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 pass, 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 mass 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
quantity 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 sunshine, 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 chores.
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:
_Fergus MacGregor
and
Norton Carr
request the pleasure of
your company at dinner
Friday evening, April twenty-third,
at the office of
The Hempfield Star
to meet
Tom, Dick, and Old Harry_
R. S. V. P.
"What in the world!" exclaimed Harriet.
It was as much of a surprise to Anthy and the old Captain as it was to
us. As for Ed Smith, he had so far lost his breath trying to keep up
with Nort that he no longer had the capacity for being surprised at
anything.
I cannot attempt an adequate description of that evening's celebration.
Though we did not know it at the time it brought us to the very climax
and crisis of that period of our lives. It was the glorious end of an
epoch in the history of the _Star_ of Hempfield.
Nort and Fergus had cleaned out the back room of the shop, and a table
was set up in the middle of it with just chairs enough for our own
company, including one stool upon which Tom, the cat, was intermittently
induced to sit by Nort. Dick's cage was hung from the ceiling over the
table, where for a time he seemed quite alive to the importance of the
occasion, but soon went off to sleep on his perch with his head drawn
down among his yellow feathers.
The meal itself came mostly by the hands of Joe Miller, coloured, of the
Hempfield House, who smiled broadly during the entire evening, but the
_piece de resistance_, the crowning glory of the evening, was an
enormous steak which Nort and Fergus, with much discussion and more
perspiration, and not a few smudges and scratches, broiled over the
coals in our office stove. I may say that in the effort to produce these
coals the office was heated all the afternoon to such a temperature that
it drove us all out. I shall not forget the sight of Nort coming in at
the door carrying the triumphant steak, still in the broiler, with
Fergus crouching and dodging along beside him, holding a part of an old
press fly under it to catch any drippings. I remember the look on his
glowing face and the smile he wore! He let the steak slide out of the
broiler, to Harriet's horror, upon the huge hotel platter.
"There!" he exclaimed.
We all cheered wildly, and Joe Miller, with a carving knife in one hand
and a fork in the other, hovered behind, his black face one great smile.
Fergus was quite wonderfully dressed up for the occasion with a very
tall collar and a red necktie, and cuffs that positively would not stay
up, and his attempt to brush his hair had produced the most astounding
storm effects. But he appeared happy, if uncomfortable. As for Harriet,
I have not seen her look so young and pretty for years. It was
altogether a little irregular and shocking to her, but she met it with a
sort of fearful joy.
[Illustration: The old Captain was perfect. He was a very pattern of
gallantry]
The old Captain was perfect. He was dressed in his very best
clothes--his longest-tailed coat--and wore a flower in his buttonhole,
and he told us the most surprising stories of his early life. He was
also a very pattern of gallantry, and in several passages with Harriet
decidedly got the worst of it.
How I love such moments--as perfect as anything in this life of ours;
friends all about, and good comradeship, and jolly stories, and lively
talk, and good things to eat. And surely never was there a finer evening
for just such a celebration. The cool spring air coming in across the
lilacs and heavy with the scent of them, the shaded lamp, the occasional
friendly sounds from the street, and finally, and to the amazement of us
all, the town clock striking twelve. What a beautiful and wonderful
thing life is!
[Illustration]