A Poor Wise Man

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER IX

  Lily Cardew inspected curiously the east side neighborhood through whichthe taxi was passing. She knew vaguely that she was in the vicinity ofone of the Cardew mills, but she had never visited any of the Cardewplants. She had never been permitted to do so. Perhaps the neighborhoodwould have impressed her more had she not seen, in the camp, that lifecan be stripped sometimes to its essentials, and still have lost verylittle. But the dinginess depressed her. Smoke was in the atmosphere,like a heavy fog. Soot lay on the window-sills, and mingled with streetdust to form little black whirlpools in the wind. Even the white riversteamers, guiding their heavy laden coal barges with the current, weregray with soft coal smoke. The foam of the river falling in brokencataracts from their stern wheels was oddly white in contrast.

  Everywhere she began to see her own name. "Cardew" was on the ore hoppercars that were moving slowly along a railroad spur. One of the steamersbore "Anthony Cardew" in tall black letters on its side. There was anarrow street called "Cardew Way."

  Aunt Elinor lived on Cardew Way. She wondered if Aunt Elinor found thatcurious, as she did. Did she resent these ever-present reminders of herlost family? Did she have any bitterness because the very grayness ofher skies was making her hard old father richer and more powerful?

  Yet there was comfort, stability and a certain dignity about AuntElinor's house when she reached it. It stood in the district, but notof it, withdrawn from the street in a small open space which gaveindication of being a flower garden in summer. There were two largegaunt trees on either side of a brick walk, and that walk had been sweptto the last degree of neatness. The steps were freshly scoured, and asmall brass door-plate, like a doctor's sign, was as bright as rubbingcould make it. "James Doyle," she read.

  Suddenly she was glad she had come. The little brick house lookedanything but tragic, with its shining windows, its white curtainsand its evenly drawn shades. Through the windows on the right came aflickering light, warm and rosy. There must be a coal fire there. Sheloved a coal fire.

  She had braced herself to meet Aunt Elinor at the door, but an elderlywoman opened it.

  "Mrs. Doyle is in," she said; "just step inside."

  She did not ask Lily's name, but left her in the dark little hall andcreaked up the stairs. Lily hesitated. Then, feeling that Aunt Elinormight not like to find her so unceremoniously received, she pushed opena door which was only partly closed, and made a step into the room. Onlythen did she see that it was occupied. A man sat by the fire, reading.He was holding his book low, to get the light from the fire, and heturned slowly to glance at Lily. He had clearly expected some one else.Elinor, probably.

  "I beg your pardon," Lily said. "I am calling on Mrs. Doyle, and when Isaw the firelight--"

  He stood up then, a tall, thin man, with close-cropped gray mustache andheavy gray hair above a high, bulging forehead. She had never seen JimDoyle, but Mademoiselle had once said that he had pointed ears, like asatyr. She had immediately recanted, on finding Lily searching in a bookfor a picture of a satyr. This man had ears pointed at the top. Lily wastoo startled then to analyze his face, but later on she was to knowwell the high, intellectual forehead, the keen sunken eyes, the fullbut firmly held mouth and pointed, satyr-like ears of that brilliantIrishman, cynic and arch scoundrel, Jim Doyle.

  He was inspecting her intently.

  "Please come in," he said. "Did the maid take your name?"

  "No. I am Lily Cardew."

  "I see." He stood quite still, eyeing her. "You are Anthony'sgranddaughter?"

  "Yes."

  "Just a moment." He went out, closing the door behind him, and sheheard him going quickly up the stairs. A door closed above, and a weightsettled down on the girl's heart. He was not going to let her see AuntElinor. She was frightened, but she was angry, too. She would not runaway. She would wait until he came down, and if he was insolent, well,she could be haughty. She moved to the fire and stood there, slightlyflushed, but very straight.

  She heard him coming down again almost immediately. He was outside thedoor. But he did not come in at once. She had a sudden impression thathe was standing there, his hand on the knob, outlining what he meantto say to her when he showed the door to a hated Cardew. Afterwards shecame to know how right that impression was. He was never spontaneous. Hewas a man who debated everything, calculated everything beforehand.

  When he came in it was slowly, and with his head bent, as though hestill debated within himself. Then:

  "I think I have a right to ask what Anthony Cardew's granddaughter isdoing in my house."

  "Your wife's niece has come to call on her, Mr. Doyle."

  "Are you quite sure that is all?"

  "I assure you that is all," Lily said haughtily. "It had not occurred tome that you would be here."

  "I dare say. Still, strangely enough, I do spend a certain amount oftime in my home."

  Lily picked up her muff.

  "If you have forbidden her to come down, I shall go."

  "Wait," he said slowly. "I haven't forbidden her to see you. I asked herto wait. I wanted a few moments. You see, it is not often that I have aCardew in my house, and I am a selfish man."

  She hated him. She loathed his cold eyes, his long, slim white hands.She hated him until he fascinated her.

  "Sit down, and I will call Mrs. Doyle."

  He went out again, but this time it was the elderly maid who went up thestairs. Doyle himself came back, and stood before her on the hearth rug.He was slightly smiling, and the look of uncertainty was gone.

  "Now that you've seen me, I'm not absolutely poisonous, am I, Miss Lily?You don't mind my calling you that, do you? You are my niece. You havebeen taught to hate me, of course."

  "Yes," said Lily, coldly.

  "By Jove, the truth from a Cardew!" Then: "That's an old habit of mine,damning the Cardews. I'll have to try to get over it, if they are goingto reestablish family relations." He was laughing at her, Lily knew, andshe flushed somewhat.

  "I wouldn't make too great an effort, then," she said.

  He smiled again, this time not unpleasantly, and suddenly he threw intohis rich Irish voice an unexpected softness. No one knew better than JimDoyle the uses of the human voice.

  "You mustn't mind me, Miss Lily. I have no reason to love your family,but I am very happy that you came here to-day. My wife has missed herpeople. If you'll run in like this now and then it will do her worlds ofgood. And if my being here is going to keep you away I can clear out."

  She rather liked him for that speech. He was totally unlike what she hadbeen led to expect, and she felt a sort of resentment toward her familyfor misleading her. He was a gentleman, on the surface at least. Hehad not been over-cordial at first, but then who could have expectedcordiality under the circumstances? In Lily's defense it should be saidthat the vicissitudes of Elinor's life with Doyle had been kept from heralways. She had but two facts to go on: he had beaten her grandfather asa young man, for a cause, and he held views as to labor which conflictedwith those of her family.

  Months later, when she learned all the truth, it was too late.

  "Of course you're being here won't keep me away, if you care to have mecome."

  He was all dignity and charm then. They needed youth in that quietplace. They ought all to be able to forget the past, which was donewith, anyhow. He showed the first genuine interest she had found in herwork at the camp, and before his unexpected geniality the girl openedlike a flower.

  And all the time he was watching her with calculating eyes. He was agambler with life, and he rather suspected that he had just drawn avaluable card.

  "Thank you," he said gravely, when she had finished. "You have done alot to bridge the gulf that lies--I am sure you have noticed it--betweenthe people who saw service in this war and those who stayed at home."

  Suddenly Lily saw that the gulf between her family and herself was justthat, which was what he had intended.

  When Elinor came in they were absorbed in conversation, Li
ly flushed andeager, and her husband smiling, urbane, and genial.

  To Lily, Elinor Doyle had been for years a figure of mystery. She hadnot seen her for many years, and she had, remembered a thin, girlishfigure, tragic-eyed, which eternally stood by a window in her room,looking out. But here was a matronly woman, her face framed with soft,dark hair, with eyes like her father's, with Howard Cardew's ease ofmanner, too, but with a strange passivity, either of repression or offires early burned out and never renewed.

  Lily was vaguely disappointed. Aunt Elinor, in soft gray silk, matronly,assured, unenthusiastically pleased to see her; Doyle himself, cheerfuland suave; the neat servant; the fire lit, comfortable room,--there wasno drama in all that, no hint of mystery or tragedy. All the hatred athome for an impulsive assault of years ago, and--this!

  "Lily, dear!" Elinor said, and kissed her. "Why, Lily, you are a woman!"

  "I am twenty, Aunt Elinor."

  "Yes, of course. I keep forgetting. I live so quietly here that the daysgo by faster than I know." She put Lily back in her chair, and glancedat her husband.

  "Is Louis coming to dinner, Jim?"

  "Yes."

  "I suppose you cannot stay, Lily?"

  "I ought to tell you, Aunt Elinor. Only mother knows that I am here."

  Aunt Elinor smiled her quiet smile.

  "I understand, dear. How are they all?"

  "Grandfather is very well. Father looks tired. There is some trouble atthe mill, I think."

  Elinor glanced at Doyle, but he said nothing.

  "And your mother?"

  "She is well."

  Lily was commencing to have an odd conviction, which was that her AuntElinor was less glad to have her there than was Jim Doyle. He seemedinclined to make up for Elinor's lack of enthusiasm by his own. He builtup a larger fire, and moved her chair near it.

  "Weather's raw," he said. "Sure you are comfortable now? And why nothave dinner here? We have an interesting man coming, and we don't oftenhave the chance to offer our guests a charming young lady."

  "Lily only came home yesterday, Jim," Elinor observed. "Her own peoplewill want to see something of her. Besides, they do no know she ishere."

  Lily felt slightly chilled. For years she had espoused her AuntElinor's cause; in the early days she had painfully hemstitched a smallhandkerchief each fall and had sent it, with much secrecy, to AuntElinor's varying addresses at Christmas. She had felt a childishresentment of Elinor Doyle's martyrdom. And now--

  "Her father and grandfather are dining out to-night." Had Lily looked upshe would have seen Doyle's eyes fixed on his wife, ugly and menacing.

  "Dining out?" Lily glanced at him in surprise.

  "There is a dinner to-night, for the--" He checked himself "The steelmanufacturers are having a meeting," he finished. "I believe to discussme, among other things. Amazing the amount of discussion my simpleopinions bring about."

  Elinor Doyle, unseen, made a little gesture of despair and surrender.

  "I hope you will stay, Lily," she said. "You can telephone, if you like.I don't see you often, and there is so much I want to ask you."

  In the end Lily agreed. She would find out from Grayson if the men werereally dining out, and if they were Grayson would notify her mother thatshe was staying. She did not quite know herself why she had accepted,unless it was because she was bored and restless at home. Perhaps, too,the lure of doing a forbidden thing influenced her sub-consciously, thethought that her grandfather would detest it. She had not forgiven himfor the night before.

  Jim Doyle left her in the back hall at the telephone, and returnedto the sitting room, dosing the door behind him. His face was set andangry.

  "I thought I told you to be pleasant."

  "I tried, Jim. You must remember I hardly know her." She got up andplaced her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. "I don't understand,Jim, and I wish you wouldn't. What good is it?"

  "I've told you what I want. I want that girl to come here, and to likecoming here. That's plain, isn't it? But if you're going to sit with afrozen face--She'll be useful. Useful as hell to a preacher."

  "I can't use my family that way."

  "You and your family! Now listen, Elinor. This isn't a matter o theCardews and me. It may be nothing, but it may be a big thing. I hardlyknow yet--" His voice trailed off; he stood with his head bent, lost inthose eternal calculations with which Elinor Doyle was so familiar.

  The doorbell rang, and was immediately followed by the opening andclosing of the front door.

  From her station at the telephone Lily Cardew saw a man come in, littlemore than a huge black shadow, which placed a hat on the stand and then,striking a match, lighted the gas overhead. In the illumination he stoodbefore the mirror, smoothing back his shining black hair. Then he sawher, stared and retreated into the sitting room.

  "Got company, I see."

  "My niece, Lily Cardew," said Doyle, dryly.

  The gentleman seemed highly amused. Evidently he considered Lily'spresence in the house in the nature of a huge joke. He was conveyingthis by pantomime, in deference to the open door, when Doyle noddedtoward Elinor.

  "It's customary to greet your hostess, Louis."

  "Easiest thing I do," boasted the new arrival cheerily. "'Lo, Mrs.Doyle. Is our niece going to dine with us?"

  "I don't know yet, Mr. Akers," she said, without warmth. Louis Akersknew quite well that Elinor did not like him, and the thought amusedhim, the more so since as a rule women liked him rather too well. Deepin his heart he respected Jim Doyle's wife, and sometimes feared her. Herespected her because she had behind her traditions of birth and wealth,things he professed to despise but secretly envied. He feared herbecause he trusted no woman, and she knew too much.

  She loved Jim Doyle, but he had watched her, and he knew that sometimesshe hated Doyle also. He knew that could be, because there had beenwomen he had both loved and hated himself.

  Elinor had gone out, and Akers sat down.

  "Well," he said, in a lowered tone. "I've written it."

  Doyle closed the door, and stood again with his head lowered,considering.

  "You'd better look over it," continued Lou. "I don't want to be jailed.You're better at skating over thin ice than I am. And I've been thinkingover the Prohibition matter, Jim. In a sense you're right. It will makethem sullen and angry. But they won't go the limit without booze. I'dadvise cache-ing a lot of it somewhere, to be administered when needed."

  Doyle returned to his old place on the hearth-rug, still thoughtful. Hehad paid no attention to Aker's views on Prohibition, nor to the paperlaid upon the desk in the center of the room.

  "Do you know that that girl in the hall will be worth forty milliondollars some day?"

  "Some money," said Akers, calmly. "Which reminds me, Jim, that I've gotto have a raise. And pretty soon."

  "You get plenty, if you'd leave women alone."

  "Tell them to leave me alone, then," said Akers, stretching out his longlegs. "All right. We'll talk about that, after dinner. What about thisforty millions?"

  Doyle looked at him quickly. Akers' speech about women had crystallizedthe vague plans which Lily's arrival had suddenly given rise to. He gavethe young man a careful scrutiny, from his handsome head to his feet,and smiled. It had occurred to him that the Cardew family would loathe aman of Louis Akers' type with an entire and whole-hearted loathing.

  "You might try to make her have a pleasant evening," he suggested dryly."And, to do that, it might be as well to remember a number of things,one of which is that she is accustomed to the society of gentlemen."

  "All right, old dear," said Akers, without resentment.

  "She hates her grandfather like poison," Doyle went on. "She doesn'tknow it, but she does. A little education, and it is just possible--"

  "Get Olga. I'm no kindergarten teacher."

  "You haven't seen her in the light yet."

  Louis Akers smiled and carefully settled his tie.

  Like Doyle, Akers loved the game of
life, and he liked playing for highstakes. He had joined forces with Doyle because the game was dangerousand exciting, rather than because of any real conviction. Doyle hada fanatic faith, with all his calculation, but Louis Akers hadonly calculation and ambition. A practicing attorney in the city, aspecialist in union law openly, a Red in secret, he played his triplegame shrewdly and with zest.

  Doyle turned to go, then stopped and came back. "I was forgettingsomething," he said, slowly. "What possessed you to take that Boyd girlto the Searing Building the other night?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "Woslosky saw you coming out."

  "I had left something there," Akers said sullenly. "That's the truth,whether you believe it or not. I wasn't there two minutes."

  "You're a fool, Louis," Doyle said coldly. "You'll play that game oncetoo often. What happens to you is your own concern, but what may happento me is mine. And I'll take mighty good care it doesn't happen."

  Doyle was all unction and hospitality when he met Lily in the hall. Atdinner he was brilliant, witty, the gracious host. Akers played up tohim. At the foot of the table Elinor sat, outwardly passive, inwardlypuzzled, and watched Lily. She knew the contrast the girl must bedrawing, between the bright little meal, with its simple service andclever talk, and those dreary formal dinners at home when old Anthonysometimes never spoke at all, or again used his caustic tongue like ascourge. Elinor did not hate her father; he was simply no longer herfather. As for Howard, she had had a childish affection for him, but hehad gone away early to school, and she hardly knew him. But she didnot want his child here, drinking in as she was, without clearlyunderstanding what they meant, Doyle's theories of unrest andrevolution.

  "You will find that I am an idealist, in a way," he was saying. "Thatis, if you come often. I hope you will, by the way. I am perpetuallydissatisfied with things as they are, and wanting them changed. Withthe single exception of my wife"--he bowed to Elinor, "and this littleparty, which is delightful."

  "Are you a Socialist?" Lily demanded, in her direct way.

  "Well, you might call it that. I go a bit further."

  "Don't talk politics, Jim," Elinor hastily interposed. He caught her eyeand grinned.

  "I'm not talking politics, my dear." He turned to Lily, smiling.

  "For one thing, I don't believe that any one should have a lot ofmoney, so that a taxicab could remain ticking away fabulous sums while acharming young lady dines at her leisure." He smiled again.

  "Will it be a lot?" Lily asked. "I thought I'd better keep him,because--" She hesitated.

  "Because this neighborhood is unlikely to have a cab stand? Youwere entirely right. But I can see that you won't like my idealisticcommunity. You see, in it everybody will have enough, and nobody willhave too much."

  "Don't take him too seriously, Miss Cardew," said Akers, bendingforward. "You and I know that there isn't such a thing as too much."

  Elinor changed the subject; as a girl she had drawn rather well, and shehad retained her interest in that form of art. There was an exhibitionin town of colored drawings. Lily should see them. But Jim Doylecountered her move.

  "I forgot to mention," he said, "that in this ideal world we werediscussing the arts will flourish. Not at once, of course, because theartists will be fighting--"

  "Fighting?"

  "Per aspera ad astra," put in Louis Akers. "You cannot change a world ina day, without revolution--"

  "But you don't believe that revolution is ever worth while, do you?"

  "If it would drive starvation and wretchedness from the world, yes."

  Lily found Louis Akers interesting. Certainly he was very handsome. Andafter all, why should there be misery and hunger in the world? Theremust be enough for all. It was hardly fair, for instance, that sheshould have so much, and others scarcely anything. Only it was likethinking about religion; you didn't get anywhere with it. You wanted tobe good, and tried to be. And you wanted to love God, only He seemed sofar away, mostly. And even that was confusing, because you prayed to Godto be forgiven for wickedness, but it was to His Son our Lord one wentfor help in trouble.

  One could be sorry for the poor, and even give away all one had, butthat would only help a few. It would have to be that every one who hadtoo much would give up all but what he needed.

  Lily tried to put that into words.

  "Exactly," said Jim Doyle. "Only in my new world we realize that therewould be a few craven spirits who might not willingly give up what theyhave. In that case it would be taken from them."

  "And that is what you call revolution?"

  "Precisely."

  "But that's not revolution. It is a sort of justice, isn't it?"

  "You think very straight, young lady," said Jim Doyle.

  He had a fascinating theory of individualism, too; no man should imposehis will and no community its laws, on the individual. Laws were forslaves. Ethics were better than laws, to control.

  "Although," he added, urbanely, "I daresay it might be difficult toconvert Mr. Anthony Cardew to such a belief."

  While Louis Akers saw Lily to her taxicab that night Doyle stood in thehall, waiting. He was very content with his evening's work.

  "Well?" he said, when Akers returned.

  "Merry as a marriage bell. I'm to show her the Brunelleschi drawingsto-morrow."

  Slightly flushed, he smoothed his hair in front of the mirror over thestand.

  "She's a nice child," he said. In his eyes was the look of the huntinganimal that scents food.