CHAPTER XIV
On clear Sundays Anthony Cardew played golf all day. He kept hisreligious observances for bad weather, but at such times as he attendedservice he did it with the decorum and dignity of a Cardew, who bowed tohis God but to nothing else. He made the responses properly and with acertain unction, and sat during the sermon with a vigilant eye on thechoir boys, who wriggled. Now and then, however, the eye wandered tothe great stained glass window which was a memorial to his wife. It saidbeneath: "In memoriam, Lilian Lethbridge Cardew."
He thought there was too much yellow in John the Baptist. On the Sundayafternoon following her ride into the city with Louis Akers, Lily foundherself alone. Anthony was golfing and Grace and Howard had motored outof town for luncheon. In a small office near the rear of the hall thesecond man dozed, waiting for the doorbell. There would be people infor tea later, as always on Sunday afternoons; girls and men, walkingthrough the park or motoring up in smart cars, the men a trifle boredbecause they were not golfing or riding, the girls chattering about thesmall inessentials which somehow they made so important.
Lily was wretchedly unhappy. For one thing, she had begun to feel thatMademoiselle was exercising over her a sort of gentle espionage, and shethought her grandfather was behind it. Out of sheer rebellion she hadgone again to the house on Cardew Way, to find Elinor out and Jim Doylewriting at his desk. He had received her cordially, and had talked toher as an equal. His deferential attitude had soothed her wounded pride,and she had told him something--very little--of the situation at home.
"Then you are still forbidden to come here?"
"Yes. As if what happened years ago matters now, Mr. Doyle."
He eyed her.
"Don't let them break your spirit, Lily," he had said. "Success canmake people very hard. I don't know myself what success would do tome. Plenty, probably." He smiled. "It isn't the past your people won'tforgive me, Lily. It's my failure to succeed in what they call success."
"It isn't that," she had said hastily. "It is--they say you areinflammatory. Of course they don't understand. I have tried to tellthem, but--"
"There are fires that purify," he had said, smilingly.
She had gone home, discontented with her family's lack of vision, andwith herself.
She was in a curious frame of mind. The thought of Louis Akers repelledher, but she thought of him constantly. She analyzed him clearly enough;he was not fine and not sensitive. He was not even kind. Indeed, shefelt that he could be both cruel and ruthless. And if she was the firstgood woman he had ever known, then he must have had a hateful past.
The thought that he had kissed her turned her hot with anger and shameat such times, but the thought recurred.
Had she had occupation perhaps she might have been saved, but she hadnothing to do. The house went on with its disciplined service; Lent hadmade its small demands as to church services, and was over. The weatherwas bad, and the golf links still soggy with the spring rains. Herwardrobe was long ago replenished, and that small interest gone.
And somehow there had opened a breach between herself and the littleintimate group that had been hers before the war. She wondered sometimeswhat they would think of Louis Akers. They would admire him, at first,for his opulent good looks, but very soon they would recognize what sheknew so well--the gulf between him and the men of their own world, sohard a distinction to divine, yet so real for all that. They would knowinstinctively that under his veneer of good manners was something coarseand crude, as she did, and they would politely snub him. She had no nameand no knowledge for the urge in the man that she vaguely recognized andresented. But she had a full knowledge of the obsession he was becomingin her mind.
"If I could see him here," she reflected, more than once, "I'd get overthinking about him. It's because they forbid me to see him. It's sheercontrariness."
But it was not, and she knew it. She had never heard of his theory aboutthe mark on a woman.
She was hating herself very vigorously on that Sunday afternoon.Mademoiselle and she had lunched alone in Lily's sitting-room, andMademoiselle had dozed off in her chair afterwards, a novel on her knee.Lily was wandering about downstairs when the telephone rang, and she hada quick conviction that it was Louis Akers. It was only Willy Cameron,however, asking her if she cared to go for a walk.
"I've promised Jinx one all day," he explained, "and we might as wellcombine, if you are not busy."
She smiled at that.
"I'd love it," she said. "In the park?"
"Wait a moment." Then: "Yes, Jinx says the park is right."
His wholesome nonsense was good for her. She drew a long breath.
"You are precisely the person I need to-day," she said. "And come soon,because I shall have to be back at five."
When he came he was very neat indeed, and most scrupulous as to hisheels being polished. He was also slightly breathless.
"Had to sew a button on my coat," he explained. "Then I found I'd sewedin one of my fingers and had to start all over again."
Lily was conscious of a change in him. He looked older, she thought, andthinner. His smile, when it came, was as boyish as ever, but he didnot smile so much, and seen in full daylight he was shabby. He seemedtotally unconscious of his clothes, however.
"What do you do with yourself, Willy?" she asked. "I mean when you arefree?"
"Read and study. I want to take up metallurgy pretty soon. There's anight course at the college."
"We use metallurgists in the mill. When you are ready I know fatherwould be glad to have you."
He flushed at that.
"Thanks," he said. "I'd rather get in, wherever I go, by what I know,and not who I know."
She felt considerably snubbed, but she knew his curious pride. After atime, while he threw a stick into the park lake and Jinx retrieved it,he said:
"What do you do with yourself these days, Lily?"
"Nothing. I've forgotten how to work, I'm afraid. And I'm not veryhappy, Willy. I ought to be, but I'm just--not."
"You've learned what it is to be useful," he observed gravely, "and nowit hardly seems worth while just to live, and nothing else. Is that it?"
"I suppose."
"Isn't there anything you can do?"
"They won't let me work, and I hate to study."
There was a silence. Willy Cameron sat on the bench, bent and staringahead. Jinx brought the stick, and, receiving no attention, insinuated adripping body between his knees. He patted the dog's head absently.
"I have been thinking about the night I went to dinner at your house,"he said at last. "I had no business to say what I said then. I've gota miserable habit of saying just what comes into my mind, and I've beenafraid, ever since, that it would end in your not wanting to see meagain. Just try to forget it happened, won't you?"
"I knew it was an impulse, but it made me very proud, Willy."
"All right," he said quietly. "And that's that. Now about yourgrandfather. I've had him on my mind, too. He is an old man, andsometimes they are peculiar. I am only sorry I upset him. And you are toforget that, too."
In spite of herself she laughed, rather helplessly.
"Is there anything I am to remember?"
He smiled too, and straightened himself, like a man who has gotsomething off his chest.
"Certainly there is, Miss Cardew. Me. Myself. I want you to know thatI'm around, ready to fetch and carry like Jinx here, and about asnecessary, I suppose. We are a good bit alike, Jinx and I. We'resatisfied with a bone, and we give a lot of affection. You won't mind abone now and then?"
His cheerful tone reassured the girl. There was no real hurt, then.
"That's nice of you, you know."
"Well," he said slowly, "you know there are men who prefer a dream toreality. Perhaps I'm like that. Anyhow, that's enough about me. Do youknow that there is a strike coming?"
"Yes. I ought to tell you, Willy. I think the men are right."
He stared at her incredulously.
"Right
?" he said. "Why, my dear child, most of them want to strike aboutas much as I want delirium tremens. I've talked to them, and I know."
"A slave may be satisfied if he has never known freedom."
"Oh, fudge," said Willy Cameron, rudely. "Where do you get all that?You're quoting; aren't you? The strike, any strike, is an acknowledgmentof weakness. It is a resort to the physical because the collectivementality of labor isn't as strong as the other side. Or labor thinks itisn't, which amounts to the same thing. And there is a fine line betweenthe fellow who fights for a principle and the one who knocks people downto show how strong he is."
"This is a fight for a principle, Willy."
"Fine little Cardew you are!" he scoffed. "Don't make any mistake. Therehave been fights by labor for a principle, and the principle won, asgood always wins over evil. But this is different. It's a direct playby men who don't realize what they are doing, into the hands of a lotof--well, we'll call them anarchists. It's Germany's way of winning thewar. By indirection."
"If by anarchists you mean men like my uncle--"
"I do," he said grimly. "That's a family accident and you can't help it.But I do mean Doyle. Doyle and a Pole named Woslosky, and a scoundrel ofan attorney here in town, named Akers, among others."
"Mr. Akers is a friend of mine, Willy."
He stared at her.
"If they have been teaching you their dirty doctrines, Lily," he saidat last, "I can only tell you this. They can disguise it in all the fineterms they want. It is treason, and they are traitors. I know. I've hada talk with the Chief of Police."
"I don't believe it."
"How well do you know Louis Akers?"
"Not very well." But there were spots of vivid color flaming in hercheeks. He drew a long breath.
"I can't retract it," he said. "I didn't know, of course. Shall we startback?"
They were very silent as they walked. Willy Cameron was pained andanxious. He knew Akers' type rather than the man himself, but he knewthe type well. Every village had one, the sleek handsome animal whoattracted girls by sheer impudence and good humor, who made passionate,pagan love promiscuously, and put the responsibility for the misery theycaused on the Creator because He had made them as they were.
He was agonized by another train of thought. For him Lily had alwaysbeen something fine, beautiful, infinitely remote. There were othergirls, girls like Edith Boyd, who were touched, some more, some less,with the soil of life. Even when they kept clean they saw it allabout them, and looked on it with shrewd, sophisticated eyes. But Lilywas--Lily. The very thought of Louis Akers looking at her as he had seenhim look at Edith Boyd made him cold with rage.
"Do you mind if I say something?"
"That sounds disagreeable. Is it?"
"Maybe, but I'm going to anyhow, Lily. I don't like to think of youseeing Akers. I don't know anything against him, and I suppose if I didI wouldn't tell you. But he is not your sort."
An impulse of honesty prevailed with her.
"I know that as well as you do. I know him better than you do. But, hestands for something, at least," she added rather hotly. "None of theother men I know stand for anything very much. Even you, Willy."
"I stand for the preservation of my country," he said gravely. "I mean,I represent a lot of people who--well, who don't believe that changealways means progress, and who do intend that the changes Doyle andAkers and that lot want they won't get. I don't believe--if you say youwant what they want--that you know what you are talking about."
"Perhaps I am more intelligent than you think I am."
He was, of course, utterly wretched, impressed by the futility ofarguing with her.
"Do your people know that you are seeing Louis Akers!"
"You are being rather solicitous, aren't you?"
"I am being rather anxious. I wouldn't dare, of course, if we hadn'tbeen such friends. But Akers is wrong, wrong every way, and I have totell you that, even if it means that you will never see me again. Hetakes a credulous girl--"
"Thank you!"
"And talks bunk to her and possibly makes love to her--"
"Haven't we had enough of Mr. Akers?" Lily asked coldly. "If you cannotspeak of anything else, please don't talk."
The result of which was a frozen silence until they reached the house.
"Good-by," she said primly. "It was very nice of you to call me up.Good-by, Jinx." She went up the steps, leaving him bare-headed andrather haggard, looking after her.
He took the dog and went out into the country on foot, tramping throughthe mud without noticing it, and now and then making little despairinggestures. He was helpless. He had cut himself off from her like a fool.Akers. Akers and Edith Boyd. Other women. Akers and other women. And nowLily. Good God, Lily!
Jinx was tired. He begged to be carried, planting two muddy feet on hismaster's shabby trouser leg, and pleading with low whines. Willy Cameronstooped and, gathering up the little animal, tucked him under his arm.When it commenced to rain he put him under his coat and plunged his headthrough the mud and wet toward home.
Lily had entered the house in a white fury, but a moment later she wasremorseful. For one thing, her own anger bewildered her. After all, hehad meant well, and it was like him to be honest, even if it cost himsomething he valued.
She ran to the door and looked around for him, but he had disappeared.She went in again, remorseful and unhappy. What had come over her totreat him like that? He had looked almost stricken.
"Mr. Akers is calling, Miss Cardew," said the footman. "He is in thedrawing-room."
Lily went in slowly.
Louis Akers had been waiting for some time. He had lounged into thedrawing-room, with an ease assumed for the servant's benefit, and hadimmediately lighted a cigarette. That done, and the servant departed, hehad carefully appraised his surroundings. He liked the stiff formalityof the room. He liked the servant in his dark maroon livery. Heliked the silence and decorum. Most of all, he liked himself in thesesurroundings. He wandered around, touching a bowl here, a vase there,eyeing carefully the ancient altar cloth that lay on a table, the oldneedle-work tapestry on the chairs.
He saw himself fitted into this environment, a part of it; comingdown the staircase, followed by his wife, and getting into his waitinglimousine; sitting at the head of his table, while the important men ofthe city listened to what he had to say. It would come, as sure as Godmade little fishes. And Doyle was a fool. He, Louis Akers, would marryLily Cardew and block that other game. But he would let the Cardewsknow who it was who had blocked it and saved their skins. They'd have toreceive him after that; they would cringe to him.
Then, unexpectedly, he had one of the shocks of his life. He had goneto the window and through it he saw Lily and Willy Cameron outside. Heclutched at the curtain and cursed under his breath, apprehensively.But Willy Cameron did not come in; Akers watched him up the street withcalculating, slightly narrowed eyes. The fact that Lily Cardew knew theclerk at the Eagle Pharmacy was an unexpected complication. His surprisewas lost in anxiety. But Lily, entering the room a moment later, ratherpale and unsmiling, found him facing the door, his manner easy, his headwell up, and drawn to his full and rather overwhelming height. She foundher poise entirely gone, and it was he who spoke first.
"I know," he said. "You didn't ask me, but I came anyhow."
She held out her hand rather primly.
"It is very good of you to come."
"Good! I couldn't stay away."
He took her outstretched hand, smiling down at her, and suddenly made anattempt to draw her to him.
"You know that, don't you?"
"Please!"
He let her go at once. He had not played his little game so long withoutlearning its fine points. There were times to woo a woman with a strongarm, and there were other times that required other methods.
"Right-o," he said, "I'm sorry. I've been thinking about you so muchthat I daresay I have got farther in our friendship than I should. Doyou know that you haven't be
en out of my mind since that ride we hadtogether?"
"Really? Would you like some tea?"
"Thanks, yes. Do you dislike my telling you that?"
She rang the bell, and then stood Lacing him.
"I don't mind, no. But I am trying very hard to forget that ride, and Idon't want to talk about it."
"When a beautiful thing comes into a man's life he likes to rememberit."
"How can you call it beautiful?"
"Isn't it rather fine when two people, a man and a woman, suddenly finda tremendous attraction that draws them together, in spite of the factthat everything else is conspiring to keep them apart?"
"I don't know," she said uncertainly. "It just seemed all wrong,somehow."
"An honest impulse is never wrong."
"I don't want to discuss it, Mr. Akers. It is over."
While he was away from her, her attraction for him loomed less than thethings she promised, of power and gratified ambition. But he found her,with her gentle aloofness, exceedingly appealing, and with the tact ofthe man who understands women he adapted himself to her humor.
"You are making me very unhappy; Miss Lily," he said. "If you'll onlypromise to let me see you now and then, I'll promise to be as mild asdish-water. Will you promise?"
She was still struggling, still remembering Willy Cameron, still tryingto remember all the things that Louis Akers was not.
"I think I ought not to see you at all."
"Then," he said slowly, "you are going to cut me off from the one decentinfluence in my life."
She was still revolving that in her mind when tea came. Akers, havingshot his bolt, watched with interest the preparation for the littleceremony, the old Georgian teaspoons, the Crown Derby cups, thebell-shaped Queen Anne teapot, beautifully chased, the old pierced sugarbasin. Almost his gaze was proprietary. And he watched Lily, her casualhandling of those priceless treasures, her taking for granted of serviceand beauty, her acceptance of quality because she had never knownanything else, watched her with possessive eyes.
When the servant had gone, he said:
"You are being very nice to me, in view of the fact that you did notask me to come. And also remembering that your family does not happen tocare about me."
"They are not at home."
"I knew that, or I should not have come. I don't want to make troublefor you, child." His voice was infinitely caressing. "As it happens, Iknow your grandfather's Sunday habits, and I met your father and motheron the road going out of town at noon. I knew they had not come back."
"How do you know that?"
He smiled down at her. "I have ways of knowing quite a lot of things.Especially when they are as vital to me as this few minutes alone withyou."
He bent toward her, as he sat behind the tea table.
"You know how vital this is to me, don't you?" he said. "You're notgoing to cut me off, are you?"
He stood over her, big, compelling, dominant, and put his hand under herchin.
"I am insane about you," he whispered, and waited.
Slowly, irresistibly, she lifted her face to his kiss.
A Poor Wise Man Page 14
