you owed to your standing in the world, a kind of public duty. You couldn't slight it any more than royalty can slight the opening of bazaars. An aunt of her own had helped a poor girl to take singing lessons; and the girl became one of the great prima donnas of the world. Whenever she sang in opera in Boston it was always a satisfaction to the family to exhibit her as their protégée. So it might one day be with this young man. She hoped so, she was sure. She didn't like him; she thought the fuss made over him by Hildred and Guy, more or less abetted by ............