The Steadfast Heart/Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Brownings’ yard was colorful with paper lanterns; the house had that gala, hospitable appearance which comes from abundance of light. Carpets were spread on the grass and chairs and benches were scattered here and there according to Lydia Canfield’s taste in such matters. Already the young folks were arriving, stiffly, primly, starched and brushed—bashfully formal at first before the shell ice of holiday decorum was broken. The Trueman boys were earliest to appear, followed quickly by others, known to us in former days. Sammy Hammond escorted Myrtle Cuyler; chubby Walter Pratt puffed in alone. The Bowen twins made their identical appearance, and Harold Cuyler—then scores of others. Young Malcolm Crane, not yet returned to college after his summer vacation, was among the latest, for his toilet was a matter Mal was likely to tarry over. Each guest carried his present for the hostess, and each stood by with ill-concealed impatience to see her open it and to hear her exclamation of delight.
Lydia was excited, in a very fever of enjoyment, radiantly lovely with a sort of elfin loveliness; she sparkled, she flashed, an embodiment of wonderful, girlish life. When she moved it was not by a process requiring muscles of a material body, but by some more graceful means known only to the fairies themselves…. She met her guests just within the gate, welcomed them, cried out at their gifts. She was dressed in pink….
“You look—fine,” young Crane whispered cautiously. In Rainbow one pays compliments cautiously, for one is not used to tendering that medium of exchange.
“Of course I do,” Lydia said. “I spent two hours dressing. Isn’t it lovely?… Put your things in the room at the head of the stairs.”
Angus Burke had not appeared, was not as yet missed by his busy, excited hostess. He delayed his appearance as long as he dared, shortening by as much as might be ventured the time of his suffering—for he knew he was about to suffer. At last he forced himself to approach the gate, stopped with his hand on its post and looked at the scene, striving to compel himself to enter…. As he stood so Lydia saw him, abruptly left her companion and hurried to him.
“Angus,” she cried, “come in…. I’m so glad you came.”
He followed her to the house, looking resolutely before him. He knew he must be observed, was informed by an extra, well-developed sense of the commotion his appearance created, of whisperings and nudgings and of staring eyes. The general clatter silenced itself as it will on the happening of some event of common interest, some awkward, embarrassing event. Lydia chattered on.
“Put your hat upstairs,” she said, “I’ll wait for you.”
He went up obediently. As he descended he fumbled in his pocket for a small package.
“Here,” he said awkwardly, extending it to Lydia.
“A present! Oh…. You remembered.” She laid a slender, vivid hand on his arm—a touch he was to remember for years, his first contact with her. He winced. “I shall like it better than anybody else’s,” she said. “I know I shall.”
“I didn't know…. I never bought a present before. It was hard to decide.” If only she had known how hard it had been to decide; what hours of thought, of mental agony had gone to the selection of that small gift!
Lydia wondered what it might be, was almost afraid to open it, fearing some absurdity which would lay Angus open to the ridicule of her friends, but it is to her credit that she smiled brightly and removed the paper coverings with no hint of her perturbation. Inside was a leather-bound book, beautifully tooled, though Lydia was scarcely able to appreciate the fineness of it. What she could see, however, was the simplicity of it, the excellence, the sound good taste of it…. It was Milton’s Sonnets! She looked sharply at Angus, appraising him as she had never done before. Somehow this slight thing elevated him in her estimation. Perhaps it was the subtle compliment of supposing Milton’s Sonnets were suitable to her mental caliber—for Rainbow sets store by what it knows as “culture.”
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“I… liked them,” he said. “The one about his blindness… and so I hoped you….”
“Indeed I shall like them, and you shall read them to me… Come, I want you to meet everybody.”
She permitted her hand to rest on his arm as they passed out on the porch. It was plain they were expected, for the air carried a tingle of suspense as though the guests awaited some dénouement. Without affectation Lydia introduced Angus to Myrtle Cuyler, who spoke primly, almost affrightedly. She presented him to the Bowen twins, to several others grouped about the steps, and then conveyed him down the yard under the swaying lines of gaudy paper lanterns—and in her secret thoughts she could not help comparing the manner, the poise, the dignity of her companion with those to whom she had presented him. He underwent the ordeal much more creditably than they, and she flushed with pride in him. “Why,” she said to herself, “he acts and looks more like a gentleman than any of them.” Which is what silence, reserve, and modesty can do for the least of us.
“I want you to have a good time—at your first party,” she told him. “You will have a good time, won’t you?”
Angus smiled. “I will—watch,” he said a trifle wistfully.
At last Lydia left him with a little group and excused herself to attend to other duties of hospitality. Angus knew a sensation of breathlessness, like a fish cast up on a sand bar. He did not know what to do, or what to say; yet his face was imperturbable, grave, noteworthy in its gravity. He wished himself a thousand miles away, yet his uneasiness was not apparent. To eyes which did not know his history he seemed a young man of fine poise and bearing….
“Won’t you sit down here?” invited a girl whose name he did not remember—a guest in Rainbow. It was a compliment to this bearing of his, though he was unconscious of it. She made a place beside her and began to prattle to him—and because he knew she did not know him, did not realize to whom she was talking, and because she possessed social graces of whose very existence he was unaware, he found himself inexplicably at his ease.
“I’ve met almost everybody here before,” she said. “I’ve been in Rainbow two weeks, you know. How is it I have never seen you? Have you been away?”
“No, I haven’t been away.”
“I presume you are too busy and important to bother with calls and parties and such things. Somehow you look more important than these other boys. Why is it?” She looked at him through her lashes and thought what a fine, interesting boy he was.
“I never go places,” he said slowly. “This is the first party I was ever at.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“No.” He shook his head and did not look at her.
“But—” she hesitated, intrigued, yet feeling she was treading on forbidden ground. Abruptly she changed the subject to the safer one of books, that refuge of the young, and to happenings in the world—to cosmic issues and to the infinite—and Angus found himself talking, for here were matters he was equipped to discuss. These were matters about which he talked to Dave Wilkins and to Craig Browning, matters which interested him, called out the best that was in him—displayed a quick intelligence, a ready expression of ideas, and no mean originality of thought…. He did not know he was talking to one who was, in effect, a guest of honor, to a girl whose social place in the world outside Rainbow was one to which even Lydia Canfield looked with respect and possibly with envy. She regarded Angus with ever growing surprise. He was the sort of young man she had not expected to encounter in this backwater of Rainbow.
Suddenly she became aware of his silence, a tense, listening silence, and she lifted her eyes to his face. It was gray, drawn. Little white lumps appeared at the corners of his jaws, and in his eyes was such a misery as she had never before seen looking out from the face of a human being…. Behind the bench on which they sat, concealed in the darkness, she heard two boys talking, Malcolm Crane speaking hotly, but in subdued tones to young Hammond.
“It’s a shame…. It’s an outrage,” he was saying. “Whatever possessed Lydia to invite him here?”
“No telling what Lydia will do when she takes the bit in her teeth,” Hammond answered. “But usually she’s so all-fired particular about who she has anything to do with…. I’ll bet she did it just to show folks she dared.”
“She never thought of folks,” said Crane. “She never bothers about what people will think… but she ought to in a case like this. Decent folks won’t have that fellow shoved down their throats even by Lydia Canfield…. Just see the way she’s dared to introduce him to everybody. Lucky she didn’t bring him near me.”
“Hush… here she comes now.”
“I’m going to tell her what I think.”
“Better not.”
Young Crane grunted angrily. Then Angus heard Lydia’s voice.
“What are you boys hiding here for? If you’re planning something you just better hadn’t…. I won’t have any jokes to-night. Behave yourselves.”
“We were talking about that Burke,” Crane said doggedly.
Lydia said nothing, but her silence was significant.
“He has no business in decent company, meeting people. Why, Lydia, folks wouldn’t have let their children come if they’d known he was going to be here.”
The girl beside Angus felt him draw himself together, looked again at his face, gasped as she perceived the suffering it wore as a tragic mask…. She too listened.
“Malcolm Crane, if you don’t like having him here you can go home—straight home,” Lydia flared.
“It isn’t right, and you know it…. You know what he is. His father was a thief, and he… killed a man. He’s a jailbird.”
“Don’t you talk that way about him. I told him when you did it before. He isn’t a jailbird—he was innocent. Uncle Craig told me so. It was your father and his meanness and his selfishness that made them have Angus in court at all. Your father was small and mean like you are—small and miserable and horrid…. I wish I hadn’t asked you to come.”
“Hush, everybody’ll hear you.”
“I want them to…. I want them to know what I think of you—going around telling lies and stirring up folks against Angus…. If it wasn’t for your father and you people would forget. He’s better than you are. He’s honest. And he knows more than you do, and people like Mr. Woodhouse trust him…. He’s worth a dozen like you, and he’s more of a gentleman, too.”
“Lydia!…”
Angus got up slowly now, the misery was gone from his eyes, his shoulders were thrown back—an involuntary gesture—his face wore an expression which the girl by his side could not identify, but it impressed her with its maturity, with its dignity.
“I—I’ve got to—” he said and stopped.
“Are they talking about you?” asked the girl.
“Yes—about me.”
“How cowardly—and I don’t believe a word of it.”
He looked down at her and there was a strange smile about the corners of his mouth. She read his gratitude. “Nobody wants me here,” he said, “I must go—this—is why I’ve never been to a party before.”
“Don’t go,” she said in a whisper. Tears stood in her eyes. “Don’t go…. Don’t let them drive you away.”
“You don’t understand…. It’s true. I am a—jailbird.”
She was a little thing, a stranger to him, but she owned a golden heart and a soul of sweetness. During a short silence she looked at him. “No,” she said, “it’s not true…. I shall be very glad to have you stay—with me…. I shall be proud.” It was a small thing, not costly to her, but generous, womanly. She would never know how much it meant to Angus Burke.
At that moment Lydia stepped into the light, followed by the expostulating Crane and the cowed Hammond. She saw Angus and his companion, and stopped.
“There, Malcolm Crane—there’s Angus Burke. Say it to him if you dare,” she said.
Crane halted, fists doubled, gave back a step. Angus’s companion watched him; it was a climax, a test. How would her friend come through an ordeal such as this, an ordeal which would call out the worst, or bring into play the finest qualities of a gentleman? Angus spoke, slowly, seriously, his voice low, almost gentle.
“No, Lydia,” he said, “he mustn’t say it here. We—we must pretend he hasn’t—said anything here—or that I’ve heard….”
“I don't care—” Lydia began passionately.
“Please, Lydia,” said Angus. He turned to Crane. “Just go away,” he said.
Lydia hesitated, looked angrily at Angus and felt her eyes imprisoned, felt herself mastered by the strength of him…. She turned abruptly and walked away. Crane and Hammond were glad to follow her…. Angus drew a deep breath. The girl touched Angus’s arm and he looked down into her face.
“Mr. Burke,” she said tremulously, “that was fine—a fine thing to do—and you—it was the way a gentleman should act.”
Suddenly there was a tossing and jumbling of paper lanterns; a string had broken, and a dozen or so, still attached, came tumbling down across the shoulders of Myrtle Cuyler, who leaped, terrified, to her feet, tossing the lanterns about so that one was fired by its candle, then another and another. Instantly the flames seized upon the girl’s filmy dress and leaped upward…. She shrieked….
The visitor missed Angus from her side; saw him leap to Myrtle Cuyler; saw no other form in motion, for the party seemed paralyzed with fright. Angus’s coat was already off. Roughly he seized Myrtle, hurling her to the ground, wrapping his coat about her face…. The rug upon which she fell he snatched, and in it he rolled her blazing body—rolled her to and fro, beating the yellow tongues of flame with his bare hands…. It was over in a matter of seconds; a dress was ruined, a girl frightened into hysterics but injured only negligibly…. That was all.
Angus stood coatless, looking about him, blinking from the smoke, the center which drew every eye. He realized how conspicuous he had made himself and was frightened by it, achingly embarrassed, and his eyes sought an avenue of escape.
Somebody was carrying Myrtle Cuyler into the house; the rest surged toward Angus, who turned without picking up his coat, and strode toward the gate. It was a flight.
The stranger girl who had stood his friend laid her hand on his arm as he passed. “You were splendid…. You thought—and did something—while everybody else was in a panic.”
“I—I didn’t think,” he said in his old, troubled, vague way. “I—just did it.” Unconsciously he moved his hands as though in pain and looked down at them with a perplexed look, as if he could not understand what troubled them.
“You’re burned,” said the girl. “Let me see.”
“No…. No…. I must go….”
“Let me see your hands,” she said sharply.
The palms were blackened and blistered. She touched them lightly, gently. “Come into the house this minute,” she ordered. “They must be dressed.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “No…. I’ve got to go.” He would not be stayed, and seeing his face and the misery of it, she did not attempt to hold him further. “Good night,” she said quietly. “I shall be very glad—and proud—to have you call.”
Angus made no answer, but strode hurriedly out of the yard and down the street. Behind him he left an excited clatter…. Perhaps he was not being elevated into a hero, but something was happening—he was being created into a different sort of a celebrity than he had been….
Presently Lydia came out of the house. “Myrtle’s all right,” she told everyone, and then she caught her breath. “I’m so glad—so glad. It would have been awful to happen at my party.” Her eyes flitted about the yard. “Where is he? Where’s Angus Burke?… If it hadn’t been for him—”
“He’s gone,” said Angus’s little friend. “He hurried away, I couldn’t make him stay.”
“Of course,” said Lydia. “He would.”
“I—won’t you tell me all about him?… I admire him. I asked him to call…. Do you suppose he’ll come?… He’s the most interesting—he’s the very finest young man I’ve met. He was so quick, so splendid—and so—so very much a gentleman.”
Lydia was conscious of a feeling of resentment toward this girl whom she had admired, almost of dislike—and she wondered why. Also there was amazement and something of chagrin. This girl, accustomed to a better society than Rainbow knew, admired Angus Burke, had asked him to call. This girl called him a gentleman, and hoped, really hoped he would come to see her! The thing was impossible. Angus Burke was not a person to whom such a thing could happen, about whom such things could be said…. And yet, looking over that evening, she knew he was such an individual, capable of arousing admiration, deserving of such praise…. But she did not like to hear this girl uttering the praise. She paused in her thoughts—thunderstruck. Could it be possible she was jealous of this girl, jealous because of Angus Burke? Lydia sneered at herself for the thought. It was absurd, ridiculously impossible. Yet something was not right, something moved, her—and decidedly she did not like this girl.
“I’ve got to go in to Myrtle now,” she said shortly.
That night Angus Burke was the subject of conversation in many homes. Without meaning to do so he had gained a minor victory over Rainbow; had taken a longer stride forward than he had ever taken before. In a measure he had become heroic. At any rate he had performed an action requiring courage, resolution, a sort of heroic ability which nobody else had possessed at the needful moment… and it is impossible utterly to despise a quasi-hero.
As for Lydia Canfield, she was compelled to think of Angus in a new way. For the first time she regarded him as an individual capable of social possibilities; as a person whom knowledgeable persons could regard as their equal. The words of the girl visitor remained with her—and they were words coming from one with authority to speak…. Add to this that Angus, throughout the evening, in her every contact with him, her every sight of him, had impressed his personalty upon her…. As she lay inviting sleep, this personality of his seemed to impend; it seemed to frown over her, big, imminent, startling….