# The Steadfast Heart/Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the fifth day of April Angus Burke arrived again in Rainbow, at first glance a young man, on closer scrutiny a boy to whom gravity gave a fictitious semblance of maturity. As he stepped from the train he turned his head first one way and then another, until his eyes, almost furtive, compassed the complete semicircle of his vision. He lifted his shoulders; seemed to draw himself together with a shudder, as one who encounters a chill draught. He was doing a thing which required courage of no mean order, a higher courage than that which carries men to the mouth of the cannon or into a darkness peopled with lurking enemies. An assault upon the body cannot compare in dreadfulness with an assault upon the soul.
What had he expected? He did not know. Instant recognition, raucous jeers, an instant of dreadfulness, perhaps…. He poised, tense, waiting for it, but it did not come. Nothing came. He arrived—that was all, arrived as any unheralded stranger might arrive….
​Eight years had not effaced Rainbow from his mind; its terrors had not been dimmed, but rather increased to fabulous proportions; it remained distinct, clear in his recollection with a sort of savage glare. He could not think of Rainbow without the word “murderer” ringing in his ears; without a shrinking and cringing. Always he had known that, some day, he must come back to face it, to fight it—for Dave Wilkins. He knew his whole life was a preparation for that battle, that he was a soldier in training; that he was preparing for it as other boys prepare for a profession. Rainbow was his profession—to brave it, to battle with it, to slay with his life and his conduct and his achievements the old dragon of prison stigma; to erase the mark of Cain which had been stamped upon him. Dave had told him this; had talked of it often, pointing it out as a splendid thing to do…. But this had always been a matter for some moment in the dim future, and now, suddenly, without an hour to prepare his soul for the test, the thing was upon him…. And added to his dread of Rainbow was a terror, stark and numbing, lest Dave Wilkins whom he worshiped as a dog worships his master, might be taken from him by death….
He paused, hesitant, upon the planked platform of the depot, worn and splintered by the ​iron wheels of baggage trucks; the station was the same dull red, unpainted since the day of its erection; the same telegraph instrument clicked in the bay window; the same air of lazy casualness persisted. At the end of the platform Lafe Fitch lay back on the high seat of his yellow omnibus, indifferent whether passengers came to be taken to the hotel or no. There was the same odor of oil and of cinders…. The same muddy road led past billboards and straggling houses toward the town, whose standpipe and church towers reached upward toward the same sky. It was Rainbow, the same Rainbow, unchanged by any miracle, and Angus hated it with a bitter hatred.
It gave him temporary comfort that he was not recognized, but recognition must come. It was a sort of reprieve which he took advantage of to hasten down the road, to avoid Main Street, and, by unfrequented ways, to reach Craig Browning’s door; it opened and he stood face to face with Mary Browning. She held the door ajar, not recognizing him, waiting for him to state his errand.
“Mr. Wilkins…” he said. “Uncle Dave….”
She stared at him amazed, searching his face, startled as recognition dawned in her eyes. He saw her face light with welcome, with astonished ​pleasure—then cloud with doubt as she stretched out her hand and drew him in.
“Angus,” she said, “Angus Burke—is it you?”
He nodded, lifting his eyes to her face, and she, reading what was in them, placed her hands on his shoulders, and, sorrowing for his sorrow, kissed him as a mother would have kissed.
“Angus,” she said. “It is Angus—this man is Angus Burke.”
“Is—is he—” he stammered, but could not finish his question.
“No,” said Mary, hastening to give the assurance he sought. “He is no worse—and no better. Doctor Knipe says he has—a chance. He—he’ll be glad to have you with him, Angus—when he can know you. He talks about you constantly in his delirium.”
He nodded; then said in a voice devoid of animation, “I had to come.”
“But how did you know? We were going to keep it from you.”
Angus did not reply to this, felt some intangible clutch upon his honor which forbade him to reply—or maybe it was a reluctance to mention Lydia Canfield’s name. He did not avoid or evade the question; he simply let it lie and die. There were no evasions in him, nor was he capable of diplomacy. He stood and gazed at the floor stolidly, as was characteristic of him in ​troubled moments and Mary Browning studying him wondered what changes had taken place in his intelligence—if he had progressed as Wilkins’s enthusiasm had seen his progress, or if that brain which Dave had insisted was only dormant were really inert. It was impossible for her to determine.
“Were you happy at school?” she asked.
“No,” he said, but made no explanation.
“Were you unhappy?” she asked after a moment of uncertainty.
Again he answered with a monosyllable, “No.”
“Weren’t they good to you?… Was it hard to learn?”
He ignored the first question, but replied to the second, “Studying was hard—in the beginning. But,” his face seemed to set, to reflect the resolution which had carried him through, “but I learned.”
“Were you lonesome?”
He looked at her with something of surprise and reproach, as if such a question were both absurd and without comprehension. “He was not there,” said Angus.
Mary caught her breath and drew back as from some secret, wonderful recess into which she was forbidden to pry. “Didn’t you like the boys? Wasn’t there fun and games?”
“The boys,” he said slowly, “were all right.” ​Then he explained their rightness in so far as he was concerned. “They didn’t know about me.”
There it was in a sentence—the thing which had weighed him down, the thing which had robbed of joy that time of his life which should have been most joyous. Again Mary Browning caught her breath—and understood something of the boy, of his fight, of what had been required of him. But most clearly of all she understood what his return to Rainbow meant to him.
“Why, Angus,” she said, “you—you were afraid to come back to Rainbow.”
“I had to come,” he said doggedly. “But I am afraid…. They—they will yell ‘murderer’ at me.”
“No, no. Oh, Angus, all that was years and years ago. Everybody will have forgotten.”
“No,” he said with conviction.
“Why did you come back?”
“He was sick…. Somebody had to—run the paper. I had to come.”
He had to come. Nature had given to Mary Browning a love for human beings and an understanding of human beings which helped her in this moment. She was able to understand that Angus’s brief words were but an abbreviation, that they stood for something fine and big and of great promise. She was able to know that they gave the keynote of the boy’s ​character—that, come what might, he would do the thing required of him, that there resided in him a glowing force which demanded of him the performance of what his mind and heart told him was the demand of duty…. From that instant she took him to her heart without reservation.
“But, Angus, aren’t you expecting too much of yourself? You’re only a boy…. Do you really think you can get out the paper?”
“I know I can,” he said simply. “There was a paper—down there. I used to—go to the office a lot. I—I pretended it was his paper and that I was with him.”
Mary had not looked for sentiment nor for poetry—it was unconscious sentiment and poetry she found, the sort which is not invented by the lips, but which derives, unbidden, from the heart. It was an illuminating flash.
He turned his face suddenly toward the door, arrested by footsteps on the porch. It was Doctor Knipe, who entered brusquely without rapping. He scowled at Angus and was hurrying past up the stairs when Mary halted him.
“Doctor,” she said, “this is Angus Burke, come back to us.”
“Angus Burke. Angus Burke…. Who in tunket is Angus Burke?”
“You must remember him—the boy Dave Wilkins—”
​“Yes, yes. To be sure. Kid that shot Bates.” He glared over his spectacles at Angus. “Well, what in thunder did you come back for?”
“He needed me,” said Angus.
The doctor eyed him sharply a moment, growled in his throat and made a most disagreeable face. “Huh,” he snorted. “Rainbow’ll make it pleasant for you…. Dummed pleasant! You’ll wish you was in Jericho with the walls cavin’ in before you’re here a week—or I don’t know this town.”
“Doctor!” expostulated Mary.
“Rainbow’s Rainbow,” he said, glaring at her and snorting contemptuously. “Kills whatever it can’t understand. Gawd help an angel that busted a wing and fell down on Main Street. If it wa’n’t placarded ‘Angel’ in big letters, the town’d set onto it and kill it with brickbats.”
“Can he see Mr. Wilkins?”
“Can if he wants to…. Come on.”
Dave Wilkins lay quiescent, eyes closed, sunken cheeks hot with fever. Now and then the bedclothes stirred with a spasmodic twitching of his limbs. An odor of drugs and of super-heated flesh oppressed the room. A nurse, imported, seated by the window, appeared indifferent. It seemed to Angus that nobody was doing anything. He felt a surge of resentment toward doctor and nurse…. Yet, he himself stood ​awkward, awed and frightened. He hoped Dave would open his eyes to recognize him…. Afraid, constrained, crowding down seething emotions, he stood motionless, unable even to whisper. Presently Doctor Knipe was through. He shut his case softly and motioned Angus to follow him. In silence they traversed the hall and descended the stairs, where the doctor stopped abruptly.
“Better git out of Rainbow,” he said.
“I’ve come to stay,” said Angus colorlessly.
“They’ll make it hot for you.”
“I’m going to stay,” Angus said, and something in his tone drew a sharp glance from the physician.
“Rainbow’s built on a rock foundation, and every rock’s got carved onto it, ‘We don’t tolerate anythin’ different.’ You can’t buck it.”
“I’ve got to stay,” said Angus.
“You’re a blasted fool,” snapped the doctor, “and don’t come to me whinin’.” With that he flung himself out of the house. Though Angus did not know it, he had already won a friend, and in his perverse way that friend had given him assurance of aid and comfort. It required long years of custom to know Doc Knipe.
Mary Browning gave Angus a little time to recover himself after the shock of seeing Dave ​Wilkins lying, pitiful, at death’s door, then she entered the parlor.
“Perhaps you’d like to go to your room,” she suggested. “Did you have your trunk sent here?”
“My room?… My room’s at the office.”
“But you can look after the paper and still stay here and be comfortable.”
He shook his head; his plans were made and they were unalterable as Mary discovered when she sought to dissuade him…. She, and others, would come to know that with him a resolution once taken was set as though in solid masonry.
“You’ll come for dinner?”
“No,” he said. “Uncle Dave and I always ate at the hotel.”
He fumbled with his hat uneasily, and Mary understood. “You want to go to the office,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Go, then, Angus, but remember, you are always welcome here. Come often. Come every day.”
He nodded in a preoccupied manner and passed out of the house. On the walk outside he encountered a girl, passed her without looking, unconscious of her presence, indifferent that she merited better treatment from his eyes…. ​How would he recognize Lydia Canfield after all these years? But she, having seen him emerge from the house, jumped to her conclusion in her customary way. This must be Angus Burke. She turned to scrutinize him, to make the appearance of this young stranger coincide with her recollections of the old Angus Burke. Then she called after him.
“Angus, Angus Burke,” she said.
He stopped, turned gravely, hiding his apprehension.
“Don’t you remember me?” she said. “I am Lydia Canfield.”
His eyes brightened for an instant. “Yes,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I’m trying to stand up for myself—like you said.”
“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said primly. “It was what you ought to do.” Then again, and with girlish pretensions of mature dignity, she scrutinized him. “You—you have improved,” she said.
He flushed under her directness and moved his head uneasily. But his eyes did not waver from her face. It seemed as if he were scrutinizing her, searching for something which he hoped very much to find, but he did not reply. For once in her brief, active life words did not come readily to Lydia. Finally Angus looked away ​from her and she felt relieved. “I got to go to the office,” he said.
“Yes…. Good-by. We—we’re very glad to have you back again.” It was very prim, very artificial, but Lydia, as usual, was acting a part. This time she was not succeeding overwell in her characterization.
Angus made a clumsy motion with the upper part of his body—a sort of automatic, involuntary bow, performed without consciousness. Then he turned his back squarely and abruptly and strode rapidly away.
He had not mentioned her letter, nor that she was the person who had called him back to Rainbow, nor did she. Somehow she did not want the letter mentioned, and he had a vague feeling that any mention of it ought to come from her. As she walked away she wondered why he had not spoken of it and asked herself if it could have been delicacy which held Angus silent, or merely stolidity. This was a question that many asked themselves concerning the conduct of Angus Burke in the days that were to come—and few were wise enough to discover the answer.