A Poor Wise Man

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  CHAPTER XIII

  For three weeks Lily did not see Louis Akers, nor did she go back to thehouse on Cardew Way. She hated doing clandestine or forbidden things,and she was, too, determined to add nothing to the tenseness she beganto realize existed at home. She went through her days, struggling to fitherself again into the old environment, reading to her mother,lending herself with assumed enthusiasm to such small gayeties as Lentpermitted, and doing penance in a dozen ways for that stolen afternoonwith Louis Akers.

  She had been forbidden to see him again. It had come about by Grace'sconfession to Howard as to Lily's visit to the Doyles. He had notobjected to that.

  "Unless Doyle talks his rubbish to her," he said. "She said somethingthe other night that didn't sound like her. Was any one else there?"

  "An attorney named Akers," she said.

  And at that Howard had scowled.

  "She'd better keep away altogether," he observed, curtly. "She oughtn'tto meet men like that."

  "Shall I tell her?"

  "I'll tell her," he said. And tell her he did, not too tactfully, andman-like shielding her by not telling her his reasons.

  "He's not the sort of man I want you to know," he finished. "That oughtto be sufficient. Have you seen him since?"

  Lily flushed, but she did not like to lie.

  "I had tea with him one afternoon. I often have tea with men, father.You know that."

  "You knew I wouldn't approve, or you would have mentioned it."

  Because he felt that he had been rather ruthless with her, he stoppedin at the jeweler's the next morning and sent her a tiny jeweled watch.Lily was touched and repentant. She made up her mind not to see LouisAkers again, and found a certain relief in the decision. She wasconscious that he had a peculiar attraction for her, a purely emotionalappeal. He made her feel alive. Even when she disapproved of him, shewas conscious of him. She put him resolutely out of her mind, to havehim reappear in her dreams, not as a lover, but as some one dominant andinsistent, commanding her to do absurd, inconsequential things.

  Now and then she saw Willy Cameron, and they had gone back, apparently,to the old friendly relationship. They walked together, and once theywent to the moving pictures, to Grace's horror. But there were nopeanuts to eat, and instead of the jingling camp piano there was anorchestra, and it was all strangely different. Even Willy Cameron wasdifferent. He was very silent, and on the way home he did not once speakof the plain people.

  Louis Akers had both written and telephoned her, but she made excuses,and did not see him, and the last time he had hung up the receiverabruptly. She felt an odd mixture of relief and regret.

  Then, about the middle of April, she saw him again.

  Spring was well on by that time. Before the Doyle house on Cardew Waythe two horse-chestnuts were showing great red-brown buds, ready to fallinto leaf with the first warm day, and Elinor, assisted by Jennie,the elderly maid, was finishing her spring house-cleaning. The Cardewmansion showed window-boxes at each window, filled by the florist withspring flowers, to be replaced later by summer ones. A potted primrosesat behind the plate glass of the Eagle Pharmacy, among packets offlower seeds and spring tonics, its leaves occasionally nibbled bythe pharmacy cat, out of some atavistic craving survived through longgenerations of city streets.

  The children's playground near the Lily furnace was ready; Howard Cardewhimself had overseen the locations of the swings and chute-the-chutes.And at Friendship an army of workers was sprinkling and tamping the turfof the polo field. After two years of war, there was to be polo againthat spring and early summer. The Cherry Hill Hunt team was stillintact, although some of the visiting outfits had been badly shot topieces by the war. But the war was over. It lay behind, a nightmare tobe forgotten as soon as possible. It had left its train of misery anddebt, but--spring had come.

  On a pleasant Monday, Lily motored out to the field with Pink Denslow.It had touched her that he still wanted her, and it had offered anescape from her own worries. She was fighting a sense of failure thatday. It seemed impossible to reconcile the warring elements at home.Old Anthony and his son were quarreling over the strike, and Anthony wasjibing constantly at Howard over the playground. It was not so much hergrandfather's irritability that depressed her as his tyranny over thehousehold, and his attitude toward her mother roused her to bitterresentment.

  The night before she had left the table after one of his scourgingspeeches, only to have what amounted to a scene with her motherafterward.

  "But I cannot sit by while he insults you, mother."

  "It is just his way. I don't mind, really. Oh, Lily, don't destroy whatI have built up so carefully. It hurts your father so."

  "Sometimes," Lily said slowly, "he makes me think Aunt Elinor's husbandwas right. He believes a lot of things--"

  "What things?" Grace had asked, suspiciously.

  Lily hesitated.

  "Well, a sort of Socialism, for one thing, only it isn't exactly that.It's individualism, really, or I think so; the sort of thing that thishouse stifles." Grace was too horrified for speech. "I don't want tohurt you, mother, but don't you see? He tyrannizes over all of us, andit's bad for our souls. Why should he bellow at the servants? Or talk toyou the way he did to-night?" She smiled faintly. "We're all drowning,and I want to swim, that's all. Mr. Doyle--"

  "You are talking nonsense," said Grace sharply. "You have got a lot ofideas from that wretched house, and now you think they are your own.Lily, I warn you, if you insist on going back to the Doyles I shall takeyou abroad."

  Lily turned and walked out of the room, and there was somethingsuggestive of old Anthony in the pitch of her shoulders. Her anger didnot last long, but her uneasiness persisted. Already she knew that shewas older in many ways than Grace; she had matured in the past year morethan her mother in twenty, and she felt rather like a woman obeying themandates of a child.

  But on that pleasant Monday she was determined to be happy.

  "Old world begins to look pretty, doesn't it?" said Pink, breaking in onher thoughts.

  "Lovely."

  "It's not a bad place to live in, after all," said Pink, trying to cheerhis own rather unhappy humor. "There is always spring to expect, when weget low in winter. And there are horses and dogs, and--and blossoms onthe trees, and all that." What he meant was, "If there isn't love."

  "You are perfectly satisfied with things just as they are, aren't you?"Lily asked, half enviously.

  "Well, I'd change some things." He stopped. He wasn't going to go roundsighing like a furnace. "But it's a pretty good sort of place. I'm forit."

  "Have you sent your ponies out?"

  "Only two. I want to show you one I bought from the Government almostfor nothing. Remount man piped me off. Light in flesh, rather, but fast.Handy, light mouth--all he needs is a bit of training."

  They had been in the open country for some time, but now they wereapproaching the Cardew's Friendship plant. The furnaces had covered thefields with a thin deposit of reddish ore dust. Such blighted grassas grew had already lost its fresh green, and the trees showed stuntedblossoms. The one oasis of freshness was the polo field itself,carefully irrigated by underground pipes. The field, with its stablesand grandstand, had been the gift of Anthony Cardew, thereby promotingmuch discussion with his son. For Howard had wanted the land for certainpurposes of his own, to build a clubhouse for the men at the plant, witha baseball field. Finding his father obdurate in that, he had urged thatthe field be thrown open to the men and their families, save immediatelypreceding and during the polo season. But he had failed there, too.Anthony Cardew had insisted, and with some reason, that to usethe grounds for band concerts and baseball games, for picnics andplaygrounds, would ruin the turf for its legitimate purpose.

  Howard had subsequently found other land, and out of his own privatemeans had carried out his plans, but the location was less desirable.And he knew what his father refused to believe, that the polo ground,taking up space badly needed for other purposes, was a continua
lgrievance.

  Suddenly Pink stared ahead.

  "I say," he said, "have they changed the rule about that sort of thing?"

  He pointed to the field. A diamond had been roughly outlined on it withbags of sand, and a ball-game was in progress, boys playing, but a longline of men watching from the side lines.

  "I don't know, but it doesn't hurt anything."

  "Ruins the turf, that's all." He stopped the car and got out. "Look atthis sign. It says 'ball-playing or any trespassing forbidden on thesegrounds.' I'll clear them off."

  "I wouldn't, Pink. They may be ugly."

  But he only smiled at her reassuringly, and went off. She watched himgo with many misgivings, his sturdy young figure, his careful dress, hisair of the young aristocrat, easy, domineering, unconsciously insolent.They would resent him, she knew, those men and boys. And after all, whyshould they not use the field? There was injustice in that sign.

  Yet her liking and real sympathy were with Pink.

  "Pink!" she called, "Come back here. Let them alone."

  He turned toward her a face slightly flushed with indignation and setwith purpose.

  "Sorry. Can't do it, Lily. This sort of thing's got to be stopped."

  She felt, rather hopelessly, that he was wrong, but that he was right,too. The grounds were private property. She sat back and watched.

  Pink was angry. She could hear his voice, see his gestures. He wasshooing them off like a lot of chickens, and they were laughing. Thegame had stopped, and the side lines were pressing forward. There was amoment's debate, with raised voices, a sullen muttering from the crowd,and the line closing into a circle. The last thing she saw before itclosed was a man lunging at Pink, and his counter-feint. Then some onewas down. If it was Pink he was not out, for there was fighting stillgoing on. The laborers working on the grounds were running.

  Lily stood up in the car, pale and sickened. She was only vaguelyconscious of a car that suddenly left the road, and dashed recklesslyacross the priceless turf, but she did see, and recognize, Louis Akersas he leaped from it and flinging men this way and that disappeared intothe storm center. She could hear his voice, too, loud and angry, and seethe quick dispersal of the crowd. Some of the men, foreigners, passedquite near to her, and eyed her either sullenly or with mocking smiles.She was quite oblivious of them. She got out and ran with shaking kneesacross to where Pink lay on the grass, his profile white and sharplychiseled, with two or three men bending over him.

  Pink was dead. Those brutes had killed him. Pink.

  He was not dead. He was moving his arms.

  Louis Akers straightened when he saw her and took off his hat.

  "Nothing to worry about, Miss Cardew," he said. "But what sort ofidiocy--! Hello, old man, all right now?"

  Pink sat up, then rose stiffly and awkwardly. He had a cut over one eye,and he felt for his handkerchief.

  "Fouled me," he said. "Filthy lot, anyhow. Wonder they didn't walk on mewhen I was down." He turned to the grounds-keeper, who had come up. "Youought to know better than to let those fellows cut up this turf," hesaid angrily. "What're you here for anyhow?"

  But he was suddenly very sick. He looked at Lily, his face drawn andblanched.

  "Got me right," he muttered. "I--"

  "Get into my car," said Akers, not too amiably. "I'll drive you to thestables. I'll be back, Miss Cardew."

  Lily went back to the car and sat down. She was shocked and startled,but she was strangely excited. The crowd had beaten Pink, but it hadobeyed Louis Akers like a master. He was a man. He was a strong man. Hemust be built of iron. Mentally she saw him again, driving recklesslyover the turf, throwing the men to right and left, hoarse with anger,tall, dominant, powerful.

  It was more important that a man be a man than that he be a gentleman.

  After a little he drove back across the field, sending the car forwardagain at reckless speed. Some vision of her grandfather, watching themachine careening over the still soft and spongy turf and leaving deeptracks behind it, made her smile. Akers leaped out.

  "No need to worry about our young friend," he said cheerfully. "He isalternately being very sick at his stomach and cursing the poor workingman. But I think I'd better drive you back. He'll be poor company, I'llsay that."

  He looked at her, his bold eyes challenging, belying the amiablegentleness of his smile.

  "I'd better let him know."

  "I told him. He isn't strong for me. Always hate the fellow who savesyou, you know. But he didn't object."

  Lily moved into his car obediently. She felt a strange inclination to dowhat this man wanted. Rather, it was an inability to oppose him. He wenton, big, strong, and imperious. And he carried one along. It was easyand queer. But she did, unconsciously, what she had never done with Pinkor any other man; she sat as far away from him on the wide seat as shecould.

  He noticed that, and smiled ahead, over the wheel. He had beeninfuriated over her avoidance of him, but if she was afraid of him--

  "Bully engine in this car. Never have to change a gear."

  "You certainly made a road through the field."

  "They'll fix that, all right. Are you warm enough?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  "You have been treating me very badly, you know, Miss Cardew."

  "I have been frightfully busy."

  "That's not true, and you know it. You've been forbidden to see me,haven't you?"

  "I have been forbidden to go back to Cardew Way."

  "They don't know about me, then?"

  "There isn't very much to know, is there?"

  "I wish you wouldn't fence with me," he said impatiently. "I told youonce I was frank. I want you to answer one question. If this thingrested with you, would you see me again?"

  "I think I would, Mr. Akers," she said honestly.

  Had she ever known a man like the one beside her, she would not havegiven him that opportunity. He glanced sharply around, and then suddenlystopped the car and turned toward her.

  "I'm crazy about you, and you know it," he said. And roughly, violently,he caught her to him and kissed her again and again. Her arms werepinned to her sides, and she was helpless. After a brief struggle tofree herself she merely shut her eyes and waited for him to stop.

  "I'm mad about you," he whispered.

  Then he freed her. Lily wanted to feel angry, but she felt onlyhumiliated and rather soiled. There were men like that, then, men whogave way to violent impulses, who lost control of themselves and had toapologize afterwards. She hated him, but she was sorry for him, too. Hewould have to be so humble. She was staring ahead, white and waiting forhis explanation, when he released the brake and started the car forwardslowly.

  "Well?" he said, with a faint smile.

  "You will have to apologize for that, Mr. Akers."

  "I'm damned if I will. That man back there, Denslow--he's the sort whowould kiss a girl and then crawl about it afterwards. I won't. I'm notsorry. A strong man can digest his own sins. I kissed you because Iwanted to. It wasn't an impulse. I meant to when we started. And you'reonly doing the conventional thing and pretending to be angry. You're notangry. Good God, girl, be yourself once in a while."

  "I'm afraid I don't understand you." Her voice was haughty. "And I mustask you to stop the car and let me get out."

  "I'll do nothing of the sort, of course. Now get this straight, MissCardew. I haven't done you any harm. I may have a brutal way of showingthat I'm crazy about you, but it's my way. I'm a man, and I'm no handkisser."

  And when she said nothing:

  "You think I'm unrestrained, and I am, in a way. But if I did what Ireally want to do, I'd not take you home at all. I'd steal you. You'vedone something to me, God knows what."

  "Then I can only say I'm sorry," Lily said slowly.

  She felt strangely helpless and rather maternal. With all his strengththis sort of man needed to be protected from himself. She felt noanswering thrill whatever to his passion, but as though, having told herhe loved her, he had
placed a considerable responsibility in her hands.

  "I'll be good now," he said. "Mind, I'm not sorry. But I don't want toworry you."

  He made no further overtures to her during the ride, but he was neithersulky nor sheepish. He feigned an anxiety as to the threatened strike,and related at great length and with extreme cleverness of invention hisown efforts to prevent it.

  "I've a good bit of influence with the A.F.L.," he said. "Doyle's in badwith them, but I'm still solid. But it's coming, sure as shooting. Andthey'll win, too."

  He knew women well, and he saw that she was forgiving him. But she wouldnot forget. He had a cynical doctrine, to the effect that a woman'sfirst kiss of passion left an ineradicable mark on her, and he was quitecertain that Lily had never been so kissed before.

  Driving through the park he turned to her:

  "Please forgive me," he said, his mellow voice contrite andsupplicating. "You've been so fine about it that you make me ashamed."

  "I would like to feel that it wouldn't happen again: That's all."

  "That means you intend to see me again. But never is a long word. I'mafraid to promise. You go to my head, Lily Cardew." They were haltedby the traffic, and it gave him a chance to say something he had beeningeniously formulating in his mind. "I've known lots of girls. I'm nosaint. But you are different. You're a good woman. You could do anythingyou wanted with me, if you cared to."

  And because she was young and lovely, and because he was always theslave of youth and beauty, he meant what he said. It was a lie, but hewas lying to himself also, and his voice held unmistakable sincerity.But even then he was watching her, weighing the effect of his words onher. He saw that she was touched.

  He was very well pleased with himself on his way home. He left thecar at the public garage, and walked, whistling blithely, to his smallbachelor apartment. He was a self-indulgent man, and his rooms werecomfortable to the point of luxury. In the sitting room was a desk, asclean and orderly as Doyle's was untidy. Having put on his dressing gownhe went to it, and with a sheet of paper before him sat for some timethinking.

  He found his work irksome at times. True, it had its interest. He wasthe liaison between organized labor, which was conservative in the main,and the radical element, both in and out of the organization. He playeda double game, and his work was always the same, to fan the discontentlatently smoldering in every man's soul into a flame. And to do this hehad not Doyle's fanaticism. Personally, Louis Akers found the world apretty good place. He hated the rich because they had more than he had,but he scorned the poor because they had less. And he liked the feelingof power he had when, on the platform, men swayed to his words likewheat to a wind.

  Personal ambition was his fetish, as power was Anthony Cardew's.Sometimes he walked past the exclusive city clubs, and he dreamed of atime when he, too, would have the entree to them. But time was passing.He was thirty-three years old when Jim Doyle crossed his path, and theclubs were as far away as ever. It was Doyle who found the weak placein his armor, and who taught him that when one could not rise it waspossible to pull others down.

  But it was Woslosky, the Americanized Pole; who had put the thing in amore appealing form.

  "Our friend Doyle to the contrary," he said cynically, "we cannot hopeto contend against the inevitable. The few will always govern the many,in the end. It will be the old cycle, autocracy, anarchy, and thendemocracy; but out of this last comes always the one man who crownshimself or is crowned. One of the people. You, or myself, it may be."

  The Pole had smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  Akers did not go to work immediately. He sat for some time, a cigarettein his hand, his eyes slightly narrowed. He believed that he could marryLily Cardew. It would take time and all his skill, but he believed hecould do it. His mind wandered to Lily herself, her youth and charm, hersoft red mouth, the feel of her warm young body in his arms. He broughthimself up sharply. Where would such a marriage take him?

  He pondered the question pro and con. On the one hand the Cardews, onthe other, Doyle and a revolutionary movement. A revolution would beinteresting and exciting, and there was strong in him the desire to pulldown. But revolution was troublesome. It was violent and bloody. Even ifit succeeded it would be years before the country would be stabilized.This other, now--

  He sat low in his chair, his long legs stretched out in his favoriteposition, and dreamed. He would not play the fool like Doyle. He wouldconciliate the family. In the end he would be put up at the clubs; hemight even play polo. His thoughts wandered to Pink Denslow at the pologrounds, and he grinned.

  "Young fool!" he reflected. "If I can't beat his time--" He ordereddinner to be sent up, and mixed himself a cocktail, using the utmostcare in its preparation. Drinking it, he eyed himself complacently inthe small mirror over the mantel. Yes, life was not bad. It was damnedinteresting. It was a game. No, it was a race where a man could so hedgehis bets that he stood to gain, whoever won.

  When there was a knock at the door he did not turn. "Come in," he said.

  But it was not the waiter. It was Edith Boyd. He saw her through themirror, and so addressed her.

  "Hello, sweetie," he said. Then he turned. "You oughtn't to come here,Edith. I've told you about that."

  "I had to see you, Lou."

  "Well, take a good look, then," he said. Her coming fitted in well withthe complacence of his mood. Yes, life was good, so long as it heldpower, and drink, and women.

  He stooped to kiss her, but although she accepted the caress, she didnot return it.

  "Not mad at me, Miss Boyd, are you?"

  "No. Lou, I'm frightened!"