# The Steadfast Heart/Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
One staunch friend Angus Burke had among the younger residents of Rainbow: the gentle, lovable, womanly Myrtle Cuyler. From that night at Lydia Canfield’s party when Angus’s ready action and presence of mind had saved her from possible disfigurement, her loyalty to him had been of the sort which nothing could shake. In her presence, more than in that of any other young woman in Rainbow, Angus was able to feel at his ease.
So it was that when, toward the end of July, Myrtle stopped in his office to invite him to a small, informal party, he was embarrassed.
“There’ll only be a few,” said Myrtle. “You’ll come, won’t you? We’re going to have tables in the yard—and a good time without any fussiness… only about a dozen.”
More than ever Angus had avoided junior Rainbow since the day of his encounter with Lydia which had brought to his consciousness the appalling fact that he loved…. It was a fact which had tormented him. And the torment ​was less easy to bear because it was a matter about which he could speak to none—not even to Dave Wilkins…. It was a thing about which he could not talk; about which he had an uneasy feeling that it was a profanation to think. The boy was as greatly disturbed by the fact of his love as if he had committed a deliberate act of insult to Lydia. It was a morbid, unhealthy condition but, perhaps, not to be avoided….
There were days when his will—such was its tension—seemed on the point of snapping, of releasing him to run to Lydia and to pour out in hot, excited words his confession. He imagined himself before her, could almost hear the incoherent outpouring of his words…. He could see her face—the repulsion of it, the disdain…. It shamed him, this weakness; he called himself unmanly to give way to the thing, to permit his love to dwell in his thoughts.
It must be borne in mind that Angus had lived a fifth of a century of repression: years of consciousness that he was not like other boys; years made harrowing by contempt, and by the attitude of Rainbow which had demanded he should be made an outcast…. Constant repression is constant tension. There had been a perpetual holding in; a pressure of self-expression outward, that, though he was not aware of it, had pushed and driven and worried the ​reinforcements of his will until it was inevitable there should come a day of outbreak. A spring in tension does one of two things: it dies, becomes inert, or it breaks its confinements. So it is with a man. If the man be weak, an hour comes at last when the spring of his will loses its strength, becomes lifeless and sodden; if the man be strong, and Angus Burke was strong, there will come a bursting out, a crushing through all restraints, a moment of supreme emotional urge which carries all inhibitions before it…. Vaguely Angus felt some such danger and lived in apprehension of it.
Because of these things, he did not want to accept Myrtle Cuyler’s invitation—did not want to go to a place where he would inevitably be thrown with Lydia—yet the discourtesy of a refusal would be to affront the friendship which Myrtle so persistently tendered…. Even before he replied to her invitation she saw how agitated he was, how shaken—that something was preying upon him and making him unhappy. Evidences of a mental conflict were visible upon his face, so marked as to demand her sympathy.
“You’ll come, won’t you?” she urged, because she did not know what else to say.
“Yes,” Angus nodded. “Thank you.” He tried to smile.
“Angus,” she said, hesitating to touch his ​trouble, “what is it? You—you look as if something had happened…. I—don’t think I’m prying, but—if you want to tell me about it….”
Angus shook his head and turned away his eyes. “No,” he said, “I can’t…. I mustn't.”
“Is it—is it—” She stopped suddenly, for intuition had given her the answer to her unasked question. “It’s Lydia Canfield,” she said gently, and saw Angus’s hands clench the arms of his chair.
“What has she done to you?… Has she—did she say—no?”
“I can’t ask her…. I didn’t ask her.” The words seemed torn from him. “I won’t ask her.”
“Why?” Myrtle’s voice affected Angus as some unguent would affect a burn; it soothed him, eased his pain…. It loosened his tongue.
“I— how could I tell her?” he said. “You know—what I’ve been—all about me…. It’s something that can’t be—don’t you understand? It wouldn’t be right…. I never can ask anyone—to marry me. No one would marry me… not Lydia….”
“Angus Burke,” she said sharply, “you mustn’t say that—you mustn’t think such things. Why shouldn’t you ask Lydia—or anybody else to marry you?… Why, Angus, you don’t know yourself. You don’t know what people ​think of you—how they respect you. Who cares now what happened so long ago when you were a baby? You weren’t responsible. You weren’t to blame—just unfortunate—so unfortunate! And now we’re proud of you—all your friends are proud of what you’ve accomplished…. There’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t love any girl you choose—or why she shouldn’t be proud to have your love.”
“No…. No….”
“You mustn’t go on thinking like this…. Why, there isn’t another young man in town who can compare with you. See what you’ve done—alone, and against—against such obstacles. See how you’ve made a place for yourself…. If I were Lydia Canfield I’d be happy—happy!”
“I’ve killed a man…. I’ve been in jail…. And my father—my mother! How could I ask—it would be an insult.”
“I’m a girl, Angus, and I know. I’m going to tell you something, Angus, that’s a secret yet. I’ve promised to marry Mr. Hart—from Deal. You’ve met him. I tell you this so—so I can say what I want to without being embarrassed…. Lydia talks a lot about family and ancestors. So can I if I want to. My family is as good as hers—yet—if you asked me to marry you, I would be glad. If you had chosen me, and had made love to me, I know I should have loved ​you. You understand me, Angus? I would be very, very proud to think I—had qualities which would make a man like you—care for me…. Any girl would be proud. Lydia would be.”
Angus only shook his head.
“Perhaps,” said Myrtle, “you’re making her miserable—who knows? Nobody can tell what Lydia’s thinking…. You haven’t any right to keep it from her. How do you know but what she’s—she’s wanting, and wanting, and wanting you to tell her?”
He turned his back upon her, not brusquely, but with the instinct of all animal life to conceal its wound. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Think about what I’ve said…. It’s true…. I know….” She walked to the door, stopped, and said softly, “Speak to her, Angus…. Good-by.”
That night Myrtle was tactful enough to place Angus and Lydia at different tables. As hostess she watched them closely—especially closely did she scrutinize Lydia, so closely, indeed, that Lydia became uneasily conscious of her scrutiny…. After the dishes were cleared away Myrtle found an opportunity to whisper to Angus. “You must speak to her—to-night…. It will be all right. I—I know it will be.”
Angus turned his grave face toward her and ​smiled. “I thought it all out this afternoon,” he said in reply. “I can’t do it—ever.”
“I tell you she wants you to.”
“No…. And even if that were true—I shouldn’t ask her to marry me. It would pull her down.”
“Bosh!” Myrtle said in hopeless impatience.
Lydia watched Angus covertly while the meal was in progress. Not once had his glance met hers, for he kept his face turned away from her resolutely; dared not look at her for fear of the story his eyes might tell. Lydia was piqued—but presently she understood. She comprehended that his solicitude was for her peace of mind. He was thinking of her, not of himself. He was unselfish, fine, chivalric! With these qualities she endowed him, and her heart beat the higher because of it…. It was after Myrtle found these things in her eyes that she urged Angus to speak….
Since the day of that fateful encounter Angus had not been alone in trouble of spirit. Perhaps Lydia’s emotions had been more painful than his, because her mind was quicker, her imagination more vivid; certainly her outward agitation had been greater. Nights had been spent in tears and self-examinings—in attempted self-deception which did not deceive.
“I do not love him,” she whispered again and ​again into her pillow, and in this denial she confessed, knew she confessed, but still would not admit to herself that she confessed…. Since that day she had not seen Angus and her desire to see him became a gnawing hunger; more than once she was on the point of sending for him, seeking him—but barriers of pride remained strong, unbroken.
This was an attitude which could not persist. Either one is in love or one is not. Love is not a matter of the will, but of the heart, of the emotions. A certain basic common sense resided in Lydia, and this common sense compelled her at last to face matters as matters were. Fact demanded treatment as fact…. And then, with sobbings, with shame, Lydia Canfield admitted to herself that she loved Angus Burke…. She, a Canfield, loved the son of a thief—a man who had been tried for murder!
It was a problem. The fact was there to be dealt with…. She became calmer as she sought to deal with it. It was her misfortune to love where she should not love, she told herself. Her love had gone without her consent, against her will. It could not be helped. It was an intangible thing over which she could exercise no control—but when it came to tangible matters, control was possible. She was mistress of herself. What if she did love? It spelled ​unhappiness, perhaps, but not surrender. She would not give in to her love. Never would she bind herself to Angus Burke; never would she become a part of his life, mistress of his home…. That her will could accomplish. She foresaw distress, wretchedness, but better that than a surrender of high principles—better than to degrade the family blood which was hers in sacred trust…. Hers was the attitude of a fanatic—and for that reason the more formidable.
There were hours when she was afraid; when she trembled for the strength of her resolution. Sometimes her yearning for Angus was so great as to be almost beyond her power of repression. She determined to go away, to seek safety in flight… to find some means—to hit upon some device which would make it impossible for her to give way to her love….
In her calmer moments she was surprised, in analyzing her feelings toward Angus, to find that, mingled and interwoven with them, was a sincere admiration—an admiration for his character, for his person, for his accomplishments. She was conscious of pride in him, and in what he had become…. The fact of his squalid origin but added to this pride…. She was unable to understand this phenomenon…. It added to her fears.
​“I’ll go away as soon as I’m twenty-one,” she told herself. “I’ll go a long ways—to Europe. I’ll visit Aunt Margaret in Paris….”
It was in this state of mind that Lydia came to Myrtle’s party, which, as such parties inevitably do, divided into couples and groups, carrying their chairs here and there; some, lover-like, seeking an obvious seclusion, knowing they were expected to do so; others walking about to form little knots which broke up only to reform again of different constituents. Throughout the early stages of the evening young Malcolm Crane maneuvered to draw Lydia away from the others. He had come determined to make a last effort to win her for himself—and, until he could put his fortune once more to the test, he was silent, taciturn, preoccupied…. Had not Lydia’s mind been full of other and more compelling matters she would not have permitted herself to be drawn away where Crane could be troublesome again—but her thoughts were troubled by her own problem; her eyes constantly, and against her will, were following Angus Burke…. She was unhappy.
“Lydia,” Malcolm said with unaccustomed directness, “I have asked you twice before to marry me. I have told you how much I—want you… how much I will always want you….” He stopped, for Lydia was looking at him ​fixedly, studying him as if he were some new and interesting creature she had never seen before. Presently, without replying, she turned her eyes away, closed them, seemed forgetful of his presence…. She did not look at Malcolm again—but through the trees she could see Angus Burke talking with Myrtle Cuyler; felt an impulse to go to him, a desire to hear his voice, to be close by his side….
Crane was speaking again—into ears which heard but did not comprehend…. Her desire to be near Angus was almost irresistible. It frightened her—the hunger of it terrified her. How could she hold out against such hunger? Was it possible this unwanted love of hers would prove strong enough to overcome her will—break down the determination to shut him out of her life? She feared it would…. Yes…. Her resolution to go away was the only safe refuge, and she must go soon. Something, she knew not what, might surprise her into yielding—some unexpected event might betray her….
By an effort she compelled herself to listen to Malcolm’s impassioned voice. “I’ve never wanted any other girl. Ever since we were babies together I’ve thought of you as my wife—you know I have…. When we were little we used to play we were married—do you remember?”
​“Yes,” she said abstractedly, “I remember.” To herself she was saying, “I won’t go to him…. I mustn’t go to him.”
“I’ll be through college in a year,” Malcolm was saying, “and I want you then—right at the beginning of my real life. I want you as soon as I can have you.”
Lydia watched Angus walk across the yard with Myrtle. “I’ll go to him…. I’ll go…. If something doesn’t stop me, I’ll go,” she said to herself.
Again she called her attention back to Malcolm, who, intent upon his pleading, had not seen how her thoughts were not upon what he was saying…. What was he saying? Yes…. Yes. He was asking her to marry him…. She did not want to marry him—she did not want to marry anybody—or to think of marriage. Then she caught her breath. Why not? Here was safety from Angus Burke. If she married Malcolm Crane she could not give herself to Angus; nothing could give her to Angus then. If she pledged her word to Malcolm she would not break it—for her pledged word she knew she would keep…. Others had not thought it wrong to marry for money, for position. Would she do wrong to save herself from a marriage she feared—to save herself from the weakness of her own love? No…. No…. Anything ​rather than that; anything rather than link her life with Angus Burke’s—whom she loved, hated, despised, admired…. She forced herself to listen to Malcolm.
“Won’t you promise, Lydia? Won’t you tell me now you’ll marry me in a year? It will help me through—the thought of it. Won’t you promise?”
“Malcolm,” she said in a voice which did not sound like her own, “I don’t love you… I don’t think I ever shall. But if you want me to marry you, I will.” Her voice took on a note of shrillness, of brittleness; her words came rapidly, feverishly, as if she must have them said before something stopped her. “I’ll marry you now, this minute, if you want me to, or I’ll promise to marry you when you are ready…. But I don’t love you. You must understand that…. I don’t love you.”
Malcolm could not believe his ears. His heart leaped, leaped in spite of the warning conveyed by her words. He heard them, but waved them aside with the optimism of youth. “Only promise!” he said. “Only promise!… Love! I can wait for that. It—it will come.”
“It will never come…. But I—I will try to—be what a wife should be to you, Malcolm. I’ll try…. I'll try….”
He drew closer, sought to pass his arm about ​her, to draw her to him, to kiss her lips, but she held him back—with panic in her heart she pushed him away. “No, no,” she cried, “not now, not yet. I told you I didn’t love you…. I told you.”
He smiled. Happiness enough for one evening was his, and he could humor her whims. One expected strange whims from Lydia. “I won’t bother you, dear,” he said. “You’re—upset… I understand.”
“Be sure you do understand,” she said. Then she smiled wanly. “Come…. Let’s have it over with. Let’s tell the others. I want them to know.”
They walked toward the house, out upon the open lawn where the guests clustered. Here Lydia stopped and raised her face to the moonlight, and Malcolm saw how pale, set, desperate it was before she spoke—not at all as a young woman speaks who announces her engagement to assembled friends. “Boys and girls,” she said, fighting to speak lightly, gayly, “Malcolm and I have something to tell you. You are to be the first to hear about it…. He has asked me to marry him when he comes home next spring, and I have—” Her voice faltered an instant. “I have promised him I will.” She stopped, swayed slightly, and clutched at a chair for support…. But her face was smiling, and there were those ​who carried the picture of that smile in their memories for years….
Instantly there was a chorus of excited cries, a clatter of astonished conversation, a pressing forward with congratulations. Lydia looked at the faces before her, searching for Angus. How would he receive the news? How would he take it? It would be a shock, a blow, and how would he bear it? He would bear it manfully, as a man should bear it—that was her proud thought. A strange thought to come at such a moment….
Angus, standing by Myrtle Cuyler’s side, heard Lydia’s announcement; his face became a mask, an impenetrable mask of dullness, unemotional, such a face as he had not worn for years. His eyes darkened and deepened, his hands shut once and opened. Then he breathed heavily, not a sigh, but a deep, tearing breath…. That was all.
“Oh, Angus, Angus….” Myrtle's voice came to him dimly, told him how she felt his suffering.
He turned to her gravely, unsmiling—startlingly emotionless, “I knew,” he said. “I told you she—was not—for me…. I knew.”
“It’s a shame,” said the loyal Myrtle. “Lydia Canfield ought to—I’d know how to choose between Malcolm Crane and you.”
“We—we mustn't hang back,” he said, and ​drew Myrtle forward with him to the little group which surrounded Malcolm and Lydia.
“Lydia,” he said slowly, “I hope you will be very happy.” He did not speak to Crane, did not glance at him. And Malcolm ignored Angus. Lydia’s eyes clung to Angus’s face appealingly; a suppliant glance, begging for something, he knew not what…. He wondered at that glance, and his perplexity grew with the passage of time…. What was the meaning of that look he saw in Lydia Canfield’s eyes?…