Part 26 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XX

THE CELEBRATION

Nothing, finally, continues long in this world. At moments of high happiness and grand endeavour we are tempted to think that the world is solid happiness all the way through. But in reality the interior of the planet of life is molten and the crust terribly thin: we never know at what moment an earthquake may rend what has seemed to us the indestructible foundations of our existence.

The _Star_ had been wonderfully successful, and Nort had been going from glory to dazzling glory, having everything his own way, and coming, I have no doubt, to think himself something of an exception to the common lot of poor human nature. He was in the first bloom of his genius (you will yet hear from Norton Carr, mark my word), and like many another ardent young man he thought the world was made for him, not he for the world. He liked people, and he knew that people liked him--and presumed upon it. And more and more he loved to toss off his glittering ideas and his wonderful plans, enjoying the bedazzlement which they aroused and ready to laugh at those who were too easily taken in. At first he was willing to sit down and work hard to bring his dreams to pa.s.s, but he had never been trained to steady effort, and unless he was forced it was irksome to him. He liked to explain his ideas and let any one else work them out, or drop them. He was like that vagabond of birds, the cuckoo, always laying eggs in the nests of other birds, knowing with a sort of sardonic humour that if they _did_ hatch the young birds would and could be nothing but cuckoos.

As spring advanced Nort grew still more undependable. It seemed to get into his very blood. I would catch him looking out of the open window of our office into the ma.s.s of lilac leaves, or lifting his chin to take in a full breath of the good outdoors, and when he whistled, and he was often whistling, the low monotonous note had a curious lift and stir in it. He was frequently moody, and when he did burst out it was almost never to Anthy. He seemed actually to avoid Anthy, and yet without any set purpose of doing so. And of all of us he liked best to talk with Fergus, who treated him very much as a she-bear treats her cub, with evidences of burly affection which usually left claw marks.

I could see that all this was getting to be very distressing to Anthy.

Perhaps she felt that the pace the _Star_ was setting was far too great to keep; perhaps she felt that too much rested upon the uncertain quant.i.ty which was Nort--and perhaps, down deep, she had begun to have a more than ordinary interest in Nort. She was not one of those women who are quickly awakened, and she was absorbed in her enterprise, and, besides, to all outward appearances, Nort was a mere tramp printer and her own employee.

One bright forenoon in April, one of those utterly perfect spring days in which April appears in the coquettish garb of June, I saw Nort suddenly start up from his work, seize his coat, and shoot out of the door. In the afternoon, as I was going homeward along the lanes and across the fields, I came upon him in a grove of young maple trees. He was lying flat on his back in the leaves, all flecked with suns.h.i.+ne, his arms opened wide, one leg lifted high over the other. He was looking up into the green wonder of the vegetation. Such a look of sheer pagan joy of life I have rarely seen on a human face. When he saw me he sprang to his feet.

”Isn't it wonderful--all of it?” he said. ”Why, David, I could write poetry, if I knew how!”

”Or paint pictures--or carve statues, or compose music,” I put in.

”Anything is possible on a day like this!”

”Except printing a country newspaper.”

He laughed ruefully, threw back his head impatiently and utterly refused to discuss that subject.

I took the rascal home with me, to Harriet's delight, and he followed me around afterward, while I did my ch.o.r.es.

The next morning, just as he was starting for town, he began telling Harriet how much he had enjoyed coming to see us--so many times during the past months.

”I wish,” he said, ”there was some way of showing you and David how much I appreciate it.”

Here he stopped abruptly and his eyes began to glow.

”I have it. A great idea! You're in it, Miss Grayson!”

Harriet stood watching his slight active figure until it quite disappeared beyond the hill. Then she came in, looking absent-minded, a very rare expression for her, and I even thought I heard her sigh softly.

”What's the matter, Harriet?”

”That boy! That perfectly irresponsible boy! He needs some one to look after him.”

Nort's idea was not long in bearing fruit. Harriet found the letter in the mail box addressed to both of us in Nort's handwriting. She brought it in, tearing it open curiously.

”I can't _conceive_--addressed to both of us.”

She finally opened it and produced a card neatly printed with these words: