CHAPTER XVIII
Willy Cameron came home from a night class in metallurgy the eveningafter the day Lily had made her declaration of independence, and lethimself in with his night key. There was a light in the little parlor,and Mrs. Boyd's fragile silhouette against the window shade.
He was not surprised at that. She had developed a maternal affection forhim stronger than any she showed for either Edith or Dan. She revealedit in rather touching ways, too, keeping accounts when he accused her ofgross extravagance, for she spent Dan's swollen wages wastefully; makinghim coffee late at night, and forcing him to drink it, although it kepthim awake for hours; and never going to bed until he was safely closetedin his room at the top of the stairs.
He came in as early as possible, therefore, for he had had DoctorSmalley in to see her, and the result had been unsatisfactory.
"Heart's bad," said the doctor, when they had retired to Willy's room."Leaks like a sieve. And there may be an aneurism. Looks like it,anyhow."
"What is there to do?" Willy asked, feeling helpless and extremelyshocked. "We might send her somewhere."
"Nothing to do. Don't send her away; she'd die of loneliness. Keep herquiet and keep her happy. Don't let her worry. She only has a shorttime, I should say, and you can't lengthen it. It could be shortened, ofcourse, if she had a shock, or anything like that."
"Shall I tell the family?"
"What's the use?" asked Doctor Smalley, philosophically. "If they fussover her she'll suspect something."
As he went down the stairs he looked about him. The hall was fresh withnew paper and white paint, and in the yard at the rear, visible throughan open door, the border of annuals was putting out its first blossoms.
"Nice little place you've got here," he observed. "I think I see thefine hand of Miss Edith, eh?"
"Yes," said Willy Cameron, gravely.
He had made renewed efforts to get a servant after that, but the invalidherself balked him. When he found an applicant Mrs. Boyd would sit, verymuch the grande dame, and question her, although she always ended bysending her away.
"She looked like the sort that would be running out at nights," shewould say. Or: "She wouldn't take telling, and I know the way you likeyour things, Willy. I could see by looking at her that she couldn't cookat all."
She cherished the delusion that he was improving and gaining flesh underher ministrations, and there was a sort of jealousy in her care for him.She wanted to yield to no one the right to sit proudly behind one of herheavy, tasteless pies, and say:
"Now I made this for you, Willy, because I know country boys like pies.Just see if that crust isn't nice."
"You don't mean to say you made it!"
"I certainly did." And to please her he would clear his plate. He ratherran to digestive tablets those days, and Edith, surprising him with oneat the kitchen sink one evening, accused him roundly of hypocrisy.
"I don't know why you stay anyhow," she said, staring into the yardwhere Jinx was burying a bone in the heliotrope bed. "The food's awful.I'm used to it, but you're not."
"You don't eat anything, Edith."
"I'm not hungry. Willy, I wish you'd go away. What right we got to tieyou up with us, anyhow? We're a poor lot. You're not comfortable and youknow it. D'you know where she is now?"
"She" in the vernacular of the house, was always Mrs. Boyd.
"She forgot to make your bed, and she's doing it now."
He ran up the stairs, and forcibly putting Mrs. Boyd in a chair, made uphis own bed, awkwardly and with an eye on her chest, which rose and fellalarmingly. It was after that that he warned Edith.
"She's not strong," he said. "She needs care and--well, to be happy.That's up to the three of us. For one thing, she must not have a shock.I'm going to warn Dan against exploding paper bags; she goes white everytime."
Dan was at a meeting, and Willy dried the supper dishes for Edith. Shewas silent and morose. Finally she said:
"She's not very strong for me, Willy. You needn't look so shocked. Sheloves Dan and you, but not me. I don't mind, you know. She doesn't knowit, but I do."
"She is very proud of you."
"That's different. You're right, though. Pride's her middle name. Itnearly killed her at first to take a roomer, because she is alwaysthinking of what the neighbors will say. That's why she hates mesometimes."
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way."
"But it's true. That fool Hodge woman at the corner came here one daylast winter and filled her up with a lot of talk about me, and she'sbeen queer to me ever since."
"You are a very good daughter."
She eyed him furtively. If only he wouldn't always believe in her! Itwas almost worse than to have him know the truth. But he went alongwith his head in the clouds; all women were good and all men meant well.Sometimes it worked out; Dan, for instance. Dan was trying to live up tohim. But it was too late for her. Forever too late.
It was Willy Cameron's night off, and they went, the three of them,to the movies that evening. To Mrs. Boyd the movies was the acme ofdissipation. She would, if warned in advance, spend the entire day withher hair in curlers, and once there she feasted her starved romanticsoul to repletion. But that night the building was stifling, and withoutany warning Edith suddenly got up and walked toward the door. There wassomething odd about her walk and Willy followed her, but she turned onhim almost fiercely outside.
"I wish you'd let me alone," she said, and then swayed a little. But shedid not faint.
"I'm going home," she said. "You stay with her. And for heaven's sakedon't stare at me like that. I'm all right."
Nevertheless he had taken her home, Edith obstinately silent and sullen,and Willy anxious and perplexed. At the door she said:
"Now go back to her, and tell her I just got sick of the picture. It wasthe smells in that rotten place. They'd turn a pig's stomach."
"I wish you'd see a doctor."
She looked at him with suspicious eyes. "If you run Smalley in on meI'll leave home."
"Will you go to bed?"
"I'll go to bed, all right."
He had found things rather more difficult after that. Two women, bothill and refusing to acknowledge it, and the prospect of Dan's beingcalled out by the union. Try as he would, he could not introduce anyhabit of thrift into the family. Dan's money came and went, and onSaturday nights there was not only nothing left, but often a deficit.Dan, skillfully worked upon outside, began to develop a grievance, also,and on his rare evenings at home or at the table he would voice hiswrongs.
"It's just hand to mouth all the time," he would grumble. "A fellowworking for the Cardews never gets ahead. What chance has he got,anyhow? It takes all he can get to live."
Willy Cameron began to see that the trouble was not with Dan, but withhis women folks. And Dan was one of thousands. His wages went for food,too much food, food spoiled in cooking. There were men, with able womenbehind them, making less than Dan and saving money.
"Keep some of it out and bank it," he suggested, but Dan sneered.
"And have a store bill a mile long! You know mother as well as I do. Shemeans well, but she's a fool with money."
He counted his hours from the time he entered the mill until he left it,but he revealed once that there were long idle periods when the heatingwas going on, when he and the other men of the furnace crew sat andwaited, doing nothing.
"But I'm there, all right," he said. "I'm not playing golf or riding inmy automobile. I'm on the job."
"Well," said Willy Cameron, "I'm on the job about eleven hours a day,and I wear out more shoe leather than trouser seats at that. But itdoesn't seem to hurt me."
"It's a question of principle," said Dan doggedly. "I've got no personalkick, y'understand. Only I'm not getting anywhere, and something's gotto be done about it."
So, on the evening of the day after Lily had made her declaration ofindependence, Willy Cameron made his way rather heavily toward the Boydhouse. He was very tired. He had made one or two speeches
for Hendricksalready, before local ward organizations, and he was working hard at hisnight class in metallurgy. He had had a letter from his mother, too,and he thought he read homesickness between the lines. He was not at allsure where his duty lay, yet to quit now, to leave Mr. Hendricks and theBoyds flat, seemed impossible.
He had tried to see Lily, too, and failed. She had been very gentle overthe telephone, but, attuned as he was to every inflection of her voice,he had thought there was unhappiness in it. Almost despair. But she hadpleaded a week of engagements.
"I'm sorry," she had said. "I'll call you up next week some time I havea lot of things I want to talk over with you."
But he knew she was avoiding him.
And he knew that he ought to see her. Through Mr. Hendricks he hadlearned something more about Jim Doyle, the real Doyle and not theposeur, and he felt she should know the nature of the accusationsagainst him. Lily mixed up with a band of traitors, Lily of the whiteflame of patriotism, was unthinkable. She must not go to the house onCardew Way. A man's loyalty was like a woman's virtue; it could not bequestionable. There was no middle ground.
He heard voices as he entered the house, and to his amazement foundEllen in the parlor. She was sitting very stiff on the edge of herchair, her hat slightly crooked and a suit-case and brown paper bundleat her feet.
Mrs. Boyd was busily entertaining her.
"I make it a point to hold my head high," she was saying. "I guess therewas a lot of talk when I took a boarder, but--Is that you, Willy?"
"Why, Miss Ellen!" he said. "And looking as though headed for ajourney!"
Ellen's face did not relax. She had been sitting there for an hour,letting Mrs. Boyd's prattle pour over her like a rain, and thinkingmeanwhile her own bitter thoughts.
"I am, Willy. Only I didn't wait for my money and the bank's closed, andI came to borrow ten dollars, if you have it."
That told him she was in trouble, but Mrs. Boyd, amiably hospitable andreveling in a fresh audience, showed no sign of departing.
"She says she's been living at the Cardews," she put in, rockingvaliantly. "I guess most any place would seem tame after that. I dohear, Miss Hart, that Mrs. Howard Cardew only wears her clothes once andthen gives them away."
She hitched the chair away from the fireplace, where it showed everyindication of going up the chimney.
"I call that downright wasteful," she offered.
Willy glanced at his watch, which had been his father's, and bore theinscription: "James Duncan Cameron, 1876" inside the case.
"Eleven o'clock," he said sternly. "And me promising the doctor I'd haveyou in bed at ten sharp every night! Now off with you."
"But, Willy--"
"--or I shall have to carry you," he threatened. It was an old jokebetween them, and she rose, smiling, her thin face illuminated with thesense of being looked after.
"He's that domineering," she said to Ellen, "that I can't call my soulmy own."
"Good-night," Ellen said briefly.
Willy stood at the foot of the stairs and watched her going up. He knewshe liked him to do that, that she would expect to find him there whenshe reached the top and looked down, panting slightly.
"Good-night," he called. "Both windows open. I shall go outside to see."
Then he went back to Ellen, still standing primly over her Lares andPenates.
"Now tell me about it," he said.
"I've left them. There has been a terrible fuss, and when Miss Lily leftto-night, I did too."
"She left her home?"
She nodded.
"It's awful, Willy. I don't know all of it, but they've been having herfollowed, or her grandfather did. I think there's a man in it. Followed!And her a good girl! Her grandfather's been treating her like a dog forweeks. We all noticed it. And to-night there was a quarrel, with all ofthem at her like a pack of dogs, and her governess crying in the hall. Ijust went up and packed my things."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know. I got her a taxicab, and she only took one bag. I wentright off to the housekeeper and told her I wouldn't stay, and theycould send my money after me."
"Did you notice the number of the taxicab?"
"I never thought of it."
He saw it all with terrible distinctness, The man was Akers, of course.Then, if she had left her home rather than give him up, she was reallyin love with him. He had too much common sense to believe for a momentthat she had fled to Louis Akers' protection, however. That was thelast thing she would do. She would have gone to a hotel, or to the Doylehouse.
"She shouldn't have left home, Ellen."
"They drove her out, I tell you," Ellen cried, irritably. "At leastthat's what it amounted to. There are things no high-minded girl willstand. Can you lend me some money, Willy?"
He felt in his pocket, producing a handful of loose money.
"Of course you can have all I've got," he said. "But you must not goto-night, Miss Ellen. It's too late. I'll give you my room and go inwith Dan Boyd."
And he prevailed over her protests, in the end. It was not until he sawher settled there, hiding her sense of strangeness under an impassivemask, that he went downstairs again and took his hat from its hook.
Lily must go back home, he knew. It was unthinkable that she shouldbreak with her family, and go to the Doyles. He had too littleself-consciousness to question the propriety of his own interference,too much love for her to care whether she resented that interference.And he was filled with a vast anger at Jim Doyle. He saw in all this,somehow, Doyle's work; how it would play into Doyle's plans to haveAnthony Cardew's granddaughter a member of his household. He would takeher away from there if he had to carry her.
He was a long time in getting to the mill district, and a longer timestill in finding Cardew Way. At an all-night pharmacy he learnedwhich was the house, and his determined movements took on a sort ofuncertainty. It was very late. Ellen had waited for him for some time.If Lily were in that sinister darkened house across the street, thefamily had probably retired. And for the first time, too, he began todoubt if Doyle would let him see her. Lily herself might even refuse tosee him.
Nevertheless, the urgency to get her away from there, if she were there,prevailed at last, and a strip of light in an upper window, as from animperfectly fitting blind, assured him that some one was still awake inthe house.
He went across the street and opening the gate, strode up the walk.Almost immediately he was confronted by the figure of a man who had beenconcealed by the trunk of one of the trees. He lounged forward, huge,menacing, yet not entirely hostile.
"Who is it?" demanded the figure blocking his way.
"I want to see Mr. Doyle."
"What about?"
"I'll tell him that," said Willy Cameron.
"What's your name?"
"That's my business, too," said Mr. Cameron, with disarmingpleasantness.
"Damn private about your business, aren't you?" jeered the sentry, stillin cautious tones. "Well, you can write it down on a piece of paper andmail it to him. He's busy now."
"All I want to do," persisted Mr. William Wallace Cameron, growingslightly giddy with repressed fury, "is to ring that doorbell and askhim a question. I'm going to do it, too."
There was rather an interesting moment then, because the figure lungedat Mr. Cameron, and Mr. Cameron, stooping low and swiftly, as well as toone side, and at the same instant becoming a fighting Scot, which meansa cool-eyed madman, got in one or two rather neat effects with hisfists. The first took the shadow just below his breast-bone, and theleft caught him at that angle of the jaw where a small cause sometimesproduces a large effect. The figure sat down on the brick walk andgrunted, and Mr. Cameron, judging that he had about ten seconds' leeway,felt in the dazed person's right hand pocket for the revolver he knewwould be there, and secured it. The sitting figure made puffing, feebleattempts to prevent him, but there was no real struggle.
Mr. Cameron himself was feeling extremely triumphant and as strong as alio
n. He was rather sorry no one had seen the affair, but that of coursewas sub-conscious. And he was more cheerful than he had been for somedays. He had been up against so many purely intangible obstacles latelythat it was a relief to find one he could use his fists on.
"Now I'll have a few words with you, my desperate friend," he said."I've got your gun, and I am hell with a revolver, because I've neverfired one, and there's a sort of homicidal beginner's luck about thething. If you move or speak, I'll shoot it into you first and when it'sempty I'll choke it down your throat and strangle you to death."
After which ferocious speech he strolled up the path, revolver in hand,and rang the doorbell. He put the weapon in his pocket then, but hekept his hand upon it. He had read somewhere that a revolver was quiteuseable from a pocket. There was no immediate answer to the bell, and heturned and surveyed the man under the tree, faintly distinguishable inthe blackness. It had occurred to him that the number of guns a man maycarry is only limited to his pockets, which are about fifteen.
There were heavy, deliberate footsteps inside, and the door was flungopen. No glare of light followed it, however. There was a man there,alarmingly tall, who seemed to stare at him, and then beyond him intothe yard.
"Well?"
"Are you Mr. Doyle?"
"I am."
"My name is Cameron, Mr. Doyle. I have had a small difference with yourwatch-dog, but he finally let me by."
"I'm afraid I don't understand. I have no dog."
"The sentry you keep posted, then." Mr. Cameron disliked fencing.
"Ah!" said Mr. Doyle, urbanely. "You have happened on one of my goodfriends, I see. I have many enemies, Mr. Cameron--was that the name? Andmy friends sometimes like to keep an eye on me. It is rather touching."
He was smiling, Mr. Cameron knew, and his anger rose afresh.
"Very touching," said Mr. Cameron, "but if he bothers me going outyou may be short one friend. Mr. Doyle, Miss Lily Cardew left her hometo-night. I want to know if she is here."
"Are you sent by her family?"
"I have asked you if she is here."
Jim Doyle apparently deliberated.
"My niece is here, although just why you should interest yourself--"
"May I see her?"
"I regret to say she has retired."
"I think she would see me."
A door opened into the hall, throwing a shaft of light on the wallacross and letting out the sounds of voices.
"Shut that door," said Doyle, wheeling sharply. It was closed at once."Now," he said, turning to his visitor, "I'll tell you this. My nieceis here." He emphasized the "my." "She has come to me for refuge, andI intend to give it to her. You won't see her to-night, and if you comefrom her people you can tell them she came here of her own free will,and that if she stays it will be because she wants to. Joe!" he calledinto the darkness.
"Yes," came a sullen voice, after a moment's hesitation.
"Show this gentleman out."
All at once Willy Cameron was staring at a closed door, on the innerside of which a bolt was being slipped. He felt absurd and futile, andnot at all like a lion. With the revolver in his hand, he went down thesteps.
"Don't bother about the gate, Joe," he said. "I like to open my owngates. And--don't try any tricks, Joe. Get back to your kennel."
Fearful mutterings followed that, but the shadow retired, and he madean undisturbed exit to the street. Once on the street-car, the entireepisode became unreal and theatrical, with only the drag of Joe'srevolver in his coat pocket to prove its reality.
It was after midnight when, shoes in hand, he crept up the stairs toDan's room, and careful not to disturb him, slipped into his side of thedouble bed. He did not sleep at all. He lay there, facing the fact thatLily had delivered herself voluntarily into the hands of the enemy ofher house, and not only of her house, an enemy of the country. Thatconference that night was a sinister one. Brought to book about it,Doyle might claim it as a labor meeting. Organizers planning a strikemight--did indeed--hold secret conferences, but they did not post armedguards. They opened business offices, and brought in the press men, andshouted their grievances for the world to hear.
This was different. This was anarchy. And in every city it was goingon, this rallying of the malcontents, the idlers, the envious andthe dangerous, to the red flag. Organized labor gathered togetherthe workmen, but men like Doyle were organizing the riff-raff ofthe country. They secured a small percentage of idealists andpseudo-intellectuals, and taught them a so-called internationalismwhich under the name of brotherhood was nothing but a raid on privateproperty, a scheme of pillage and arson. They allied with themselvesimported laborers from Europe, men with everything to gain and nothingto lose, and by magnifying real grievances and inflaming them withimaginary ones, were building out of this material the rank and file ofan anarchist army.
And against it, what?
On toward morning he remembered something, and sat bolt upright in bed.Edith had once said something about knowing of a secret telephone. Shehad known Louis Akers very well. He might have told her what she knew,or have shown her, in some braggart moment. A certain type of man wasunable to keep a secret from a woman. But that would imply--For thefirst time he wondered what Edith's relations with Louis Akers mighthave been.
A Poor Wise Man Page 19
