The Steadfast Heart/Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Henry G. Woodhouse stood alone at the apex of Rainbow’s social pyramid. Not even Jethro Canfield occupied such a position in the estimation of the village. He was a gentleman possessed of broad culture and of personality—and when one added his remarkable distinction of appearance and very considerable wealth, it is not to be wondered at that little men regarded him with awe and were humble in his presence. Good men are by no means so rare as we, seeing with the eye of modern cynicism, are accustomed to declare, and Henry G. Woodhouse was a good man. It was the boast, not of Henry G. himself, but of Rainbow, that no man could point to him and say, “He has wronged me.”
His dignity and reserve made it difficult for most folks to approach him—qualities which had been more pronounced during the past dozen years since the finger of grief and disgrace had touched and hurt him sorely. First, his only daughter Kate, a beauty, willful, overindulged, had eloped with a man whom Rainbow knew not, an uitlander, reputed to belong to the flashy, wit-living class, a frequenter and follower of horse races. Secondly, in her going Kate had not hesitated to take without leave certain valuables and money. This was the sorest wound—for it touched the matter of honesty…. She disappeared, and from the day of her going to the present moment, Henry G. had not set eyes upon her. Only vague rumors came back to him—unpleasant rumors of a career of questionable adventure…. The thing had killed his wife and left him alone—and alone he remained, a man withdrawn into his own fastnesses, living with his servants and omitting the hospitalities of other days.
His interests were large, reaching far beyond Rainbow. He owned the local bank and was a lender of money upon mortgage of whom none spoke envious word of evil.
Small pebbles thrown from a remote shore may send out ripples which agitate sands far distant from the spot from which it was picked…. Malcolm Crane had, for years, been local advisor to Henry G. Woodhouse in legal matters, but latterly, more through a kindly interest in the young man than from any more selfish motive, Henry G. had thrown certain small matters to the newcomer, Craig Browning—until, being phased with the young man and his work, his patronage increased until he stood almost on an even footing with the older lawyer. It was a pebble whose widening ripples were destined to trouble the sands of Angus Burke.
Lawyer Crane, as Rainbow called him, as it named other men according to their callings—such as Depot Seaman and Druggist Toms, and the like—considered this encroachment upon his practice a sufficient ground for bitterness against Craig Browning; but as a bond of friendship grew up between the young attorney and the banker, Crane fanned his jealousy with apprehension, for he had reason to look forward to the death of Henry G. Woodhouse as a source of enrichment to himself. Was he not cousin to Mrs. Henry G. Woodhouse, deceased? Was he not sole relative by blood or marriage remaining, since the not-to-be-doubted death of Kate Woodhouse?… Waiting for dead men’s shoes is an occupation which pinches the soul….
In the week succeeding Angus Burke’s memorable thrashing of young Crane, Browning was summoned to the bank for conference. The matter being completed and the papers signed, Henry G. leaned back in his chair and looked speculatively at the young man, mechanically rubbing the shaven avenue between his side-whiskers as he spoke.
“How is Dave Wilkins making out with that boy?” he asked.
“Angus is moving ahead—stepping up toward the mental average. When you think what he was when Dave took hold of him, his progress has been startling.”
“Is he difficult to control?”
Browning’s surprise at this was manifest on his face. “It's the other way around,” he said. “It’s pathetic—the doglike way he follows Wilkins around, and the delight he shows when Dave makes a request of him. He worships Dave.”
“He has vicious outbreaks of temper.” Mr. Woodhouse stated this as an accepted fact.
“Mr. Woodhouse, you have been misinformed. I don’t believe the boy has a temper. Any such thing seems to have been destroyed in him. He was completely cowed, numbed when he came to us. The shock of that night—”
“Yes, yes…. But twice he has attacked other boys—once a whole group, and the other day he beat young Malcolm Crane unmercifully.”
It was apparent to Browning who Henry G.’s informant had been. Indeed, it was a matter of common knowledge that Crane had gone up and down in public places threatening dire things against Angus, and Wilkins had been alarmed lest the man’s vindictiveness should take the form of some drastic action within the scope of his authority as prosecuting attorney.
“Let me give you a version of those fights that differs from those you have heard,” said Browning, and convincingly he related the story of the day Angus was beset by the crowd of boys yelling “Murderer,” and “Jailbird,” and of Angus’s terror which all but kept him a prisoner in the printing office save when he went on the streets accompanied. “As for this last affair—it marks the greatest step ahead that Angus has made. It marks the awakening in the boy of an understanding that he owes a duty to himself—that there is such an abstraction as self-respect. Young Crane has been, from the beginning, a leader of the young rascals who have tormented Angus. It was as if he carried some special animus….” Browning paused to let this sink in. He could not, or felt he could not, make a direct charge against his rival. “Always before Angus has run terrified, but this time he stood, just walked up to Crane and kept repeating as if it were a lesson, ‘I’ve got to stand up for myself. I’ve got to stand up for myself.’ He wasn’t angry—no loss of temper—just grave and very resolute…. It seemed a rather fine thing to me.”
There was a long silence, broken by Mr. Woodhouse, who sighed and said, “So that was the way of it?… So that was it?…”
Craig nodded.
“He doesn’t go to school?”
“We tried to send him. Public opinion won’t allow it. There was a tremendous stir.”
“You’ve been teaching him?”
“Dave and I—and Mary Trueman.”
“How has he progressed?”
“For a time it was slow; his brain seemed stiff, rusted from lack of use—but even in the beginning a thing once mastered never had to be told him again. Now, while he must plod and sweat, he acquires more readily than many normal boys. And he’s tenacious. Once he starts after a problem he has no idea of how to give up. That, I should say, was almost his salient characteristic—that he doesn’t know how to quit.”
“He ought to go to school.”
“It’s impossible to send him here. You have no idea how the town feels toward him…. I’ve seen it in the case of grown men and women, but never before have I seen a community in concentrated effort to drive out a child.”
Henry G. nodded understandingly. “I know. I know the folks…. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to send him away to some school where nobody would know his story—not even his instructors?”
“It might be the saving of him—but Dave and I can’t afford it. I wish we could.”
“If you and Wilkins think it best—if Wilkins is willing to let him go—I’ll undertake the expense. Talk it over and let me know.”
It was a matter to ponder over and Wilkins discussed it with Browning until little of the night remained.
“It’ll be—queer—without the kid,” Wilkins said, moving his feet uneasily. “He’s been a darned interesting experiment…. But it’s the thing to do. To-morrow we’ll thrash it out with him. Don’t believe he’ll cotton to it.”
“It will be separating him from his god,” said Craig. “But he’ll go. If you ask him he’ll go if it breaks his heart—to please you…. By the way, you know you’ve no legal right to his custody.”
“I’ll adopt him.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. He’s got a father at large who may kick up a fuss some day. You’ll be appointed his guardian. I’ll fix up the papers to-morrow.”
When Browning was gone Dave took off his shoes and tiptoed to Angus’s door. He opened it and stood looking at the boy, dimly revealed to him by the moonlight—stood for a long time…. Angus was not the only one to whom the separation would come with pain….
Next morning Browning came, and together he and Wilkins went downstairs to the shop to interview Angus—neither exuberant at the prospect. Angus saw Dave the instant he stepped into the room, and his face lighted, became transmuted by a smile.
“Come over here, Angus,” said Dave.
Sensitive to Wilkins’s moods, Angus caught the underchord of trouble in his voice, and looked apprehensively up into Dave’s eyes.
“Angus, would you like to go to school?” Dave’s question sounded abrupt, curt.
“School…. I dunno….”
“School—where you can be better taught than we can teach you….”
Angus was at a loss. Not comprehending what lay behind the matter, he kept silence.
“Tell him, Browning,” Dave said savagely.
“You know Mr. Woodhouse, Angus. He has offered to do something Dave and I think will be the best thing that could happen to you. He has offered to pay your expenses at a boarding school, where nobody will know you—know about what has happened—and nobody will torment you, and everybody will treat you like—just like any other boy. Would you like that?”
Sudden apprehension fell upon Angus—a premonition. He looked with dumb questioning eyes into Dave’s face.
“It’s not so far away—and we—Dave—could come to see you sometimes….”
“Away?… Away from him?” The boy’s face paled, lengthened, his lips parted.
“The school is down in Ohio—not a long ways off.”
“Would he come, too?” Angus was looking at Dave now.
“No, Angus, Dave couldn’t go with you—to stay. But he would come often to see you.”
“Often,” said Dave in a harsh whisper.
Angus continued to look at him, not accusingly but with a depth of woe in his eyes, reflected from a sorely wounded heart. His friend wanted to be rid of him…. It was the same old thing—to be moved on and on, and again on. He clenched his fists and his lip stiffened to prevent its quivering. Dave, suffering himself, read what was passing in the boy’s mind and drew Angus toward him, bent his thin, angular form until his face was on a level with Angus’s face, until his eyes could look into Angus’s eyes. His arm was about Angus’s shoulders in the first caress the boy could remember.
“It’s not that, Angus—never. I want you to stay.” He shook the boy in his eagerness to impress understanding. “You’re my boy. I want you here. I—I’m sending you away because—because—Hell’s Bells!—because I’ve got to.”
Angus’s eyes continued to devour Dave’s face, as though they sought to pierce to the innermost recesses of his heart. Dave met gaze with honest gaze. “It’s true, Angus,” he said.
Then Angus smiled. He believed. His friend, his hero, his god did not want to cast him off, but for some mysterious reason must send him away. It gave his friend pain to part with him…. He lifted an ink-stained hand and touched Wilkins’s arm timidly. It was a returned caress—a queer, suppressed, clumsy effort to comfort…. Dave coughed savagely.
“He sha’n’t go unless he wants to,” he said.
Browning was suddenly inspired. “Angus, you said the other day that you were going to stand up for yourself. Do you really want to stand up for yourself?”
“I got to.”
“Then you must go, Angus. That will be standing up for yourself—doing the biggest thing you can do to stand up for yourself.”
Angus looked to Dave for confirmation.
“Yes,” said Dave, “Yes….”
The boy made no comment, because he could think of nothing to say.
“You think it over, Angus…. It’s for you to decide,” Dave said. “It’s for you to do as you want to.”
Angus paused, shook his head. “I got to stand up for myself,” he said, as if that closed the matter. “I got to go.”