CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When workmen were imported and drilling operations actually began on one of the farms bought by Judge Crane, Rainbow became as nearly hysterical as it is possible for a solid, unemotional middle-western village to be. Men who had sold their farms walked up and down the land bewailing their luck; the post office talked of nothing else; the entire community poised on its toes, as it were, waiting for oil to flow—and in the interim, folks took to regarding Crane as a great man and a financial genius! They had always seen it in him. From childhood he had carried marks of future greatness. All this created an atmosphere exceedingly pleasing to Crane. He basked in the sunlight of public adulation; verged on pomposity; dressed himself in the airs of a busy capitalist. Visions of wealth exhibited themselves before his eyes—of a wealth which should be his alone—all his. Not one foot of ground, not one share in his enterprise would he part with. It was his idea to demonstrate oil and then sell to the Standard. His options, obtained from men little versed in business, ran for extraordinary periods…. In this way it was possible for him to take the necessary time to prove the existence of oil before being obliged to pay the large sums necessary to obtain the fee to much of the property he had contracted to acquire. And he was positive he could sell these options before they expired. With, say, twenty-five thousand dollars expended in options one can control a large tract of land….
By hook or by crook he had secured money in excess of this amount. Everything he owned was pledged, hypothecated. His personal credit was rather more than exhausted. Perhaps, of all the inhabitants of Rainbow, Angus Burke alone knew how Judge Crane had strained himself—how precarious was his footing. Angus had analyzed the speculation, saw how the whole matter dangled by a hair and how thin was the hair. As it appeared to Angus, Crane had wagered a matter of twenty-five thousand dollars that oil would be found in sufficient quantities—and he knew Crane could not lose twenty-five thousand dollars. He had not that sum to lose. Therefore, in the event of a crash, somebody else would have to bear the major portion of the loss. He saw to it that the bank should not suffer—and when approached for advice by sundry citizens he had given it to such account that Crane’s animosity expanded and multiplied.
This can be said for Crane: He believed in his project; was honestly convinced of its soundness. Two months after taking his first option he could have incorporated and sold out to his fellow-townsmen at a profit. He refused to do so. In proportion as he clung to his holdings, his reputation grew; he was lost sight of as a lawyer, a judge; was seen only as a financial colossus….
Drilling began in July. Angus watched the operations almost breathlessly, realizing what would follow a failure to strike oil…. Also he knew that drilling for oil required money. What if Crane’s capital gave out before anything was achieved?
One morning he was discussing the matter with Dave Wilkins in the printing shop. It was not Angus’s custom to talk of the matter publicly—one of his most pronounced virtues was his close-mouthedness, but Dave Wilkins was his father—was still his god. To Dave he could speak of anything—except himself and certain matters which were hidden in the secret fastnesses of his heart.
“The Judge,” he said, “has overbalanced himself. The thing has gone to his head…. Other people’s money….”
“He’ll be all right if they strike oil,” said Dave.
Angus shook his head. “I’m not so sure. I’ve been studying the oil business…. I’ve read everything I can find that touches it, and I’m not sure. I believe there is oil.”
“You believe there is oil!… I thought it was your idea that Crane was doctoring up a swindle.”
“Yes, but oil and oil enough are two different matters. If he should get a quart it would set Rainbow crazy…. What Crane will do if he finds oil—but only a driblet of it, is what I’m worrying about.”
“I see,” said Wilkins. “I see.”
“He’s keeping his operations so secret. If only I could find out at the right time what has happened.”
“What happens will happen, Angus. What is it to you?”
Angus regarded Dave gravely. “I—couldn’t see folks who have labored so hard for a little money—robbed of it.”
“But you owe nothing to Rainbow.” Dave said this tentatively. “Rainbow has shown you slight kindness.”
“I—I mustn’t think about that. I mustn’t think about myself. I must—only think about them.”
Dave smiled but did not reply. But he was thinking—thinking, “And this is the boy they called jailbird and wouldn’t tolerate. This is the boy they wouldn’t let go to school with their children!” To Angus he said, “Come over to-night. We’ll thrash it out. Maybe the paper can help.”
Angus went out slowly. As he crossed the street he saw Lydia Canfield approaching. She saw him, stopped, and beckoned. He was surprised, for she had avoided him these many months. Her resolution not to see him, to speak with him, had been well kept, and now—one had to shrug one’s shoulders. Did she feel a confidence in herself, or had her resolution broken down? It was impossible to read Lydia as one reads a book.
“Angus,” she said abruptly, “I want you to go to Deal with me to-morrow.”
She took him by surprise, nonplussed him.
“Deal!” he said. “To-morrow!”
“Yes…. We'll take the early train and be back here at nine o’clock in the evening.”
“But—”
“I’m going. I’ve made up my mind…. It’s circus day. Three of the girls were going with me, and we were going to have heaps of fun. There’s never any fun here. We were going to take Mary Browning along for chaperon—and now she says she can’t go—and she says I mustn’t go if she doesn’t…. I’m twenty years old, Angus Burke—and I won’t be treated that way. I’m going for all of Mary Browning or anybody else…. Will you go with me?” This last was not so much a request as a command.
Angus hesitated. The position was difficult and he did not know what to say nor how to say it. It was obvious to him he must refuse, but how to do so without ungraciousness, without angering Lydia, was an unanswerable problem…. He knew well Lydia’s temper, and the willfulness of her.
“I—I couldn’t go, Lydia,” he said uneasily. “You know Mrs. Browning would go—if she could. She would…. She knows best. I—don’t you see you oughtn’t to go—and I oughtn’t to take you when she says not?”
“Bosh!… I won’t be bossed like that. I can go if I want to. You can get away from the bank if you want to.”
“I—I could get away.” Honesty compelled him to admit this. He could not take refuge in an untrue excuse that business would hold him.
“Then be ready for the early train. I’ll come right to the depot…. I’ve never been to a big circus and—and we’ll have a picnic.” She was excited as a child. “I’ll show folks they can’t drive me all the time.”
“But, Lydia—you—you can’t go. It wouldn’t be right…. And if you went with me, folks would talk…. I mustn’t go with you—don’t you see?”
She was thoroughly angry now, angry with Angus as well as with Mary Browning. “I don’t see…. I’m not a baby. Whose business is it where I go, or with whom?”
“Mrs. Browning knows best,” said Angus weakly.
“Mrs. Browning doesn’t know a bit more than I do…. Will you go with me, or won’t you?”
Her tone was sharp; it aroused Angus to an appreciation of the thing as it was. For the moment he saw Lydia as a petulant, willful little girl, felt his own age and maturity—the superiority of the adult over the child. He did not hesitate now but spoke firmly.
“No, Lydia, I can’t go with you.”
“You can’t—you mean you won’t! Very well, do as you like. I never asked you to do anything for me before, and you may depend on it, I shall never ask you again…. I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure. It’s a pleasant and courteous and gentlemanly thing to refuse a girl’s request without any reason, isn’t it? Well, you can stay at home, Angus Burke, or you can go to China, for all I care…. I’m going, and I’m going alone.”
They had been walking up the street, and now turned the corner toward Craig Browning’s house. Lydia stopped. “You needn’t go any farther,” she said coldly.
Angus halted; then he fixed his eyes on her and for the first time in his life he spoke in an important moment without carefully reflecting on what he said.
“You mustn’t go alone,” he said. “You mustn’t… I don’t want you to.”
Lydia gasped, looked at Angus in astonishment that was not simulated. The red mounted to her cheeks as it was wont to do before an outburst.
“You—you don’t want me to! You!”
Angus was frightened by his own words momentarily, but that feeling passed. He found himself calm, almost serene; he felt his will to be superior to Lydia’s, and it was borne in upon him that he had a duty to perform. This very frequently happens to serious-minded young folks.
“I don’t want you to go,” he repeated slowly, “and you mustn’t go. I—It wouldn’t be right. You won’t go.”
“I won’t go!”
“No…. Look at me now, Lydia. You’re unreasonable. You’re angry. If you go—you’ll be sorry for it—because—because you’re not the sort of girl who—does that kind of a thing…. What would people think?”
“What is it to you?” she gasped, choking with anger.
What was it to him? What was it to him? He stopped, almost drew back from her physically, for as he looked down into her rebellious eyes he knew what it was to him, knew he loved her, recognized at last that he had loved her and would continue to love her—that she was the beginning and the end of things for him, to be worshiped until death!
For the second time he spoke without weighing his words, this time from the depths of his heart. The words were not greatly significant—would not have been from another but Angus; it was his tone which was significant, eloquently, unconsciously significant.
“It—it means a great deal to me,” he said.
Lydia understood. Her anger gave place to something else; to something she could not analyze. In it was something of fear of Angus Burke, of shame, of distrust of herself, of astonishment—but back of it all was a warmth of gladness, an uprush of gladness—a joy which frightened her while it made her happy, a joy of which she was ashamed…. Events had forced her to think of the possibility of loving Angus Burke, to a point beyond thinking of this possibility—but, strangely, never had she considered the point of Angus Burke loving her!… Suddenly she knew she had feared for months that he would not love her, that she was negligible to him…. For a moment she lost herself, basked in the happiness of it—was glad—glad he had unconsciously confessed his love. Somehow it was different from a formal confession, more excusable—that is the way she put it. A direct proposal from him would have affronted her—her inhibitions would have forced her to be affronted. Her pride would have aroused her—a Canfield—to resentment at a proffer of love from him—a Burke. But this was different, accidental, unpremeditated, excusable. It was as though she had discovered for herself a thing he chose to keep secret.
Angus, too, was conscious of the significance of his words; wondered in fear if Lydia understood the disclosure—feared that her acuteness could not mistake it…. No sooner had the knowledge of his love come to him than, following close upon it, came the certainty that it must be in vain. Lydia Canfield was not for him, never could be for him…. He clenched his hands behind him.
Lydia did not speak—she scrutinized the sidewalk, lifted her eyes to Angus’s, and dropped them again. She was agitated. The trip to Deal was forgotten…. It had been swallowed up in something infinitely more portentous, more demanding…. It was Angus who spoke first, spoke out of his distress and confusion, out of his dismay….
“You won’t go,” he said. “You mustn’t go….” Lydia did not reply. If she had spoken she would have sobbed. Her agitation was pitiful, would have been pitiful if one could have penetrated the disguise of her self-control to peer into her heart and her mind. It had come suddenly to Lydia Canfield that she was marching under orders to face the crisis of her life.
“Good-by, Angus,” she said gently.
“Good-by, Lydia,” he said, understanding her, that she wanted to be alone, to hide. “Good-by, Lydia.” Again and unconsciously his tone was a caress.
He walked with dragging steps to the bank; went through the outer office to his little private room without a word to Gene Goff or his assistant, and closed the door after him. There he sat down before his desk, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and stared at the wall before him…. He loved Lydia Canfield! In this he sensed disaster and sought to reason the matter out—as men have vainly endeavored to reason out such matters since the dawn of time…. Until this day love had been a foreign emotion to him; his awareness of it had been purely literary—even now he scarcely comprehended it…. So, according to his custom and his nature, he tried to reason it out, to get to the bottom of it, to catalogue and to place it in its appropriate pigeonhole.
Yet, with all his bewilderment and travail, he was conscious that he was glad. This love, unasked, had brought a joy into his life, a joy of a magnitude and brightness such as he had not dreamed life capable of holding…. It made Angus more human. He could feel a vital change taking place in himself—felt the magic working of the philosopher’s stone. As he sat in the presence of his love, he discovered that the world and its business were more understandable to him than ever before—he was able better to comprehend the actions of mankind, to perceive motives which had been hidden from him…. From the fog of events he seemed to look forward to a future which held out some sort of glowing promise—but he could not see the features of it…. Hitherto his future had appeared to him as nothing but a stretch of years: Now it was a living, vibrating possibility to be awaited with anticipation, a something to await with joy or with sorrow; a something which forced into his life an object and made living worth his while…. The fact of the matter was that in that hour Angus Burke knew his real birth—he began to live.
He thought of Lydia—thrilled joyously as she entered his mind. To this point his musings had been pleasurable. Now, suddenly, he understood that love is a craving, a hunger for a definite individual, a ravenous demand for a supplement to one’s self—a craving which, unsatisfied, fed on itself and was capable of bringing grief or even despair….
Love, he comprehended, was a forerunner of marriage, a moving cause of marriage. It urged on to that end, was Nature’s force which drove mankind to mating. He had never thought of marriage clearly; had never asked himself why one man selected for his wife a certain woman instead of any woman…. Now it was clear, sharply, painfully clear.
He loved Lydia Canfield!… Love!… Marriage!….
“I can never have her,” he said to himself. “Never….”
He compared himself to her, compared her life with his life, nor could he drive his imagination to see his future in intimate contact with Lydia’s. It was unthinkable. He remembered Lydia’s pronouncements on the subject of family; remembered how she revered blood and ancestry—how she had scorned the Reynolds girl for marrying John Fritch… and Fritch had nothing against him except that he was a nobody. John Fritch’s father had been honest; his mother had not been depraved—John Fritch himself had never killed a man, nor been behind the bars of a common jail….
Angus set his jaw. “I’ll never… speak of it… to her,” he said. “I’ll—hide it….”
Countless young men, doubtless, have made the same declaration. As well seek to hide a sunset!
Next day Angus waited with ill-concealed impatience to learn if Lydia went to Deal. It was, somehow, a matter of gravest importance to him…. Without knowing it, hope persisted in Angus Burke’s heart…. Hope always lingers….
Lydia did not go to Deal.