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diff --git a/1970-0.txt b/1970-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ddd3fa --- /dev/null +++ b/1970-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16008 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Poor Wise Man, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Poor Wise Man + +Author: Mary Roberts Rinehart + +Posting Date: November 3, 2008 [EBook #1970] +Release Date: November, 1999 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A POOR WISE MAN *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer + + + + + +A POOR WISE MAN + +By Mary Roberts Rinehart + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +The city turned its dreariest aspect toward the railway on blackened +walls, irregular and ill-paved streets, gloomy warehouses, and over all +a gray, smoke-laden atmosphere which gave it mystery and often beauty. +Sometimes the softened towers of the great steel bridges rose above the +river mist like fairy towers suspended between Heaven and earth. And +again the sun tipped the surrounding hills with gold, while the city +lay buried in its smoke shroud, and white ghosts of river boats moved +spectrally along. + +Sometimes it was ugly, sometimes beautiful, but always the city was +powerful, significant, important. It was a vast melting pot. Through its +gates came alike the hopeful and the hopeless, the dreamers and those +who would destroy those dreams. From all over the world there came men +who sought a chance to labor. They came in groups, anxious and dumb, +carrying with them their pathetic bundles, and shepherded by men with +cunning eyes. + +Raw material, for the crucible of the city, as potentially powerful as +the iron ore which entered the city by the same gate. + +The city took them in, gave them sanctuary, and forgot them. But the +shepherds with the cunning eyes remembered. + +Lily Cardew, standing in the train shed one morning early in March, +watched such a line go by. She watched it with interest. She had +developed a new interest in people during the year she had been +away. She had seen, in the army camp, similar shuffling lines of men, +transformed in a few hours into ranks of uniformed soldiers, beginning +already to be actuated by the same motive. These aliens, going by, would +become citizens. Very soon now they would appear on the streets in new +American clothes of extraordinary cut and color, their hair cut with +clippers almost to the crown, and surmounted by derby hats always a size +too small. + +Lily smiled, and looked out for her mother. She was suddenly +unaccountably glad to be back again. She liked the smoke and the noise, +the movement, the sense of things doing. And the sight of her mother, +small, faultlessly tailored, wearing a great bunch of violets, and +incongruous in that work-a-day atmosphere, set her smiling again. + +How familiar it all was! And heavens, how young she looked! The +limousine was at the curb, and a footman as immaculately turned out as +her mother stood with a folded rug over his arm. On the seat inside lay +a purple box. Lily had known it would be there. They would be ostensibly +from her father, because he had not been able to meet her, but she knew +quite well that Grace Cardew had stopped at the florist's on her way +downtown and bought them. + +A little surge of affection for her mother warmed the girl's eyes. The +small attentions which in the Cardew household took the place of loving +demonstrations had always touched her. As a family the Cardews were +rather loosely knitted together, but there was something very lovable +about her mother. + +Grace Cardew kissed her, and then held her off and looked at her. + +“Mercy, Lily!” she said, “you look as old as I do.” + +“Older, I hope,” Lily retorted. “What a marvel you are, Grace dear.” Now +and then she called her mother “Grace.” It was by way of being a small +joke between them, but limited to their moments alone. Once old Anthony, +her grandfather, had overheard her, and there had been rather a row +about it. + +“I feel horribly old, but I didn't think I looked it.” + +They got into the car and Grace held out the box to her. “From your +father, dear. He wanted so to come, but things are dreadful at the mill. +I suppose you've seen the papers.” Lily opened the box, and smiled at +her mother. + +“Yes, I know. But why the subterfuge about the flowers, mother dear? +Honestly, did he send them, or did you get them? But never mind about +that; I know he's worried, and you're sweet to do it. Have you broken +the news to grandfather that the last of the Cardews is coming home?” + +“He sent you all sorts of messages, and he'll see you at dinner.” + +Lily laughed out at that. + +“You darling!” she said. “You know perfectly well that I am nothing in +grandfather's young life, but the Cardew women all have what he likes +to call savoir faire. What would they do, father and grandfather, if you +didn't go through life smoothing things for them?” + +Grace looked rather stiffly ahead. This young daughter of hers, with her +directness and her smiling ignoring of the small subterfuges of life, +rather frightened her. The terrible honesty of youth! All these years of +ironing the wrinkles out of life, of smoothing the difficulties between +old Anthony and Howard, and now a third generation to contend with. A +pitilessly frank and unconsciously cruel generation. She turned and eyed +Lily uneasily. + +“You look tired,” she said, “and you need attention. I wish you had let +me send Castle to you.” + +But she thought that lily was even lovelier than she had remembered her. +Lovely rather than beautiful, perhaps. Her face was less childish than +when she had gone away; there was, in certain of her expressions, an +almost alarming maturity. But perhaps that was fatigue. + +“I couldn't have had Castle, mother. I didn't need anything. I've been +very happy, really, and very busy.” + +“You have been very vague lately about your work.” + +Lily faced her mother squarely. + +“I didn't think you'd much like having me do it, and I thought it would +drive grandfather crazy.” + +“I thought you were in a canteen.” + +“Not lately. I've been looking after girls who had followed soldiers to +camps. Some of them were going to have babies, too. It was rather awful. +We married quite a lot of them, however.” + +The curious reserve that so often exists between mother and daughter +held Grace Cardew dumb. She nodded, but her eyes had slightly hardened. +So this was what war had done to her. She had had no son, and had +thanked God for it during the war, although old Anthony had hated +her all her married life for it. But she had given her daughter, her +clear-eyed daughter, and they had shown her the dregs of life. + +Her thoughts went back over the years. To Lily as a child, with +Mademoiselle always at her elbow, and life painted as a thing of beauty. +Love, marriage and birth were divine accidents. Death was a quiet sleep, +with heaven just beyond, a sleep which came only to age, which had +wearied and would rest. Then she remembered the day when Elinor Cardew, +poor unhappy Elinor, had fled back to Anthony's roof to have a baby, and +after a few rapturous weeks for Lily the baby had died. + +“But the baby isn't old,” Lily had persisted, standing in front of her +mother with angry, accusing eyes. + +Grace was not an imaginative woman, but she turned it rather neatly, as +she told Howard later. + +“It was such a nice baby,” she said, feeling for an idea. “I think +probably God was lonely without it, and sent an angel for it again.” + +“But it is still upstairs,” Lily had insisted. She had had a curious +instinct for truth, even then. But there Grace's imagination had failed +her, and she sent for Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle was a good Catholic, +and very clear in her own mind, but what she left in Lily's brain was +a confused conviction that every person was two persons, a body and a +soul. Death was simply a split-up, then. One part of you, the part that +bathed every morning and had its toe-nails cut, and went to dancing +school in a white frock and thin black silk stockings and carriage boots +over pumps, that part was buried and would only came up again at the +Resurrection. But the other part was all the time very happy, and mostly +singing. + +Lily did not like to sing. + +Then there was the matter of tears. People only cried when they hurt +themselves. She had been told that again and again when she threatened +tears over her music lesson. But when Aunt Elinor had gone away she had +found Mademoiselle, the deadly antagonist of tears, weeping. And here +again Grace remembered the child's wide, insistent eyes. + +“Why?” + +“She is sorry for Aunt Elinor.” + +“Because her baby's gone to God? She ought to be glad, oughtn't she?” + +“Not that;” said Grace, and had brought a box of chocolates and given +her one, although they were not permitted save one after each meal. + +Then Lily had gone away to school. How carefully the school had been +selected! When she came back, however, there had been no more questions, +and Grace had sighed with relief. That bad time was over, anyhow. But +Lily was rather difficult those days. She seemed, in some vague +way, resentful. Her mother found her, now and then, in a frowning, +half-defiant mood. And once, when Mademoiselle had ventured some jesting +remark about young Alston Denslow, she was stupefied to see the girl +march out of the room, her chin high, not to be seen again for hours. + +Grace's mind was sub-consciously remembering those things even when she +spoke. + +“I didn't know you were having to learn about that side of life,” she +said, after a brief silence. + +“That side of life is life, mother,” Lily said gravely. But Grace did +not reply to that. It was characteristic of her to follow her own line +of thought. + +“I wish you wouldn't tell your grandfather. You know he feels strongly +about some things. And he hasn't forgiven me yet for letting you go.” + +Rather diffidently Lily put her hand on her mother's. She gave her rare +caresses shyly, with averted eyes, and she was always more diffident +with her mother than with her father. Such spontaneous bursts of +affection as she sometimes showed had been lavished on Mademoiselle. +It was Mademoiselle she had hugged rapturously on her small feast days, +Mademoiselle who never demanded affection, and so received it. + +“Poor mother!” she said, “I have made it hard for you, haven't I? Is he +as bad as ever?” + +She had not pinned on the violets, but sat holding them in her hands, +now and then taking a luxurious sniff. She did not seem to expect +a reply. Between Grace and herself it was quite understood that old +Anthony Cardew was always as bad as could be. + +“There is some sort of trouble at the mill. Your father is worried.” + +And this time it was Lily who did not reply. She said, +inconsequentially: + +“We're saved, and it's all over. But sometimes I wonder if we were worth +saving. It all seems such a mess, doesn't it?” She glanced out. +They were drawing up before the house, and she looked at her mother +whimsically. + +“The last of the Cardews returning from the wars!” she said. “Only she +is unfortunately a she, and she hasn't been any nearer the war than the +State of Ohio.” + +Her voice was gay enough, but she had a quick vision of the grim +old house had she been the son they had wanted to carry on the name, +returning from France. + +The Cardews had fighting traditions. They had fought in every war from +the Revolution on. There had been a Cardew in Mexico in '48, and in that +upper suite of rooms to which her grandfather had retired in wrath on +his son's marriage, she remembered her sense of awe as a child on seeing +on the wall the sword he had worn in the Civil War. He was a small man, +and the scabbard was badly worn at the end, mute testimony to the long +forced marches of his youth. Her father had gone to Cuba in '98, and +had almost died of typhoid fever there, contracted in the marshes of +Florida. + +Yes, they had been a fighting family. And now-- + +Her mother was determinedly gay. There were flowers in the dark old +hall, and Grayson, the butler, evidently waiting inside the door, +greeted her with the familiarity of the old servant who had slipped her +sweets from the pantry after dinner parties in her little-girl years. + +“Welcome home, Miss Lily,” he said. + +Mademoiselle was lurking on the stairway, in a new lace collar over her +old black dress. Lily recognized in the collar a great occasion, for +Mademoiselle was French and thrifty. Suddenly a wave of warmth and +gladness flooded her. This was home. Dear, familiar home. She had come +back. She was the only young thing in the house. She would bring them +gladness and youth. She would try to make them happy. Always before she +had taken, but now she meant to give. + +Not that she formulated such a thought. It was an emotion, rather. She +ran up the stairs and hugged Mademoiselle wildly. + +“You darling old thing!” she cried. She lapsed into French. “I saw the +collar at once. And think, it is over! It is finished. And all your nice +French relatives are sitting on the boulevards in the sun, and sipping +their little glasses of wine, and rising and bowing when a pretty girl +passes. Is it not so?” + +“It is so, God and the saints be praised!” said Mademoiselle, huskily. + +Grace Cardew followed them up the staircase. Her French was negligible, +and she felt again, as in days gone by, shut from the little world of +two which held her daughter and governess. Old Anthony's doing, that. +He had never forgiven his son his plebeian marriage, and an early +conversation returned to her. It was on Lily's first birthday and he had +made one of his rare visits to the nursery. He had brought with him a +pearl in a velvet case. + +“All our women have their own pearls,” he had said. “She will have her +grandmother's also when she marries. I shall give her one the first +year, two the second, and so on.” He had stood looking down at the child +critically. “She's a Cardew,” he said at last. “Which means that she +will be obstinate and self-willed.” He had paused there, but Grace had +not refuted the statement. He had grinned. “As you know,” he added. “Is +she talking yet?” + +“A word or two,” Grace had said, with no more warmth in her tone than +was in his. + +“Very well. Get her a French governess. She ought to speak French before +she does English. It is one of the accomplishments of a lady. Get a good +woman, and for heaven's sake arrange to serve her breakfast in her room. +I don't want to have to be pleasant to any chattering French woman at +eight in the morning.” + +“No, you wouldn't,” Grace had said. + +Anthony had stamped out, but in the hall he smiled grimly. He did not +like Howard's wife, but she was not afraid of him. He respected her for +that. He took good care to see that the Frenchwoman was found, and at +dinner, the only meal he took with the family, he would now and then +send for the governess and Lily to come in for dessert. That, of +course, was later on, when the child was nearly ten. Then would follow +a three-cornered conversation in rapid French, Howard and Anthony and +Lily, with Mademoiselle joining in timidly, and with Grace, at the side +of the table, pretending to eat and feeling cut off, in a middle-class +world of her own, at the side of the table. Anthony Cardew had retained +the head of his table, and he had never asked her to take his dead +wife's place. + +After a time Grace realized the consummate cruelty of those hours, the +fact that Lily was sent for, not only because the old man cared to +see her, but to make Grace feel the outsider that she was. She made +desperate efforts to conquer the hated language, but her accent was +atrocious. Anthony would correct her suavely, and Lily would laugh in +childish, unthinking mirth. She gave it up at last. + +She never told Howard about it. He had his own difficulties with his +father, and she would not add to them. She managed the house, checked +over the bills and sent them to the office, put up a cheerful and +courageous front, and after a time sheathed herself in an armor of +smiling indifference. But she thanked heaven when the time came to +send Lily away to school. The effort of concealing the armed neutrality +between Anthony and herself was growing more wearing. The girl was +observant. And Anthony had been right, she was a Cardew. She would have +fought her grandfather out on it, defied him, accused him, hated him. +And Grace wanted peace. + +Once again as she followed Lily and Mademoiselle up the stairs she felt +the barrier of language, and back of it the Cardew pride and traditions +that somehow cut her off. + +But in Lily's rooms she was her sane and cheerful self again. Inside the +doorway the girl was standing, her eyes traveling over her little domain +ecstatically. + +“How lovely of you not to change a thing, mother!” she said. “I was +so afraid--I know how you hate my stuff. But I might have known you +wouldn't. All the time I've been away, sleeping in a dormitory, and +taking turns at the bath, I have thought of my own little place.” She +wandered around, touching her familiar possessions with caressing hands. +“I've a good notion,” she declared, “to go to bed immediately, just for +the pleasure of lying in linen sheets again.” Suddenly she turned to her +mother. “I'm afraid you'll find I've made some queer friends, mother.” + +“What do you mean by 'queer'?” + +“People no proper Cardew would care to know.” She smiled. “Where's +Ellen? I want to tell her I met somebody she knows out there, the nicest +sort of a boy.” She went to the doorway and called lustily: “Ellen! +Ellen!” The rustling of starched skirts answered her from down the +corridor. + +“I wish you wouldn't call, dear.” Grace looked anxious. “You know how +your grandfather--there's a bell for Ellen.” + +“What we need around here,” said Lily, cheerfully, “is a little more +calling. And if grandfather thinks it is unbefitting the family dignity +he can put cotton in his ears. Come in, Ellen. Ellen, do you know that I +met Willy Cameron in the camp?” + +“Willy!” squealed Ellen. “You met Willy? Isn't he a fine boy, Miss +Lily?” + +“He's wonderful,” said Lily. “I went to the movies with him every +Friday night.” She turned to her mother. “You would like him, mother. He +couldn't get into the army. He is a little bit lame. And--” she surveyed +Grace with amused eyes, “you needn't think what you are thinking. He is +tall and thin and not at all good-looking. Is he, Ellen?” + +“He is a very fine young man,” Ellen said rather stiffly. “He's very +highly thought of in the town I come from. His father was a doctor, and +his buggy used to go around day, and night. When he found they wouldn't +take him as a soldier he was like to break his heart.” + +“Lame?” Grace repeated, ignoring Ellen. + +“Just a little. You forget all about it when you know him. Don't you, +Ellen?” + +But at Grace's tone Ellen had remembered. She stiffened, and became +again a housemaid in the Anthony Cardew house, a self-effacing, +rubber-heeled, pink-uniformed lower servant. She glanced at Mrs. Cardew, +whose eyebrows were slightly raised. + +“Thank you, miss,” she said. And went out, leaving Lily rather chilled +and openly perplexed. + +“Well!” she said. Then she glanced at her mother. “I do believe you are +a little shocked, mother, because Ellen and I have a mutual friend +in Mr. William Wallace Cameron! Well, if you want the exact truth, he +hadn't an atom of use for me until he heard about Ellen.” She put an arm +around Grace's shoulders. “Brace up, dear,” she said, smilingly. “Don't +you cry. I'll be a Cardew bye-and-bye.” + +“Did you really go to the moving pictures with him?” Grace asked, rather +unhappily. She had never been inside a moving picture theater. To her +they meant something a step above the corner saloon, and a degree below +the burlesque houses. They were constituted of bad air and unchaperoned +young women accompanied by youths who dangled cigarettes from a lower +lip, all obviously of the lower class, including the cigarette; and of +other women, sometimes drab, dragged of breast and carrying children +who should have been in bed hours before; or still others, wandering +in pairs, young, painted and predatory. She was not imaginative, or she +could not have lived so long in Anthony Cardew's house. She never saw, +in the long line waiting outside even the meanest of the little theaters +that had invaded the once sacred vicinity of the Cardew house, the cry +of every human heart for escape from the sordid, the lure of romance, +the call of adventure and the open road. + +“I can't believe it,” she added. + +Lily made a little gesture of half-amused despair. + +“Dearest,” she said, “I did. And I liked it. Mother, things have changed +a lot in twenty years. Sometimes I think that here, in this house, you +don't realize that--” she struggled for a phrase--“that things have +changed,” she ended, lamely. “The social order, and that sort of thing. +You know. Caste.” She hesitated. She was young and inarticulate, and +when she saw Grace's face, somewhat frightened. But she was not old +Anthony's granddaughter for nothing. “This idea of being a Cardew,” she +went on, “that's ridiculous, you know. I'm only half Cardew, anyhow. The +rest is you, dear, and it's got being a Cardew beaten by quite a lot.” + +Mademoiselle was deftly opening the girl's dressing case, but she paused +now and turned. It was to Grace that she spoke, however. + +“They come home like that, all of them,” she said. “In France also. But +in time they see the wisdom of the old order, and return. It is one of +the fruits of war.” + +Grace hardly heard her. + +“Lily,” she asked, “you are not in love with this Cameron person, are +you?” + +But Lily's easy laugh reassured her. + +“No, indeed,” she said. “I am not. I shall probably marry beneath me, +as you would call it, but not William Wallace Cameron. For one thing, he +wouldn't have grandfather in his family.” + +Some time later Mademoiselle tapped at Grace's door, and entered. Grace +was reclining on a chaise longue, towels tucked about her neck and over +her pillows, while Castle, her elderly English maid, was applying ice +in a soft cloth to her face. Grace sat up. The towel, pinned around her +hair like a coif, gave a placid, almost nun-like appearance to her still +lovely face. + +“Well?” she demanded. “Go out for a minute, Castle.” + +Mademoiselle waited until the maid had gone. + +“I have spoken to Ellen,” she said, her voice cautious. “A young man who +does not care for women, a clerk in a country pharmacy. What is that, +Mrs. Cardew?” + +“It would be so dreadful, Mademoiselle. Her grandfather--” + +“But not handsome,” insisted Mademoiselle, “and lame! Also, I know the +child. She is not in love. When that comes to her we shall know it.” + +Grace lay back, relieved, but not entirely comforted. + +“She is changed, isn't she, Mademoiselle?” + +Mademoiselle shrugged her shoulders. + +“A phase,” she said. She had got the word from old Anthony, who regarded +any mental attitude that did not conform with his own as a condition +that would pass. “A phase, only. Now that she is back among familiar +things, she will become again a daughter of the house.” + +“Then you think this talk about marrying beneath her--” + +“She 'as had liberty,” said Mademoiselle, who sometimes lost an +aspirate. “It is like wine to the young. It intoxicates. But it, too, +passes. In my country--” + +But Grace had, for a number of years, heard a great deal of +Mademoiselle's country. She settled herself on her pillows. + +“Call Castle, please,” she said. “And--do warn her not to voice those +ideas of hers to her grandfather. In a country pharmacy, you say?” + +“And lame, and not fond of women,” corroborated Mademoiselle. “Ca ne +pourrait pas etre mieux, n'est-ce pas?” + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Shortly after the Civil War Anthony Cardew had left Pittsburgh and spent +a year in finding a location for the investment of his small capital. +That was in the very beginning of the epoch of steel. The iron business +had already laid the foundations of its future greatness, but steel was +still in its infancy. + +Anthony's father had been an iron-master in a small way, with a monthly +pay-roll of a few hundred dollars, and an abiding faith in the future of +iron. But he had never dreamed of steel. But “sixty-five” saw the first +steel rail rolled in America, and Anthony Cardew began to dream. He +went to Chicago first, and from there to Michigan, to see the first +successful Bessemer converter. When he started east again he knew what +he was to make his life work. + +He was very young and his capital was small. But he had an abiding +faith in the new industry. Not that he dreamed then of floating steel +battleships. But he did foresee steel in new and various uses. Later on +he was experimenting with steel cable at the very time Roebling made it +a commercial possibility, and with it the modern suspension bridge and +the elevator. He never quite forgave Roebling. That failure of his, the +difference only of a month or so, was one of the few disappointments +of his prosperous, self-centered, orderly life. That, and Howard's +marriage. And, at the height of his prosperity, the realization that +Howard's middle-class wife would never bear a son. + +The city he chose was a small city then, yet it already showed signs of +approaching greatness. On the east side, across the river, he built his +first plant, a small one, with the blast heated by passing through cast +iron pipes, with the furnaceman testing the temperature with strips of +lead and zinc, and the skip hoist a patient mule. + +He had ore within easy hauling distance, and he had fuel, and he had, +as time went on, a rapidly increasing market. Labor was cheap and +plentiful, too, and being American-born, was willing and intelligent. +Perhaps Anthony Cardew's sins of later years were due to a vast +impatience that the labor of the early seventies was no longer to be +had. + +The Cardew fortune began in the seventies. Up to that time there was +a struggle, but in the seventies Anthony did two things. He went to +England to see the furnaces there, and brought home a wife, a timid, +tall Englishwoman of irreproachable birth, who remained always an alien +in the crude, busy new city. And he built himself a house, a brick house +in lower East Avenue, a house rather like his tall, quiet wife, and run +on English lines. He soon became the leading citizen. He was one of the +committee to welcome the Prince of Wales to the city, and from the very +beginning he took his place in the social life. + +He found it very raw at times, crude and new. He himself lived with +dignity and elegant simplicity. He gave now and then lengthy, ponderous +dinners, making out the lists himself, and handing them over to his +timid English wife in much the manner in which he gave the wine list and +the key to the wine cellar to the butler. And, at the head of his +table, he let other men talk and listened. They talked, those industrial +pioneers, especially after the women had gone. They saw the city the +center of great business and great railroads. They talked of its coal, +its river, and the great oil fields not far away which were then in +their infancy. All of them dreamed a dream, saw a vision. But not all of +them lived to see their dream come true. + +Old Anthony lived to see it. + +In the late eighties, his wife having been by that time decorously +interred in one of the first great mausoleums west of the mountains, +Anthony Cardew found himself already wealthy. He owned oil wells and +coal mines. His mines supplied his coke ovens with coal, and his own +river boats, as well as railroads in which he was a director, carried +his steel. + +He labored ably and well, and not for wealth alone. He was one of a +group of big-visioned men who saw that a nation was only as great as its +industries. It was only in his later years that he loved power for +the sake of power, and when, having outlived his generation, he had +developed a rigidity of mind that made him view the forced compromises +of the new regime as pusillanimous. + +He considered his son Howard's quiet strength weakness. “You have no +stamina,” he would say. “You have no moral fiber. For God's sake, make a +stand, you fellows, and stick to it.” + +He had not mellowed with age. He viewed with endless bitterness the +passing of his own day and generation, and the rise to power of younger +men; with their “shilly-shallying,” he would say. He was an aristocrat, +an autocrat, and a survival. He tied Howard's hands in the management of +the now vast mills, and then blamed him for the results. + +But he had been a great man. + +He had had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl had been the tragedy +of his middle years, and Howard had been his hope. + +On the heights outside the city and overlooking the river he owned a +farm, and now and then, on Sunday afternoons in the eighties, he drove +out there, with Howard sitting beside him, a rangy boy in his teens, +in the victoria which Anthony considered the proper vehicle for +Sunday afternoons. The farmhouse was in a hollow, but always on those +excursions Anthony, fastidiously dressed, picking his way half-irritably +through briars and cornfields, would go to the edge of the cliffs and +stand there, looking down. Below was the muddy river, sluggish always, +but a thing of terror in spring freshets. And across was the east side, +already a sordid place, its steel mills belching black smoke that killed +the green of the hillsides, its furnaces dwarfed by distance and height, +its rows of unpainted wooden structures which housed the mill laborers. + +Howard would go with him, but Howard dreamed no dreams. He was a sturdy, +dependable, unimaginative boy, watching the squirrels or flinging stones +over the palisades. Life for Howard was already a thing determined. He +would go to college, and then he would come back and go into the mill +offices. In time, he would take his father's place. He meant to do it +well and honestly. He had but to follow. Anthony had broken the trail, +only by that time it was no longer a trail, but a broad and easy way. + +Only once or twice did Anthony Cardew give voice to his dreams. Once he +said: “I'll build a house out here some of these days. Good location. +Growth of the city is bound to be in this direction.” + +What he did not say was that to be there, on that hill, overlooking his +activities, his very own, the things he had builded with such labor, +gave him a sense of power. “This below,” he felt, with more of pride +than arrogance, “this is mine. I have done it. I, Anthony Cardew.” + +He felt, looking down, the pride of an artist in his picture, of a +sculptor who, secure from curious eyes, draws the sheet from the still +moist clay of his modeling, and now from this angle, now from that, +studies, criticizes, and exults. + +But Anthony Cardew never built his house on the cliff. Time was to come +when great houses stood there, like vast forts, overlooking, almost +menacing, the valley beneath. For, until the nineties, although the city +distended in all directions, huge, ugly, powerful, infinitely rich, and +while in the direction of Anthony's farm the growth was real and rapid, +it was the plain people who lined its rapidly extending avenues with +their two-story brick houses; little homes of infinite tenderness +and quiet, along tree-lined streets, where the children played on the +cobble-stones, and at night the horse cars, and later the cable system, +brought home tired clerks and storekeepers to small havens, already +growing dingy from the smoke of the distant mills. + +Anthony Cardew did not like the plain people. Yet in the end, it was the +plain people, those who neither labored with their hands nor lived +by the labor of others--it was the plain people who vanquished him. +Vanquished him and tried to protect him. But could not. A smallish man, +hard and wiry, he neither saved himself nor saved others. He had one +fetish, power. And one pride, his line. The Cardews were iron masters. +Howard would be an iron master, and Howard's son. + +But Howard never had a son. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +All through her teens Lily had wondered about the mystery concerning her +Aunt Elinor. There was an oil portrait of her in the library, and one of +the first things she had been taught was not to speak of it. + +Now and then, at intervals of years, Aunt Elinor came back. Her mother +and father would look worried, and Aunt Elinor herself would stay in her +rooms, and seldom appeared at meals. Never at dinner. As a child Lily +used to think she had two Aunt Elinors, one the young girl in the gilt +frame, and the other the quiet, soft-voiced person who slipped around +the upper corridors like a ghost. + +But she was not to speak of either of them to her grandfather. + +Lily was not born in the house on lower East Avenue. + +In the late eighties Anthony built himself a home, not on the farm, but +in a new residence portion of the city. The old common, grazing ground +of family cows, dump and general eye-sore, had become a park by that +time, still only a potentially beautiful thing, with the trees that were +to be its later glory only thin young shoots, and on the streets that +faced it the wealthy of the city built their homes, brick houses of +square solidity, flush with brick pavements, which were carefully +reddened on Saturday mornings. Beyond the pavements were cobble-stoned +streets. Anthony Cardew was the first man in the city to have a +rubber-tired carriage. The story of Anthony Cardew's new home is the +story of Elinor's tragedy. Nor did it stop there. It carried on to the +third generation, to Lily Cardew, and in the end it involved the city +itself. Because of the ruin of one small home all homes were threatened. +One small house, and one undying hatred. + +Yet the matter was small in itself. An Irishman named Doyle owned the +site Anthony coveted. After years of struggle his small grocery had +begun to put him on his feet, and now the new development of the +neighborhood added to his prosperity. He was a dried-up, sentimental +little man, with two loves, his wife's memory and his wife's garden, +which he still tended religiously between customers; and one ambition, +his son. With the change from common to park, and the improvement in the +neighborhood, he began to flourish, and he, too, like Anthony, dreamed +a dream. He would make his son a gentleman, and he would get a shop +assistant and a horse and wagon. Poverty was still his lot, but there +were good times coming. He saved carefully, and sent Jim Doyle away to +college. + +He would not sell to Anthony. When he said he could not sell his wife's +garden, Anthony's agents reported him either mad or deeply scheming. +They kept after him, offering much more than the land was worth. Doyle +began by being pugnacious, but in the end he took to brooding. + +“He'll get me yet,” he would mutter, standing among the white phlox of +his little back garden. “He'll get me. He never quits.” + +Anthony Cardew waited a year. Then he had the frame building condemned +as unsafe, and Doyle gave in. Anthony built his house. He put a brick +stable where the garden had been, and the night watchman for the +property complained that a little man, with wild eyes, often spent half +the night standing across the street, quite still, staring over. If +Anthony gave Doyle a thought, it was that progress and growth had their +inevitable victims. But on the first night of Anthony's occupancy of his +new house Doyle shot himself beside the stable, where a few stalks of +white phlox had survived the building operations. + +It never reached the newspapers, nor did a stable-boy's story of hearing +the dying man curse Anthony and all his works. But nevertheless the +story of the Doyle curse on Anthony Cardew spread. Anthony heard it, and +forgot it. But two days later he was dragged from his carriage by young +Jim Doyle, returned for the older Doyle's funeral, and beaten insensible +with the stick of his own carriage whip. + +Young Doyle did not run away. He stood by, a defiant figure full of +hatred, watching Anthony on the cobbles, as though he wanted to see him +revive and suffer. + +“I didn't do it to revenge my father,” he said at the trial. “He was +nothing to me--I did it to show old Cardew that he couldn't get away +with it. I'd do it again, too.” + +Any sentiment in his favor died at that, and he was given five years +in the penitentiary. He was a demoralizing influence there, already a +socialist with anarchical tendencies, and with the gift of influencing +men. A fluent, sneering youth, who lashed the guards to fury with his +unctuous, diabolical tongue. + +The penitentiary had not been moved then. It stood in the park, a grim +gray thing of stone. Elinor Cardew, a lonely girl always, used to stand +in a window of the new house and watch the walls. Inside there were men +who were shut away from all that greenery around them. Men who could +look up at the sky, or down at the ground, but never out and across, as +she could. + +She was always hoping some of them would get away. She hated the +sentries, rifle on shoulder, who walked their monotonous beats, back and +forward, along the top of the wall. + +Anthony's house was square and substantial, with high ceilings. It was +paneled with walnut and furnished in walnut, in those days. Its tables +and bureaus were of walnut, with cold white marble tops. And in the +parlor was a square walnut piano, which Elinor hated because she had +to sit there three hours each day, slipping on the top of the +horsehair-covered stool, to practice. In cold weather her German +governess sat in the frigid room, with a shawl and mittens, waiting +until the onyx clock on the mantel-piece showed that the three hours +were over. + +Elinor had never heard the story of old Michael Doyle, or of his son +Jim. But one night--she was seventeen then, and Jim Doyle had served +three years of his sentence--sitting at dinner with her father, she +said: + +“Some convicts escaped from the penitentiary today, father.” + +“Don't believe it,” said Anthony Cardew. “Nothing about it in the +newspapers.” + +“Fraulein saw the hole.” + +Elinor had had an Alsatian governess. That was one reason why Elinor's +niece had a French one. + +“Hole? What do you mean by hole?” + +Elinor shrank back a little. She had not minded dining with her father +when Howard was at home, but Howard was at college. Howard had a way +of good-naturedly ignoring his father's asperities, but Elinor was a +suppressed, shy little thing, romantic, aloof, and filled with undesired +affections. “She said a hole,” she affirmed, diffidently. “She says they +dug a tunnel and got out. Last night.” + +“Very probably,” said Anthony Cardew. And he repeated, thoughtfully, +“Very probably.” + +He did not hear Elinor when she quietly pushed back her chair and said +“good-night.” He was sitting at the table, tapping on the cloth with +finger-tips that were slightly cold. That evening Anthony Cardew had +a visit from the police, and considerable fiery talk took place in his +library. As a result there was a shake-up in city politics, and a change +in the penitentiary management, for Anthony Cardew had a heavy hand +and a bitter memory. And a little cloud on his horizon grew and finally +settled down over his life, turning it gray. Jim Doyle was among those +who had escaped. For three months Anthony was followed wherever he went +by detectives, and his house was watched at night. But he was a brave +man, and the espionage grew hateful. Besides, each day added to his +sense of security. There came a time when he impatiently dismissed the +police, and took up life again as before. + +Then one day he received a note, in a plain white envelope. It said: +“There are worse things than death.” And it was signed: “J. Doyle.” + +Doyle was not recaptured. Anthony had iron gratings put on the lower +windows of his house after that, and he hired a special watchman. But +nothing happened, and at last he began to forget. He was building the +new furnaces up the river by that time. The era of structural steel for +tall buildings was beginning, and he bought the rights of a process for +making cement out of his furnace slag. He was achieving great wealth, +although he did not change his scale of living. + +Now and then Fraulein braved the terrors of the library, small +neatly-written lists in her hands. Miss Elinor needed this or that. He +would check up the lists, sign his name to them, and Elinor and Fraulein +would have a shopping excursion. He never gave Elinor money. + +On one of the lists one day he found the word, added in Elinor's hand: +“Horse.” + +“Horse?” he said, scowling up at Fraulein. “There are six horses in the +stable now.” + +“Miss Elinor thought--a riding horse--” + +“Nonsense!” Then he thought a moment. There came back to him a picture +of those English gentlewomen from among whom he had selected his wife, +quiet-voiced, hard-riding, high-colored girls, who could hunt all day +and dance all night. Elinor was a pale little thing. Besides, every +gentlewoman should ride. + +“She can't ride around here.” + +“Miss Elinor thought--there are bridle paths near the riding academy.” + +It was odd, but at that moment Anthony Cardew had an odd sort of vision. +He saw the little grocer lying stark and huddled among the phlox by the +stable, and the group of men that stooped over him. + +“I'll think about it,” was his answer. + +But within a few days Elinor was the owner of a quiet mare, stabled at +the academy, and was riding each day in the tan bark ring between its +white-washed fences, while a mechanical piano gave an air of festivity +to what was otherwise rather a solemn business. + +Within a week of that time the riding academy had a new instructor, a +tall, thin young man, looking older than he was, with heavy dark hair +and a manner of repressed insolence. A man, the grooms said among +themselves, of furious temper and cold eyes. + +And in less than four months Elinor Cardew ran away from home and was +married to Jim Doyle. Anthony received two letters from a distant city, +a long, ecstatic but terrified one from his daughter, and one line on +a slip of paper from her husband. The one line read: “I always pay my +debts.” + +Anthony made a new will, leaving Howard everything, and had Elinor's +rooms closed. Fraulein went away, weeping bitterly, and time went on. +Now and then Anthony heard indirectly from Doyle. He taught in a boys' +school for a time, and was dismissed for his radical views. He did +brilliant editorial work on a Chicago newspaper, but now and then he +intruded his slant-eyed personal views, and in the end he lost his +position. Then he joined the Socialist party, and was making speeches +containing radical statements that made the police of various cities +watchful. But he managed to keep within the letter of the law. + +Howard Cardew married when Elinor had been gone less than a year. +Married the daughter of a small hotel-keeper in his college town, a +pretty, soft-voiced girl, intelligent and gentle, and because Howard was +all old Anthony had left, he took her into his home. But for many years +he did not forgive her. He had one hope, that she would give Howard a +son to carry on the line. Perhaps the happiest months of Grace Cardew's +married life were those before Lily was born, when her delicate health +was safeguarded in every way by her grim father-in-law. But Grace bore +a girl child, and very nearly died in the bearing. Anthony Cardew would +never have a grandson. + +He was deeply resentful. The proud fabric of his own weaving would +descend in the fullness of time to a woman. And Howard himself--old +Anthony was pitilessly hard in his judgments--Howard was not a strong +man. A good man. A good son, better than he deserved. But amiable, +kindly, without force. + +Once the cloud had lifted, and only once. Elinor had come home to have a +child. She came at night, a shabby, worn young woman, with great eyes in +a chalk-white face, and Grayson had not recognized her at first. He +got her some port from the dining-room before he let her go into the +library, and stood outside the door, his usually impassive face working, +during the interview which followed. Probably that was Grayson's big +hour, for if Anthony turned her out he intended to go in himself, and +fight for the woman he had petted as a child. + +But Anthony had not turned her out. He took one comprehensive glance at +her thin face and distorted figure. Then he said: + +“So this is the way you come back.” + +“He drove me out,” she said dully. “He sent me here. He knew I had no +place else to go. He knew you wouldn't want me. It's revenge, I suppose. +I'm so tired, father.” + +Yes, it was revenge, surely. To send back to him this soiled and broken +woman, bearing the mark he had put upon her--that was deviltry, thought +out and shrewdly executed. During the next hour Anthony Cardew suffered, +and made Elinor suffer, too. But at the end of that time he found +himself confronting a curious situation. Elinor, ashamed, humbled, was +not contrite. It began to dawn on Anthony that Jim Doyle's revenge was +not finished. For--Elinor loved the man. + +She both hated him and loved him. And that leering Irish devil knew it. + +He sent for Grace, finally, and Elinor was established in the house. +Grace and little Lily's governess had themselves bathed her and put +her to bed, and Mademoiselle had smuggled out of the house the garments +Elinor had worn into it. Grace had gone in the motor--one of the first +in the city--and had sent back all sorts of lovely garments for Elinor +to wear, and quantities of fine materials to be made into tiny garments. +Grace was a practical woman, and she disliked the brooding look in +Elinor's eyes. + +“Do you know,” she said to Howard that night, “I believe she is quite +mad about him still.” + +“He ought to be drawn and quartered,” said Howard, savagely. + +Anthony Cardew gave Elinor sanctuary, but he refused to see her again. +Except once. + +“Then, if it is a boy, you want me to leave him with you?” she asked, +bending over her sewing. + +“Leave him with me! Do you mean that you intend to go back to that +blackguard?” + +“He is my husband. He isn't always cruel.” + +“Good God!” shouted Anthony. “How did I ever happen to have such a +craven creature for a daughter?” + +“Anyhow,” said Elinor, “it will be his child, father.” + +“When he turned you out, like any drab of the streets!” bellowed old +Anthony. “He never cared for you. He married you to revenge himself on +me. He sent you back here for the same reason. He'll take your child, +and break its spirit and ruin its body, for the same reason. The man's a +maniac.” + +But again, as on the night she came, he found himself helpless against +Elinor's quiet impassivity. He knew that, let Jim Doyle so much as raise +a beckoning finger, and she would go to him. He did not realize that +Elinor had inherited from her quiet mother the dog-like quality of +love in spite of cruelty. To Howard he stormed. He considered Elinor's +infatuation indecent. She was not a Cardew. The Cardew women had some +pride. And Howard, his handsome figure draped negligently against the +library mantel, would puzzle over it, too. + +“I'm blessed if I understand it,” he would say. + +Elinor's child had been a boy, and old Anthony found some balm in +Gilead. Jim Doyle had not raised a finger to beckon, and if he knew of +his son, he made no sign. Anthony still ignored Elinor, but he saw in +her child the third generation of Cardews. Lily he had never counted. He +took steps to give the child the Cardew name, and the fact was announced +in the newspapers. Then one day Elinor went out, and did not come back. +It was something Anthony Cardew had not counted on, that a woman could +love a man more than her child. + +“I simply had to do it, father,” she wrote. “You won't understand, of +course. I love him, father. Terribly. And he loves me in his way, even +when he is unfaithful to me. I know he has been that. Perhaps if you had +wanted me at home it would have been different. But it kills me to leave +the baby. The only reason I can bring myself to do it is that, the way +things are, I cannot give him the things he ought to have. And Jim does +not seem to want him. He has never seen him, for one thing. Besides--I +am being honest--I don't think the atmosphere of the way we live would +be good for a boy.” + +There was a letter to Grace, too, a wild hysterical document, filled +with instructions for the baby's care. A wet nurse, for one thing. Grace +read it with tears in her eyes, but Anthony saw in it only the ravings +of a weak and unbalanced woman. + +He never forgave Elinor, and once more the little grocer's curse +thwarted his ambitions. For, deprived of its mother's milk, the baby +died. Old Anthony sometimes wondered if that, too, had been calculated, +a part of the Doyle revenge. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +While Grace rested that afternoon of Lily's return, Lily ranged over +the house. In twenty odd years the neighborhood had changed, and only +a handful of the old families remained. Many of the other large houses +were prostituted to base uses. Dingy curtains hung at their windows, +dingy because of the smoke from the great furnaces and railroads. The +old Osgood residence, nearby, had been turned into apartments, with +bottles of milk and paper bags on its fire-escapes, and a pharmacy on +the street floor. The Methodist Church, following its congregation to +the vicinity of old Anthony's farm, which was now cut up into city lots, +had abandoned the building, and it had become a garage. The penitentiary +had been moved outside the city limits, and near its old site was a +small cement-lined lake, the cheerful rendezvous in summer of bathing +children and thirsty dogs. + +Lily was idle, for the first time in months. She wandered about, even +penetrating to those upper rooms sacred to her grandfather, to which he +had retired on Howard's marriage. How strangely commonplace they were +now, in the full light of day, and yet, when he was in them, the doors +closed and only Burton, his valet, in attendance, how mysterious they +became! + +Increasingly, in later years, Lily had felt and resented the domination +of the old man. She resented her father's acquiescence in that +domination, her mother's good-humored tolerance of it. She herself had +accepted it, although unwillingly, but she knew, rather vaguely, that +the Lily Cardew who had gone away to the camp and the Lily Cardew who +stood that day before her grandfather's throne-like chair under its +lamp, were two entirely different people. + +She was uneasy rather than defiant. She meant to keep the peace. She +had been brought up to the theory that no price was too great to pay for +peace. But she wondered, as she stood there, if that were entirely true. +She remembered something Willy Cameron had said about that very thing. + +“What's wrong with your grandfather,” he had said, truculently, and +waving his pipe, “is that everybody gets down and lets him walk on them. +If everybody lets a man use them as doormats, you can't blame him for +wiping his feet on them. Tell him that sometime, and see what happens.” + +“Tell him yourself!” said Lily. + +He had smiled cheerfully. He had an engaging sort of smile. + +“Maybe I will,” he said. “I am a rising young man, and my voice may some +day be heard in the land. Sometimes I feel the elements of greatness in +me, sweet child. You haven't happened to notice it yourself, have you?” + +He had gazed at her with solemn anxiety through the smoke of his pipe, +and had grinned when she remained silent. + +Lily drew a long breath. All that delightful fooling was over; the hard +work was over. The nights were gone when they would wander like children +across the parade grounds, or past the bayonet school, with its rows of +tripods upholding imitation enemies made of sacks stuffed with hay, and +showing signs of mortal injury with their greasy entrails protruding. +Gone, too, were the hours when Willy sank into the lowest abyss of +depression over his failure to be a fighting man. + +“But you are doing your best for your country,” she would say. + +“I'm not fighting for it, or getting smashed up for it. I don't want +to be a hero, but I'd like to have had one good bang at them before I +quit.” + +Once she had found him in the hut, with his head on a table. He said he +had a toothache. + +Well, that was all over. She was back in her grandfather's house, and-- + +“He'll get me too, probably,” she reflected, as she went down the +stairs, “just as he's got all the others.” + +Mademoiselle was in Lily's small sitting room, while Castle was +unpacking under her supervision. The sight of her uniforms made Lily +suddenly restless. + +“How you could wear these things!” cried Mademoiselle. “You, who have +always dressed like a princess!” + +“I liked them,” said Lily, briefly. “Mademoiselle, what am I going to do +with myself, now?” + +“Do?” Mademoiselle smiled. “Play, as you deserve, Cherie. Dance, and +meet nice young men. You are to make your debut this fall. Then a very +charming young man, and marriage.” + +“Oh!” said Lily, rather blankly. “I've got to come out, have I? I'd +forgotten people did such things. Please run along and do something +else, Castle. I'll unpack.” + +“That is very bad for discipline,” Mademoiselle objected when the +maid had gone. “And it is not necessary for Mr. Anthony Cardew's +granddaughter.” + +“It's awfully necessary for her,” Lily observed, cheerfully. “I've been +buttoning my own shoes for some time, and I haven't developed a spinal +curvature yet.” She kissed Mademoiselle's perplexed face lightly. “Don't +get to worrying about me,” she added. “I'll shake down in time, and be +just as useless as ever. But I wish you'd lend me your sewing basket.” + +“Why?” asked Mademoiselle, suspiciously. + +“Because I am possessed with a mad desire to sew on some buttons.” + +A little later Lily looked up from her rather awkward but industrious +labors with a needle, and fixed her keen young eyes on Mademoiselle. + +“Is there any news about Aunt Elinor?” she asked. + +“She is with him,” said Mademoiselle, shortly. “They are here now, in +the city. How he dared to come back!” + +“Does mother see her?” + +“No. Certainly not.” + +“Why 'certainly' not? He is Aunt Elinor's husband. She isn't doing +anything wicked.” + +“A woman who would leave a home like this,” said Mademoiselle, “and a +distinguished family. Position. Wealth. For a brute who beats her. And +desert her child also!” + +“Does he really beat her? I don't quite believe that, Mademoiselle.” + +“It is not a subject for a young girl.” + +“Because really,” Lily went on, “there is something awfully big about a +woman who will stick to one man like that. I am quite sure I would bite +a man who struck me, but--suppose I loved him terribly--” her voice +trailed off. “You see, dear, I have seen a lot of brutality lately. An +army camp isn't a Sunday school picnic. And I like strong men, even if +they are brutal sometimes.” + +Mademoiselle carefully cut a thread. + +“This--you were speaking to Ellen of a young man. Is he a--what you term +brutal?” + +Suddenly Lily laughed. + +“You poor dear!” she said. “And mother, too, of course! You're afraid +I'm in love with Willy Cameron. Don't you know that if I were, I'd +probably never even mention his name?” + +“But is he brutal?” persisted Mademoiselle. + +“I'll tell you about him. He is a thin, blond young man, tall and a bit +lame. He has curly hair, and he puts pomade on it to take the curl out. +He is frightfully sensitive about not getting in the army, and he is +perfectly sweet and kind, and as brutal as a June breeze. You'd better +tell mother. And you can tell her he isn't in love with me, or I with +him. You see, I represent what he would call the monied aristocracy of +America, and he has the most fearful ideas about us.” + +“An anarchist, then?” asked. Mademoiselle, extremely comforted. + +“Not at all. He says he belongs to the plain people. The people in +between. He is rather oratorical about them. He calls them the backbone +of the country.” + +Mademoiselle relaxed. She had been too long in old Anthony's house +to consider very seriously the plain people. Her world, like Anthony +Cardew's, consisted of the financial aristocracy, which invested money +in industries and drew out rich returns, while providing employment for +the many; and of the employees of the magnates, who had recently shown +strong tendencies toward upsetting the peace of the land, and had given +old Anthony one or two attacks of irritability when it was better to go +up a rear staircase if he were coming down the main one. + +“Wait a moment,” said Lily, suddenly. “I have a picture of him +somewhere.” + +She disappeared, and Mademoiselle heard her rummaging through the +drawers of her dressing table. She came back with a small photograph in +her hand. + +It showed a young man, in a large apron over a Red Cross uniform, +bending over a low field range with a long-handled fork in his hand. + +“Frying doughnuts,” Lily explained. “I was in this hut at first, and I +mixed them and cut them, and he fried them. We made thousands of them. +We used to talk about opening a shop somewhere, Cardew and Cameron. He +said my name would be fine for business. He'd fry them in the window, +and I'd sell them. And a coffee machine--coffee and doughnuts, you +know.” + +“Not--seriously?” + +At the expression on Mademoiselle's face Lily laughed joyously. + +“Why not?” she demanded. “And you could be the cashier, like the ones in +France, and sit behind a high desk and count money all day. I'd rather +do that than come out,” she added. + +“You are going to be a good girl, Lily, aren't you?” + +“If that means letting grandfather use me for a doormat, I don't know.” + +“Lily!” + +“He's old, and I intend to be careful. But he doesn't own me, body and +soul. And it may be hard to make him understand that.” + +Many times in the next few months Mademoiselle was to remember that +conversation, and turn it over in her shrewd, troubled mind. Was there +anything she could have done, outside of warning old Anthony himself? +Suppose she had gone to Mr. Howard Cardew? + +“And how,” said Mademoiselle, trying to smile, “do you propose to assert +this new independence of spirit?” + +“I am going to see Aunt Elinor,” observed Lily. “There, that's eleven +buttons on, and I feel I've earned my dinner. And I'm going to ask Willy +Cameron to come here to see me. To dinner. And as he is sure not to have +any evening clothes, for one night in their lives the Cardew men are +going to dine in mufti. Which is military, you dear old thing, for +the everyday clothing that the plain people eat in, without apparent +suffering!” + +Mademoiselle got up. She felt that Grace should be warned at once. And +there was a look in Lily's face when she mentioned this Cameron creature +that made Mademoiselle nervous. + +“I thought he lived in the country.” + +“Then prepare yourself for a blow,” said Lily Cardew, cheerfully. “He +is here in the city, earning twenty-five dollars a week in the Eagle +Pharmacy, and serving the plain people perfectly preposterous patent +potions--which is his own alliteration, and pretty good, I say.” + +Mademoiselle went out into the hall. Over the house, always silent, +there had come a death-like hush. In the lower hall the footman was +hanging up his master's hat and overcoat. Anthony Cardew had come home +for dinner. + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Mr. William Wallace Cameron, that evening of Lily's return, took a walk. +From his boarding house near the Eagle Pharmacy to the Cardew residence +was a half-hour's walk. There were a number of things he had meant to do +that evening, with a view to improving his mind, but instead he took a +walk. He had made up a schedule for those evenings when he was off +duty, thinking it out very carefully on the train to the city. And the +schedule ran something like this: + +Monday: 8-11. Read History. Wednesday: 8-11. Read Politics and +Economics. Friday: 8-9:30. Travel. 9:30-11. French. Sunday: Hear various +prominent divines. + +He had cut down on the travel rather severely, because travel was with +him an indulgence rather than a study. The longest journey he had ever +taken in his life was to Washington. That was early in the war, when +it did not seem possible that his country would not use him, a boy who +could tramp incredible miles in spite of his lameness and who could +shoot a frightened rabbit at almost any distance, by allowing for a +slight deflection to the right in the barrel of his old rifle. + +But they had refused him. + +“They won't use me, mother,” he had said when he got home, home being +a small neat house on a tidy street of a little country town. “I tried +every branch, but the only training I've had--well, some smart kid said +they weren't planning to serve soda water to the army. They didn't want +cripples, you see.” + +“I wish you wouldn't, Willy.” + +He had been frightfully sorry then and had comforted her at some length, +but the fact remained. + +“And you the very best they've ever had for mixing prescriptions!” she +had said at last. “And a graduate in chemistry!” + +“Well,” he said, “that's that, and we won't worry about it. There's more +than one way of killing a cat.” + +“What do you mean, Willy? More than one way?” + +There was no light of prophecy in William Wallace Cameron's gray eyes, +however, when he replied: “More than one way of serving my country. +Don't you worry. I'll find something.” + +So he had, and he had come out of his Red Cross work in the camp with +one or two things in his heart that had not been there before. One was +a knowledge of men. He could not have put into words what he felt about +men. It was something about the fundamental simplicity of them, for one +thing. You got pretty close to them at night sometimes, especially when +the homesick ones had gone to bed, and the phonograph was playing in a +corner of the long, dim room. There were some shame-faced tears hidden +under army blankets those nights, and Willy Cameron did some blinking on +his own account. + +Then, under all the blasphemy, the talk about women, the surface +sordidness of their daily lives and thoughts, there was one instinct +common to all, one love, one hidden purity. And the keyword to those +depths was “home.” + +“Home,” he said one day to Lily Cardew. “Mostly it's the home they've +left, and maybe they didn't think so much of it then. But they do now. +And if it isn't that, it's the home they want to have some day.” He +looked at Lily. Sometimes she smiled at things he said, and if she had +not been grave he would not have gone on. “You know,” he continued, +“there's mostly a girl some place. All this talk about the nation, +now--” He settled himself on the edge of the pine table where old +Anthony Cardew's granddaughter had been figuring up her week's accounts, +and lighted his pipe, “the nation's too big for us to understand. But +what is the nation, but a bunch of homes?” + +“Willy dear,” said Lily Cardew, “did you take any money out of the cigar +box for anything this week?” + +“Dollar sixty-five for lard,” replied Willy dear. “As I was saying, +we've got to think of this country in terms of homes. Not palaces like +yours--” + +“Good gracious!” said Lily, “I don't live in a palace. Get my +pocket-book, will you? I'm out three dollars somehow, and I'd rather +make it up myself than add these figures over again. Go on and talk, +Willy. I love hearing you.” + +“Not palaces like yours,” repeated Mr. Cameron, “and not hovels. But +mostly self-respecting houses, the homes of the plain people. The middle +class, Miss Cardew. My class. The people who never say anything, but +are squeezed between capital, represented by your grandfather, with its +parasites, represented by you, and--” + +“You represent the people who never say anything,” observed the slightly +flushed parasite of capital, “about as adequately as I represent the +idle rich.” + +Yet not even old Anthony could have resented the actual relationship +between them. Lily Cardew, working alone in her hut among hundreds of +men, was as without sex consciousness as a child. Even then her flaming +interest was in the private soldiers. The officers were able to amuse +themselves; they had money and opportunity. It was the doughboys she +loved and mothered. For them she organized her little entertainments. +For them she played and sang in the evenings, when the field range in +the kitchen was cold, and her blistered fingers stumbled sometimes over +the keys of the jingling camp piano. + +Gradually, out of the chaos of her early impressions, she began to +divide the men in the army into three parts. There were the American +born; they took the war and their part in it as a job to be done, with +as few words as possible. And there were the foreigners to whom America +was a religion, a dream come true, whose flaming love for their new +mother inspired them to stuttering eloquence and awkward gestures. And +then there was a third division, small and mostly foreign born, but +with a certain percentage of native malcontents, who hated the war and +sneered among themselves at the other dupes who believed that it was a +war for freedom. It was a capitalists' war. They considered the state as +an instrument of oppression, as a bungling interference with liberty +and labor; they felt that wealth inevitably brought depravity. They +committed both open and overt acts against discipline, and found in +their arrest and imprisonment renewed grievances, additional oppression, +tyranny. And one day a handful of them, having learned Lily's identity, +came into her hut and attempted to bait her. + +“Gentlemen,” said one of them, “we have here an example of one of the +idle rich, sacrificing herself to make us happy. Now, boys, be happy. +Are we all happy?” He surveyed the group. “Here, you,” he addressed a +sullen-eyed squat Hungarian. “Smile when I tell you. You're a slave in +one of old Cardew's mills, aren't you? Well, aren't you grateful to him? +Here he goes and sends his granddaughter--” + +Willy Cameron had entered the room with a platter of doughnuts in his +hand, and stood watching, his face going pale. Quite suddenly there +was a crash, and the gang leader went down in a welter of porcelain and +fried pastry. Willy Cameron was badly beaten up, in the end, and the +beaters were court-martialed. But something of Lily's fine faith in +humanity was gone. + +“But,” she said to him, visiting him one day in the base hospital, where +he was still an aching, mass of bruises, “there must be something behind +it. They didn't hate me. They only hated my--well, my family.” + +“My dear child,” said Willy Cameron, feeling very old and experienced, +and, it must be confessed, extremely happy, “of course there's something +behind it. But the most that's behind it is a lot of fellows who want +without working what the other fellow's worked to get.” + +It was about that time that Lily was exchanged into the town near the +camp, and Willy Cameron suddenly found life a stale thing, and ashes in +the mouth. He finally decided that he had not been such a hopeless fool +as to fall in love with her, but that it would be as well not to see her +too much. + +“The thing to do,” he reasoned to himself, “is, first of all, not to +see her. Or only on Friday nights, because she likes the movies, and it +would look queer to stop.” Thus Willy Cameron speciously to himself, and +deliberately ignoring the fact that some twenty-odd officers stood ready +to seize those Friday nights. “And then to work hard, so I'll sleep +better, and not lie awake making a fool of myself. And when I get a bit +of idiocy in the daytime, I'd better just walk it off. Because I've got +to live with myself a long time, probably, and I'm no love-sick Romeo.” + +Which excellent practical advice had cost him considerable shoe-leather +at first. In a month or two, however, he considered himself quite cured, +and pretended to himself that he was surprised to find it Friday again. +But when, after retreat, the band marched back again to its quarters +playing, for instance, “There's a Long, Long Trail,” there was something +inside him that insisted on seeing the years ahead as a long, long +trail, and that the trail did not lead to the lands of his dreams. + +He got to know that very well indeed during the winter that followed the +armistice. Because there was work to do he stayed and finished up, as +did Lily Cardew. But the hut was closed and she was working in the town, +and although they kept up their Friday evenings, the old intimacy was +gone. And one night she said: + +“Isn't it amazing, when you are busy, how soon Friday night comes +along?” + +And on each day of the preceding week he had wakened and said to +himself: “This is Monday--“--or whatever it might be--“and in four more +days it will be Friday.” + +In February he was sent home. Lily stayed on until the end of March. He +went back to his little village of plain people, and took up life again +as best he could. But sometimes it seemed to him that from behind every +fire-lit window in the evenings--he was still wearing out shoe-leather, +particularly at nights--somebody with a mandolin was wailing about the +long, long trail. + +His mother watched him anxiously. He was thinner than ever, and oddly +older, and there was a hollow look about his eyes that hurt her. + +“Why don't you bring home a bottle of tonic from the store, Willy,” she +said, one evening when he had been feverishly running through the city +newspaper. He put the paper aside hastily. + +“Tonic!” he said. “Why, I'm all right, mother. Anyhow, I wouldn't take +any of that stuff.” He caught her eye and looked away. “It takes a +little time to get settled again, that's all, mother.” + +“The Young People's Society is having an entertainment at the church +to-night, Willy.” + +“Well, maybe I'll go,” he agreed to her unspoken suggestion. “If you +insist on making me a society man--” + +But some time later he came downstairs with a book. + +“Thought I'd rather read,” he explained. “Got a book here on the history +of steel. Talk about romances! Let me read some of it to you. You sit +there and close your eyes and just listen to this: 'The first Cardew +furnace was built in 1868. At that time--'” + +Some time later he glanced up. His mother was quietly sleeping, her +hands folded in her lap. He closed the book and sat there, fighting +again his patient battle with himself. The book on his knee seemed to +symbolize the gulf between Lily Cardew and himself. But the real gulf, +the unbridgeable chasm, between Lily and himself, was neither social nor +financial. + +“As if that counted, in America,” he reflected scornfully. + +No. It was not that. The war had temporarily broken down the old social +barriers. Some of them would never be erected again, although it was the +tendency of civilization for men to divide themselves, rather than to +be divided, into the high, the middle and the low. But in his generation +young Cameron knew that there would be no uncrossable bridge between old +Anthony's granddaughter and himself, were it not for one thing. + +She did not love him. It hurt his pride to realize that she had never +thought of him in any terms but that of a pleasant comradeship. Hardly +even as a man. Men fought, in war time. They did not fry doughnuts and +write letters home for the illiterate. Any one of those boys in the +ranks was a better man than he was. All this talk about a man's soul +being greater than his body, that was rot. A man was as good as the +weakest part of him, and no more. + +His sensitive face in the lamplight was etched with lines of tragedy. +He put the book on the table, and suddenly flinging his arms across it, +dropped his head on them. The slight movement wakened his mother. + +“Why, Willy!” she said. + +After a moment he looked up. “I was almost asleep,” he explained, more +to protect her than himself. “I--I wish that fool Nelson kid would break +his mandolin--or his neck,” he said irritably. He kissed her and went +upstairs. From across the quiet street there came thin, plaintive, +occasionally inaccurate, the strains of the long, long trail. + +There was the blood of Covenanters in Willy Cameron's mother, a high +courage of sacrifice, and an exceedingly shrewd brain. She lay awake +that night, carefully planning, and when everything was arranged in +orderly fashion in her mind, she lighted her lamp and carried it to the +door of Willy's room. He lay diagonally across his golden-oak bed, for +he was very long, and sleep had rubbed away the tragic lines about his +mouth. She closed his door and went back to her bed. + +“I've seen too much of it,” she reflected, without bitterness. She +stared around the room. “Too much of it,” she repeated. And crawled +heavily back into bed, a determined little figure, rather chilled. + +The next morning she expressed a desire to spend a few months with her +brother in California. + +“I coughed all last winter, after I had the flu,” she explained, “and +James has been wanting me this long time. I don't want to leave you, +that's all, Willy. If you were in the city it would be different.” + +He was frankly bewildered and a little hurt, to tell the truth. He no +more suspected her of design than of crime. + +“Of course you are going,” he said, heartily. “It's the very thing. But +I like the way you desert your little son!” + +“I've been thinking about that, too,” she said, pouring his coffee. +“I--if you were in the city, now, there would always be something to +do.” + +He shot her a suspicious glance, but her face was without evidence of +guile. + +“What would I do in the city?” + +“They use chemists in the mills, don't they?” + +“A fat chance I'd have for that sort of job,” he scoffed. “No city for +me, mother.” + +But she knew. She read his hesitation accurately, the incredulous pause +of the bird whose cage door is suddenly opened. He would go. + +“I'd think about it, anyhow, Willy.” + +But for a long time after he had gone she sat quietly rocking in her +rocking chair in the bay window of the sitting room. It was a familiar +attitude of hers, homely, middle-class, and in a way symbolic. Had old +Anthony Cardew ever visualized so imaginative a thing as a Nemesis, +he would probably have summoned a vision of a huddled figure in his +stable-yard, dying, and cursing him as he died. Had Jim Doyle, cunningly +plotting the overthrow of law and order, been able in his arrogance +to conceive of such a thing, it might have been Anthony Cardew he +saw. Neither of them, for a moment, dreamed of it as an elderly Scotch +Covenanter, a plain little womanly figure, rocking in a cane-seated +rocking chair, and making the great sacrifice of her life. + +All of which simply explains how, on a March Wednesday evening of the +great year of peace after much tribulation, Mr. William Wallace Cameron, +now a clerk at the Eagle Pharmacy, after an hour of Politics, and no +Economics at all, happened to be taking a walk toward the Cardew +house. Such pilgrimages has love taken for many years, small uncertain +ramblings where the fancy leads the feet and far outstrips them, and +where heart-hunger hides under various flimsy pretexts; a fine night, a +paper to be bought, a dog to be exercised. + +Not that Willy Cameron made any excuses to himself. He had a sort of +idea that if he saw the magnificence that housed her, it would through +her sheer remoteness kill the misery in him. But he regarded himself +with a sort of humorous pity, and having picked up a stray dog, he +addressed it now and then. + +“Even a cat can look at a king,” he said once. And again, following some +vague train of thought, on a crowded street: “The People's voice is +a queer thing. 'It is, and it is not, the voice of God.' The people's +voice, old man. Only the ones that count haven't got a voice.” + +There were, he felt, two Lily Cardews. One lived in an army camp, +and wore plain clothes, and got a bath by means of calculation and +persistency, and went to the movies on Friday nights, and was quite +apt to eat peanuts at those times, carefully putting the shells in her +pocket. + +And another one lived inside this great pile of brick,--he was standing +across from it, by the park railing, by that time--where motor cars drew +up, and a footman with an umbrella against a light rain ushered to their +limousines draped women and men in evening clothes, their strong blacks +and whites revealed in the light of the street door. And this Lily +Cardew lived in state, bowed to by flunkeys in livery, dressed and +undressed--his Scotch sense of decorum resented this--by serving women. +This Lily Cardew would wear frivolous ball-gowns, such things as he saw +in the shop windows, considered money only as a thing of exchange, and +had traveled all over Europe a number of times. + +He took his station against the park railings and reflected that it was +a good thing he had come, after all. Because it was the first Lily whom +he loved, and she was gone, with the camp and the rest, including war. +What had he in common with those lighted windows, with their heavy laces +and draperies? + +“Nothing at all, old man,” he said cheerfully to the dog, “nothing at +all.” + +But although the ache was gone when he turned homeward, the dog still at +his heels, he felt strangely lonely without it. He considered that very +definitely he had put love out of his life. Hereafter he would travel +the trail alone. Or accompanied only by History, Politics, Economics, +and various divines on Sunday evenings. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +“Well, grandfather,” said Lily Cardew, “the last of the Cardews is home +from the wars.” + +“So I presume,” observed old Anthony. “Owing, however, to your mother's +determination to shroud this room in impenetrable gloom, I can only +presume. I cannot see you.” + +His tone was less unpleasant than his words, however. He was in one of +the rare moods of what passed with him for geniality. For one thing, he +had won at the club that afternoon, where every day from four to six he +played bridge with his own little group, reactionaries like himself, +men who viewed the difficulties of the younger employers of labor with +amused contempt. For another, he and Howard had had a difference of +opinion, and he had, for a wonder, made Howard angry. + +“Well, Lily,” he inquired, “how does it seem to be at home?” + +Lily eyed him almost warily. He was sometimes most dangerous in these +moods. + +“I'm not sure, grandfather.” + +“Not sure about what?” + +“Well, I am glad to see everybody, of course. But what am I to do with +myself?” + +“Tut.” He had an air of benignantly forgiving her. “You'll find plenty. +What did you do before you went away?” + +“That was different, grandfather.” + +“I'm blessed,” said old Anthony, truculently, “if I understand what +has come over this country, anyhow. What is different? We've had a war. +We've had other wars, and we didn't think it necessary to change the +Constitution after them. But everything that was right before this +war is wrong after it. Lot of young idiots coming back and refusing to +settle down. Set of young Bolshevists!” + +He had always managed to arouse a controversial spirit in the girl. + +“Maybe, if it isn't right now, it wasn't right before.” Having said it, +Lily immediately believed it. She felt suddenly fired with an intense +dislike of anything that her grandfather advocated. + +“Meaning what?” He fixed her with cold but attentive eyes. + +“Oh--conditions,” she said vaguely. She was not at all sure what she +meant. And old Anthony realized it, and gave a sardonic chuckle. + +“I advise you to get a few arguments from your father, Lily. He is full +of them. If he had his way I'd have a board of my workmen running my +mills, while I played golf in Florida.” + +Dinner was a relatively pleasant meal. In her gradual rehabilitation +of the house Grace had finally succeeded in doing over the dining room. +Over the old walnut paneling she had hung loose folds of faded blue +Italian velvet, with old silver candle sconces at irregular intervals +along the walls. The great table and high-backed chairs were likewise +Italian, and the old-fashioned white marble fireplace had been given an +over-mantel, also white, enclosing an old tapestry. For warmth of color +there were always flowers, and that night there were red roses. + +Lily liked the luxury of it. She liked the immaculate dinner dress of +the two men; she liked her mother's beautiful neck and arms; she liked +the quiet service once more; she even liked herself, moderately, in a +light frock and slippers. But she watched it all with a new interest and +a certain detachment. She felt strange and aloof, not entirely one of +them. She felt very keenly that no one of them was vitally interested +in this wonder-year of hers. They asked her perfunctory questions, but +Grace's watchful eyes were on the service, Anthony was engrossed with +his food, and her father-- + +Her father was changed. He looked older and care-worn. For the first +time she began to wonder about her father. What was he, really, under +that calm, fastidiously dressed, handsome exterior? Did he mind the +little man with the sardonic smile and the swift unpleasant humor, whose +glance reduced the men who served into terrified menials? Her big, +blond father, with his rather slow speech, his honest eyes, his slight +hesitation before he grasped some of the finer nuances of his father's +wit. No, he was not brilliant, but he was real, real and kindly. Perhaps +he was strong, too. He looked strong. + +With the same pitiless judgment she watched her mother. Either Grace +was very big, or very indifferent to the sting of old Anthony's tongue. +Sometimes women suffered much in silence, because they loved greatly. +Like Aunt Elinor. Aunt Elinor had loved her husband more than she had +loved her child. Quite calmly Lily decided that, as between her husband +and herself, her mother loved her husband. Perhaps that was as it should +be, but it added to her sense of aloofness. And she wondered, too, about +these great loves that seemed to feed on sacrifice. + +Anthony, who had a most unpleasant faculty of remembering things, +suddenly bent forward and observed to her, across the table: + +“I should be interested to know, since you regard present conditions as +wrong, and, I inferred, wrong because of my mishandling of them, just +what you would propose to do to right them.” + +“But I didn't say they were wrong, did I?” + +“Don't answer a question with a question. It's a feminine form of +evasion, because you have no answer and no remedy. Yet, heaven save the +country, women are going to vote!” He pushed his plate away and glanced +at Grace. “Is that the new chef's work?” + +“Yes. Isn't it right?” + +“Right? The food is impossible.” + +“He came from the club.” + +“Send him back,” ordered Anthony. And when Grace observed that it was +difficult to get servants, he broke into a cold fury. What had come over +the world, anyhow? Time was when a gentleman's servants stayed with +the family until they became pensioners, and their children took their +places. Now--! + +Grace said nothing. Her eyes sought Howard's, and seemed to find some +comfort there. And Lily, sorry for her mother, said the first thing that +came into her head. + +“The old days of caste are gone, grandfather. And service, in your sense +of the word, went with them.” + +“Really?” he eyed her. “Who said that? Because I daresay it is not +original.” + +“A man I knew at camp.” + +“What man?” + +“His name was Willy Cameron.” + +“Willy Cameron! Was this--er--person qualified to speak? Does he know +anything about what he chooses to call caste?” + +“He thinks a lot about things.” + +“A little less thinking and more working wouldn't hurt the country any,” + observed old Anthony. He bent forward. “As my granddaughter, and the +last of the Cardews,” he said, “I have a certain interest in the sources +of your political opinions. They will probably, like your father's, +differ from mine. You may not know that your father has not only +opinions, but ambitions.” She saw Grace stiffen, and Howard's warning +glance at her. But she saw, too, the look in her mother's eyes, +infinitely loving and compassionate. “Dear little mother,” she thought, +“he is her baby, really. Not I.” + +She felt a vague stirring of what married love at its best must be for a +woman, its strange complex of passion and maternity. She wondered if +it would ever come to her. She rather thought not. But she was also +conscious of a new attitude among the three at the table, her mother's +tense watchfulness, her father's slightly squared shoulders, and across +from her her grandfather, fingering the stem of his wineglass and +faintly smiling. + +“It's time somebody went into city politics for some purpose other than +graft,” said Howard. “I am going to run for mayor, Lily. I probably +won't get it.” + +“You can see,” said old Anthony, “why I am interested in your views, or +perhaps I should say, in Willy Cameron's. Does your father's passion for +uplift, for instance, extend to you?” + +“Why won't you be elected, father?” + +“Partly because my name is Cardew.” + +Old Anthony chuckled. + +“What!” he exclaimed, “after the bath-house and gymnasium you have built +at the mill? And the laundries for the women--which I believe they +do not use. Surely, Howard, you would not accuse the dear people of +ingratitude?” + +“They are beginning to use them, sir.” Howard, in his forties, still +addressed his father as “Sir!” + +“Then you admit your defeat beforehand.” + +“You are rather a formidable antagonist.” + +“Antagonist!” Anthony repeated in mock protest. “I am a quiet onlooker +at the game. I am amused, naturally. You must understand,” he said +to Lily, “that this is a matter of a principle with your father. He +believes that he should serve. My whole contention is that the people +don't want to be served. They want to be bossed. They like it; it's all +they know. And they're suspicious of a man who puts his hand into his +own pocket instead of into theirs.” + +He smiled and sipped his wine. + +“Good wine, this,” he observed. “I'm buying all I can lay my hands on, +against the approaching drought.” + +Lily's old distrust of her grandfather revived. Why did people sharpen +like that with age? Age should be mellow, like old wine. And--what was +she going to do with herself? Already the atmosphere of the house began +to depress and worry her; she felt a new, almost violent impatience with +it. It was so unnecessary. + +She went to the pipe organ which filled the space behind the staircase, +and played a little, but she had never been very proficient, and her +own awkwardness annoyed her. In the dining room she could hear the men +talking, Howard quietly, his father in short staccato barks. She left +the organ and wandered into her mother's morning room, behind the +drawing room, where Grace sat with the coffee tray before her. + +“I'm afraid I'm going to be terribly on your hands, mother,” she said, +“I don't know what to do with myself, so how can you know what to do +with me?” + +“It is going to be rather stupid for you at first, of course,” Grace +said. “Lent, and then so many of the men are not at home. Would you like +to go South?” + +“Why, I've just come home!” + +“We can have some luncheons, of course. Just informal ones. And there +will be small dinners. You'll have to get some clothes. I saw Suzette +yesterday. She has some adorable things.” + +“I'd love them. Mother, why doesn't he want father to go into politics?” + +Grace hesitated. + +“He doesn't like change, for one thing. But I don't know anything about +politics. Suzette says--” + +“Will he try to keep him from being elected?” + +“He won't support him. Of course I hardly think he would oppose him. I +really don't understand about those things.” + +“You mean you don't understand him. Well, I do, mother. He has run +everything, including father, for so long--” + +“Lily!” + +“I must, mother. Why, out at the camp--” She checked herself. “All the +papers say the city is badly governed, and that he is responsible. And +now he is going to fight his own son! The more I think about it, the +more I understand about Aunt Elinor. Mother, where do they live?” + +Grace looked apprehensively toward the door. “You are not allowed to +visit her.” + +“You do.” + +“That's different. And I only go once or twice a year.” + +“Just because she married a poor man, a man whose father--” + +“Not at all. That is all dead and buried. He is a very dangerous man. He +is running a Socialist newspaper, and now he is inciting the mill men +to strike. He is preaching terrible things. I haven't been there for +months.” + +“What do you mean by terrible things, mother?” + +“Your father says it amounts to a revolution. I believe he calls it a +general strike. I don't really know much about it.” + +Lily pondered that. + +“Socialism isn't revolution, mother, is it? But even then--is all this +because grandfather drove his father to--” + +“I wish you wouldn't, Lily. Of course it is not that. I daresay he +believes what he preaches. He ought to be put into jail. Why the country +lets such men go around, preaching sedition, I don't understand.” + +Lily remembered something else Willy Cameron had said, and promptly +repeated it. + +“We had a muzzled press during the war,” she said, “and now we've got +free speech. And one's as bad as the other. She must love him terribly, +mother,” she added. + +But Grace harked back to Suzette, and the last of the Cardews harked +with her. Later on people dropped in, and Lily made a real attempt to +get back into her old groove, but that night, when she went upstairs +to her bedroom, with its bright fire, its bed neatly turned down, her +dressing gown and slippers laid out, the shaded lamps shining on the +gold and ivory of her dressing table, she was conscious of a sudden +homesickness. Homesickness for her bare little room in the camp +barracks, for other young lives, noisy, chattering, often rather silly, +occasionally unpleasant, but young. Radiantly, vitally young. The great +house, with its stillness and decorum, oppressed her. There was no youth +in it, save hers. + +She went to her window and looked out. Years ago, like Elinor, she had +watched the penitentiary walls from that window, with their endlessly +pacing sentries, and had grieved for those men who might look up at the +sky, or down at the earth, but never out and across, to see the +spring trees, for instance, or the children playing on the grass. +She remembered the story about Jim Doyle's escape, too. He had dug +a perilous way to freedom. Vaguely she wondered if he were not again +digging a perilous way to freedom. + +Men seemed always to be wanting freedom, only they had so many different +ideas of what freedom was. At the camp it had meant breaking bounds, +balking the Military Police, doing forbidden things generally. Was that, +after all, what freedom meant, to do the forbidden thing? Those people +in Russia, for instance, who stole and burned and appropriated women, +in the name of freedom. Were law and order, then, irreconcilable with +freedom? + +After she had undressed she rang her bell, and Castle answered it. + +“Please find out if Ellen has gone to bed,” she said. “If she has not, I +would like to talk to her.” + +The maid looked slightly surprised. + +“If it's your hair, Miss Lily, Mrs. Cardew has asked me to look after +you until she has engaged a maid for you.” + +“Not my hair,” said Lily, cheerfully. “I rather like doing it myself. I +just want to talk to Ellen.” + +It was a bewildered and rather scandalized Castle who conveyed the +message to Ellen. + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +“I wish you'd stop whistling that thing,” said Miss Boyd, irritably. “It +makes me low in my mind.” + +“Sorry,” said Willy Cameron. “I do it because I'm low in my mind.” + +“What are you low about?” Miss Boyd had turned toward the rear of the +counter, where a mirror was pasted to a card above a box of chewing gum, +and was carefully adjusting her hair net. “Lady friend turned you down?” + +Willy Cameron glanced at her. + +“I'm low because I haven't got a lady friend, Miss Boyd.” He held up +a sheet of prescription paper and squinted at it. “Also because +the medical profession writes with its feet, apparently. I've done +everything to this but dip it in acid. I've had it pinned to the wall, +and tried glancing at it as I went past. Sometimes you can surprise them +that way. But it does no good. I'm going to take it home and dream on +it, like bride's cake.” + +“They're awful, aren't they?” + +“When I get into the Legislature,” said Willy Cameron, “I'm going to +have a bill passed compelling doctors to use typewriters. Take this now. +Read upside down, its horse liniment. Read right side up, it's poison. +And it's for internal use.” + +“What d'you mean you haven't got a lady friend?” + +“The exact and cruel truth.” He smiled at her, and had Miss Boyd been +more discerning she might have seen that the smile was slightly forced. +Also that his eyes were somewhat sunken in his head. Which might, of +course, have been due to too much political economy and history, and +the eminent divines on Sunday evenings. Miss Boyd, however, was not +discerning, and moreover, she was summoning her courage to a certain +point. + +“Why don't you ask me to go to the movies some night?” she said. “I like +the movies, and I get sick of going alone.” + +“My dear child,” observed Willy Cameron, “if that young man in the sack +suit who comes in to see you every day were three inches shorter and +twenty pounds lighter, I'd ask you this minute.” + +“Oh, him!” said Miss Boyd, with a self-conscious smile. “I'm through +with him. He's a Bolshevik!” + +“He has the Bolshevist possessive eye,” agreed Willy Cameron, readily. +“Does he know you are through with him? Because that's important, too. +You may know it, and I may know it, but if he doesn't know it--” + +“Why don't you say right out you don't want to take me?” Willy Cameron's +chivalrous soul was suddenly shocked. To his horror he saw tears in Miss +Boyd's eyes. + +“I'm just a plain idiot, Miss Edith,” he said. “I was only fooling. It +will mean a lot to me to have a nice girl go with me to the movies, or +anywhere else. We'll make it to-night, if that suits you, and I'll take +a look through the neighborhood at noon and see what's worth while.” + +The Eagle Pharmacy was a small one in a quiet neighborhood. During the +entire day, and for three evenings a week, Mr. William Wallace Cameron +ran it almost single-handed, having only the preoccupied assistance of +Miss Boyd in the candy and fancy goods. At the noon and dinner hours, +and four evenings a week, he was relieved by the owner, Mr. Davis, a +tired little man with large projecting ears and worried, child-like +eyes, who was nursing an invalid wife at home. A pathetic little man, +carrying home with unbounded faith day after day bottles of liquid foods +and beef capsules, and making wistful comments on them when he returned. + +“She couldn't seem to keep that last stuff down, Mr. Cameron,” he would +say. “I'll try something else.” + +And he would stand before his shelves, eyes upturned, searching, +eliminating, choosing. + +Miss Boyd attended to the general merchandise, sold stationery and +perfumes, candy and fancy soaps, and in the intervals surveyed the world +that lay beyond the plate glass windows with shrewd, sophisticated young +eyes. + +“That new doctor across the street is getting busier,” she would say. +Or, “The people in 42 have got a Ford. They haven't got room for a +garage, either. Probably have to leave it out at nights.” + +Her sophistication was kindly in the main. She combined it with an easy +tolerance of weakness, and an invincible and cheery romanticism, as +Willy Cameron discovered the night they first went to a moving picture +theater together. She frankly wept and joyously laughed, and now and +then, delighted at catching some film subtlety and fearful that he would +miss it, she would nudge him with her elbow. + +“What d'you think of that?” she would say. “D'you get it? He thinks he's +getting her--Alice Joyce, you know--on the telephone, and it's a private +wire to the gang.” She was rather quiet after that particular speech. +Then she added: “I know a place that's got a secret telephone.” But he +was absorbed in the picture, and made no comment on that. She seemed +rather relieved. + +Once or twice she placed an excited hand on his knee. He was very +uncomfortable until she removed it, because he had a helpless sort of +impression that she was not quite so unconscious of it as she appeared. +Time had been, and not so long ago, when he might have reciprocated her +little advance in the spirit in which it was offered, might have taken +the hand and held it, out of the sheer joy of youth and proximity. But +there was nothing of the philanderer in the Willy Cameron who sat beside +Edith Boyd that night in body, while in spirit he was in another state, +walking with his slight limp over crisp snow and sodden mud, but through +magic lands, to the little moving picture theater at the camp. + +Would he ever see her again? Ever again? And if he did, what good would +it be? He roused himself when they started toward her home. The girl was +chattering happily. She adored Douglas Fairbanks. She knew a girl who +had written for his picture but who didn't get one. She wouldn't do +a thing like that. “Did they really say things when they moved their +lips?” + +“I think they do,” said Willy Cameron. “When that chap was talking over +the telephone I could tell what he was saying by--Look here, what did +you mean when you said you knew of a place that has a secret telephone?” + +“I was only talking.” + +“No house has any business with a secret telephone,” he said virtuously. + +“Oh, forget it. I say a lot of things I don't mean.” He was a little +puzzled and rather curious, but not at all disturbed. + +“Well, how did you get to know about it?” + +“I tell you I was only talking.” + +He let it drop at that. The street crowds held and interested him. He +liked to speculate about them; what life meant to them, in work and love +and play; to what they were going on such hurrying feet. A country boy, +the haste of the city impressed him. + +“Why do they hurry so?” he demanded, almost irritably. + +“Hurrying home, most of them, because they've got to get up in the +morning and go to work.” + +“Do you ever wonder about the homes they are hurrying to?” + +“Me? I don't wonder. I know. Most of them have to move fast to keep up +with the rent.” + +“I don't mean houses,” he explained, patiently. “I mean--A house isn't a +home.” + +“You bet it isn't.” + +“It's the families I'm talking about. In a small town you know all about +people, who they live with, and all that.” He was laboriously talking +down to her. “But here--” + +He saw that she was not interested. Something he had said started an +unpleasant train of thought in her mind. She was walking faster, and +frowning slightly. To cheer her he said: + +“I am keeping an eye out for the large young man in the sack suit, you +know. If he jumps me, just yell for the police, will you? Because I'll +probably not be able to.” + +“I wish you'd let me forget him.” + +“I will. The question is, will he?” But he saw that the subject was +unpleasant. + +“We'll have to do this again. It's been mighty nice of you to come.” + +“You'll have to ask me, the next time.” + +“I certainly will. But I think I'd better let your family look me over +first, just so they'll know that I don't customarily steal the silver +spoons when I'm asked out to dinner. Or anything like that.” + +“We're just--folks.” + +“So am I, awfully--folks! And pretty lonely folks at that. Something +like that pup that has adopted me, only worse. He's got me, but I +haven't anybody.” + +“You'll not be lonely long.” She glanced up at him. + +“That's cheering. Why?” + +“Well, you are the sort that makes friends,” she said, rather +vaguely. “That crowd that drops into the shop on the evenings you're +there--they're crazy about you. They like to hear you talk.” + +“Great Scott! I suppose I've been orating all over the place!” + +“No, but you've got ideas. You give them something to think about when +they go home. I wish I had a mind like yours.” + +He was so astonished that he stopped dead on the pavement. “My Scottish +blood,” he said despondently. “A Scot is always a reformer and a +preacher, in his heart. I used to orate to my mother, but she liked +it. She is a Scot, too. Besides, it put her to sleep. But I thought I'd +outgrown it.” + +“You don't make speeches. I didn't mean that.” + +But he was very crestfallen during the remainder of the way, and rather +silent. He wondered, that night before he went to bed, if he had been +didactic to Lily Cardew. He had aired his opinions to her at length, he +knew. He groaned as he took off his coat in his cold little room at the +boarding house which lodged and fed him, both indifferently, for the sum +of twelve dollars per week. + +Jinx, the little hybrid dog, occupied the seat of his one comfortable +chair. He eyed the animal somberly. + +“Hereafter, old man,” he said, “when I feel a spell of oratory coming +on, you will have to be the audience.” He took his dressing gown from +a nail behind the door, and commenced to put it on. Then he took it off +again and wrapped the dog in it. + +“I can read in bed, which you can't,” he observed. “Only, I can't help +thinking, with all this town to pick from, you might have chosen a +fellow with two dressing gowns and two chairs.” + + * * * * * + +He was extremely quiet all the next day. Miss Boyd could hear him, +behind the partition with its “Please Keep Out” sign, fussing with +bottles and occasionally whistling to himself. Once it was the “Long, +Long Trail,” and a moment later he appeared in his doorway, grinning. + +“Sorry,” he said. “I've got in the habit of thinking to the fool thing. +Won't do it again.” + +“You must be thinking hard.” + +“I am,” he replied, grimly, and disappeared. She could hear the slight +unevenness of his steps as he moved about, but there was no more +whistling. Edith Boyd leaned both elbows on the top of a showcase and +fell into a profound and troubled thought. Mostly her thoughts were of +Willy Cameron, but some of them were for herself. Up dreary and sordid +by-paths her mind wandered; she was facing ugly facts for the first +time, and a little shudder of disgust shook her. He wanted to meet her +family. He was a gentleman and he wanted to meet her family. Well, he +could meet them all right, and maybe he would understand then that she +had never had a chance. In all her young life no man had ever proposed +letting her family look him over. Hardly ever had they visited her at +home, and when they did they seemed always glad to get away. She had met +them on street corners, and slipped back alone, fearful of every creak +of the old staircase, and her mother's querulous voice calling to her: + +“Edie, where've you been all this time?” And she had lied. How she had +lied! + +“I'm through with all that,” she resolved. “It wasn't any fun anyhow. +I'm sick of hating myself.” + + +Some time later Willy Cameron heard the telephone ring, and taking +pad and pencil started forward. But Miss Boyd was at the telephone, +conducting a personal conversation. + +“No.... No, I think not.... Look here, Lou, I've said no twice.” + +There was a rather lengthy silence while she listened. Then: “You might +as well have it straight, Lou. I'm through.... No, I'm not sick. I'm +just through.... I wouldn't.... What's the use?” + +Willy Cameron, retreating into his lair, was unhappily conscious that +the girl was on the verge of tears. He puzzled over the situation for +some time. His immediate instinct was to help any troubled creature, +and it had dawned on him that this composed young lady who manicured her +nails out of a pasteboard box during the slack portion of every day was +troubled. In his abstraction he commenced again his melancholy refrain, +and a moment later she appeared in the doorway: + +“Oh, for mercy's sake, stop,” she said. She was very pale. + +“Look here, Miss Edith, you come in here and tell me what's wrong. +Here's a chair. Now sit down and talk it out. It helps a lot to get +things off your chest.” + +“There's nothing the matter with me. And if the boss comes in here and +finds me--” + +Quite suddenly she put her head down on the back of the chair and began +to cry. He was frightfully distressed. He poured some aromatic ammonia +into a medicine glass and picking up her limp hand, closed her fingers +around it. + +“Drink that,” he ordered. + +She shook her head. + +“I'm not sick,” she said. “I'm only a fool.” + +“If that fellow said anything over the telephone--!” + +She looked up drearily. + +“It wasn't him. He doesn't matter. It's just--I got to hating myself.” + She stood up and carefully dabbed her eyes. “Heavens, I must be a sight. +Now don't you get to thinking things, Mr. Cameron. Girls can't go out +and fight off a temper, or get full and sleep it off. So they cry.” + +Some time later he glanced out at her. She was standing before the +little mirror above the chewing gum, carefully rubbing her cheeks with a +small red pad. After that she reached into the show case, got out a lip +pencil and touched her lips. + +“You're pretty enough without all that, Miss Edith.” + +“You mind your own business,” she retorted acidly. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +Lily had known Alston Denslow most of her life. The children of that +group of families which formed the monied aristocracy of the city +knew only their own small circle. They met at dancing classes, where +governesses and occasionally mothers sat around the walls, while the +little girls, in handmade white frocks of exquisite simplicity, their +shining hair drawn back and held by ribbon bows, made their prim little +dip at the door before entering, and the boys, in white Eton collars and +gleaming pumps, bowed from the waist and then dived for the masculine +corner of the long room. + +No little girl ever intruded on that corner, although now and then a +brave spirit among the boys would wander, with assumed unconsciousness +but ears rather pink, to the opposite corner where the little girls were +grouped like white butterflies milling in the sun. + +The pianist struck a chord, and the children lined up, the girls on one +side, the boys on the other, a long line, with Mrs. Van Buren in the +center. Another chord, rather a long one. Mrs. Van Buren curtsied to +the girls. The line dipped, wavered, recovered itself. Mrs. Van Buren +turned. Another chord. The boys bent, rather too much, from the waist, +while Mrs. Van Buren swept another deep curtsey. The music now, very +definite as to time. Glide and short step to the right. Glide and short +step to the left. Dancing school had commenced. Outside were long lines +of motors waiting. The governesses chatted, and sometimes embroidered. +Mademoiselle tatted. + +Alton Denslow was generally known as Pink, but the origin of the name +was shrouded in mystery. As “Pink” he had learned to waltz at the +dancing class, at a time when he was more attentive to the step than to +the music that accompanied it. As Pink Denslow he had played on a scrub +team at Harvard, and got two broken ribs for his trouble, and as Pink +he now paid intermittent visits to the Denslow Bank, between the hunting +season in October and polo at eastern fields and in California. At +twenty-three he was still the boy of the dancing class, very careful at +parties to ask his hostess to dance, and not noticeably upset when she +did, having arranged to be cut in on at the end of the second round. + +Pink could not remember when he had not been in love with Lily Cardew. +There had been other girls, of course, times when Lily seemed far away +from Cambridge, and some other fair charmer was near. But he had always +known there was only Lily. Once or twice he would have become +engaged, had it not been for that. He was a blond boy, squarely built, +good-looking without being handsome, and on rainy Sundays when there +was no golf he went quite cheerfully to St. Peter's with his mother, and +watched a pretty girl in the choir. + +He wished at those times that he could sing. + +A pleasant cumberer of the earth, he had wrapped his talents in a napkin +and buried them by the wayside, and promptly forgotten where they were. +He was to find them later on, however, not particularly rusty, and he +increased them rather considerably before he got through. + +It was this pleasant cumberer of the earth, then, who on the morning +after Lily's return, stopped his car before the Cardew house and got +out. Immediately following his descent he turned, took a square white +box from the car, ascended the steps, settled his neck in his collar and +his tie around it, and rang the bell. + +The second man, hastily buttoned into his coat and with a faint odor +of silver polish about him, opened the door. Pink gave him his hat, but +retained the box firmly. + +“Mrs. Cardew and Miss Cardew at home?” he asked. “Yes? Then you might +tell Grayson I'm here to luncheon--unless the family is lunching out.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the footman. “No, sir, they are lunching at home.” + +Pink sauntered into the library. He was not so easy as his manner +indicated. One never knew about Lily. Sometimes she was in a mood when +she seemed to think a man funny, and not to be taken seriously. And +when she was serious, which was the way he liked her--he rather lacked +humor--she was never serious about him or herself. It had been religion +once, he remembered. She had wanted to know if he believed in the +thirty-nine articles, and because he had seen them in the back of +the prayer-book, where they certainly would not be if there was not +authority for them, he had said he did. + +“Well, I don't,” said Lily. And there had been rather a bad half-hour, +because he had felt that he had to stick to his thirty-nine guns, +whatever they were. He had finished on a rather desperate note of +appeal. + +“See here, Lily,” he had said. “Why do you bother your head about such +things, anyhow?” + +“Because I've got a head, and I want to use it.” + +“Life's too short.” + +“Eternity's pretty long. Do you believe in eternity?” And there they +were, off again, and of course old Anthony had come in after that, and +had wanted to know about his Aunt Marcia, and otherwise had shown every +indication of taking root on the hearth rug. + +Pink was afraid of Anthony. He felt like a stammering fool when Anthony +was around. That was why he had invited himself to luncheon. Old Anthony +lunched at his club. + +When he heard Lily coming down the stairs, Pink's honest heart beat +somewhat faster. A good many times in France, but particularly on the +ship coming back, he had thought about this meeting. In France a fellow +had a lot of distractions, and Lily had seemed as dear as ever, but +extremely remote. But once turned toward home, and she had filled +the entire western horizon. The other men had seen sunsets there, and +sometimes a ship, or a school of porpoises. But Pink had seen only Lily. + +She came in. The dear old girl! The beautiful, wonderful, dear old girl! +The-- + +“Pink!” + +“H--hello, Lily.” + +“Why, Pink--you're a man!” + +“What'd you think I'd be? A girl?” + +“You've grown.” + +“Oh, now see here, Lily. I quit growing years ago.” + +“And to think you are back all right. I was so worried, Pink.” + +He flushed at that. + +“Needn't have worried,” he said, rather thickly. “Didn't get to the +front until just before the end. My show was made a labor division in +the south of France. If you laugh, I'll take my flowers and go home.” + +“Why, Pink dear, I wouldn't laugh for anything. And it was the man +behind the lines who--” + +“Won the war,” he finished for her, rather grimly. “All right, Lily. +We've heard it before. Anyhow, it's all done and over, and--I brought +gardenias and violets. You used to like 'em.” + +“It was dear of you to remember.” + +“Couldn't help remembering. No credit to me. I--you were always in my +mind.” + +She was busily unwrapping the box. + +“Always,” he repeated, unsteadily. + +“What gorgeous things!” she buried her face in them. + +“Did you hear what I said, Lily?” + +“Yes, and it's sweet of you. Now sit down and tell me about things. I've +got a lot to tell you, too.” + +He had a sort of quiet obstinacy, however, and he did not sit down. When +she had done so he stood in front of her, looking down at her. + +“You've been in a camp. I know that. I heard it over there. Anne +Devereaux wrote me. It worried me because--we had girls in the camps +over there, and every one of them had a string of suitors a mile long.” + +“Well, I didn't,” said Lily, spiritedly. Then she laughed. He had been +afraid she would laugh. “Oh, Pink, how dear and funny and masculine you +are! I have a perfectly uncontrollable desire to kiss you.” + +Which she did, to his amazement and consternation. Nothing she could +have done would more effectually have shown him the hopelessness of his +situation than that sisterly impulse. + +“Good Lord,” he gasped, “Grayson's in the hall.” + +“If he comes in I shall probably do it again. Pink, you darling child, +you are still the little boy at Mrs. Van Buren's and if you would only +purse your lips and count one--two--three--Are you staying to luncheon?” + +He was suffering terribly. Also he felt strangely empty inside, because +something that he had carried around with him for a long time seemed to +have suddenly moved out and left a vacancy. + +“Thanks. I think not, Lily; I've got a lot to do to-day.” + +She sat very still. She had had to do it, had had to show him, somehow, +that she loved him without loving him as he wanted her to. She had acted +on impulse, on an impulse born of intention, but she had hurt him. It +was in every line of his rigid body and set face. + +“You're not angry, Pink dear?” + +“There's nothing to be angry about,” he said, stolidly. “Things have +been going on, with me, and staying where they've always been, with +you. That's all. I'm not very keen, you know, and I used to think--Your +people like me. I mean, they wouldn't--” + +“Everybody likes you, Pink.” + +“Well, I'll trot along.” He moved a step, hesitated. “Is there anybody +else, Lily?” + +“Nobody.” + +“You won't mind if I hang around a bit, then? You can always send me off +when you are sick of me. Which you couldn't if you were fool enough to +marry me.” + +“Whoever does marry you, dear, will be a lucky woman.” + +In the end he stayed to luncheon, and managed to eat a very fair one. +But he had little lapses into silence, and Grace Cardew drew her own +shrewd conclusions. + +“He's such a nice boy, Lily,” she said, after he had gone. “And your +grandfather would like it. In a way I think he expects it.” + +“I'm not going to marry to please him, mother.” + +“But you are fond of Alston.” + +“I want to marry a man, mother. Pink is a boy. He will always be a boy. +He doesn't think; he just feels. He is fine and loyal and honest, but I +would loathe him in a month.” + +“I wish,” said Grace Cardew unhappily, “I wish you had never gone to +that camp.” + +All afternoon Lily and Grace shopped. Lily was fitted into shining +evening gowns, into bright little afternoon frocks, into Paris wraps. +The Cardew name was whispered through the shops, and great piles of +exotic things were brought in for Grace's critical eye. Lily's own +attitude was joyously carefree. Long lines of models walked by, draped +in furs, in satins and velvet and chiffon, tall girls, most of them, +with hair carefully dressed, faces delicately tinted and that curious +forward thrust at the waist and slight advancement of one shoulder that +gave them an air of languorous indifference. + +“The only way I could get that twist,” Lily confided to her mother, +“would be to stand that way and be done up in plaster of paris. It is +the most abandoned thing I ever saw.” + +Grace was shocked, and said so. + +Sometimes, during the few hours since her arrival, Lily had wondered if +her year's experiences had coarsened her. There were so many times when +her mother raised her eyebrows. She knew that she had changed, that the +granddaughter of old Anthony Cardew who had come back from the war was +not the girl who had gone away. She had gone away amazingly ignorant; +what little she had known of life she had learned away at school. But +even there she had not realized the possibility of wickedness and vice +in the world. One of the girls had run away with a music master who +was married, and her name was forbidden to be mentioned. That was +wickedness, like blasphemy, and a crime against the Holy Ghost. + +She had never heard of prostitution. Near the camp there was a district +with a bad name, and the girls of her organization were forbidden to so +much as walk in that direction. It took her a long time to understand, +and she suffered horribly when she did. There were depths of wickedness, +then, and of abasement like that in the world. It was a bad world, a +cruel, sordid world. She did not want to live in it. + +She had had to reorganize all her ideas of life after that. At first she +was flamingly indignant. God had made His world clean and beautiful, and +covered it with flowers and trees that grew, cleanly begotten, from the +earth. Why had He not stopped there? Why had He soiled it with passion +and lust? + +It was a little Red Cross nurse who helped her, finally. + +“Very well,” she said. “I see what you mean. But trees and flowers are +not God's most beautiful gift to the world.” + +“I think they are.” + +“No. It is love.” + +“I am not talking about love,” said Lily, flushing. + +“Oh, yes, you are. You have never loved, have you? You are talking of +one of the many things that go to make up love, and out of that one +phase of love comes the most wonderful thing in the world. He gives us +the child.” + +And again: + +“All bodies are not whole, and not all souls. It is wrong to judge life +by its exceptions, or love by its perversions, Lily.” + +It had been the little nurse finally who cured her, for she secured +Lily's removal to that shady house on a by-street, where the tragedies +of unwise love and youth sought sanctuary. There were prayers there, +morning and evening. They knelt, those girls, in front of their little +wooden chairs, and by far the great majority of them quite simply laid +their burdens before God, and with an equal simplicity, felt that He +would help them out. + +“We have erred, and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have +followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have +offended against Thy holy laws.... Restore Thou those who are penitent, +according to Thy promises.... And grant, Oh most merciful Father, that +we may hereafter live a godly, righteous and sober life.” + +After a time Lily learned something that helped her. The soul was +greater and stronger than the body and than the mind. The body failed. +It sinned, but that did not touch the unassailable purity and simplicity +of the soul. The soul, which lived on, was always clean. For that reason +there was no hell. + +Lily rose and buttoned her coat. Grace was fastening her sables, and +making a delayed decision in satins. + +“Mother, I've been thinking it over. I am going to see Aunt Elinor.” + +Grace waited until the saleswoman had moved away. + +“I don't like it, Lily.” + +“I was thinking, while we were ordering all that stuff. She is a Cardew, +mother. She ought to be having that sort of thing. And just because +grandfather hates her husband, she hasn't anything.” + +“That is rather silly, dear. They are not in want. I believe he is quite +flourishing.” + +“She is father's sister. And she is a good woman. We treat her like a +leper.” + +Grace was weakening. “If you take the car, your grandfather may hear of +it.” + +“I'll take a taxi.” + +Grace followed her with uneasy eyes. For years she paid a price for +peace, and not a small price. She had placed her pride on the domestic +altar, and had counted it a worthy sacrifice for Howard's sake. And she +had succeeded. She knew Anthony Cardew had never forgiven her and would +never like her, but he gave her, now and then, the tribute of a grudging +admiration. + +And now Lily had come home, a new and different Lily, with her father's +lovableness and his father's obstinacy. Already Grace saw in the girl +the beginning of a passionate protest against things as they were. +Perhaps, had Grace given to Lily the great love of her life, instead of +to Howard, she might have understood her less clearly. As it was, she +shivered slightly as she got into the limousine. + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Lily Cardew inspected curiously the east side neighborhood through which +the taxi was passing. She knew vaguely that she was in the vicinity of +one of the Cardew mills, but she had never visited any of the Cardew +plants. She had never been permitted to do so. Perhaps the neighborhood +would have impressed her more had she not seen, in the camp, that life +can be stripped sometimes to its essentials, and still have lost very +little. But the dinginess depressed her. Smoke was in the atmosphere, +like a heavy fog. Soot lay on the window-sills, and mingled with street +dust to form little black whirlpools in the wind. Even the white river +steamers, guiding their heavy laden coal barges with the current, were +gray with soft coal smoke. The foam of the river falling in broken +cataracts from their stern wheels was oddly white in contrast. + +Everywhere she began to see her own name. “Cardew” was on the ore hopper +cars that were moving slowly along a railroad spur. One of the steamers +bore “Anthony Cardew” in tall black letters on its side. There was a +narrow street called “Cardew Way.” + +Aunt Elinor lived on Cardew Way. She wondered if Aunt Elinor found that +curious, as she did. Did she resent these ever-present reminders of her +lost family? Did she have any bitterness because the very grayness of +her skies was making her hard old father richer and more powerful? + +Yet there was comfort, stability and a certain dignity about Aunt +Elinor's house when she reached it. It stood in the district, but not +of it, withdrawn from the street in a small open space which gave +indication of being a flower garden in summer. There were two large +gaunt trees on either side of a brick walk, and that walk had been swept +to the last degree of neatness. The steps were freshly scoured, and a +small brass door-plate, like a doctor's sign, was as bright as rubbing +could make it. “James Doyle,” she read. + +Suddenly she was glad she had come. The little brick house looked +anything but tragic, with its shining windows, its white curtains +and its evenly drawn shades. Through the windows on the right came a +flickering light, warm and rosy. There must be a coal fire there. She +loved a coal fire. + +She had braced herself to meet Aunt Elinor at the door, but an elderly +woman 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 and +creaked up the stairs. Lily hesitated. Then, feeling that Aunt Elinor +might not like to find her so unceremoniously received, she pushed open +a door which was only partly closed, and made a step into the room. Only +then 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 he +turned 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 I +saw the firelight--” + +He stood up then, a tall, thin man, with close-cropped gray mustache and +heavy gray hair above a high, bulging forehead. She had never seen Jim +Doyle, but Mademoiselle had once said that he had pointed ears, like a +satyr. She had immediately recanted, on finding Lily searching in a book +for a picture of a satyr. This man had ears pointed at the top. Lily was +too startled then to analyze his face, but later on she was to know +well the high, intellectual forehead, the keen sunken eyes, the full +but firmly held mouth and pointed, satyr-like ears of that brilliant +Irishman, 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's +granddaughter?” + +“Yes.” + +“Just a moment.” He went out, closing the door behind him, and she +heard him going quickly up the stairs. A door closed above, and a weight +settled down on the girl's heart. He was not going to let her see Aunt +Elinor. She was frightened, but she was angry, too. She would not run +away. 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, slightly +flushed, but very straight. + +She heard him coming down again almost immediately. He was outside the +door. But he did not come in at once. She had a sudden impression that +he was standing there, his hand on the knob, outlining what he meant +to say to her when he showed the door to a hated Cardew. Afterwards she +came to know how right that impression was. He was never spontaneous. He +was a man who debated everything, calculated everything beforehand. + +When he came in it was slowly, and with his head bent, as though he +still debated within himself. Then: + +“I think I have a right to ask what Anthony Cardew's granddaughter is +doing 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 to +me that you would be here.” + +“I dare say. Still, strangely enough, I do spend a certain amount of +time 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 her +to wait. I wanted a few moments. You see, it is not often that I have a +Cardew 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 the +stairs. 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 have +been 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 going +to reestablish family relations.” He was laughing at her, Lily knew, and +she flushed somewhat. + +“I wouldn't make too great an effort, then,” she said. + +He smiled again, this time not unpleasantly, and suddenly he threw into +his rich Irish voice an unexpected softness. No one knew better than Jim +Doyle 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 her +people. If you'll run in like this now and then it will do her worlds of +good. 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 had +been led to expect, and she felt a sort of resentment toward her family +for misleading her. He was a gentleman, on the surface at least. He +had not been over-cordial at first, but then who could have expected +cordiality under the circumstances? In Lily's defense it should be said +that the vicissitudes of Elinor's life with Doyle had been kept from her +always. She had but two facts to go on: he had beaten her grandfather as +a young man, for a cause, and he held views as to labor which conflicted +with 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 me +come.” + +He was all dignity and charm then. They needed youth in that quiet +place. They ought all to be able to forget the past, which was done +with, anyhow. He showed the first genuine interest she had found in her +work at the camp, and before his unexpected geniality the girl opened +like a flower. + +And all the time he was watching her with calculating eyes. He was a +gambler with life, and he rather suspected that he had just drawn a +valuable card. + +“Thank you,” he said gravely, when she had finished. “You have done a +lot to bridge the gulf that lies--I am sure you have noticed it--between +the 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 just +that, which was what he had intended. + +When Elinor came in they were absorbed in conversation, Lily flushed and +eager, and her husband smiling, urbane, and genial. + +To Lily, Elinor Doyle had been for years a figure of mystery. She had +not seen her for many years, and she had, remembered a thin, girlish +figure, 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 of +manner, too, but with a strange passivity, either of repression or of +fires 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, cheerful +and suave; the neat servant; the fire lit, comfortable room,--there was +no drama in all that, no hint of mystery or tragedy. All the hatred at +home 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 days +go by faster than I know.” She put Lily back in her chair, and glanced +at 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 at +the 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 Aunt +Elinor was less glad to have her there than was Jim Doyle. He seemed +inclined to make up for Elinor's lack of enthusiasm by his own. He built +up a larger fire, and moved her chair near it. + +“Weather's raw,” he said. “Sure you are comfortable now? And why not +have dinner here? We have an interesting man coming, and we don't often +have the chance to offer our guests a charming young lady.” + +“Lily only came home yesterday, Jim,” Elinor observed. “Her own people +will want to see something of her. Besides, they do no know she is +here.” + +Lily felt slightly chilled. For years she had espoused her Aunt +Elinor's cause; in the early days she had painfully hemstitched a small +handkerchief each fall and had sent it, with much secrecy, to Aunt +Elinor's varying addresses at Christmas. She had felt a childish +resentment of Elinor Doyle's martyrdom. And now-- + +“Her father and grandfather are dining out to-night.” Had Lily looked up +she 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 steel +manufacturers are having a meeting,” he finished. “I believe to discuss +me, among other things. Amazing the amount of discussion my simple +opinions 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 were +really dining out, and if they were Grayson would notify her mother that +she 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, the +thought that her grandfather would detest it. She had not forgiven him +for the night before. + +Jim Doyle left her in the back hall at the telephone, and returned +to the sitting room, dosing the door behind him. His face was set and +angry. + +“I thought I told you to be pleasant.” + +“I tried, Jim. You must remember I hardly know her.” She got up and +placed 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 like +coming here. That's plain, isn't it? But if you're going to sit with a +frozen 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 the +Cardews and me. It may be nothing, but it may be a big thing. I hardly +know yet--” His voice trailed off; he stood with his head bent, lost in +those eternal calculations with which Elinor Doyle was so familiar. + +The doorbell rang, and was immediately followed by the opening and +closing of the front door. + +From her station at the telephone Lily Cardew saw a man come in, little +more 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 stood +before the mirror, smoothing back his shining black hair. Then he saw +her, 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's +presence in the house in the nature of a huge joke. He was conveying +this by pantomime, in deference to the open door, when Doyle nodded +toward 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 Akers +knew quite well that Elinor did not like him, and the thought amused +him, the more so since as a rule women liked him rather too well. Deep +in his heart he respected Jim Doyle's wife, and sometimes feared her. He +respected her because she had behind her traditions of birth and wealth, +things he professed to despise but secretly envied. He feared her +because he trusted no woman, and she knew too much. + +She loved Jim Doyle, but he had watched her, and he knew that sometimes +she hated Doyle also. He knew that could be, because there had been +women 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 thinking +over the Prohibition matter, Jim. In a sense you're right. It will make +them sullen and angry. But they won't go the limit without booze. I'd +advise cache-ing a lot of it somewhere, to be administered when needed.” + +Doyle returned to his old place on the hearth-rug, still thoughtful. He +had paid no attention to Aker's views on Prohibition, nor to the paper +laid upon the desk in the center of the room. + +“Do you know that that girl in the hall will be worth forty million +dollars some day?” + +“Some money,” said Akers, calmly. “Which reminds me, Jim, that I've got +to 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 long +legs. “All right. We'll talk about that, after dinner. What about this +forty millions?” + +Doyle looked at him quickly. Akers' speech about women had crystallized +the vague plans which Lily's arrival had suddenly given rise to. He gave +the 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 a +man 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't +know 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 high +stakes. He had joined forces with Doyle because the game was dangerous +and exciting, rather than because of any real conviction. Doyle had +a fanatic faith, with all his calculation, but Louis Akers had +only calculation and ambition. A practicing attorney in the city, a +specialist in union law openly, a Red in secret, he played his triple +game shrewdly and with zest. + +Doyle turned to go, then stopped and came back. “I was forgetting +something,” he said, slowly. “What possessed you to take that Boyd girl +to 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 once +too often. What happens to you is your own concern, but what may happen +to 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. At +dinner he was brilliant, witty, the gracious host. Akers played up to +him. At the foot of the table Elinor sat, outwardly passive, inwardly +puzzled, and watched Lily. She knew the contrast the girl must be +drawing, between the bright little meal, with its simple service and +clever talk, and those dreary formal dinners at home when old Anthony +sometimes never spoke at all, or again used his caustic tongue like a +scourge. Elinor did not hate her father; he was simply no longer her +father. As for Howard, she had had a childish affection for him, but he +had gone away early to school, and she hardly knew him. But she did +not want his child here, drinking in as she was, without clearly +understanding what they meant, Doyle's theories of unrest and +revolution. + +“You will find that I am an idealist, in a way,” he was saying. “That +is, if you come often. I hope you will, by the way. I am perpetually +dissatisfied with things as they are, and wanting them changed. With +the single exception of my wife”--he bowed to Elinor, “and this little +party, 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 eye +and 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 of +money, so that a taxicab could remain ticking away fabulous sums while a +charming 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? You +were entirely right. But I can see that you won't like my idealistic +community. You see, in it everybody will have enough, and nobody will +have too much.” + +“Don't take him too seriously, Miss Cardew,” said Akers, bending +forward. “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 she +had retained her interest in that form of art. There was an exhibition +in town of colored drawings. Lily should see them. But Jim Doyle +countered her move. + +“I forgot to mention,” he said, “that in this ideal world we were +discussing the arts will flourish. Not at once, of course, because the +artists will be fighting--” + +“Fighting?” + +“Per aspera ad astra,” put in Louis Akers. “You cannot change a world in +a 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. And +after all, why should there be misery and hunger in the world? There +must be enough for all. It was hardly fair, for instance, that she +should have so much, and others scarcely anything. Only it was like +thinking about religion; you didn't get anywhere with it. You wanted to +be good, and tried to be. And you wanted to love God, only He seemed so +far away, mostly. And even that was confusing, because you prayed to God +to be forgiven for wickedness, but it was to His Son our Lord one went +for help in trouble. + +One could be sorry for the poor, and even give away all one had, but +that would only help a few. It would have to be that every one who had +too 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 there +would be a few craven spirits who might not willingly give up what they +have. 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 impose +his will and no community its laws, on the individual. Laws were for +slaves. Ethics were better than laws, to control. + +“Although,” he added, urbanely, “I daresay it might be difficult to +convert Mr. Anthony Cardew to such a belief.” + +While Louis Akers saw Lily to her taxicab that night Doyle stood in the +hall, 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 drawings +to-morrow.” + +Slightly flushed, he smoothed his hair in front of the mirror over the +stand. + +“She's a nice child,” he said. In his eyes was the look of the hunting +animal that scents food. + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Lily did not sleep very well that night. She was repentant, for one +thing, for her mother's evening alone, and for the anxiety in her face +when she arrived. + +“I've been so worried,” she said, “I was afraid your grandfather would +get back before you did.” + +“I'm sorry, mother dear. I know it was selfish. But I've had a wonderful +evening.” + +“Wonderful?” + +“All sorts of talk,” Lily said, and hesitated. After all, her mother +would not understand, and it would only make her uneasy. “I suppose it +is rank hearsay to say it, but I like Mr. Doyle.” + +“I detest him.” + +“But you don't know him, do you?” + +“I know he is stirring up all sorts of trouble for us. Lily, I want you +to promise not to go back there.” + +There was a little silence. A small feeling of rebellion was rising in +the girl's heart. + +“I don't see why. She is my own aunt.” + +“Will you promise?” + +“Please don't ask me, mother. I--oh, don't you understand? It is +interesting there, that's all. It isn't wrong to go. And the moment you +forbid it you make me want to go back.” + +“Were there any other people there to dinner?” Grace asked, with sudden +suspicion. + +“Only one man. A lawyer named Akers.” + +The name meant nothing to Grace Cardew. + +“A young man?” + +“Not very young. In his thirties, I should think,” Lily hesitated again. +She had meant to tell her mother of the engagement for the next day, but +Grace's attitude made it difficult. To be absolutely forbidden to meet +Louis Akers at the gallery, and to be able to give no reason beyond the +fact that she had met him at the Doyle house, seemed absurd. + +“A gentleman?” + +“I hardly know,” Lily said frankly. “In your sense of the word, perhaps +not, mother. But he is very clever.” + +Grace Cardew sighed and picked up her book. She never retired until +Howard came in. And Lily went upstairs, uneasy and a little defiant. +She must live her own life, somehow; have her own friends; think her own +thoughts. The quiet tyranny of the family was again closing down on +her. It would squeeze her dry, in the end, as it had her mother and Aunt +Elinor. + +She stood for a time by her window, looking out at the city. Behind her +was her warm, luxurious room, her deep, soft bed. Yet all through +the city there were those who did not sleep warm and soft. Close by, +perhaps, in that deteriorated neighborhood, there were children that +very night going to bed hungry. + +Because things had always been like that, should they always be so? +Wasn't Mr. Doyle right, after all? Only he went very far. You couldn't, +for instance, take from a man the thing he had earned. What about the +people who did not try to earn? + +She rather thought she would be clearer about it if she talked to Willy +Cameron. + +She went to bed at last, a troubled young thing in a soft white +night-gown, passionately in revolt against the injustice which gave to +her so much and to others so little. And against that quiet domestic +tyranny which was forcing her to her first deceit. + +Yet the visit to the gallery was innocuous enough. Louis Akers met her +there, and carefully made the rounds with her. Then he suggested tea, +and chose a quiet tea-room, and a corner. + +“I'll tell you something, now it's over,” he said, his bold eyes fixed +on hers. “I loathe galleries and pictures. I wanted to see you again. +That's all. You see, I am starting in by being honest with you.” + +She was rather uncomfortable. + +“Why don't you like pictures?” + +“Because they are only imitations of life. I like life.” He pushed +his teacup away. “I don't want tea either. Tea was an excuse, too.” He +smiled at her. “Perhaps you don't like honesty,” he said. “If you don't +you won't care for me.” + +She was too inexperienced to recognize the gulf between frankness and +effrontery, but he made her vaguely uneasy. He knew so many things, and +yet he was so obviously not quite a gentleman, in her family's sense of +the word. He had a curious effect on her, too, one that she resented. He +made her insistently conscious of her sex. + +And of his. His very deference had something of restraint about it. She +thought, trying to drink her tea quietly, that he might be very terrible +if he loved any one. There was a sort of repressed fierceness behind his +suavity. + +But he interested her, and he was undeniably handsome, not in her +father's way but with high-colored, almost dramatic good looks. There +could be no doubt, too, that he was interested in her. He rarely took +his eyes off hers. Afterwards she was to know well that bold possessive +look of his. + +It was just before they left that he said: + +“I am going to see you again, you know. May I come in some afternoon?” + +Lily had been foreseeing that for some moments, and she raised frank +eyes to his. + +“I am afraid not,” she said. “You see, you are a friend of Mr. Doyle's, +and you must know that my people and Aunt Elinor's husband are on bad +terms.” + +“What has that got to do with you and me?” Then he laughed. “Might be +unpleasant, I suppose. But you go to the Doyles'.” + +She was very earnest. + +“My mother knows, but my grandfather wouldn't permit it if he knew.” + +“And you put up with that sort of thing?” He leaned closer to her. “You +are not a baby, you know. But I will say you are a good sport to do it, +anyhow.” + +“I'm not very comfortable about it.” + +“Bosh,” he said, abruptly. “You go there as often as you can. Elinor +Doyle's a lonely woman, and Jim is all right. You pick your own friends, +my child, and live your own life. Every human being has that right.” + +He helped her into a taxi at the door of the tea shop, giving her rather +more assistance than she required, and then standing bare-headed in +the March wind until the car had moved away. Lily, sitting back in her +corner, was both repelled and thrilled. He was totally unlike the men +she knew, those carefully repressed, conventional clean-cut boys, like +Pink Denslow. He was raw, vigorous and possibly brutal. She did not +quite like him, but she found herself thinking about him a great deal. + +The old life was reaching out its friendly, idle hands toward her. The +next day Grace gave a luncheon for her at the house, a gay little affair +of color, chatter and movement. But Lily found herself with little +to say. Her year away had separated her from the small community of +interest that bound the others together, and she wondered, listening to +them in her sitting room later, what they would all talk about when they +had exchanged their bits of gossip, their news of this man and that. It +would all be said so soon. And what then? + +Here they were, and here they would always be, their own small circle, +carefully guarded. They belonged together, they and the men who +likewise belonged. Now and then there would be changes. A new man, of +irreproachable family connections would come to live in the city, and +cause a small flurry. Then in time he would be appropriated. Or a girl +would come to visit, and by the same system of appropriation would come +back later, permanently. Always the same faces, the same small talk. +Orchids or violets at luncheons, white or rose or blue or yellow frocks +at dinners and dances. Golf at the country club. Travel, in the Cardew +private car, cut off from fellow travelers who might prove interesting. +Winter at Palm Beach, and a bit of a thrill at seeing moving picture +stars and theatrical celebrities playing on the sand. One never had a +chance to meet them. + +And, in quiet intervals, this still house, and grandfather shut away +in his upstairs room, but holding the threads of all their lives as a +spider clutches the diverging filaments of its web. + +“Get in on this, Lily,” said a clear young voice. “We're talking about +the most interesting men we met in our war work. You ought to have known +a lot of them.” + +“I knew a lot of men. They were not so very interesting. There was a +little nurse--” + +“Men, Lily dear.” + +“There was one awfully nice boy. He wasn't a soldier, but he was very +kind to the men. They adored him.” + +“Did he fall in love with your?” + +“Not a particle.” + +“Why wasn't he a soldier?” + +“He is a little bit lame. But he is awfully nice.” + +“But what is extraordinary about him, then?” + +“Not a thing, except his niceness.” + +But they were surfeited with nice young men. They wanted something +dramatic, and Willy Cameron was essentially undramatic. Besides, it was +quite plain that, with unconscious cruelty, his physical handicap made +him unacceptable to them. + +“Don't be ridiculous, Lily. You're hiding some one behind this kind +person. You must have met somebody worth while.” + +“Not in the camp. I know a perfectly nice Socialist, but he was not in +the army. Not a Socialist, really. Much worse. He believes in having a +revolution.” + +That stirred them somewhat. She saw their interested faces turned toward +her. + +“With a bomb under his coat, of course, Lily.” + +“He didn't bulge.” + +“Good-looking?” + +“Well, rather.” + +“How old is he, Lily?” one of them asked, suspiciously. + +“Almost fifty, I should say.” + +“Good heavens!” + +Their interest died. She could have revived it, she knew, if she +mentioned Louis Akers; he would have answered to their prime requisite +in an interesting man. He was both handsome and young. But she felt +curiously disinclined to mention him. + +The party broke up. By ones and twos luxuriously dressed little figures +went down the great staircase, where Grayson stood in the hall and the +footman on the doorstep signaled to the waiting cars. Mademoiselle, +watching from a point of vantage in the upper hall, felt a sense of +comfort and well-being after they had all gone. This was as it should +be. Lily would take up life again where she had left it off, and all +would be well. + +It was now the sixth day, and she had not yet carried out that absurd +idea of asking Ellen's friend to dinner. + +Lily was, however, at that exact moment in process of carrying it out. + +“Telephone for you, Mr. Cameron.” + +“Thanks. Coming,” sang out Willy Cameron. + +Edith Boyd sauntered toward his doorway. + +“It's a lady.” + +“Woman,” corrected Willy Cameron. “The word 'lady' is now obsolete, +since your sex has entered the economic world.” He put on his coat. + +“I said 'lady' and that's what I mean,” said Edith. “'May I speak to Mr. +Cameron?'” she mimicked. “Regular Newport accent.” + +Suddenly Willy Cameron went rather pale. If it should be Lily +Cardew--but then of course it wouldn't be. She had been home for six +days, and if she had meant to call-- + +“Hello,” he said. + +It was Lily. Something that had been like a band around his heart +suddenly loosened, to fasten about his throat. His voice sounded +strangled and strange. + +“Why, yes,” he said, in the unfamiliar voice. “I'd like to come, of +course.” + +Edith Boyd watched and listened, with a slightly strained look in her +eyes. + +“To dinner? But--I don't think I'd better come to dinner.” + +“Why not, Willy?” + +Mr. William Wallace Cameron glanced around. There was no one about save +Miss Boyd, who was polishing the nails of one hand on the palm of the +other. + +“May I come in a business suit?” + +“Why, of course. Why not?” + +“I didn't know,” said Willy Cameron. “I didn't know what your people +would think. That's all. To-morrow at eight, then. Thanks.” + +He hung up the receiver and walked to the door, where he stood looking +out and seeing nothing. She had not forgotten. He was going to see her. +Instead of standing across the street by the park fence, waiting for +a glimpse of her which never came, he was to sit in the room with her. +There would be--eight from eleven was three--three hours of her. + +What a wonderful day it was! Spring was surely near. He would like to be +able to go and pick up Jinx, and then take a long walk through the park. +He needed movement. He needed to walk off his excitement or he felt that +he might burst with it. + +“Eight o'clock!” said Edith. “I wish you joy, waiting until eight for +supper.” + +He had to come back a long, long way to her. + +“'May I come in a business suit?'” she mimicked him. “My evening clothes +have not arrived yet. My valet's bringing them up to town to-morrow.” + +Even through the radiant happiness that surrounded him like a mist, he +caught the bitterness under her raillery. It puzzled him. + +“It's a young lady I knew at camp. I was in an army camp, you know.” + +“Is her name a secret?” + +“Why, no. It is Cardew. Miss Lily Cardew.” + +“I believe you--not.” + +“But it is,” he said, genuinely concerned. “Why in the world should I +give you a wrong name?” + +Her eyes were fixed on his face. + +“No. You wouldn't. But it makes me laugh, because--well, it was crazy, +anyhow.” + +“What was crazy?” + +“Something I had in my mind. Just forget it. I'll tell you what will +happen, Mr. Cameron. You'll stay here about six weeks. Then you'll get a +job at the Cardew Mills. They use chemists there, and you will be--” + +She lifted her finger-tips and blew along them delicately. + +“Gone--like that,” she finished. + +Sometimes Willy Cameron wondered about Miss Boyd. The large young man, +for instance, whose name he had learned was Louis Akers, did not +come any more. Not since that telephone conversation. But he had been +distinctly a grade above that competent young person, Edith Boyd, if +there were such grades these days; fluent and prosperous-looking, and +probably able to offer a girl a good home. But she had thrown him over. +He had heard her doing it, and when he had once ventured to ask her +about Akers she had cut him off curtly. + +“I was sick to death of him. That's all,” she had said. + +But on the night of Lily's invitation he was to hear more of Louis +Akers. + +It was his evening in the shop. One day he came on at seven-thirty in +the morning and was off at six, and the next he came at ten and stayed +until eleven at night. The evening business was oddly increasing. Men +wandered in, bought a tube of shaving cream or a tooth-brush, and sat +or stood around for an hour or so; clerks whose families had gone to the +movies, bachelors who found their lodging houses dreary, a young doctor +or two, coming in after evening office hours to leave a prescription, +and remaining to talk and listen. Thus they satisfied their gregarious +instinct while within easy call of home. + +The wealthy had their clubs. The workmen of the city had their balls and +sometimes their saloons. But in between was that vast, unorganized male +element which was neither, and had neither. To them the neighborhood +pharmacy, open in the evening, warm and bright, gave them a rendezvous. +They gathered there in thousands, the country over. During the war they +fought their daily battles there, with newspaper maps. After the war the +League of Nations, local politics, a bit of neighborhood scandal, washed +down with soft drinks from the soda fountain, furnished the evening's +entertainment. + +The Eagle Pharmacy had always been the neighborhood club, but with the +advent of Willy Cameron it was attaining a new popularity. The roundsman +on the beat dropped in, the political boss of the ward, named Hendricks, +Doctor Smalley, the young physician who lived across the street, and +others. Back of the store proper was a room, with the prescription desk +at one side and reserve stock on shelves around the other three. Here +were a table and a half dozen old chairs, a war map, still showing with +colored pins the last positions before the great allied advance, and an +ancient hat-rack, which had held from time immemorial an umbrella with +three broken ribs and a pair of arctics of unknown ownership. + +“Going to watch this boy,” Hendricks confided to Doctor Smalley a night +or two after Lily's return, meeting him outside. “He sure can talk.” + +Doctor Smalley grinned. + +“He can read my writing, too, which is more than I can do myself. What +do you mean, watch him?” + +But whatever his purposes Mr. Hendricks kept them to himself. A big, +burly man, with a fund of practical good sense a keen knowledge of +men, he had gained a small but loyal following. He was a retired master +plumber, with a small income from careful investments, and he had a +curious, almost fanatic love for the city. + +“I was born here,” he would say, boastfully. “And I've seen it grow from +fifty thousand to what it's got now. Some folks say it's dirty, but it's +home to me, all right.” + +But on the evening of Lily's invitation the drug store forum found Willy +Cameron extremely silent. He had been going over his weaknesses, for the +thought of Lily always made him humble, and one of them was that he got +carried away by things and talked too much. He did not intend to do that +the next night, at the Cardew's. + +“Something's scared him off,” said Mr. Hendricks to Doctor Smalley, +after a half hour of almost taciturnity, while Willy Cameron smoked his +pipe and listened. “Watch him rise to this, though.” And aloud: + +“Why don't you fellows drop the League of Nations, which none of you +knows a damn about anyhow, and get to the thing that's coming in this +country?” + +“I'll bite,” said Mr. Clarey, who sold life insurance in the daytime and +sometimes utilized his evenings in a similar manner. “What's coming to +this country?” + +“Revolution.” + +The crowd laughed. + +“All right,” said Mr. Hendricks. “Laugh while you can. I saw the Chief +of Police to-day, and he's got a line of conversation that makes a man +feel like taking his savings out of the bank and burying them in the +back yard.” + +Willy Cameron took his pipe out of his mouth, but remained dumb. + +Mr. Hendricks nudged Doctor Smalley, who rose manfully to the occasion. +“What does he say?” + +“Says the Russians have got a lot of paid agents here. Not all Russians +either. Some of our Americans are in it. It's to begin with a general +strike.” + +“In this town?” + +“All over the country. But this is a good field for them. The crust's +pretty thin here, and where that's the case there is likely to be +earthquakes and eruptions. The Chief says they're bringing in a bunch of +gunmen, wobblies and Bolshevists from every industrial town on the map. +Did you get that, Cameron? Gunmen!” + +“Any of you men here dissatisfied with this form of government?” + inquired Willy, rather truculently. + +“Not so you could notice it,” said Mr. Clarey. “And once the Republican +party gets in--” + +“Then there will never be a revolution.” + +“Why?” + +“That's why,” said Willy Cameron. “Of course you are worthless now. You +aren't organized. You don't know how many you are or how strong you +are. You can't talk. You sit back and listen until you believe that this +country is only capital and labor. You get squeezed in between them. You +see labor getting more money than you, and howling for still more. You +see both capital and labor raising prices until you can't live on what +you get. There are a hundred times as many of you as represent capital +and labor combined, and all you do is loaf here and growl about things +being wrong. Why don't you do something? You ought to be running this +country, but you aren't. You're lazy. You don't even vote. You leave +running the country to men like Mr. Hendricks here.” + +Mr. Hendricks was cheerfully unirritated. + +“All right, son,” he said, “I do my bit and like it. Go on. Don't stop +to insult me. You can do that any time.” + +“I've been buying a seditious weekly since I came,” said Willy Cameron. +“It's preaching a revolution, all right. I'd like to see its foreign +language copies. They'll never overthrow the government, but they may +try. Why don't you fellows combine to fight them? Why don't you learn +how strong you are? Nine-tenths of the country, and milling like sheep +with a wolf around!” + +Mr. Hendricks winked at the doctor. + +“What'd I tell you?” whispered Hendricks. “Got them, hasn't he? If +he'd suggest arming them with pop bottles and attacking that gang of +anarchists at the cobbler's down the street, they'd do it this minute.” + +“All right, son,” he offered. “We'll combine. Anything you say goes. +And we'll get the Jim Doyle-Woslosky-Louis Akers outfit first. I know a +first-class brick wall--” + +“Akers?” said Willy Cameron. “Do you know him?” + +“I do,” said Hendricks. “But that needn't prejudice you against me any. +He's a bad actor, and as smooth as butter. D'you know what their plan +is? They expect to take the city. This city! The--” Mr. Hendrick's voice +was lost in fury. + +“Talk!” said the roundsman. “Where'd the police be, I'm asking?” + +“The police,” said Mr. Hendricks, evidently quoting, “are as filled with +sedition as a whale with corset bones. Also the army. Also the state +constabulary.” + +“The hell they are,” said the roundsman aggressively. But Willy Cameron +was staring through the smoke from his pipe at the crowd. + +“They might do it, for a while,” he said thoughtfully. “There's a +tremendous foreign population in the mill towns around, isn't there? +Does anybody in the crowd own a revolver? Or know how to use it if he +has one.” + +“I've got one,” said the insurance agent. “Don't know how it would work. +Found my wife nailing oilcloth with it the other day.” + +“Very well. If we're a representative group, they wouldn't need a +battery of eight-inch guns, would they?” + +A little silence fell on the group. Around them the city went about its +business; the roar of the day had softened to muffled night sounds, as +though one said: “The city sleeps. Be still.” The red glare of the mills +was the fire on the hearth. The hills were its four protecting walls. +And the night mist covered it like a blanket. + +“Here's one representative of the plain people,” said Mr. Hendricks, +“who is going home to get some sleep. And tomorrow I'll buy me a gun, +and if I can keep the children out of the yard I'll learn to use it.” + +For a long time after he went home that night Willy Cameron paced the +floor of his upper room, paced it until an irate boarder below hammered +on his chandelier. Jinx followed him, moving sedately back and forth, +now and then glancing up with idolatrous eyes. Willy Cameron's mind was +active and not particularly coordinate. The Cardews and Lily; Edith Boyd +and Louis Akers; the plain people; an army marching to the city to loot +and burn and rape, and another army meeting it, saying: “You shall not +pass”; Abraham Lincoln, Russia, Lily. + +His last thought, of course, was of Lily Cardew. He had neglected to +cover Jinx, and at last the dog leaped on the bed and snuggled close to +him. He threw an end of the blanket over him and lay there, staring into +the darkness. He was frightfully lonely. At last he fell asleep, and +the March wind, coming in through the open window, overturned a paper +leaning against his collar box, on which he had carefully written: + + Have suit pressed. + Buy new tie. + Shirts from laundry. + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Going home that night Mr. Hendricks met Edith Boyd, and accompanied her +for a block or two. At his corner he stopped. + +“How's your mother, Edith?” + +It was Mr. Hendricks' business to know his ward thoroughly. + +“About the same. She isn't really sick, Mr. Hendricks. She's just low +spirited, but that's enough. I hate to go home.” + +Hendricks hesitated. + +“Still, home's a pretty good place,” he said. “Especially for a pretty +girl.” There was unmistakable meaning in his tone, and she threw up her +head. + +“I've got to get some pleasure out of life, Mr. Hendricks.” + +“Sure you have,” he agreed affably. “But playing around with Louis Akers +is like playing with a hand-grenade, Edith.” She said nothing. “I'd cut +him out, little girl. He's poor stuff. Mind, I'm not saying he's a fool, +but he's a bad actor. Now if I was a pretty girl, and there was a nice +fellow around like this Cameron, I'd be likely to think he was all +right. He's got brains.” Mr. Hendricks had a great admiration for +brains. + +“I'm sick of men.” + +He turned at her tone and eyed her sharply. + +“Well, don't judge them all by Akers. This is my corner. Good-night. Not +afraid to go on by yourself, are you?” + +“If I ever was I've had a good many chances to get over it.” + +He turned the corner, but stopped and called after her. + +“Tell Dan I'll be in to see him soon, Edith. Haven't seen him since he +came back from France.” + +“All right.” + +She went on, her steps lagging. She hated going home. When she reached +the little house she did not go in at once. The March night was not +cold, and she sat the step, hoping to see her mother's light go out in +the second-story front windows. But it continued to burn steadily, and +at last, with a gesture of despair, she rose and unlocked the door. + +Almost at once she heard footsteps above, and a peevish voice. + +“That you, Edie?” + +“Yes.” + +“D'you mind bringing up the chloroform liniment and rubbing my back?” + +“I'll bring it, mother.” + +She found it on the wainscoting in the untidy kitchen. She could hear +the faint scurrying of water beetles over the oilcloth-covered floor, +and then silence. She fancied myriads of tiny, watchful eyes on her, +and something crunched under her foot. She felt like screaming. That new +clerk at the store was always talking about homes. What did he know +of squalid city houses, with their insects and rats, their damp, moldy +cellars, their hateful plumbing? A thought struck her. She lighted the +gas and stared around. It was as she had expected. The dishes had not +been washed. They were piled in the sink, and a soiled dish-towel had +been thrown over them. + +She lowered the gas and went upstairs. The hardness had, somehow, gone +out of her when she thought of Willy Cameron. + +“Back bad again, is it?” she asked. + +“It's always bad. But I've got a pain in my left shoulder and down my +arm that's driving me crazy. I couldn't wash the dishes.” + +“Never mind the dishes. I'm not tired. Now crawl into bed and let me rub +you.” + +Mrs. Boyd complied. She was a small, thin woman in her early fifties, +who had set out to conquer life and had been conquered by it. The +hopeless drab of her days stretched behind her, broken only by the +incident of her widowhood, and stretched ahead hopelessly. She had +accepted Dan's going to France resignedly, with neither protest nor +undue anxiety. She had never been very close to Dan, although she +loved him more than she did Edith. She was the sort of woman who has +no fundamental knowledge of men. They had to be fed and mended for, and +they had strange physical wants that made a great deal of trouble in the +world. But mostly they ate and slept and went to work in the morning, +and came home at night smelling of sweat and beer. + +There had been one little rift in the gray fog of her daily life, +however. And through it she had seen Edith well married, with perhaps +a girl to do the house work, and a room where Edith's mother could fold +her hands and sit in the long silences without thought that were her +sanctuary against life. + +“Is that the place, mother?” + +“Yes.” Edith's unwonted solicitude gave her courage. + +“Edie, I want to ask you something.” + +“Well?” But the girl stiffened. + +“Lou hasn't been round, lately.” + +“That's all over, mother.” + +“You mean you've quarreled? Oh, Edie, and me planning you'd have a nice +home and everything.” + +“He never meant to marry me, if that's what you mean.” + +Mrs. Boyd turned on her back impatiently. + +“You could have had him. He was crazy about you. Trouble is with you, +you think you've got a fellow hard and fast, and you begin acting up. +Then, first thing you know--” + +Some of that strange new tolerance persisted in the girl. “Listen, +mother,” she said. “I give you my word, Lou'd run a mile if he thought +any girl wanted to marry him. I know him better than you do. If any one +ever does rope him in, he'll stick about three months, and then beat +it.” + +“I don't know why we have to have men, anyhow. Put out the gas, Edie. +No, don't open the window. The night air makes me cough.” + +Edith started downstairs and set to work in the kitchen. Something +would have to be done about the house. Dan was taking to staying out +at nights, because the untidy rooms repelled him. And there was the +question of food. Her mother had never learned to cook, and recently +more and more of the food had been something warmed out of a tin. If +only they could keep a girl, one who would scrub and wash dishes. There +was a room on the third floor, an attic, full now of her mother's untidy +harborings of years, that might be used for a servant. Or she could move +up there, and they could get a roomer. The rent would pay a woman to +come in now and then to clean up. + +She had played with that thought before, and the roomer she had had in +mind was Willy Cameron. But the knowledge that he knew the Cardews +had somehow changed all that. She couldn't picture him going from this +sordid house to the Cardew mansion, and worse still, returning to it +afterwards. She saw him there, at the Cardews, surrounded by bowing +flunkies--a picture of wealth gained from the movies--and by women +who moved indolently, trailing through long vistas of ball room and +conservatory in low gowns without sleeves, and draped with ropes of +pearls. Women who smoked cigarettes after dinner and played bridge for +money. + +She hated the Cardews. + +On her way to her room she paused at her mother's door. + +“Asleep yet, mother?” + +“No. Feel like I'm not going to sleep at all.” + +“Mother,” she said, with a desperate catch in her voice, “we've got to +change things around here. It isn't fair to Dan, for one thing. We've +got to get a girl to do the work. And to do that we'll have to rent a +room.” + +She heard the thin figure twist impatiently. + +“I've never yet been reduced to taking roomers, and I'm not going to let +the neighbors begin looking down on me now.” + +“Now, listen, mother--” + +“Go on away, Edie.” + +“But suppose we could get a young man, a gentleman, who would be out all +but three evenings a week. I don't know, but Mr. Cameron at the store +isn't satisfied where he is. He's got a dog, and they haven't any yard. +We've got a yard.” + +“I won't be bothered with any dog,” said the querulous voice, from the +darkness. + +With a gesture of despair the girl turned away. What was the use, +anyhow? Let them go on, then, her mother and Dan. Only let them let her +go on, too. She had tried her best to change herself, the house, the +whole rotten mess. But they wouldn't let her. + +Her mood of disgust continued the next morning. When, at eleven o'clock, +Louis Akers sauntered in for the first time in days, she looked at him +somberly but without disdain. Lou or somebody else, what did it +matter? So long as something took her for a little while away from +the sordidness of home, its stale odors, its untidiness, its querulous +inmates. + +“What's got into you lately, Edith?” he inquired, lowering his voice. +“You used to be the best little pal ever. Now the other day, when I +called up--” + +“Had the headache,” she said laconically. “Well?” + +“Want to play around this evening?” + +She hesitated. Then she remembered where Willy Cameron would be that +night, and her face hardened. Had any one told Edith that she was +beginning to care for the lame young man in the rear room, with +his exaggerated chivalry toward women, his belief in home, and his +sentimental whistling, she would have laughed. But he gave her something +that the other men she knew robbed her of, a sort of self-respect. It +was perhaps not so much that she cared for him, as that he enabled her +to care more for herself. + +But he was going to dinner with Lily Cardew. + +“I might, depending on what you've got to offer.” + +“I've got a car now, Edith. I'm not joking. There was a lot of outside +work, and the organization came over. I've been after it for six months. +We can have a ride, and supper somewhere. How's the young man with the +wooden leg?” + +“If you want to know I'll call him out and let him tell you.” + +“Quick, aren't you?” He smiled down at where she stood, firmly +entrenched behind a show case. “Well, don't fall in love with him. +That's all. I'm a bad man when I'm jealous.” + +He sauntered out, leaving Edith gazing thoughtfully after him. He did +not know, nor would have cared had he known, that her acceptance of his +invitation was a complex of disgust of home, of the call of youth, and +of the fact that Willy Cameron was dining at the Cardews that night. + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Howard Cardew was in his dressing room, sitting before the fire. His +man had put out his dinner clothes and retired, and Howard was sifting +before the fire rather listlessly. + +In Grace's room, adjoining, he could hear movements and low voices. +Before Lily's return, now and then when he was tired Grace and he had +dined by the fire in her boudoir. It had been very restful. He was still +in love with his wife, although, as in most marriages, there was one who +gave more than the other. In this case it was Grace who gave, and Howard +who received. But he loved her. He never thought of other women. Only +his father had never let him forget her weaknesses. + +Sometimes he was afraid that he was looking at Grace with his father's +eyes, rather than his own. + +He had put up a hard fight with his father. Not about Grace. That was +over and done with, although it had been bad while it lasted. But his +real struggle had been to preserve himself, to keep his faiths and his +ideals, and even his personality. In the inessentials he had yielded +easily, and so bought peace. Or perhaps a truce, of a sort. But for the +essentials he was standing with a sort of dogged conviction that if he +lowered his flag it would precipitate a crisis. He was not brilliant, +but he was intelligent, progressive and kindly. He knew that his father +considered him both stupid and obstinate. + +There was going to be a strike. The quarrel now was between Anthony's +curt “Let them strike,” and his own conviction that a strike at this +time might lead to even worse things. The men's demands were exorbitant. +No business, no matter how big, could concede them and live. But Howard +was debating another phase of the situation. + +Not all the mills would go down. A careful canvass of some of the other +independent concerns had shown the men eighty, ninety, even one hundred +per cent, loyal. Those were the smaller plants, where there had always +been a reciprocal good feeling between the owners and the men; there the +men knew the owners, and the owners knew the men, who had been with them +for years. + +But the Cardew Mills would go down. There had been no liaison between +the Cardews and the workmen. The very magnitude of the business forbade +that. And for many years, too, the Cardews had shown a gross callousness +to the welfare of the laborers. Long ago he had urged on his father the +progressive attitude of other steel men, but Anthony had jeered, and +when Howard had forced the issue and gained concessions, it was too +late. The old grievances remained in too many minds. To hate the Cardews +bad become a habit. Their past sins would damn them now. The strike was +wrong, a wicked thing. It was without reason and without aim. The men +were knocking a hole in the boat that floated them. But-- + +There was a tap at his door, and he called “Come in.” From her babyhood +Lily had had her own peculiar method of signaling that she stood +without, a delicate rapid tattoo of finger nails on the panel. He +watched smilingly for her entrance. + +“Well!” she said. “Thank goodness you haven't started to dress. I tried +to get here earlier, but my hair wouldn't go up, I want to make a good +impression to-night.” + +“Is there a dinner on? I didn't know it.” + +“Not a dinner. A young man. I came to see what you are going to wear.” + +“Really! Well, I haven't a great variety. The ordinary dinner dress of a +gentleman doesn't lend itself to any extraordinary ornamentation. If +you like, I'll pin on that medal from the Iron and Steel--Who's coming, +Lily?” + +“Grayson says grandfather's dining out.” + +“I believe so.” + +“What a piece of luck! I mean--you know what he'd say if I asked him not +to dress for dinner.” + +“Am I to gather that you are asking me?” + +“You wouldn't mind, would you? He hasn't any evening clothes.” + +“Look here, Lily,” said her father, sitting upright. “Who is coming here +to-night? And why should he upset the habits of the entire family?” + +“Willy Cameron. You know, father. And he has the queerest ideas about +us. Honestly. And I want him to like us, and it's such a good chance, +with grandfather out.” + +He ignored that. + +“How about our liking him?” + +“Oh, you'll like him. Everybody does. You will try to make a good +impression, won't you, father?” + +He got up, and resting his hands on her shoulders, smiled down into her +upturned face. “I will,” he said. “But I think I should tell you that +your anxiety arouses deep and black suspicions in my mind. Am I to +understand that you have fixed your young affections on this Willy +Cameron, and that you want your family to help you in your dark +designs?” + +Lily laughed. + +“I love him,” she said. “I really do. I could listen to him for hours. +But people don't want to marry Willy Cameron. They just love him.” + +There was born in Howard's mind a vision of a nice pink and white young +man, quite sexless, whom people loved but did not dream of marrying. + +“I see,” he said slowly. “Like a puppy.” + +“Not at all like a puppy.” + +“I'm afraid I'm not subtle, my dear. Well, ring for Adams, and--you +think he wouldn't care for the medal?” + +“I think he'd love it. He'd probably think some king gave it to you. I'm +sure he believes that you and grandfather habitually hobnob with kings.” + She turned to go out. “He doesn't approve of kings.” + +“You are making me extremely uneasy,” was her father's shot. “I only +hope I acquit myself well.” + +“Hurry, then. He is sure to be exactly on the hour.” Howard was still +smiling slightly to himself when, a half-hour later, he descended +the staircase. But he had some difficulty first in reconciling his +preconceived idea of Willy with the tall young man, with the faint +unevenness of step, who responded to his greeting so calmly and so +easily. “We are always glad to see any of Lily's friends.” + +“It is very good of you to let me come, sir.” + +Why, the girl was blind. This was a man, a fine, up-standing fellow, +with a clean-cut, sensitive face, and honest, almost beautiful eyes. How +did women judge men, anyhow? + +And, try as he would, Howard Cardew could find no fault with Willy +Cameron that night. He tried him out on a number of things. In religion, +for instance, he was orthodox, although he felt that the church had not +come up fully during the war. + +“Religion isn't a matter only of churches any more,” said Mr. Cameron. +“It has to go out into the streets, I think, sir. It's a-well, Christ +left the tabernacle, you remember.” + +That was all right. Howard felt that himself sometimes. He was a +vestryman at Saint Peter's, and although he felt very devout during the +service, especially during the offertory, when the music filled the fine +old building, he was often conscious that he shed his spirituality at +the door, when he glanced at the sky to see what were the prospects for +an afternoon's golf. + +In politics Willy Cameron was less satisfactory. + +“I haven't decided, yet,” he said. “I voted for Mr. Wilson in 1916, but +although I suppose parties are necessary, I don't like to feel that I am +party-bound. Anyhow, the old party lines are gone. I rather look--” + +He stopped. That terrible speech of Edith Boyd's still rankled. + +“Go on, Willy,” said Lily. “I told them they'd love to you talk.” + +“That's really all, sir,” said Willy Cameron, unhappily. “I am a Scot, +and to start a Scot on reform is fatal.” + +“Ah, you believe in reform?” + +“We are not doing very well as we are, sir.” + +“I should like extremely to know how you feel about things,” said +Howard, gravely. + +“Only this: So long as one party is, or is considered, the +representative of capital, the vested interests, and the other of labor, +the great mass of the people who are neither the one nor the other +cannot be adequately represented.” + +“And the solution?” + +“Perhaps a new party. Or better still, a liberalizing of the +Republican.” + +“Before long,” said Lily suddenly, “there will be no state. There will +be enough for everybody, and nobody will have too much.” + +Howard smiled at her indulgently. + +“How do you expect to accomplish this ideal condition?” + +“That's the difficulty about it,” said Lily, thoughtfully. “It means a +revolution. It would be peaceful, though. The thing to do is to convince +people that it is simple justice, and then they will divide what they +have.” + +“Why, Lily!” Grace's voice was anxious. “That's Socialism.” + +But Howard only smiled tolerantly, and changed the subject. Every +one had these attacks of idealism in youth. They were the exaggerated +altruism of adolescence; a part of its dreams and aspirations. He +changed the subject. + +“I like the boy,” he said to Grace, later, over the cribbage board in +the morning room. “He has character, and a queer sort of magnetism. It +mightn't be a bad thing--” + +Grace was counting. + +“I forgot to tell you; I think she refused Pink Denslow the other day.” + +“I rather gathered, from the way she spoke of young Cameron, that she +isn't interested there either.” + +“Not a bit,” said Grace, complacently. “You needn't worry about him.” + +Howard smiled. He was often conscious that after all the years of their +common life, his wife's mind and his traveled along parallel lines that +never met. + +Willy Cameron was extremely happy. He had brought his pipe along, +although without much hope, but the moment they were settled by the +library fire Lily had suggested it. + +“You know you can't talk unless you have it in your hand to wave +around,” she said. “And I want to know such a lot of things. Where you +live, and all that.” + +“I live in a boarding house. More house than board, really. And the +work's all right. I'm going to study metallurgy some day. There are +night courses at the college, only I haven't many nights.” + +He had lighted his pipe, and kept his eyes on it mostly, or on the fire. +He was afraid to look at Lily, because there was something he could not +keep out of his eyes, but must keep from her. It had been both better +and worse than he had anticipated, seeing her in her home. Lily herself +had not changed. She was her wonderful self, in spite of her frock and +her surroundings. But the house, her people, with their ease of wealth +and position, Grace's slight condescension, the elaborate simplicity of +dining, the matter-of-course-ness of the service. It was not that Lily +was above him. That was ridiculous. But she was far removed from him. + +“There is something wrong with you, Willy,” she said unexpectedly. “You +are not happy, or you are not well. Which is it? You are awfully thin, +for one thing.” + +“I'm all right,” he said, evading her eyes. + +“Are you lonely? I don't mean now, of course.” + +“Well, I've got a dog. That helps. He's a helpless sort of mutt. I carry +his meat home from the shop in my pocket, and I feel like a butcher's +wagon, sometimes. But he's taken a queer sort of liking to me, and he is +something to talk to.” + +“Why didn't you bring him along?” + +Dogs were forbidden in the Cardew house, by old Anthony's order, as were +pipes, especially old and beloved ones, but Lily was entirely reckless. + +“He did follow me. He's probably sitting on the doorstep now. I tried to +send him back, but he's an obstinate little beast.” + +Lily got up. + +“I am going to bring him in,” she said. “And if you'll ring that bell +we'll get him some dinner.” + +“I'll get him, while you ring.” + +Half an hour later Anthony Cardew entered his house. He had spent a +miserable evening. Some young whipper snapper who employed a handful of +men had undertaken to show him where he, Anthony Cardew, was a clog in +the wheel of progress. Not in so many words, but he had said: “Tempora +mutantur, Mr. Cardew. And the wise employer meets those changes +half-way.” + +“You young fools want to go all the way.” + +“Not at all. We'll meet them half-way, and stop.” + +“Bah!” said Anthony Cardew, and had left the club in a temper. The club +was going to the dogs, along with the rest of the world. There was only +a handful of straight-thinking men like himself left in it. Lot of young +cravens, letting their men dominate them and intimidate them. + +So he slammed into his house, threw off his coat and hat, and--sniffed. +A pungent, acrid odor was floating through a partly closed door. Anthony +Cardew flung open the door and entered. + +Before the fire, on a deep velvet couch, sat his granddaughter. Beside +her was a thin young man in a gray suit, and the thin young man was +waving an old pipe about, and saying: + +“Tempora mutantur, Lily. The wise employer--” + +“I am afraid, sir,” said Anthony, in a terrible voice, “that you are +not acquainted with the rules of my house. I object to pipes. There are +cigars in the humidor behind you.” + +“Very sorry, Mr. Cardew,” Willy Cameron explained. “I didn't know. I'll +put it away, sir.” + +But Anthony was not listening. His eyes had traveled from an empty +platter on the hearth-rug to a deep chair where Jinx, both warm and +fed at the same time, and extremely distended with meat, lay sleeping. +Anthony put out a hand and pressed the bell beside him. + +“I want you to meet Mr. Cameron, grandfather.” Lily was rather pale, but +she had the Cardew poise. “He was in the camp when I was.” + +Grayson entered on that, however, and Anthony pointed to Jinx. + +“Put that dog out,” he said, and left the room, his figure rigid and +uncompromising. + +“Grayson,” Lily said, white to the lips, “that dog is to remain here. +He's perfectly quiet. And, will you find Ellen and ask her to come +here?” + +“Haven't I made enough trouble?” asked Willy Cameron, unhappily. “I can +see her again, you know.” + +“She's crazy to see you, Willy. And besides--” + +Grayson had gone, after a moment's hesitation. + +“Don't you see?” she said. “The others have always submitted. I did, +too. But I can't keep it up, Willy. I can't live here and let him treat +me like that. Or my friends. I know what will happen. I'll run away, +like Aunt Elinor.” + +“You must not do that, Lily.” He was very grave. + +“Why not? They think she is unhappy. She isn't. She ran away and married +a man she cared about. I may call you up some day and ask you to marry +me!” she added, less tensely. “You would be an awfully good husband, you +know.” + +She looked up at him, still angry, but rather amused with this new +conceit. + +“Don't!” + +She was startled by the look on his face. + +“You see,” he said painfully, “what only amuses you in that idea +is--well, it doesn't amuse me, Lily.” + +“I only meant--” she was very uncomfortable. “You are so real and +dependable and kind, and I--” + +“I know what you mean. Like Jinx, there. I'm sorry! I didn't mean that. +But you must not talk about marrying me unless you mean it. You see, I +happen to care.” + +“Willy!” + +“It won't hurt you to know, although I hadn't meant to tell you. And of +course, you know, I am not asking you to marry me. Only I'd like you to +feel that you can count on me, always. The one person a woman can count +on is the man who loves her.” + +And after a little silence: + +“You see, I know you are not in love with me. I cared from the +beginning, but I always knew that.” + +“I wish I did.” She was rather close to tears. She had not felt at +all like that with Pink. But, although she knew he was suffering, his +quietness deceived her. She had the theory of youth about love, that it +was a violent thing, tempestuous and passionate. She thought that love +demanded, not knowing that love gives first, and then asks. She could +not know how he felt about his love for her, that it lay in a sort of +cathedral shrine in his heart. There were holy days when saints left +their niches and were shown in city streets, but until that holy day +came they remained in the church. + +“You will remember that, won't you?” + +“I'll remember, Willy.” + +“I won't be a nuisance, you know. I've never had any hope, so I won't +make you unhappy. And don't be unhappy about me, Lily. I would rather +love you, even knowing I can't have you, than be loved by anybody else.” + +Perhaps, had he shown more hurt, he would have made it seem more real to +her. But he was frightfully anxious not to cause her pain. + +“I'm really very happy, loving you,” he added, and smiled down at her +reassuringly. But he had for all that a wild primitive impulse which +almost overcame him for a moment, to pick her up in his arms and carry +her out the door and away with him. Somewhere, anywhere. Away from that +grim old house, and that despotic little man, to liberty and happiness +and--William Wallace Cameron. + +Ellen came in, divided between uneasiness and delight, and inquired +painstakingly about his mother, and his uncle in California, and the +Presbyterian minister. But she was uncomfortable and uneasy and refused +to sit down, and Willy watched her furtively slipping out again with a +slight frown. It was not right, somehow, this dividing of the world into +classes, those who served and those who were served. But he had an idea +that it was those below who made the distinction, nowadays. It was the +masses who insisted on isolating the classes. They made kings, perhaps +that they might some day reach up and pull them off their thrones. At +the top of the stairs Ellen found Mademoiselle, who fixed her with cold +eyes. + +“What were you doing down there,” she demanded. + +“Miss Lily sent for me, to see that young man I told you about.” + +“How dare you go down? And into the library?” + +“I've just told you,” said Ellen, her face setting. “She sent for me.” + +“Why didn't you say you were in bed?” + +“I'm no liar, Mademoiselle. Besides, I guess it's no crime to see a boy +I've known all his life, and his mother and me like sisters.” + +“You are a fool,” said Mademoiselle, and turning clumped back in her +bedroom slippers to her room. + +Ellen went up to her room. Heretofore she had given her allegiance to +Mademoiselle and Mrs. Cardew, and in a more remote fashion, to Howard. +But Ellen, crying angry tears in her small white bed that night, sensed +a new division in the family, with Mademoiselle and Anthony and Howard +and Grace on one side, and Lily standing alone, fighting valiantly for +the right to live her own life, to receive her own friends, and the +friends of her friends, even though one of these latter might be a +servant in her own house. + +Yet Ellen, with the true snobbishness of the servants' hall, disapproved +of Lily's course while she admired it. + +“But they're all against her,” Ellen reflected. “The poor thing! And +just because of Willy Cameron. Well, I'll stand by her, if they throw me +out for it.” + +In her romantic head there formed strange, delightful visions. Lily +eloping with Willy Cameron, assisted by herself. Lily in the little +Cameron house, astounding the neighborhood with her clothes and her +charm, and being sponsored by Ellen. The excitement of the village, and +the visits to Ellen to learn what to wear for a first call, and were +cards necessary? + +Into Ellen's not very hard-working but monotonous life had comes its +first dream of romance. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +For three weeks Lily did not see Louis Akers, nor did she go back to the +house on Cardew Way. She hated doing clandestine or forbidden things, +and she was, too, determined to add nothing to the tenseness she began +to realize existed at home. She went through her days, struggling to fit +herself again into the old environment, reading to her mother, +lending herself with assumed enthusiasm to such small gayeties as Lent +permitted, and doing penance in a dozen ways for that stolen afternoon +with Louis Akers. + +She had been forbidden to see him again. It had come about by Grace's +confession to Howard as to Lily's visit to the Doyles. He had not +objected to that. + +“Unless Doyle talks his rubbish to her,” he said. “She said something +the 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't +to meet men like that.” + +“Shall I tell her?” + +“I'll tell her,” he said. And tell her he did, not too tactfully, and +man-like shielding her by not telling her his reasons. + +“He's not the sort of man I want you to know,” he finished. “That ought +to 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 stopped +in 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 Louis +Akers again, and found a certain relief in the decision. She was +conscious that he had a peculiar attraction for her, a purely emotional +appeal. He made her feel alive. Even when she disapproved of him, she +was conscious of him. She put him resolutely out of her mind, to have +him reappear in her dreams, not as a lover, but as some one dominant and +insistent, 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 they +went to the moving pictures, to Grace's horror. But there were no +peanuts to eat, and instead of the jingling camp piano there was an +orchestra, and it was all strangely different. Even Willy Cameron was +different. He was very silent, and on the way home he did not once speak +of 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 receiver +abruptly. 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 Way +the two horse-chestnuts were showing great red-brown buds, ready to fall +into leaf with the first warm day, and Elinor, assisted by Jennie, +the elderly maid, was finishing her spring house-cleaning. The Cardew +mansion showed window-boxes at each window, filled by the florist with +spring flowers, to be replaced later by summer ones. A potted primrose +sat behind the plate glass of the Eagle Pharmacy, among packets of +flower seeds and spring tonics, its leaves occasionally nibbled by +the pharmacy cat, out of some atavistic craving survived through long +generations of city streets. + +The children's playground near the Lily furnace was ready; Howard Cardew +himself had overseen the locations of the swings and chute-the-chutes. +And at Friendship an army of workers was sprinkling and tamping the turf +of the polo field. After two years of war, there was to be polo again +that spring and early summer. The Cherry Hill Hunt team was still +intact, although some of the visiting outfits had been badly shot to +pieces by the war. But the war was over. It lay behind, a nightmare to +be forgotten as soon as possible. It had left its train of misery and +debt, 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 an +escape from her own worries. She was fighting a sense of failure that +day. It seemed impossible to reconcile the warring elements at home. +Old Anthony and his son were quarreling over the strike, and Anthony was +jibing constantly at Howard over the playground. It was not so much her +grandfather's irritability that depressed her as his tyranny over the +household, and his attitude toward her mother roused her to bitter +resentment. + +The night before she had left the table after one of his scourging +speeches, only to have what amounted to a scene with her mother +afterward. + +“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 what +I have built up so carefully. It hurts your father so.” + +“Sometimes,” Lily said slowly, “he makes me think Aunt Elinor's husband +was 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 this +house stifles.” Grace was too horrified for speech. “I don't want to +hurt you, mother, but don't you see? He tyrannizes over all of us, and +it's bad for our souls. Why should he bellow at the servants? Or talk to +you 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 of +ideas 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 take +you abroad.” + +Lily turned and walked out of the room, and there was something +suggestive of old Anthony in the pitch of her shoulders. Her anger did +not last long, but her uneasiness persisted. Already she knew that she +was older in many ways than Grace; she had matured in the past year more +than her mother in twenty, and she felt rather like a woman obeying the +mandates 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 on +her thoughts. + +“Lovely.” + +“It's not a bad place to live in, after all,” said Pink, trying to cheer +his own rather unhappy humor. “There is always spring to expect, when we +get low in winter. And there are horses and dogs, and--and blossoms on +the 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 round +sighing like a furnace. “But it's a pretty good sort of place. I'm for +it.” + +“Have you sent your ponies out?” + +“Only two. I want to show you one I bought from the Government almost +for 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 were +approaching the Cardew's Friendship plant. The furnaces had covered the +fields with a thin deposit of reddish ore dust. Such blighted grass +as grew had already lost its fresh green, and the trees showed stunted +blossoms. The one oasis of freshness was the polo field itself, +carefully irrigated by underground pipes. The field, with its stables +and grandstand, had been the gift of Anthony Cardew, thereby promoting +much discussion with his son. For Howard had wanted the land for certain +purposes of his own, to build a clubhouse for the men at the plant, with +a baseball field. Finding his father obdurate in that, he had urged that +the field be thrown open to the men and their families, save immediately +preceding and during the polo season. But he had failed there, too. +Anthony Cardew had insisted, and with some reason, that to use +the grounds for band concerts and baseball games, for picnics and +playgrounds, would ruin the turf for its legitimate purpose. + +Howard had subsequently found other land, and out of his own private +means 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 continual +grievance. + +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 with +bags of sand, and a ball-game was in progress, boys playing, but a long +line 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 at +this sign. It says 'ball-playing or any trespassing forbidden on these +grounds.' 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 him +go with many misgivings, his sturdy young figure, his careful dress, his +air of the young aristocrat, easy, domineering, unconsciously insolent. +They would resent him, she knew, those men and boys. And after all, why +should 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 set +with 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 was +shooing them off like a lot of chickens, and they were laughing. The +game had stopped, and the side lines were pressing forward. There was a +moment's debate, with raised voices, a sullen muttering from the crowd, +and the line closing into a circle. The last thing she saw before it +closed was a man lunging at Pink, and his counter-feint. Then some one +was down. If it was Pink he was not out, for there was fighting still +going on. The laborers working on the grounds were running. + +Lily stood up in the car, pale and sickened. She was only vaguely +conscious of a car that suddenly left the road, and dashed recklessly +across the priceless turf, but she did see, and recognize, Louis Akers +as he leaped from it and flinging men this way and that disappeared into +the storm center. She could hear his voice, too, loud and angry, and see +the quick dispersal of the crowd. Some of the men, foreigners, passed +quite 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 knees +across to where Pink lay on the grass, his profile white and sharply +chiseled, 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 of +idiocy--! 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 me +when I was down.” He turned to the grounds-keeper, who had come up. “You +ought to know better than to let those fellows cut up this turf,” he +said angrily. “What're you here for anyhow?” + +But he was suddenly very sick. He looked at Lily, his face drawn and +blanched. + +“Got me right,” he muttered. “I--” + +“Get into my car,” said Akers, not too amiably. “I'll drive you to the +stables. 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 had +obeyed Louis Akers like a master. He was a man. He was a strong man. He +must be built of iron. Mentally she saw him again, driving recklessly +over 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 forward +again at reckless speed. Some vision of her grandfather, watching the +machine careening over the still soft and spongy turf and leaving deep +tracks behind it, made her smile. Akers leaped out. + +“No need to worry about our young friend,” he said cheerfully. “He is +alternately being very sick at his stomach and cursing the poor working +man. But I think I'd better drive you back. He'll be poor company, I'll +say that.” + +He looked at her, his bold eyes challenging, belying the amiable +gentleness of his smile. + +“I'd better let him know.” + +“I told him. He isn't strong for me. Always hate the fellow who saves +you, you know. But he didn't object.” + +Lily moved into his car obediently. She felt a strange inclination to do +what this man wanted. Rather, it was an inability to oppose him. He went +on, big, strong, and imperious. And he carried one along. It was easy +and queer. But she did, unconsciously, what she had never done with Pink +or any other man; she sat as far away from him on the wide seat as she +could. + +He noticed that, and smiled ahead, over the wheel. He had been +infuriated 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 you +once I was frank. I want you to answer one question. If this thing +rested 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 have +given him that opportunity. He glanced sharply around, and then suddenly +stopped 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 were +pinned to her sides, and she was helpless. After a brief struggle to +free 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 only +humiliated and rather soiled. There were men like that, then, men who +gave way to violent impulses, who lost control of themselves and had to +apologize afterwards. She hated him, but she was sorry for him, too. He +would have to be so humble. She was staring ahead, white and waiting for +his explanation, when he released the brake and started the car forward +slowly. + +“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 who +would kiss a girl and then crawl about it afterwards. I won't. I'm not +sorry. A strong man can digest his own sins. I kissed you because I +wanted to. It wasn't an impulse. I meant to when we started. And you're +only doing the conventional thing and pretending to be angry. You're not +angry. Good God, girl, be yourself once in a while.” + +“I'm afraid I don't understand you.” Her voice was haughty. “And I must +ask you to stop the car and let me get out.” + +“I'll do nothing of the sort, of course. Now get this straight, Miss +Cardew. I haven't done you any harm. I may have a brutal way of showing +that I'm crazy about you, but it's my way. I'm a man, and I'm no hand +kisser.” + +And when she said nothing: + +“You think I'm unrestrained, and I am, in a way. But if I did what I +really want to do, I'd not take you home at all. I'd steal you. You've +done 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 strength +this sort of man needed to be protected from himself. She felt no +answering thrill whatever to his passion, but as though, having told her +he 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 to +worry you.” + +He made no further overtures to her during the ride, but he was neither +sulky nor sheepish. He feigned an anxiety as to the threatened strike, +and related at great length and with extreme cleverness of invention his +own efforts to prevent it. + +“I've a good bit of influence with the A.F.L.,” he said. “Doyle's in bad +with them, but I'm still solid. But it's coming, sure as shooting. And +they'll win, too.” + +He knew women well, and he saw that she was forgiving him. But she would +not forget. He had a cynical doctrine, to the effect that a woman's +first kiss of passion left an ineradicable mark on her, and he was quite +certain 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 and +supplicating. “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'm +afraid to promise. You go to my head, Lily Cardew.” They were halted +by the traffic, and it gave him a chance to say something he had been +ingeniously formulating in his mind. “I've known lots of girls. I'm no +saint. But you are different. You're a good woman. You could do anything +you wanted with me, if you cared to.” + +And because she was young and lovely, and because he was always the +slave of youth and beauty, he meant what he said. It was a lie, but he +was lying to himself also, and his voice held unmistakable sincerity. +But even then he was watching her, weighing the effect of his words on +her. He saw that she was touched. + +He was very well pleased with himself on his way home. He left the +car at the public garage, and walked, whistling blithely, to his small +bachelor apartment. He was a self-indulgent man, and his rooms were +comfortable to the point of luxury. In the sitting room was a desk, as +clean and orderly as Doyle's was untidy. Having put on his dressing gown +he went to it, and with a sheet of paper before him sat for some time +thinking. + +He found his work irksome at times. True, it had its interest. He was +the liaison between organized labor, which was conservative in the main, +and the radical element, both in and out of the organization. He played +a double game, and his work was always the same, to fan the discontent +latently smoldering in every man's soul into a flame. And to do this he +had not Doyle's fanaticism. Personally, Louis Akers found the world a +pretty 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 feeling +of power he had when, on the platform, men swayed to his words like +wheat 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 a +time 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 the +clubs were as far away as ever. It was Doyle who found the weak place +in his armor, and who taught him that when one could not rise it was +possible to pull others down. + +But it was Woslosky, the Americanized Pole; who had put the thing in a +more appealing form. + +“Our friend Doyle to the contrary,” he said cynically, “we cannot hope +to contend against the inevitable. The few will always govern the many, +in the end. It will be the old cycle, autocracy, anarchy, and then +democracy; but out of this last comes always the one man who crowns +himself 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 cigarette +in his hand, his eyes slightly narrowed. He believed that he could marry +Lily Cardew. It would take time and all his skill, but he believed he +could do it. His mind wandered to Lily herself, her youth and charm, her +soft red mouth, the feel of her warm young body in his arms. He brought +himself up sharply. Where would such a marriage take him? + +He pondered the question pro and con. On the one hand the Cardews, on +the other, Doyle and a revolutionary movement. A revolution would be +interesting and exciting, and there was strong in him the desire to pull +down. But revolution was troublesome. It was violent and bloody. Even if +it 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 favorite +position, and dreamed. He would not play the fool like Doyle. He would +conciliate the family. In the end he would be put up at the clubs; he +might even play polo. His thoughts wandered to Pink Denslow at the polo +grounds, and he grinned. + +“Young fool!” he reflected. “If I can't beat his time--” He ordered +dinner to be sent up, and mixed himself a cocktail, using the utmost +care in its preparation. Drinking it, he eyed himself complacently in +the small mirror over the mantel. Yes, life was not bad. It was damned +interesting. It was a game. No, it was a race where a man could so hedge +his 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 the +mirror, 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 with +the complacence of his mood. Yes, life was good, so long as it held +power, and drink, and women. + +He stooped to kiss her, but although she accepted the caress, she did +not return it. + +“Not mad at me, Miss Boyd, are you?” + +“No. Lou, I'm frightened!” + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +On clear Sundays Anthony Cardew played golf all day. He kept his +religious observances for bad weather, but at such times as he attended +service he did it with the decorum and dignity of a Cardew, who bowed to +his God but to nothing else. He made the responses properly and with a +certain unction, and sat during the sermon with a vigilant eye on the +choir boys, who wriggled. Now and then, however, the eye wandered to +the great stained glass window which was a memorial to his wife. It said +beneath: “In memoriam, Lilian Lethbridge Cardew.” + +He thought there was too much yellow in John the Baptist. On the Sunday +afternoon following her ride into the city with Louis Akers, Lily found +herself alone. Anthony was golfing and Grace and Howard had motored out +of town for luncheon. In a small office near the rear of the hall the +second man dozed, waiting for the doorbell. There would be people in +for tea later, as always on Sunday afternoons; girls and men, walking +through the park or motoring up in smart cars, the men a trifle bored +because they were not golfing or riding, the girls chattering about the +small inessentials which somehow they made so important. + +Lily was wretchedly unhappy. For one thing, she had begun to feel that +Mademoiselle was exercising over her a sort of gentle espionage, and she +thought her grandfather was behind it. Out of sheer rebellion she had +gone again to the house on Cardew Way, to find Elinor out and Jim Doyle +writing at his desk. He had received her cordially, and had talked to +her 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 can +make people very hard. I don't know myself what success would do to +me. Plenty, probably.” He smiled. “It isn't the past your people won't +forgive 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 are +inflammatory. Of course they don't understand. I have tried to tell +them, but--” + +“There are fires that purify,” he had said, smilingly. + +She had gone home, discontented with her family's lack of vision, and +with herself. + +She was in a curious frame of mind. The thought of Louis Akers repelled +her, but she thought of him constantly. She analyzed him clearly enough; +he was not fine and not sensitive. He was not even kind. Indeed, she +felt that he could be both cruel and ruthless. And if she was the first +good 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 shame +at such times, but the thought recurred. + +Had she had occupation perhaps she might have been saved, but she had +nothing to do. The house went on with its disciplined service; Lent had +made its small demands as to church services, and was over. The weather +was bad, and the golf links still soggy with the spring rains. Her +wardrobe was long ago replenished, and that small interest gone. + +And somehow there had opened a breach between herself and the little +intimate group that had been hers before the war. She wondered sometimes +what they would think of Louis Akers. They would admire him, at first, +for his opulent good looks, but very soon they would recognize what she +knew so well--the gulf between him and the men of their own world, so +hard a distinction to divine, yet so real for all that. They would know +instinctively that under his veneer of good manners was something coarse +and crude, as she did, and they would politely snub him. She had no name +and no knowledge for the urge in the man that she vaguely recognized and +resented. But she had a full knowledge of the obsession he was becoming +in her mind. + +“If I could see him here,” she reflected, more than once, “I'd get over +thinking about him. It's because they forbid me to see him. It's sheer +contrariness.” + +But it was not, and she knew it. She had never heard of his theory about +the 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, and +Mademoiselle had dozed off in her chair afterwards, a novel on her knee. +Lily was wandering about downstairs when the telephone rang, and she had +a 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 well +combine, 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 his +heels being polished. He was also slightly breathless. + +“Had to sew a button on my coat,” he explained. “Then I found I'd sewed +in one of my fingers and had to start all over again.” + +Lily was conscious of a change in him. He looked older, she thought, and +thinner. His smile, when it came, was as boyish as ever, but he did +not smile so much, and seen in full daylight he was shabby. He seemed +totally unconscious of his clothes, however. + +“What do you do with yourself, Willy?” she asked. “I mean when you are +free?” + +“Read and study. I want to take up metallurgy pretty soon. There's a +night course at the college.” + +“We use metallurgists in the mill. When you are ready I know father +would 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 a +time, 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 very +happy, Willy. I ought to be, but I'm just--not.” + +“You've learned what it is to be useful,” he observed gravely, “and now +it 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 staring +ahead. Jinx brought the stick, and, receiving no attention, insinuated a +dripping 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 got +a miserable habit of saying just what comes into my mind, and I've been +afraid, ever since, that it would end in your not wanting to see me +again. 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 your +grandfather. I've had him on my mind, too. He is an old man, and +sometimes they are peculiar. I am only sorry I upset him. And you are to +forget 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 got +something off his chest. + +“Certainly there is, Miss Cardew. Me. Myself. I want you to know that +I'm around, ready to fetch and carry like Jinx here, and about as +necessary, I suppose. We are a good bit alike, Jinx and I. We're +satisfied with a bone, and we give a lot of affection. You won't mind a +bone 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 to +reality. Perhaps I'm like that. Anyhow, that's enough about me. Do you +know 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 about +as 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 acknowledgment +of weakness. It is a resort to the physical because the collective +mentality of labor isn't as strong as the other side. Or labor thinks it +isn't, which amounts to the same thing. And there is a fine line between +the fellow who fights for a principle and the one who knocks people down +to 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. There +have been fights by labor for a principle, and the principle won, as +good always wins over evil. But this is different. It's a direct play +by men who don't realize what they are doing, into the hands of a lot +of--well, we'll call them anarchists. It's Germany's way of winning the +war. 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 of +an 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 said +at last, “I can only tell you this. They can disguise it in all the fine +terms they want. It is treason, and they are traitors. I know. I've had +a 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 her +cheeks. He drew a long breath. + +“I can't retract it,” he said. “I didn't know, of course. Shall we start +back?” + +They were very silent as they walked. Willy Cameron was pained and +anxious. He knew Akers' type rather than the man himself, but he knew +the type well. Every village had one, the sleek handsome animal who +attracted girls by sheer impudence and good humor, who made passionate, +pagan love promiscuously, and put the responsibility for the misery they +caused on the Creator because He had made them as they were. + +He was agonized by another train of thought. For him Lily had always +been something fine, beautiful, infinitely remote. There were other +girls, girls like Edith Boyd, who were touched, some more, some less, +with the soil of life. Even when they kept clean they saw it all +about them, and looked on it with shrewd, sophisticated eyes. But Lily +was--Lily. The very thought of Louis Akers looking at her as he had seen +him 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 you +seeing Akers. I don't know anything against him, and I suppose if I did +I 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, he +stands for something, at least,” she added rather hotly. “None of the +other 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 change +always means progress, and who do intend that the changes Doyle and +Akers and that lot want they won't get. I don't believe--if you say you +want 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 of +arguing 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't +been such friends. But Akers is wrong, wrong every way, and I have to +tell you that, even if it means that you will never see me again. He +takes 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 cannot +speak 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 and +rather haggard, looking after her. + +He took the dog and went out into the country on foot, tramping through +the mud without noticing it, and now and then making little despairing +gestures. 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 now +Lily. Good God, Lily! + +Jinx was tired. He begged to be carried, planting two muddy feet on his +master's shabby trouser leg, and pleading with low whines. Willy Cameron +stooped 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 head +through the mud and wet toward home. + +Lily had entered the house in a white fury, but a moment later she was +remorseful. For one thing, her own anger bewildered her. After all, he +had meant well, and it was like him to be honest, even if it cost him +something 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 to +treat him like that? He had looked almost stricken. + +“Mr. Akers is calling, Miss Cardew,” said the footman. “He is in the +drawing-room.” + +Lily went in slowly. + +Louis Akers had been waiting for some time. He had lounged into the +drawing-room, with an ease assumed for the servant's benefit, and had +immediately lighted a cigarette. That done, and the servant departed, he +had carefully appraised his surroundings. He liked the stiff formality +of the room. He liked the servant in his dark maroon livery. He +liked the silence and decorum. Most of all, he liked himself in these +surroundings. He wandered around, touching a bowl here, a vase there, +eyeing carefully the ancient altar cloth that lay on a table, the old +needle-work tapestry on the chairs. + +He saw himself fitted into this environment, a part of it; coming +down the staircase, followed by his wife, and getting into his waiting +limousine; sitting at the head of his table, while the important men of +the city listened to what he had to say. It would come, as sure as God +made little fishes. And Doyle was a fool. He, Louis Akers, would marry +Lily Cardew and block that other game. But he would let the Cardews +know who it was who had blocked it and saved their skins. They'd have to +receive him after that; they would cringe to him. + +Then, unexpectedly, he had one of the shocks of his life. He had gone +to the window and through it he saw Lily and Willy Cameron outside. He +clutched at the curtain and cursed under his breath, apprehensively. +But Willy Cameron did not come in; Akers watched him up the street with +calculating, slightly narrowed eyes. The fact that Lily Cardew knew the +clerk at the Eagle Pharmacy was an unexpected complication. His surprise +was lost in anxiety. But Lily, entering the room a moment later, rather +pale and unsmiling, found him facing the door, his manner easy, his head +well up, and drawn to his full and rather overwhelming height. She found +her 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 an +attempt 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 without +learning its fine points. There were times to woo a woman with a strong +arm, and there were other times that required other methods. + +“Right-o,” he said, “I'm sorry. I've been thinking about you so much +that I daresay I have got farther in our friendship than I should. Do +you know that you haven't been out of my mind since that ride we had +together?” + +“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 I +don't want to talk about it.” + +“When a beautiful thing comes into a man's life he likes to remember +it.” + +“How can you call it beautiful?” + +“Isn't it rather fine when two people, a man and a woman, suddenly find +a tremendous attraction that draws them together, in spite of the fact +that 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 the +things she promised, of power and gratified ambition. But he found her, +with her gentle aloofness, exceedingly appealing, and with the tact of +the man who understands women he adapted himself to her humor. + +“You are making me very unhappy; Miss Lily,” he said. “If you'll only +promise to let me see you now and then, I'll promise to be as mild as +dish-water. Will you promise?” + +She was still struggling, still remembering Willy Cameron, still trying +to 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 decent +influence in my life.” + +She was still revolving that in her mind when tea came. Akers, having +shot his bolt, watched with interest the preparation for the little +ceremony, the old Georgian teaspoons, the Crown Derby cups, the +bell-shaped Queen Anne teapot, beautifully chased, the old pierced sugar +basin. Almost his gaze was proprietary. And he watched Lily, her casual +handling of those priceless treasures, her taking for granted of service +and beauty, her acceptance of quality because she had never known +anything 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 not +ask me to come. And also remembering that your family does not happen to +care about me.” + +“They are not at home.” + +“I knew that, or I should not have come. I don't want to make trouble +for you, child.” His voice was infinitely caressing. “As it happens, I +know your grandfather's Sunday habits, and I met your father and mother +on 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 with +you.” + +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 not +going to cut me off, are you?” + +He stood over her, big, compelling, dominant, and put his hand under her +chin. + +“I am insane about you,” he whispered, and waited. + +Slowly, irresistibly, she lifted her face to his kiss. + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +On the first day of May, William Wallace Cameron moved his trunk, the +framed photograph of his mother, eleven books, an alarm clock and Jinx +to the Boyd house. He went for two reasons. First, after his initial +call at the dreary little house, he began to realize that something had +to be done in the Boyd family. The second reason was his dog. + +He began to realize that something had to be done in the Boyd family as +soon as he had met Mrs. Boyd. + +“I don't know what's come over the children,” Mrs. Boyd said, fretfully. +She sat rocking persistently in the dreary little parlor. Her chair +inched steadily along the dull carpet, and once or twice she brought up +just as she was about to make a gradual exit from the room. “They act so +queer lately.” + +She hitched the chair into place again. Edith had gone out. It was her +idea of an evening call to serve cakes and coffee, and a strong and +acrid odor was seeping through the doorway. “There's Dan come home from +the war, and when he gets back from the mill he just sits and stares +ahead of him. He won't even talk about the war, although he's got a lot +to tell.” + +“It takes some time for the men who were over to get settled down again, +you know.” + +“Well, there's Edith,” continued the querulous voice. “You'd think the +cat had got her tongue, too. I tell you, Mr. Cameron, there are meals +here when if I didn't talk there wouldn't be a word spoken.” + +Mr. Cameron looked up. It had occurred to him lately, not precisely that +a cat had got away with Edith's tongue, but that something undeniably +had got away with her cheerfulness. There were entire days in the store +when she neglected to manicure her nails, and stood looking out past the +fading primrose in the window to the street. But there were no longer +any shrewd comments on the passers-by. + +“Of course, the house isn't very cheerful,” sighed Mrs. Boyd. “I'm a +sick woman, Mr. Cameron. My back hurts most of the time. It just aches +and aches.” + +“I know,” said Mr. Cameron. “My mother has that, sometimes. If you like +I'll mix you up some liniment, and Miss Edith can bring it to you.” + +“Thanks. I've tried most everything. Edith wants to rent a room, so we +can keep a hired girl, but it's hard to get a girl. They want all the +money on earth, and they eat something awful. That's a nice friendly dog +of yours, Mr. Cameron.” + +It was perhaps Jinx who decided Willy Cameron. Jinx was at that moment +occupying the only upholstered chair, but he had developed a strong +liking for the frail little lady with the querulous voice and the shabby +black dress. He had, indeed, insisted shortly after his entrance +on leaping into her lap, and had thus sat for some time, completely +eclipsing his hostess. + +“Just let him sit,” Mrs. Boyd said placidly. “I like a dog. And he can't +hurt this skirt I've got on. It's on its last legs.” + +With which bit of unconscious humor Willy Cameron had sat down. +Something warm and kindly glowed in his heart. He felt that dogs have a +curious instinct for knowing what lies concealed in the human heart, and +that Jinx had discovered something worth while in Edith's mother. + +It was later in the evening, however, that he said, over Edith's bakery +cakes and her atrocious coffee: + +“If you really mean that about a roomer, I know of one.” He glanced at +Edith. “Very neat. Careful with matches. Hard to get up in the morning, +but interesting, highly intelligent, and a clever talker. That's his one +fault. When he is interested in a thing he spouts all over the place.” + +“Really?” said Mrs. Boyd. “Well, talk would be a change here. He sounds +kind of pleasant. Who is he?” + +“This paragon of beauty and intellect sits before you,” said Willy +Cameron. + +“You'll have to excuse me. I didn't recognize you by the description,” + said Mrs. Boyd, unconsciously. “Well, I don't know. I'd like to have +this dog around.” + +Even Edith laughed at that. She had been very silent all evening, +sitting most of the time with her hands in her lap, and her eyes on +Willy Cameron. Rather like Jinx's eyes they were, steady, unblinking, +loyal, and with something else in common with Jinx which Willy Cameron +never suspected. + +“I wouldn't come, if I were you,” she said, unexpectedly. + +“Why, Edie, you've been thinking of asking him right along.” + +“We don't know how to keep a house,” she persisted, to him. “We can't +even cook--you know that's rotten coffee. I'll show you the room, if you +like, but I won't feel hurt if you don't take it, I'll be worried if you +do.” + +Mrs. Boyd watched them perplexedly as they went out, the tall young man +with his uneven step, and Edith, who had changed so greatly in the last +few weeks, and blew hot one minute and cold the next. Now that she had +seen Willy Cameron, Mrs. Boyd wanted him to come. He would bring new +life into the little house. He was cheerful. He was not glum like Dan or +discontented like Edie. And the dog--She got up slowly and walked over +to the chair where Jinx sat, eyes watchfully on the door. + +“Nice Jinx,” she said, and stroked his head with a thin and stringy +hand. “Nice doggie.” + +She took a cake from the plate and fed it to him, bit by bit. She felt +happier than she had for a long time, since her children were babies and +needed her. + +“I meant it,” said Edith, on the stairs. “You stay away. We're a poor +lot, and we're unlucky, too. Don't get mixed up with us.” + +“Maybe I'm going to bring you luck.” + +“The best luck for me would be to fall down these stairs and break my +neck.” + +He looked at her anxiously, and any doubts he might have had, born of +the dreariness, the odors of stale food and of the musty cellar below, +of the shabby room she proceeded to show him, died in an impulse to +somehow, some way, lift this small group of people out of the slough of +despondency which seemed to be engulfing them all. + +“Why, what's the matter with the room?” he said. “Just wait until I've +got busy in it! I'm a paper hanger and a painter, and--” + +“You're a dear, too,” said Edith. + +So on the first of May he moved in, and for some evenings Political +Economy and History and Travel and the rest gave way to anxious cuttings +and fittings of wall paper, and a pungent odor of paint. The old house +took on new life and activity, the latter sometimes pernicious, as when +Willy Cameron fell down the cellar stairs with a pail of paint in his +hand, or Dan, digging up some bricks in the back yard for a border the +seeds of which were already sprouting in a flat box in the kitchen, ran +a pickaxe into his foot. + +Some changes were immediate, such as the white-washing of the cellar and +the unpainted fence in the yard, where Willy Cameron visualized, later +on, great draperies of morning glories. He papered the parlor, and +coaxed Mrs. Boyd to wash the curtains, although she protested that, with +the mill smoke, it was useless labor. + +But there were some changes that he knew only time would effect. +Sometimes he went to his bed worn out both physically and spiritually, +as though the burden of lifting three life-sodden souls was too much. +Not that he thought of that, however. What he did know was that the food +was poor. No servant had been found, and years of lack of system had +left Mrs. Boyd's mind confused and erratic. She would spend hours +concocting expensive desserts, while the vegetables boiled dry and +scorched and meat turned to leather, only to bring pridefully to the +table some flavorless mixture garnished according to a picture in the +cook book, and totally unedible. + +She would have ambitious cleaning days, too, starting late and leaving +off with beds unmade to prepare the evening meal. Dan, home from the +mill and newly adopting Willy Cameron's system of cleaning up for +supper, would turn sullen then, and leave the moment the meal was over. + +“Hell of a way to live,” he said once. “I'd get married, but how can a +fellow know whether a girl will make a home for him or give him this? +And then there would be babies, too.” + +The relations between Dan and Edith were not particularly cordial. Willy +Cameron found their bickering understandable enough, but he was puzzled, +sometimes, to find that Dan was surreptitiously watching his sister. +Edith was conscious of it, too, and one evening she broke into irritated +speech. + +“I wish you'd quit staring at me, Dan Boyd.” + +“I was wondering what has come over you,” said Dan, ungraciously. “You +used to be a nice kid. Now you're an angel one minute and a devil the +next.” + +Willy spoke to him that night when they were setting out rows of +seedlings, under the supervision of Jinx. + +“I wouldn't worry her, Dan,” he said; “it is the spring, probably. It +gets into people, you know. I'm that way myself. I'd give a lot to be in +the country just now.” + +Dan glanced at him quickly, but whatever he may have had in his mind, he +said nothing just then. However, later on he volunteered: + +“She's got something on her mind. I know her. But I won't have her +talking back to mother.” + +A week or so after Willy Cameron had moved, Mr. Hendricks rang the bell +of the Boyd house, and then, after his amiable custom, walked in. + +“Oh, Cameron!” he bawled. + +“Upstairs,” came Willy Cameron's voice, somewhat thickened with carpet +tacks. So Mr. Hendricks climbed part of the way, when he found his head +on a level with that of the young gentleman he sought, who was nailing a +rent in the carpet. + +“Don't stop,” said Mr. Hendricks. “Merely friendly call. And for +heaven's sake don't swallow a tack, son. I'm going to need you.” + +“Whaffor?” inquired Willy Cameron, through his nose. + +“Don't know yet. Make speeches, probably. If Howard Cardew, or any +Cardew, thinks he's going to be mayor of this town, he's got to think +again.” + +“I don't give a tinker's dam who's mayor of this town, so long as he +gives it honest government.” + +“That's right,” said Mr. Hendricks approvingly. “Old Cardew's been +running it for years, and you could put all the honest government he's +given us in a hollow tooth. If you'll stop that hammering, I'd like to +make a proposition to you.” + +Willy Cameron took an admiring squint at his handiwork. + +“Sorry to refuse you, Mr. Hendricks, but I don't want to be mayor.” + +Mr. Hendricks chuckled, as Willy Cameron led the way to his room. He +wandered around the room while Cameron opened a window and slid the dog +off his second chair. + +“Great snakes!” he said. “Spargo's Bolshevism! Political Economy, +History of--. What are you planning to be? President?” + +“I haven't decided yet. It's a hard job, and mighty thankless. But I +won't be your mayor, even for you.” + +Mr. Hendricks sat down. + +“All right,” he said. “Of course if you'd wanted it!” He took two large +cigars from the row in his breast pocket and held one out, but Willy +Cameron refused it and got his pipe. + +“Well?” he said. + +Mr. Hendrick's face became serious and very thoughtful. “I don't know +that I have ever made it clear to you, Cameron,” he said, “but I've got +a peculiar feeling for this city. I like it, the way some people like +their families. It's--well, it's home to me, for one thing. I like to +go out in the evenings and walk around, and I say to myself: 'This is my +town.' And we, it and me, are sending stuff all over the world. I like +to think that somewhere, maybe in China, they are riding on our rails +and fighting with guns made from our steel. Maybe you don't understand +that.” + +“I think I do.” + +“Well, that's the way I feel about it, anyhow. And this Bolshevist stuff +gets under my skin. I've got a home and a family here. I started in to +work when I was thirteen, and all I've got I've made and saved right +here. It isn't much, but it's mine.” + +Willy Cameron was lighting his pipe. He nodded. Mr. Hendricks bent +forward and pointed a finger at him. + +“And to govern this city, who do you think the labor element is going +to put up and probably elect? We're an industrial city, son, with a +big labor vote, and if it stands together--they're being swindled into +putting up as an honest candidate one of the dirtiest radicals in the +country. That man Akers.” + +He got up and closed the door. + +“I don't want Edith to hear me,” he said. “He's a friend of hers. But +he's a bad actor, son. He's wrong with women, for one thing, and when I +think that all he's got to oppose him is Howard Cardew--” Mr. Hendricks +got up, and took a nervous turn about the room. + +“Maybe you know that Cardew has a daughter?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I hear a good many things, one way and another, and my wife likes +a bit of gossip. She knows them both by sight, and she ran into them one +day in the tea room of the Saint Elmo, sitting in a corner, and the girl +had her back to the room. I don't like the look of that, Cameron.” + +Willy Cameron got up and closed the window. He stood there, with his +back to the light, for a full minute. Then: + +“I think there must be some mistake about that, Mr. Hendricks. I have +met her. She isn't the sort of girl who would do clandestine things.” + +Mr. Hendricks looked up quickly. He had made it his business to study +men, and there was something in Willy Cameron's voice that caught his +attention, and turned his shrewd mind to speculation. + +“Maybe,” he conceded. “Of course, anything a Cardew does is likely to +be magnified in this town. If she's as keen as the men in her family, +she'll get wise to him pretty soon.” Willy Cameron came back then, but +Mr. Hendricks kept his eyes on the tip of his cigar. + +“We've got to lick Cardew,” he said, “but I'm cursed if I want to do it +with Akers.” + +When there was no comment, he looked up. Yes, the boy had had a blow. +Mr. Hendricks was sorry. If that was the way the wind blew it was +hopeless. It was more than that; it was tragic. + +“Sorry I said anything, Cameron. Didn't know you knew her.” + +“That's all right. Of course I don't like to think she is being talked +about.” + +“The Cardews are always being talked about. You couldn't drop her a +hint, I suppose?” + +“She knows what I think about Louis Akers.” + +He made a violent effort and pulled himself together. “So it is Akers +and Howard Cardew, and one's a knave and one's a poor bet.” + +“Right,” said Mr. Hendricks. “And one's Bolshevist, if I know anything, +and the other is capital, and has about as much chance as a rich man to +get through the eye of a needle.” + +Which was slightly mixed, owing to a repressed excitement now making +itself evident in Mr. Hendricks's voice. + +“Why not run an independent candidate?” Willy Cameron asked quietly. +“I've been shouting about the plain people. Why shouldn't they elect a +mayor? There is a lot of them.” + +“That's the talk,” said Mr. Hendricks, letting his excitement have full +sway. “They could. They could run this town and run it right, if they'd +take the trouble. Now look here, son, I don't usually talk about myself, +but--I'm honest. I don't say I wouldn't get off a street-car without +paying my fare if the conductor didn't lift it! But I'm honest. I don't +lie. I keep my word. And I live clean--which you can't say for Lou +Akers. Why shouldn't I run on an independent ticket? I mightn't be +elected, but I'd make a damned good try.” + +He stood up, and Willy Cameron rose also and held out his hand. + +“I don't know that my opinion is of any value, Mr. Hendricks. But I hope +you get it, and I think you have a good chance. If I can do anything--” + +“Do anything! What do you suppose I came here for? You're going to elect +me. You're going to make speeches and kiss babies, and tell the ordinary +folks they're worth something after all. You got me started on this +thing, and now you've got to help me out.” + +The future maker of mayors here stepped back in his amazement, and Jinx +emitted a piercing howl. When peace was restored the F.M. of M. had got +his breath, and he said: + +“I couldn't remember my own name before an audience, Mr. Hendricks.” + +“You're fluent enough in that back room of yours.” + +“That's different.” + +“The people we're going after don't want oratory. They want good, +straight talk, and a fellow behind it who doesn't believe the country's +headed straight for perdition. We've had enough calamity bowlers. You've +got the way out. The plain people. The hope of the nation. And, by God, +you love your country, and not for what you can get out of it. That's a +thing a fellow's got to have inside him. He can't pretend it and get it +over.” + +In the end the F.M. of M. capitulated. + +It was late when Mr. Hendricks left. He went away with all the old +envelopes in his pockets covered with memoranda. + +“Just wait a minute, son,” he would say. “I've got to make some speeches +myself. Repeat that, now. 'Sins of omission are as great, even greater +than sins of commission. The lethargic citizen throws open the gates to +revolution.' How do you spell 'lethargic'?” + +But it was not Hendricks and his campaign that kept the F.M. of M. awake +until dawn. He sat in front of his soft coal fire, and when it died +to gray-white ash he still sat there, unconscious of the chill of the +spring night. Mostly he thought of Lily, and of Louis Akers, big and +handsome, of his insolent eyes and his self-indulgent mouth. Into that +curious whirlpool that is the mind came now and then other visions: His +mother asleep in her chair; the men in the War Department who had +turned him down; a girl at home who had loved him, and made him feel +desperately unhappy because he could not love her in return. Was love +always like that? If it was what He intended, why was it so often +without reciprocation? + +He took to walking about the room, according to his old habit, and +obediently Jinx followed him. + +It was four by his alarm clock when Edith knocked at his door. She was +in a wrapper flung over her nightgown, and with her hair flying loose +she looked childish and very small. + +“I wish you would go to bed,” she said, rather petulantly. “Are you +sick, or anything?” + +“I was thinking, Edith. I'm sorry. I'll go at once. Why aren't you +asleep?” + +“I don't sleep much lately.” Their voices were cautious. “I never go to +sleep until you're settled down, anyhow.” + +“Why not? Am I noisy?” + +“It's not that.” + +She went away, a drooping, listless figure that climbed the stairs +slowly and left him in the doorway, puzzled and uncomfortable. + +At six that morning Dan, tip-toeing downstairs to warm his left-over +coffee and get his own breakfast, heard a voice from Willy Cameron's +room, and opened the door. Willy Cameron was sitting up in bed with +his eyes closed and his arms extended, and was concluding a speech to a +dream audience in deep and oratorical tones. + +“By God, it is time the plain people know their power.” + +Dan grinned, and, his ideas of humor being rather primitive, he edged +his way into the room and filled the orator's sponge with icy water from +the pitcher. + +“All right, old top,” he said, “but it is also time the plain people got +up.” + +Then he flung the sponge and departed with extreme expedition. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +It was not until a week had passed after Louis Akers' visit to the house +that Lily's family learned of it. + +Lily's state of mind during that week had been an unhappy one. She +magnified the incident until her nerves were on edge, and Grace, finding +her alternating between almost demonstrative affection and strange +aloofness, was bewildered and hurt. Mademoiselle watched her secretly, +shook her head, and set herself to work to find out what was wrong. It +was, in the end, Mademoiselle who precipitated the crisis. + +Lily had not intended to make a secret of the visit, but as time went +on she found it increasingly difficult to tell about it. She should, she +knew, have spoken at once, and it would be hard to explain why she had +delayed. + +She meant to go to her father with it. It was he who had forbidden her +to see Akers, for one thing. And she felt nearer to her father than +to her mother, always. Since her return she had developed an almost +passionate admiration for Howard, founded perhaps on her grandfather's +attitude toward him. She was strongly partizan, and she watched her +father, day after day, fighting his eternal battles with Anthony, +sometimes winning, often losing, but standing for a principle like +a rock while the seas of old Anthony's wrath washed over and often +engulfed him. + +She was rather wistful those days, struggling with her own perplexities, +and blindly reaching out for a hand to help her. But she could not bring +herself to confession. She would wander into her father's dressing-room +before she went to bed, and, sitting on the arm of his deep chair, would +try indirectly to get him to solve the problems that were troubling +her. But he was inarticulate and rather shy with her. He had difficulty, +sometimes, after her long absence at school and camp, in realizing her +as the little girl who had once begged for his neckties to make into +doll frocks. + +Once she said: + +“Could you love a person you didn't entirely respect, father?” + +“Love is founded on respect, Lily.” + +She pondered that. She felt that he was wrong. + +“But it does happen, doesn't it?” she had persisted. + +He had been accustomed to her searchings for interesting abstractions +for years. She used to talk about religion in the same way. So he smiled +and said: + +“There is a sort of infatuation that is based on something quite +different.” + +“On what?” + +But he had rather floundered there. He could not discuss physical +attraction with her. + +“We're getting rather deep for eleven o'clock at night, aren't we?” + +After a short silence: + +“Do you mind speaking about Aunt Elinor, father?” + +“No, dear. Although it is rather a painful subject.” + +“But if she is happy, why is it painful?” + +“Well, because Doyle is the sort of man he is.” + +“You mean--because he is unfaithful to her? Or was?” + +He was very uncomfortable. + +“That is one reason for it, of course. There are others.” + +“But if he is faithful to her now, father? Don't you think, whatever a +man has been, if he really cares for a woman it makes him over?” + +“Sometimes, not always.” The subject was painful to him. He did not want +his daughter to know the sordid things of life. But he added, gallantly: +“Of course a good woman can do almost anything she wants with a man, if +he cares for her.” + +She lay awake almost all night, thinking that over. + +On the Sunday following Louis Akers' call Mademoiselle learned of it, by +the devious route of the servants' hall, and she went to Lily at once, +yearning and anxious, and in her best lace collar. She needed courage, +and to be dressed in her best gave her moral strength. + +“It is not,” she said, “that they wish to curtail your liberty, Lily. +But to have that man come here, when he knows he is not wanted, to force +himself on you--” + +“I need not have seen him. I wanted to see him.” + +Mademoiselle waved her hands despairingly. + +“If they find it out!” she wailed. + +“They will. I intend to tell them.” + +But Mademoiselle made her error there. She was fearful of Grace's +attitude unless she forewarned her, and Grace, frightened, immediately +made it a matter of a family conclave. She had not intended to include +Anthony, but he came in on an excited speech from Howard, and heard it +all. + +The result was that instead of Lily going to them with her confession, +she was summoned, to find her family a unit for once and combined +against her. She was not to see Louis Akers again, or the Doyles. + +They demanded a promise, but she refused. Yet even then, standing before +them, forced to a defiance she did not feel, she was puzzled as well +as angry. They were wrong, and yet in some strange way they were right, +too. She was Cardew enough to get their point of view. But she was +Cardew enough, too, to defy them. + +She did it rather gently. + +“You must understand,” she said, her hands folded in front of her, “that +it is not so much that I care to see the people you are talking about. +It is that I feel I have the right to choose my own friends.” + +“Friends!” sneered old Anthony. “A third-rate lawyer, a--” + +“That is not the point, grandfather. I went away to school when I was a +little girl. I have been away for five years. You cannot seem to realize +that I am a woman now, not a child. You bring me in here like a bad +child.” + +In the end old Anthony had slammed out of the room. There were arguments +after that, tears on Grace's part, persuasion on Howard's; but Lily had +frozen against what she considered their tyranny, and Howard found in +her a sort of passive resistance, that drove him frantic. + +“Very well,” he said finally. “You have the arrogance of youth, and its +cruelty, Lily. And you are making us all suffer without reason.” + +“Don't you think I might say that too, father?” + +“Are you in love with this man?” + +“I have only seen him four times. If you would give me some reasons for +all this fuss--” + +“There are things I cannot explain to you. You wouldn't understand.” + +“About his moral character?” + +Howard was rather shocked. He hesitated: + +“Yes.” + +“Will you tell me what they are?” + +“Good heavens, no!” he exploded. “The man's a radical, too. That in +itself ought to be enough.” + +“You can't condemn a man for his political opinions.” + +“Political opinions!” + +“Besides,” she said, looking at him with her direct gaze, “isn't there +some reason in what the radicals believe, father? Maybe it is a dream +that can't come true, but it is rather a fine dream, isn't it?” + +It was then that Howard followed his father's example, and flung out of +the room. + +After that Lily went, very deliberately and without secrecy, to the +house on Cardew Way. She found a welcome there, not so marked on her +Aunt Elinor's part as on Doyle's, but a welcome. She found approval, +too, where at home she had only suspicion and a solicitude based +on anxiety. She found a clever little circle there, and sometimes a +cultured one; underpaid, disgruntled, but brilliant professors from +the college, a journalist or two, a city councilman, even prosperous +merchants, and now and then strange bearded foreigners who were passing +through the city and who talked brilliantly of the vision of Lenine and +the future of Russia. + +She learned that the true League of Nations was not a political +alliance, but a union of all the leveled peoples of the world. She had +no curiosity as to how this leveling was to be brought about. All +she knew was that these brilliant dreamers made her welcome, and that +instead of the dinner chat at home, small personalities, old Anthony's +comments on his food, her father's heavy silence, here was world talk, +vast in its scope, idealistic, intoxicating. + +Almost always Louis Akers was there; it pleased her to see how the other +men listened to him, deferred to his views, laughed at his wit. She did +not know the care exercised in selecting the groups she was to meet, the +restraints imposed on them. And she could not know that from her visits +the Doyle establishment was gaining a prestige totally new to it, an +almost respectability. + +Because of those small open forums, sometimes noted in the papers, those +innocuous gatherings, it was possible to hold in that very room other +meetings, not open and not innocuous, where practical plans took the +place of discontented yearnings, and where the talk was more often of +fighting than of brotherhood. + +She was, by the first of May, frankly infatuated with Louis Akers, yet +with a curious knowledge that what she felt was infatuation only. She +would lie wide-eyed at night and rehearse painfully the weaknesses she +saw so clearly in him. But the next time she saw him she would yield to +his arms, passively but without protest. She did not like his caresses, +but the memory of them thrilled her. + +She was following the first uncurbed impulse of her life. Guarded and +more or less isolated from other youth, she had always lived a strong +inner life, purely mental, largely interrogative. She had had strong +childish impulses, sometimes of pure affection, occasionally of sheer +contrariness, but always her impulses had been curbed. + +“Do be a little lady,” Mademoiselle would say. + +She had got, somehow, to feel that impulse was wrong. It ranked with +disobedience. It partook of the nature of sin. People who did wicked +things did them on impulse, and were sorry ever after; but then it was +too late. + +As she grew older, she added something to that. Impulses of the mind led +to impulses of the body, and impulse was wrong. Passion was an impulse +of the body. Therefore it was sin. It was the one sin one could not talk +about, so one was never quite clear about it. However, one thing seemed +beyond dispute; it was predominatingly a masculine wickedness. Good +women were beyond and above it, its victims sometimes, like those girls +at the camp, or its toys, like the sodden creatures in the segregated +district who hung, smiling their tragic smiles, around their doorways in +the late afternoons. + +But good women were not like that. If they were, then they were not +good. They did not lie awake remembering the savage clasp of a man's +arms, knowing all the time that this was not love, but something quite +different. Or if it was love, that it was painful and certainly not +beautiful. + +Sometimes she thought about Willy Cameron. He had had very exalted ideas +about love. He used to be rather oratorical about it. + +“It's the fundamental principle of the universe,” he would say, waving +his pipe wildly. “But it means suffering, dear child. It feeds on +martyrdom and fattens on sacrifice. And as the h.c. of l. doesn't affect +either commodity, it lives forever.” + +“What does it do, Willy, if it hasn't any martyrdom and sacrifice to +feed on? Do you mean to say that when it is returned and everybody is +happy, it dies?” + +“Practically,” he had said. “It then becomes domestic contentment, and +expresses itself in the shape of butcher's bills and roast chicken on +Sundays.” + +But that had been in the old care-free days, before Willy had thought he +loved her, and before she had met Louis. + +She made a desperate effort one day to talk to her mother. She wanted, +somehow, to be set right in her own eyes. But Grace could not meet her +even half way; she did not know anything about different sorts of love, +but she did know that love was beautiful, if you met the right man and +married him. But it had to be some one who was your sort, because in the +end marriage was only a sort of glorified companionship. + +The moral in that, so obviously pointed at Louis Akers, invalidated the +rest of it for Lily. + +She was in a state of constant emotional excitement by that time, and it +was only a night or two after that she quarreled with her grandfather. +There had been a dinner party, a heavy, pompous affair, largely +attended, for although spring was well advanced, the usual May hegira to +the country or the coast had not yet commenced. Industrial conditions +in and around the city were too disturbed for the large employers to +get away, and following Lent there had been a sort of sporadic gayety, +covering a vast uneasiness. There was to be no polo after all. + +Lily, doing her best to make the dinner a success, found herself +contrasting it with the gatherings at the Doyle house, and found it very +dull. These men, with their rigidity of mind, invited because they held +her grandfather's opinions, or because they kept their own convictions +to themselves, seemed to her of a bygone time. She did not see in them a +safe counterpoise to a people which in its reaction from the old order, +was ready to swing to anything that was new. She saw only a dozen or +so elderly gentlemen, immaculate and prosperous, peering through their +glasses after a world which had passed them by. + +They were very grave that night. The situation was serious. The talk +turned inevitably to the approaching strike, and from that to a possible +attempt on the part of the radical element toward violence. The older +men pooh-poohed that, but the younger ones were uncertain. Isolated +riotings, yes. But a coordinated attempt against the city, no. Labour +was greedy, but it was law-abiding. Ah, but it was being fired by +incendiary literature. Then what were the police doing? They were +doing everything. They were doing nothing. The governor was secretly a +radical. Nonsense. The governor was saying little, but was waiting and +watching. A general strike was only another word for revolution. No. It +would be attempted, perhaps, but only to demonstrate the solidarity of +labor. + +After a time Lily made a discovery. She found that even into that +carefully selected gathering had crept a surprising spirit, based on the +necessity for concession; a few men who shared her father's convictions, +and went even further. One or two, even, who, cautiously for fear of old +Anthony's ears, voiced a belief that before long invested money would +be given a fixed return, all surplus profits to be divided among the +workers, the owners and the government. + +“What about the lean years?” some one asked. + +The government's share of all business was to form a contingent fund for +such emergencies, it seemed. + +Lily listened attentively. Was it because they feared that if they did +not voluntarily divide their profits they would be taken from them? +Enough for all, and to none too much. Was that what they feared? Or was +it a sense of justice, belated but real? + +She remembered something Jim Doyle had said: + +“Labor has learned its weakness alone, its strength united. But capital +has not learned that lesson. It will not take a loss for a principle. +It will not unite. It is suspicious and jealous, so it fights its +individual battles alone, and loses in the end.” + +But then to offset that there was something Willy Cameron had said one +day, frying doughnuts for her with one hand, and waving the fork about +with the other. + +“Don't forget this, oh representative of the plutocracy,” he had said. +“Capital has its side, and a darned good one, too. It's got a sense of +responsibility to the country, which labor may have individually but +hasn't got collectively.” + +These men at the table were grave, burdened with responsibility. Her +father. Even her grandfather. It was no longer a question of profit. It +was a question of keeping the country going. They were like men forced +to travel, and breasting a strong head wind. There were some there who +would turn, in time, and travel with the gale. But there were others +like her grandfather, obstinate and secretly frightened, who would +refuse. Who would, to change the figure, sit like misers over their +treasure, an eye on the window of life for thieves. + +She went upstairs, perplexed and thoughtful. Some time later she heard +the family ascending, the click of her mother's high heels on the +polished wood of the staircase, her father's sturdy tread, and a moment +or two later her grandfather's slow, rather weary step. Suddenly she +felt sorry for him, for his age, for his false gods of power and +pride, for the disappointment she was to him. She flung open her door +impulsively and confronted him. + +“I just wanted to say good-night, grandfather,” she said breathlessly. +“And that I am sorry.” + +“Sorry for what?” + +“Sorry--” she hesitated. “Because we see things so differently.” + +Lily was almost certain that she caught a flash of tenderness in his +eyes, and certainly his voice had softened. + +“You looked very pretty to-night,” he said. But he passed on, and she +had again the sense of rebuff with which he met all her small overtures +at that time. However, he turned at the foot of the upper flight. + +“I would like to talk to you, Lily. Will you come upstairs?” + +She had been summoned before to those mysterious upper rooms of his, +where entrance was always by request, and generally such requests +presaged trouble. But she followed him light-heartedly enough then. His +rare compliment had pleased and touched her. + +The lamp beside his high-backed, almost throne-like chair was lighted, +and in the dressing-room beyond his valet was moving about, preparing +for the night. Anthony dismissed the man, and sat down under the lamp. + +“You heard the discussion downstairs, to-night, Lily. Personally I +anticipate no trouble, but if there is any it may be directed at this +house.” He smiled grimly. “I cannot rely on my personal popularity +to protect me, I fear. Your mother obstinately refuses to leave your +father, but I have decided to send you to your grand-aunt Caroline.” + +“Aunt Caroline! She doesn't care for me, grandfather. She never has.” + +“That is hardly pertinent, is it? The situation is this: She intends to +open the Newport house early in June, and at my request she will bring +you out there. Next fall we will do something here; I haven't decided +just what.” + +There was a sudden wild surge of revolt in Lily. She hated Newport. +Grand-aunt Caroline was a terrible person. She was like Anthony, +domineering and cruel, and with even less control over her tongue. + +“I need not point out the advantages of the plan,” said Anthony suavely. +“There may be trouble here, although I doubt it. But in any event you +will have to come out, and this seems an excellent way.” + +“Is it a good thing to spend a lot of money now, grandfather, when there +is so much discontent?” + +Old Anthony had a small jagged vein down the center of his forehead, and +in anger or his rare excitements it stood out like a scar. Lily saw it +now, but his voice was quiet enough. + +“I consider it vitally important to the country to continue its social +life as before the war.” + +“You mean, to show we are not frightened?” + +“Frightened! Good God, nobody's frightened. It will take more than a +handful of demagogues to upset this government. Which brings me to +a subject you insist on reopening, by your conduct. I have reason to +believe that you are still going to that man's house.” + +He never called Doyle by name if he could avoid it. + +“I have been there several times.” + +“After you were forbidden?” + +His tone roused every particle of antagonism in her. She flushed. + +“Perhaps because I was forbidden,” she said, slowly. “Hasn't it occurred +to you that I may consider your attitude very unjust?” + +If she looked for an outburst from him it did not come. He stood for a +moment, deep in thought. + +“You understand that this Doyle once tried to assassinate me?” + +“I know that he tried to beat you, grandfather. I am sorry, but that was +long ago. And there was a reason for it, wasn't there?” + +“I see,” he said, slowly. “What you are conveying to me, not too +delicately, is that you have definitely allied yourself with my enemies. +That, here in my own house, you intend to defy me. That, regardless of +my wishes or commands, while eating my food, you purpose to traffic with +a man who has sworn to get me, sooner or later. Am I correct?” + +“I have only said that I see no reason why I should not visit Aunt +Elinor.” + +“And that you intend to. Do I understand also that you refuse to go to +Newport?” + +“I daresay I shall have to go, if you send me. I don't want to go.” + +“Very well. I am glad we have had this little talk. It makes my own +course quite plain. Good-night.” + +He opened the door for her and she went out and down the stairs. She +felt very calm, and as though something irrevocable had happened. With +her anger at her grandfather there was mixed a sort of pity for him, +because she knew that nothing he could do would change the fundamental +situation. Even if he locked her up, and that was possible, he +would know that he had not really changed things, or her. She felt +surprisingly strong. All these years that she had feared him, and yet +when it came to a direct issue, he was helpless! What had he but his +wicked tongue, and what did that matter to deaf ears? + +She found her maid gone, and Mademoiselle waiting to help her undress. +Mademoiselle often did that. It made her feel still essential in Lily's +life. + +“A long seance!” she said. “Your mother told me to-night. It is +Newport?” + +“He wants me to go. Unhook me, Mademoiselle, and then run off and go to +bed. You ought not to wait up like this.” + +“Newport!” said Mademoiselle, deftly slipping off the white and silver +that was Lily's gown. “It will be wonderful, dear. And you will be a +great success. You are very beautiful.” + +“I am not going to Newport, Mademoiselle.” + +Mademoiselle broke into rapid expostulation, in French. Every girl +wanted to make her debut at Newport. Here it was all industry, money, +dirt. Men who slaved in offices daily. At Newport was gathered the real +leisure class of America, those who knew how to play, who lived. But +Lily, taking off her birthday pearls before the mirror of her dressing +table, only shook her head. + +“I'm not going,” she said. “I might as well tell you, for you'll hear +about it later. I have quarreled with him, very badly. I think he +intends to lock me up.” + +“C'est impossible!” cried Mademoiselle. + +But a glance at Lily's set face in the mirror told her it was true. + +She went away very soon, sadly troubled. There were bad times coming. +The old peaceful quiet days were gone, for age and obstinacy had met +youth and the arrogance of youth, and it was to be battle. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +But there was a truce for a time. Lily came and went without +interference, and without comment. Nothing more was said about Newport. +She motored on bright days to the country club, lunched and played golf +or tennis, rode along the country lanes with Pink Denslow, accepted such +invitations as came her way cheerfully enough but without enthusiasm, +and was very gentle to her mother. But Mademoiselle found her tense and +restless, as though she were waiting. + +And there were times when she disappeared for an hour or two in the +afternoons, proffering no excuses, and came back flushed, and perhaps a +little frightened. On the evenings that followed those small excursions +she was particularly gentle to her mother. Mademoiselle watched and +waited for the blow she feared was about to fall. She felt sure that the +girl was seeing Louis Akers, and that she would ultimately marry him. In +her despair she fell back on Willy Cameron and persuaded Grace to invite +him to dinner. It was meant to be a surprise for Lily, but she had +telephoned at seven o'clock that she was dining at the Doyles'. + +It was that evening that Willy Cameron learned that Mr. Hendricks had +been right about Lily. He and Grace dined alone, for Howard was away at +a political conference, and Anthony had dined at his club. And in the +morning room after dinner Grace found herself giving him her confidence. + +“I have no right to burden you with our troubles, Mr. Cameron,” Grace +said, “but she is so fond of you, and she has great respect for your +judgment. If you could only talk to her about the anxiety she is +causing. These Doyles, or rather Mr. Doyle--the wife is Mr. Cardew's +sister--are putting all sorts of ideas into her head. And she has met a +man there, a Mr. Akers, and--I'm afraid she thinks she is in love with +him, Mr. Cameron.” + +He met her eyes gravely. + +“Have you tried not forbidding her to go to the Doyles?” + +“I have forbidden her nothing. It is her grandfather.” + +“Then it seems to be Mr. Cardew who needs to be talked to, doesn't it?” + he said. “I wouldn't worry too much, Mrs. Cardew. And don't hold too +tight a rein.” + +He was very down-hearted when he left. Grace's last words placed a heavy +burden on him. + +“I simply feel,” she said, “that you can do more with her than we can, +and that if something isn't done she will ruin her life. She is too fine +and wonderful to have her do that.” + +To picture Lily as willfully going her own gait at that period would be +most unfair. She was suffering cruelly; the impulse that led her to meet +Louis Akers against her family's wishes was irresistible, but there was +a new angle to her visits to the Doyle house. She was going there now, +not so much because she wished to go, as because she began to feel that +her Aunt Elinor needed her. + +There was something mysterious about her Aunt Elinor, mysterious and +very sad. Even her smile had pathos in it, and she was smiling less +and less. She sat in those bright little gatherings, in them but not of +them, unbrilliant and very quiet. Sometimes she gave Lily the sense that +like Lily herself she was waiting. Waiting for what? + +Lily had a queer feeling too, once or twice, that Elinor was afraid. But +again, afraid of what? Sometimes she wondered if Elinor Doyle was afraid +of her husband; certainly there were times, when they were alone, when +he dropped his unctuous mask and held Elinor up to smiling contempt. + +“You can see what a clever wife I have,” he said once. “Sometimes I +wonder, Elinor, how you have lived with me so long and absorbed so +little of what really counts.” + +“Perhaps the difficulty,” Elinor had said quietly, “is because we differ +as to what really counts.” + +Lily brought Elinor something she needed, of youth and irresponsible +chatter, and in the end the girl found the older woman depending on her. +To cut her off from that small solace was unthinkable. And then too she +formed Elinor's sole link with her former world, a world of dinners and +receptions, of clothes and horses and men who habitually dressed for +dinner, of the wealth and panoply of life. A world in which her interest +strangely persisted. + +“What did you wear at the country club dance last night?” she would ask. + +“A rose-colored chiffon over yellow. It gives the oddest effect, like an +Ophelia rose.” + +Or: + +“At the Mainwarings? George or Albert?” + +“The Alberts.” + +“Did they ever have any children?” + +One day she told her about not going to Newport, and was surprised to +see Elinor troubled. + +“Why won't you go? It is a wonderful house.” + +“I don't care to go away, Aunt Nellie.” She called her that sometimes. + +Elinor had knitted silently for a little. Then: + +“Do you mind if I say something to you?” + +“Say anything you like, of course.” + +“I just--Lily, don't see too much of Louis Akers. Don't let him carry +you off your feet. He is good-looking, but if you marry him, you will be +terribly unhappy.” + +“That isn't enough to say, Aunt Nellie,” she said gravely. “You must +have a reason.” + +Elinor hesitated. + +“I don't like him. He is a man of very impure life.” + +“That's because he has never known any good women.” Lily rose valiantly +to his defense, but the words hurt her. “Suppose a good woman came into +his life? Couldn't she change him?” + + +“I don't know,” Elinor said helplessly. “But there is something else. It +will cut you off from your family.” + +“You did that. You couldn't stand it, either. You know what it's like.” + + + +“There must be some other way. That is no reason for marriage.” + +“But--suppose I care for him?” Lily said, shyly. + +“You wouldn't live with him a year. There are different ways of caring, +Lily. There is such a thing as being carried away by a man's violent +devotion, but it isn't the violent love that lasts.” + +Lily considered that carefully, and she felt that there was some truth +in it. When Louis Akers came to take her home that night he found her +unresponsive and thoughtful. + +“Mrs. Doyle's been talking to you,” he said at last. “She hates me, you +know.” + +“Why should she hate you?” + +“Because, with all her vicissitudes, she's still a snob,” he said +roughly. “My family was nothing, so I'm nothing.” + +“She wants me to be happy, Louis.” + +“And she thinks you won't be with me.” + +“I am not at all sure that I would be.” She made an effort then to throw +off the strange bond that held her to him. “I should like to have three +months, Louis, to get a--well, a sort of perspective. I can't think +clearly when you're around, and--” + +“And I'm always around? Thanks.” But she had alarmed him. “You're +hurting me awfully, little girl,” he said, in a different tone. “I can't +live without seeing you, and you know it. You're all I have in life. +You have everything, wealth, friends, position. You could play for three +months and never miss me. But you are all I have.” + +In the end she capitulated + +Jim Doyle was very content those days. There had been a time when Jim +Doyle was the honest advocate of labor, a flaming partizan of those who +worked with their hands. But he had traveled a long road since then, +from dreamer to conspirator. Once he had planned to build up; now he +plotted to tear down. + +His weekly paper had enormous power. To the workers he had begun to +preach class consciousness, and the doctrine of being true to their +class. From class consciousness to class hatred was but a step. +Ostensibly he stood for a vast equality, world wide and beneficent; +actually he preached an inflammable doctrine of an earth where the +last shall be first. He advocated the overthrow of all centralized +government, and considered the wages system robbery. Under it workers +were slaves, and employers of workers slave-masters. It was with +such phrases that he had for months been consistently inflaming the +inflammable foreign element in and around the city, and not the foreign +element only. A certain percentage of American-born workmen fell before +the hammer-like blows of his words, repeated and driven home each week. + +He had no scruples, and preached none. He preached only revolt, and in +that revolt defiance of all existing laws. He had no religion; Christ +to him was a pitiful weakling, a historic victim of the same system that +still crucified those who fought the established order. In his new world +there would be no churches and no laws. He advocated bloodshed, arson, +sabotage of all sorts, as a means to an end. + +Fanatic he was, but practical fanatic, and the more dangerous for that. +He had viewed the failure of the plan to capture a city in the northwest +in February with irritation, but without discouragement. They had acted +prematurely there and without sufficient secrecy. That was all. The +plan in itself was right. And he had watched the scant reports of the +uprising in the newspapers with amusement and scorn. The very steps +taken to suppress the facts showed the uneasiness of the authorities and +left the nation with a feeling of false security. + +The people were always like that. Twice in a hundred years France had +experienced the commune. Each time she had been warned, and each time +she had waited too long. Ever so often in the life of every nation came +these periodic outbursts of discontent, economic in their origin, and +ran their course like diseases, contagious, violent and deadly. + +The commune always followed long and costly wars. The people would +dance, but they revolted at paying the piper. + +The plan in Seattle had been well enough conceived; the city light plant +was to have been taken over during the early evening of February 6, and +at ten o'clock that night the city was to have gone dark. But the reign +of terrorization that was to follow had revolted Jim Osborne, one +of their leaders, and from his hotel bedroom he had notified the +authorities. Word had gone out to “get” Osborne. + +If it had not been for Osborne, and the conservative element behind him, +a flame would have been kindled at Seattle that would have burnt across +the nation. + +Doyle watched Gompers cynically.. He considered his advocacy of +patriotic cooperation between labor and the Government during the war +the skillful attitude of an opportunist. Gompers could do better with +public opinion behind him than without it. He was an opportunist, riding +the wave which would carry him farthest. Playing both ends against the +middle, and the middle, himself. He saw Gompers, watching the release +of tension that followed the armistice and seeing the great child he +had fathered, grown now and conscious of its power,--watching it, fully +aware that it had become stronger than he. + +Gompers, according to Doyle, had ceased to be a leader and become a +follower, into strange and difficult paths. + +The war had made labor's day. No public move was made without consulting +organized labor, and a certain element in it had grown drunk with power. +To this element Doyle appealed. It was Doyle who wrote the carefully +prepared incendiary speeches, which were learned verbatim by his +agents for delivery. For Doyle knew one thing, and knew it well. Labor, +thinking along new lines, must think along the same lines. Be taught the +same doctrines. Be pushed in one direction. + +There were, then, two Doyles, one the poseur, flaunting his outrageous +doctrines with a sardonic grin, gathering about him a small circle of +the intelligentsia, and too openly heterodox to be dangerous. And the +other, secretly plotting against the city, wary, cautious, practical and +deadly, waiting to overthrow the established order and substitute for it +chaos. It was only incidental to him that old Anthony should go with the +rest. + +But he found a saturnine pleasure in being old Anthony's Nemesis. He +meant to be that. He steadily widened the breach between Lily and her +family, and he watched the progress of her affair with Louis Akers with +relish. He had not sought this particular form of revenge, but Fate had +thrust it into his hands, and he meant to be worthy of the opportunity. + +He was in no hurry. He had extraordinary patience, and he rather liked +sitting back and watching the slow development of his plans. It was like +chess; it was deliberate and inevitable. One made a move, and then sat +back waiting and watching while the other side countered it, or fell, +with slow agonizing, into the trap. + +A few days after Lily had had her talk with Elinor, Doyle found a way to +widen the gulf between Lily and her grandfather. Elinor seldom left the +house, and Lily had done some shopping for her. The two women were in +Elinor's bedroom, opening small parcels, when he knocked and came in. + +“I don't like to disturb the serenity of this happy family group,” he +said, “but I am inclined to think that a certain gentleman, standing not +far from a certain young lady's taxicab, belongs to a certain department +of our great city government. And from his unflattering lack of interest +in me, that he--” + +Elinor half rose, terrified. + +“Not the police, Jim?” + +“Sit down,” he said, in a tone Lily had never heard him use before. And +to Lily, more gently: “I am not altogether surprised. As a matter of +fact, I have known it for some time. Your esteemed grandfather seems to +take a deep interest in your movements these days.” + +“Do you mean that I am being followed?” + +“I'm afraid so. You see, you are a very important person, and if you +will venture in the slums which surround the Cardew Mills, you should be +protected. At any time, for instance, Aunt Elinor and I may despoil you +of those pearls you wear so casually, and--” + +“Don't talk like that, Jim,” Elinor protested. She was very pale. “Are +you sure he is watching Lily?” + +He gave her an ugly look. + +“Who else?” he inquired suavely. + +Lily sat still, frozen with anger. So this was her grandfather's method +of dealing with her. He could not lock her up, but he would know, day +by day, and hour by hour, what she was doing. She could see him reading +carefully his wicked little notes on her day. Perhaps he was watching +her mail, too. Then when he had secured a hateful total he would go to +her father, and together they would send her away somewhere. Away from +Louis Akers. If he was watching her mail too he would know that Louis +was in love with her. They would rake up all the things that belonged +in the past he was done with, and recite them to her. As though they +mattered now! + +She went to the window and looked out. Yes, she had seen the +detective before. He must have been hanging around for days, his face +unconsciously impressing itself upon her. When she turned: + +“Louis is coming to dinner, isn't he?” + +“Yes.” + +“If you don't mind, Aunt Nellie, I think I'll dine out with him +somewhere. I want to talk to him alone.” + +“But the detective--” + +“If my grandfather uses low and detestable means to spy on me, Aunt +Nellie, he deserves what he gets, doesn't he?” + +When Louis Akers came at half-past six, he found that she had been +crying, but she greeted him calmly enough, with her head held high. +Elinor, watching her, thought she was very like old Anthony himself just +then. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Willy Cameron came home from a night class in metallurgy the evening +after the day Lily had made her declaration of independence, and let +himself 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 for +him stronger than any she showed for either Edith or Dan. She revealed +it in rather touching ways, too, keeping accounts when he accused her of +gross extravagance, for she spent Dan's swollen wages wastefully; making +him coffee late at night, and forcing him to drink it, although it kept +him awake for hours; and never going to bed until he was safely closeted +in his room at the top of the stairs. + +He came in as early as possible, therefore, for he had had Doctor +Smalley 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 extremely +shocked. “We might send her somewhere.” + +“Nothing to do. Don't send her away; she'd die of loneliness. Keep her +quiet and keep her happy. Don't let her worry. She only has a short +time, I should say, and you can't lengthen it. It could be shortened, of +course, if she had a shock, or anything like that.” + +“Shall I tell the family?” + +“What's the use?” asked Doctor Smalley, philosophically. “If they fuss +over her she'll suspect something.” + +As he went down the stairs he looked about him. The hall was fresh with +new paper and white paint, and in the yard at the rear, visible through +an 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 the +fine hand of Miss Edith, eh?” + +“Yes,” said Willy Cameron, gravely. + +He had made renewed efforts to get a servant after that, but the invalid +herself balked him. When he found an applicant Mrs. Boyd would sit, very +much the grande dame, and question her, although she always ended by +sending her away. + +“She looked like the sort that would be running out at nights,” she +would say. Or: “She wouldn't take telling, and I know the way you like +your things, Willy. I could see by looking at her that she couldn't cook +at all.” + +She cherished the delusion that he was improving and gaining flesh under +her 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 her +heavy, 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 rather +ran to digestive tablets those days, and Edith, surprising him with one +at the kitchen sink one evening, accused him roundly of hypocrisy. + +“I don't know why you stay anyhow,” she said, staring into the yard +where 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 tie +you up with us, anyhow? We're a poor lot. You're not comfortable and you +know 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 up +his own bed, awkwardly and with an eye on her chest, which rose and fell +alarmingly. 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 every +time.” + +Dan was at a meeting, and Willy dried the supper dishes for Edith. She +was silent and morose. Finally she said: + +“She's not very strong for me, Willy. You needn't look so shocked. She +loves Dan and you, but not me. I don't mind, you know. She doesn't know +it, but I do.” + +“She is very proud of you.” + +“That's different. You're right, though. Pride's her middle name. It +nearly killed her at first to take a roomer, because she is always +thinking of what the neighbors will say. That's why she hates me +sometimes.” + +“I wish you wouldn't talk that way.” + +“But it's true. That fool Hodge woman at the corner came here one day +last winter and filled her up with a lot of talk about me, and she's +been queer to me ever since.” + +“You are a very good daughter.” + +She eyed him furtively. If only he wouldn't always believe in her! It +was almost worse than to have him know the truth. But he went along +with 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 to +him. 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 of +dissipation. She would, if warned in advance, spend the entire day with +her hair in curlers, and once there she feasted her starved romantic +soul to repletion. But that night the building was stifling, and without +any warning Edith suddenly got up and walked toward the door. There was +something odd about her walk and Willy followed her, but she turned on +him almost fiercely outside. + +“I wish you'd let me alone,” she said, and then swayed a little. But she +did not faint. + +“I'm going home,” she said. “You stay with her. And for heaven's sake +don'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 was +the 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 me +I'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, both +ill and refusing to acknowledge it, and the prospect of Dan's being +called out by the union. Try as he would, he could not introduce any +habit of thrift into the family. Dan's money came and went, and on +Saturday 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 his +wrongs. + +“It's just hand to mouth all the time,” he would grumble. “A fellow +working 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 with +his 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 women +behind 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. She +means 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 heating +was going on, when he and the other men of the furnace crew sat and +waited, doing nothing. + +“But I'm there, all right,” he said. “I'm not playing golf or riding in +my 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 it +doesn't seem to hurt me.” + +“It's a question of principle,” said Dan doggedly. “I've got no personal +kick, y'understand. Only I'm not getting anywhere, and something's got +to be done about it.” + +So, on the evening of the day after Lily had made her declaration of +independence, Willy Cameron made his way rather heavily toward the Boyd +house. He was very tired. He had made one or two speeches for Hendricks +already, before local ward organizations, and he was working hard at his +night 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 all +sure where his duty lay, yet to quit now, to leave Mr. Hendricks and the +Boyds flat, seemed impossible. + +He had tried to see Lily, too, and failed. She had been very gentle over +the telephone, but, attuned as he was to every inflection of her voice, +he had thought there was unhappiness in it. Almost despair. But she had +pleaded a week of engagements. + +“I'm sorry,” she had said. “I'll call you up next week some time I have +a 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 had +learned something more about Jim Doyle, the real Doyle and not the +poseur, and he felt she should know the nature of the accusations +against him. Lily mixed up with a band of traitors, Lily of the white +flame of patriotism, was unthinkable. She must not go to the house on +Cardew Way. A man's loyalty was like a woman's virtue; it could not be +questionable. There was no middle ground. + +He heard voices as he entered the house, and to his amazement found +Ellen in the parlor. She was sitting very stiff on the edge of her +chair, her hat slightly crooked and a suit-case and brown paper bundle +at her feet. + +Mrs. Boyd was busily entertaining her. + +“I make it a point to hold my head high,” she was saying. “I guess there +was 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 a +journey!” + +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 thinking +meanwhile her own bitter thoughts. + +“I am, Willy. Only I didn't wait for my money and the bank's closed, and +I came to borrow ten dollars, if you have it.” + +That told him she was in trouble, but Mrs. Boyd, amiably hospitable and +reveling in a fresh audience, showed no sign of departing. + +“She says she's been living at the Cardews,” she put in, rocking +valiantly. “I guess most any place would seem tame after that. I do +hear, Miss Hart, that Mrs. Howard Cardew only wears her clothes once and +then gives them away.” + +She hitched the chair away from the fireplace, where it showed every +indication 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 the +inscription: “James Duncan Cameron, 1876” inside the case. + +“Eleven o'clock,” he said sternly. “And me promising the doctor I'd have +you 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 joke +between them, and she rose, smiling, her thin face illuminated with the +sense of being looked after. + +“He's that domineering,” she said to Ellen, “that I can't call my soul +my own.” + +“Good-night,” Ellen said briefly. + +Willy stood at the foot of the stairs and watched her going up. He knew +she liked him to do that, that she would expect to find him there when +she 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 and +Penates. + +“Now tell me about it,” he said. + +“I've left them. There has been a terrible fuss, and when Miss Lily left +to-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 her +followed, 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 for +weeks. We all noticed it. And to-night there was a quarrel, with all of +them at her like a pack of dogs, and her governess crying in the hall. I +just 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 went +right off to the housekeeper and told her I wouldn't stay, and they +could 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 really +in love with him. He had too much common sense to believe for a moment +that she had fled to Louis Akers' protection, however. That was the +last thing she would do. She would have gone to a hotel, or to the Doyle +house. + +“She shouldn't have left home, Ellen.” + +“They drove her out, I tell you,” Ellen cried, irritably. “At least +that's what it amounted to. There are things no high-minded girl will +stand. 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 go +to-night, Miss Ellen. It's too late. I'll give you my room and go in +with Dan Boyd.” + +And he prevailed over her protests, in the end. It was not until he saw +her settled there, hiding her sense of strangeness under an impassive +mask, that he went downstairs again and took his hat from its hook. + +Lily must go back home, he knew. It was unthinkable that she should +break with her family, and go to the Doyles. He had too little +self-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 have +Anthony Cardew's granddaughter a member of his household. He would take +her away from there if he had to carry her. + +He was a long time in getting to the mill district, and a longer time +still in finding Cardew Way. At an all-night pharmacy he learned +which was the house, and his determined movements took on a sort of +uncertainty. It was very late. Ellen had waited for him for some time. +If Lily were in that sinister darkened house across the street, the +family had probably retired. And for the first time, too, he began to +doubt if Doyle would let him see her. Lily herself might even refuse to +see 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 an +imperfectly fitting blind, assured him that some one was still awake in +the 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 been +concealed 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 disarming +pleasantness. + +“Damn private about your business, aren't you?” jeered the sentry, still +in cautious tones. “Well, you can write it down on a piece of paper and +mail it to him. He's busy now.” + +“All I want to do,” persisted Mr. William Wallace Cameron, growing +slightly giddy with repressed fury, “is to ring that doorbell and ask +him a question. I'm going to do it, too.” + +There was rather an interesting moment then, because the figure lunged +at Mr. Cameron, and Mr. Cameron, stooping low and swiftly, as well as to +one side, and at the same instant becoming a fighting Scot, which means +a cool-eyed madman, got in one or two rather neat effects with his +fists. The first took the shadow just below his breast-bone, and the +left caught him at that angle of the jaw where a small cause sometimes +produces a large effect. The figure sat down on the brick walk and +grunted, and Mr. Cameron, judging that he had about ten seconds' leeway, +felt in the dazed person's right hand pocket for the revolver he knew +would be there, and secured it. The sitting figure made puffing, feeble +attempts to prevent him, but there was no real struggle. + +Mr. Cameron himself was feeling extremely triumphant and as strong as a +lion. He was rather sorry no one had seen the affair, but that of course +was sub-conscious. And he was more cheerful than he had been for some +days. He had been up against so many purely intangible obstacles lately +that 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 never +fired one, and there's a sort of homicidal beginner's luck about the +thing. If you move or speak, I'll shoot it into you first and when it's +empty 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 he +kept his hand upon it. He had read somewhere that a revolver was quite +useable from a pocket. There was no immediate answer to the bell, and he +turned and surveyed the man under the tree, faintly distinguishable in +the blackness. It had occurred to him that the number of guns a man may +carry is only limited to his pockets, which are about fifteen. + +There were heavy, deliberate footsteps inside, and the door was flung +open. No glare of light followed it, however. There was a man there, +alarmingly tall, who seemed to stare at him, and then beyond him into +the yard. + +“Well?” + +“Are you Mr. Doyle?” + +“I am.” + +“My name is Cameron, Mr. Doyle. I have had a small difference with your +watch-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 good +friends, I see. I have many enemies, Mr. Cameron--was that the name? And +my 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 out +you may be short one friend. Mr. Doyle, Miss Lily Cardew left her home +to-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 wall +across 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 niece +is here.” He emphasized the “my.” “She has come to me for refuge, and +I intend to give it to her. You won't see her to-night, and if you come +from 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 called +into 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 inner +side of which a bolt was being slipped. He felt absurd and futile, and +not at all like a lion. With the revolver in his hand, he went down the +steps. + +“Don't bother about the gate, Joe,” he said. “I like to open my own +gates. And--don't try any tricks, Joe. Get back to your kennel.” + +Fearful mutterings followed that, but the shadow retired, and he made +an undisturbed exit to the street. Once on the street-car, the entire +episode became unreal and theatrical, with only the drag of Joe's +revolver in his coat pocket to prove its reality. + +It was after midnight when, shoes in hand, he crept up the stairs to +Dan's room, and careful not to disturb him, slipped into his side of the +double bed. He did not sleep at all. He lay there, facing the fact that +Lily had delivered herself voluntarily into the hands of the enemy of +her house, and not only of her house, an enemy of the country. That +conference that night was a sinister one. Brought to book about it, +Doyle might claim it as a labor meeting. Organizers planning a strike +might--did indeed--hold secret conferences, but they did not post armed +guards. They opened business offices, and brought in the press men, and +shouted their grievances for the world to hear. + +This was different. This was anarchy. And in every city it was going +on, this rallying of the malcontents, the idlers, the envious and +the dangerous, to the red flag. Organized labor gathered together +the workmen, but men like Doyle were organizing the riff-raff of +the country. They secured a small percentage of idealists and +pseudo-intellectuals, and taught them a so-called internationalism +which under the name of brotherhood was nothing but a raid on private +property, a scheme of pillage and arson. They allied with themselves +imported laborers from Europe, men with everything to gain and nothing +to lose, and by magnifying real grievances and inflaming them with +imaginary ones, were building out of this material the rank and file of +an 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. She +had 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 was +unable to keep a secret from a woman. But that would imply--For the +first time he wondered what Edith's relations with Louis Akers might +have been. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +The surface peace of the house on Cardew Way, the even tenor of her +days there, the feeling she had of sanctuary did not offset Lily's clear +knowledge that she had done a cruel and an impulsive thing. Even her +grandfather, whose anger had driven her away, she remembered now as a +feeble old man, fighting his losing battle in a changing world, and yet +with a sort of mistaken heroism hoisting his colors to the end. + +She had determined, that first night in Elinor's immaculate guest room, +to go back the next day. They had been right at home, by all the tenets +to which they adhered so religiously. She had broken the unwritten law +not to break bread with an enemy of her house. She had done what they +had expressly forbidden, done it over and over. + +“On top of all this,” old Anthony had said, after reading the tale of +her delinquencies from some notes in his hand, “you dined last night +openly at the Saint Elmo Hotel with this same Louis Akers, a man openly +my enemy, and openly of impure life.” + +“I do not believe he is your enemy.” + +“He is one of the band of anarchists who have repeatedly threatened to +kill me.” + +“Oh, Lily, Lily!” said her mother. + +But it was to her father, standing grave and still, that Lily replied. + +“I don't believe that, father. He is not a murderer. If you would let +him come here--” + +“Never in this house,” said old Anthony, savagely crushing notes in his +hand. “He will come here over my dead body.” + +“You have no right to condemn a man unheard.” + +“Unheard! I tell you I know all about him. The man is an anarchist, a +rake, a--dog.” + +“Just a moment, father,” Howard had put in, quietly. “Lily, do you care +for this man? I mean by that, do you want to marry him?” + +“He has asked me. I have not given him any answer yet. I don't want to +marry a man my family will not receive. It wouldn't be fair to him.” + +Which speech drove old Anthony into a frenzy, and led him to a +bitterness of language that turned Lily cold and obstinate. She heard +him through, with her father vainly trying to break in and save the +situation; then she said, coldly: + +“I am sorry you feel that way about it,” and turned and left the room. + +She had made no plan, of course. She hated doing theatrical things. But +shut in her bedroom with the doors locked, Anthony's furious words came +back, his threats, his bitter sneers. She felt strangely alone, too. +In all the great house she had no one to support her. Mademoiselle, +her father and mother, even the servants, were tacitly aligned with the +opposition. Except Ellen. She had felt lately that Ellen, in her humble +way, had espoused her cause. + +She had sent for Ellen. + +In spite of the warmth of her greeting, Lily had felt a reserve in Aunt +Elinor's welcome. It was as though she was determinedly making the best +of a bad situation. + +“I had to do it, Aunt Elinor,” she said, when they had gone upstairs. +There was a labor conference, Doyle had explained, being held below. + +“I know,” said Elinor. “I understand. I'll pin back the curtains so you +can open your windows. The night air is so smoky here.” + +“I am afraid mother will grieve terribly.” + +“I think she will,” said Elinor, with her quiet gravity. “You are all +she has.” + +“She has father. She cares more for him than for anything in the world.” + +“Would you like some ice-water, dear?” + +Some time later Lily roused from the light sleep of emotional +exhaustion. She had thought she heard Willy Cameron's voice. But that +was absurd, of course, and she lay back to toss uneasily for hours. +Out of all her thinking there emerged at last her real self, so long +overlaid with her infatuation. She would go home again, and make what +amends she could. They were wrong about Louis Akers, but they were +right, too. + +Lying there, as the dawn slowly turned her windows to gray, she saw him +with a new clarity. She had a swift vision of what life with him would +mean. Intervals of passionate loving, of boyish dependence on her, and +then--a new face. Never again was she to see him with such clearness. +He was incapable of loyalty to a woman, even though he loved her. He +was born to be a wanderer in love, an experimenter in passion. She even +recognized in him an incurable sensuous curiosity about women, that +would be quite remote from his love for her. He would see nothing wrong +in his infidelities, so long as she did not know and did not suffer. And +he would come back to her from them, watchful for suspicion, relieved +when he did not find it, and bringing her small gifts which would be +actually burnt offerings to his own soul. + +She made up her mind to give him up. She would go home in the morning, +make her peace with them all, and never see Louis Akers again. + +She slept after that, and at ten o'clock Elinor wakened her with the +word that her father was downstairs. Elinor was very pale. It had been +a shock to her to see her brother in her home after all the years, and a +still greater one when he had put his arm around her and kissed her. + +“I am so sorry, Howard,” she had said. The sight of him had set her lips +trembling. He patted her shoulder. + +“Poor Elinor,” he said. “Poor old girl! We're a queer lot, aren't we?” + +“All but you.” + +“An obstinate, do-and-be-damned lot,” he said slowly. “I'd like to see +my little girl, Nellie. We can't have another break in the family.” + +He held Lily in much the same way when she came down, an arm around her, +his big shoulders thrown back as though he would guard her against the +world. But he was very uneasy and depressed, at that. He had come on a +difficult errand, and because he had no finesse he blundered badly. +It was some time before she gathered the full meaning of what he was +saying. + +“Aunt Cornelia's!” she exclaimed. + +“Or, if you and your mother want to go to Europe,” he put in hastily, +seeing her puzzled face, “I think I can arrange about passports.” + +“Does that mean he won't have me back, father?” + +“Lily, dear,” he said, hoarse with anxiety, “we simply have to remember +that he is a very old man, and that his mind is not elastic. He is +feeling very bitter now, but he will get over it.” + +“And I am to travel around waiting to be forgiven! I was ready to go +back, but--he won't have me. Is that it?” + +“Only just for the present.” He threw out his hands. “I have tried +everything. I suppose, in a way, I could insist, make a point of it, +but there are other things to be considered. His age, for one thing, +and then--the strike. If he takes an arbitrary stand against me, no +concession, no argument with the men, it makes it very difficult, in +many ways.” + +“I see. It is wicked that any one man should have such power. The city, +the mills, his family--it's wicked.” But she was conscious of no deep +anger against Anthony now. She merely saw that between them, they, she +and her grandfather, had dug a gulf that could not be passed. And +in Howard's efforts she saw the temporizing that her impatient youth +resented. + +“I am afraid it is a final break, father,” she said. “And if he shuts +me out I must live my own life. But I am not going to run away to Aunt +Cornelia or Europe. I shall stay here.” + +He had to be content with that. After all, his own sister--but he wished +it were not Jim Doyle's house. Not that he regarded Lily's shift toward +what he termed Bolshevism very seriously; all youth had a slant toward +socialism, and outgrew it. But he went away sorely troubled, after a few +words with Elinor Doyle alone. + +“You don't look unhappy, Nellie.” + +“Things have been much better the last few years.” + +“Is he kind to you?” + +“Not always, Howard. He doesn't drink now, so that is over. And I think +there are no other women. But when things go wrong I suffer, of course.” + She stared past him toward the open window. + +“Why don't you leave him?” + +“I couldn't go home, Howard. You know what it would be. Worse than +Lily. And I'm too old to start out by myself. My habits are formed, and +besides, I--” She checked herself. + +“I could take a house somewhere for both of you, Lily and yourself,” he +said eagerly; “that would be a wonderful way out for everybody.” + +She shook her head. + +“We'll manage all right,” she said. “I'll make Lily comfortable and as +happy as I can.” + +He felt that he had to make his own case clear, or he might have +noticed with what care she was choosing her words. His father's age, his +unconscious dependence on Grace, his certainty to retire soon from the +arbitrary stand he had taken. Elinor hardly heard him. Months +afterwards he was to remember the distant look in her eyes, a sort of +half-frightened determination, but he was self-engrossed just then. + +“I can't persuade you?” he finished. + +“No. But it is good of you to think of it.” + +“You know what the actual trouble was last night? It was not her coming +here.” + +“I know, Howard.” + +“Don't let her marry him, Nellie! Better than any one, you ought to know +what that would mean.” + +“I knew too, Howard, but I did it.” + +In the end he went away not greatly comforted, to fight his own battles, +to meet committees from the union, and having met them, to find +himself facing the fact that, driven by some strange urge he could +not understand, the leaders wished a strike. There were times when he +wondered what would happen if he should suddenly yield every point, make +every concession. They would only make further demands, he felt. They +seemed determined to put him out of business. If only he could have +dealt with the men directly, instead of with their paid representatives, +he felt that he would get somewhere. But always, interposed between +himself and his workmen, was this barrier of their own erecting. + +It was like representative government. It did not always represent. +It, too, was founded on representation in good faith; but there was not +always good faith. The union system was wrong. It was like politics. The +few handled the many. The union, with its all-powerful leaders, was only +another form of autocracy. It was Prussian. Yet the ideal behind the +union was sound enough. + +He had no quarrel with the union. He puzzled it out, traveling +unaccustomed mental paths. The country was founded on liberty. All men +were created free and equal. Free, yes, but equal? Was not equality a +long way ahead along a thorny road? Men were not equal in the effort +they made, nor did equal efforts bring equal result. If there was class +antagonism behind all this unrest, would there not always be those who +rose by dint of ceaseless effort? Equality of opportunity, yes. Equality +of effort and result, no. + +To destroy the chance of gain was to put a premium on inertia; to kill +ambition; to reduce the high without raising the low. + +At noon on the same day Willy Cameron went back to the house on Cardew +Way, to find Lily composed and resigned, instead of the militant figure +he had expected. He asked her to go home, and she told him then that she +had no longer a home to go to. + +“I meant to go, Willy,” she finished. “I meant to go this morning. But +you see how things are.” + +He had stood for a long time, looking at nothing very hard. “I see,” he +said finally. “Of course your grandfather will be sorry in a day or two, +but he may not swallow his pride very soon.” + +That rather hurt her. + +“What about my pride?” she asked. + +“You can afford to be magnanimous with all your life before you.” Then +he faced her. “Besides, Lily, you're wrong. Dead wrong. You've hurt +three people, and all you've got out of it has been your own way.” + +“There is such a thing as liberty.” + +“I don't know about that. And a good many crimes have been committed in +its name.” Even in his unhappiness he was controversial. “We are never +really free, so long as we love people, and they love us. Well--” He +picked up his old felt hat and absently turned down the brim; it was +raining. “I'll have to get back. I've overstayed my lunch hour as it +is.” + +“You haven't had any luncheon?” + +“I wasn't hungry,” he had said, and had gone away, his coat collar +turned up against the shower. Lily had had a presentiment that he was +taking himself out of her life, that he had given her up as a bad job. +She felt depressed and lonely, and not quite so sure of herself as +she had been; rather, although she did not put it that way, as though +something fine had passed her way, like Pippa singing, and had then gone +on. + +She settled down as well as she could to her new life, making no plans, +however, and always with the stricken feeling that she had gained her +own point at the cost of much suffering. She telephoned to her mother +daily, broken little conversations with long pauses while Grace steadied +her voice. Once her mother hung up the receiver hastily, and Lily +guessed that her grandfather had come in. She felt very bitter toward +him. + +But she found the small oneage interesting, in a quiet way; to make +her own bed and mend her stockings--Grace had sent her a trunkful of +clothing; and on the elderly maid's afternoon out, to help Elinor with +the supper. She seldom went out, but Louis Akers came daily, and on the +sixth day of her stay she promised to marry him. + +She had not meant to do it, but it was difficult to refuse him. She had +let him think she would do it ultimately, for one thing. And, however +clearly she might analyze him in his absences, his strange attraction +reasserted itself when he was near. But her acceptance of him was almost +stoical. + +“But not soon, Louis,” she said, holding him off. “And--I ought to tell +you--I don't think we will be happy together.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because--” she found it hard to put into words--“because love with you +is a sort of selfish thing, I think.” + +“I'll lie down now and let you tramp on me,” he said exultantly, and +held out his arms. But even as she moved toward him she voiced her inner +perplexity. + +“I never seem to be able to see myself married to you.” + +“Then the sooner the better, so you can.” + +“You won't like being married, you know.” + +“That's all you know about it, Lily. I'm mad about you. I'm mad for +you.” + +There was a new air of maturity about Lily those days, and sometimes +a sort of aloofness that both maddened him and increased his desire to +possess her. She went into his arms, but when he held her closest she +sometimes seemed farthest away. + +“I want you now.” + +“I want to be engaged a long time, Louis. We have so much to learn about +each other.” + +He thought that rather childish. But whatever had been his motive in the +beginning, he was desperately in love with her by that time, and because +of that he frightened her sometimes. He was less sure of himself, too, +even after she had accepted him, and to prove his continued dominance +over her he would bully her. + +“Come here,” he would say, from the hearth rug, or by the window. + +“Certainly not.” + +“Come here.” + +Sometimes she went, to be smothered in his hot embrace; sometimes she +did not. + +But her infatuation persisted, although there were times when his +inordinate vitality and his caresses gave her a sense of physical +weariness, times when sheer contact revolted her. He seemed always to +want to touch her. Fastidiously reared, taught a sort of aloofness from +childhood, Lily found herself wondering if all men in love were like +that, always having to be held off. + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +Ellen was staying at the Boyd house. She went downstairs the morning +after her arrival, and found the bread--bakery bread--toasted and +growing cold on the table, while a slice of ham, ready to be cooked, was +not yet on the fire, and Mrs. Boyd had run out to buy some milk. + +Dan had already gone, and his half-empty cup of black coffee was on the +kitchen table. Ellen sniffed it and raised her eyebrows. + +She rolled up her sleeves, put the toast in the oven and the ham in the +frying pan, with much the same grimness with which she had sat the night +before listening to Mrs. Boyd's monologue. If this was the way they +looked after Willy Cameron, no wonder he was thin and pale. She threw +out the coffee, which she suspected had been made by the time-saving +method of pouring water on last night's grounds, and made a fresh pot of +it. After that she inspected the tea towels, and getting a tin dishpan, +set them to boil in it on the top of the range. + +“Enough to give him typhoid,” she reflected. + +Ellen disapproved of her surroundings; she disapproved of any woman who +did not boil her tea towels. And when Edith came down carefully dressed +and undeniably rouged she formed a disapproving opinion of that young +lady, which was that she was trying to land Willy Cameron, and that he +would be better dead than landed. + +She met Edith's stare of surprise with one of thinly veiled hostility. + +“Hello!” said Edith. “When did you blow in, and where from?” + +“I came to see Mr. Cameron last night, and he made me stay.” + +“A friend of Willy's! Well, I guess you needn't pay for your breakfast +by cooking it. Mother's probably run out for something--she never has +anything in the house--and is talking somewhere. I'll take that fork.” + +But Ellen proceeded to turn the ham. + +“I'll do it,” she said. “You might spoil your hands.” + +But Edith showed no offense. + +“All right,” she acceded indifferently. “If you're going to eat it you'd +better cook it. We're rotten housekeepers here.” + +“I should think, if you're going to keep boarders, somebody would learn +to cook. Mr. Cameron's mother is the best housekeeper in town, and he +was raised on good food and plenty of it.” + +Her tone was truculent. Ellen's world, the world of short hours and +easy service, of the decorum of the Cardew servants' hall, of luxury +and dignity and good pay, had suddenly gone to pieces about her. She +was feeling very bitter, especially toward a certain chauffeur who had +prophesied the end of all service. He had made the statement that +before long all people would be equal. There would be no above and +below-stairs, no servants' hall. + +“They'll drive their own cars, then, damn them,” he had said once, “if +they can get any to drive. And answer their own bells, if they've got +any to ring. And get up and cook their own breakfasts.” + +“Which you won't have any to cook,” Grayson had said irritably, from +the head of the long table. “Just a word, my man. That sort of talk is +forbidden here. One word more and I go to Mr. Cardew.” + +The chauffeur had not sulked, however. “All right, Mr. Grayson,” he said +affably. “But I can go on thinking, I daresay. And some of these days +you'll be wishing you'd climbed on the band wagon before it's too late.” + +Ellen, turning the ham carefully, was conscious that her revolt had been +only partially on Lily's account. It was not so much Lily's plight +as the abuse of power, although she did not put it that way, that had +driven her out. Ellen then had carried out her own small revolution, and +where had it put her? She had lost a good home, and what could she do? +All she knew was service. + +Edith poured herself a cup of coffee, and taking a piece of toast from +the oven, stood nibbling it. The crumbs fell on the not over-clean +floor. + +“Why don't you go into the dining-room to eat?” Ellen demanded. + +“Got out of the wrong side of the bed, didn't you?” Edith asked. +“Willy's bed, I suppose. I'm not hungry, and I always eat breakfast like +this. I wish he would hurry. We'll be late.” + +Ellen stared. It was her first knowledge that this girl, this painted +hussy, worked in Willy's pharmacy, and her suspicions increased. She +had a quick vision, as she had once had of Lily, of Edith in the Cameron +house; Edith reading or embroidering on the front porch while Willy's +mother slaved for her; Edith on the same porch in the evening, with all +the boys in town around her. She knew the type, the sort that set an +entire village by the ears and in the end left home and husband and ran +away with a traveling salesman. + +Ellen had already got Willy married and divorced when Mrs. Boyd came in. +She carried the milk pail, but her lips were blue and she sat down in a +chair and held her hand to her heart. + +“I'm that short of breath!” she gasped. “I declare I could hardly get +back.” + +“I'll give you some coffee, right off.” + +When Willy Cameron had finished his breakfast she followed him into the +parlor. His pallor was not lost on her, or his sunken eyes. He looked +badly fed, shabby, and harassed, and he bore the marks of his sleepless +night on his face. “Are you going to stay here?” she demanded. + +“Why, yes, Miss Ellen.” + +“Your mother would break her heart if she knew the way you're living.” + +“I'm very comfortable. We've tried to get a ser--” He changed color +at that. In the simple life of the village at home a woman whose only +training was the town standard of good housekeeping might go into +service in the city and not lose caste. But she was never thought of as +a servant. “--help,” he substituted. “But we can't get any one, and Mrs. +Boyd is delicate. It is heart trouble.” + +“Does that girl work where you do?” + +“Yes. Why?” + +“Is she engaged to you? She calls you Willy.” He smiled into her eyes. + +“Not a bit of it, or thinking of it.” + +“How do you know what she's thinking? It's all over her. It's Willy this +and Willy that--and men are such fools.” + +There flashed into his mind certain things that he had tried to forget; +Edith at his doorway, with that odd look in her eyes; Edith never going +to sleep until he had gone to bed; and recently, certain things she had +said, that he had passed over lightly and somewhat uncomfortably. + +“That's ridiculous, Miss Ellen. But even if it were true, which it +isn't, don't you think it would be rather nice of her?” He smiled. + +“I do not. I heard you going out last night, Willy. Did you find her?” + +“She is at the Doyles'. I didn't see her.” + +“That'll finish it,” Ellen prophesied, somberly. She glanced around the +parlor, at the dust on the furniture, at the unwashed baseboard, at the +unwound clock on the mantel shelf. + +“If you're going to stay here I will,” she announced abruptly. “I owe +that much to your mother. I've got some money. I'll take what they'd +pay some foreigner who'd throw out enough to keep another family.” Then, +seeing hesitation in his eyes: “That woman's sick, and you've got to be +looked after. I could do all the work, if that--if the girl would help +in the evenings.” + +He demurred at first. She would find it hard. They had no luxuries, and +she was accustomed to luxury. There was no room for her. But in the +end he called Edith and Mrs. Boyd, and was rather touched to find Edith +offering to share her upper bedroom. + +“It's a hole,” she said, “cold in winter and hot as blazes in summer. +But there's room for a cot, and I guess we can let each other alone.” + +“I wish you'd let me move up there, Edith,” he said for perhaps the +twentieth time since he had found out where she slept, “and you would +take my room.” + +“No chance,” she said cheerfully. “Mother would raise the devil if you +tried it.” She glanced at Ellen's face. “If that word shocks you, you're +due for a few shocks, you know.” + +“The way you talk is your business, not mine,” said Ellen austerely. + +When they finally departed on a half-run Ellen was established as +a fixture in the Boyd house, and was already piling all the cooking +utensils into a wash boiler and with grim efficiency was searching for +lye with which to clean them. + +Two weeks later, the end of June, the strike occurred. It was not, +in spite of predictions, a general walk-out. Some of the mills, +particularly the smaller plants, did not go down at all, and with +reduced forces kept on, but the chain of Cardew Mills was closed. There +was occasional rioting by the foreign element in outlying districts, but +the state constabulary handled it easily. + +Dan was out of work, and the loss of his pay was a serious matter in +the little house. He had managed to lay by a hundred dollars, and Willy +Cameron had banked it for him, but there was a real problem to be +faced. On the night of the day the Cardew Mills went down Willy called a +meeting of the household after supper, around the dining room table. He +had been in to see Mr. Hendricks, who had been laid up with bronchitis, +and Mr. Hendricks had predicted a long strike. + +“The irresistible force and the immovable body, son,” he said. “They'll +stay set this time. And unless I miss my guess that is playing Doyle's +hand for him, all right. His chance will come when the men have used up +their savings and are growing bitter. Every strike plays into the hands +of the enemy, son, and they know it. The moment production ceases prices +go up, and soon all the money in the world won't pay them wages enough +to live on.” + +He had a store of homely common sense, and a gift of putting things into +few words. Willy Cameron, going back to the little house that evening, +remembered the last thing he had said. + +“The only way to solve this problem of living,” he said, “is to see how +much we can work, and not how little. Germany's working ten hours a day, +and producing. We're talking about six, and loafing and fighting while +we talk.” + +So Willy went home and called his meeting, and knowing Mrs. Boyd's +regard for figures, set down and added or subtracted, he placed a pad +and pencil on the table before him. It was an odd group: Dan sullen, +resenting the strike and the causes that had led to it; Ellen, austere +and competent; Mrs. Boyd with a lace fichu pinned around her neck, +now that she had achieved the dignity of hired help, and Edith. Edith +silent, morose and fixing now and then rather haggard eyes on Willy +Cameron's unruly hair. She seldom met his eyes. + +“First of all,” said Willy, “we'll take our weekly assets. Of course +Dan will get something temporarily, but we'll leave that out for the +present.” + +The weekly assets turned out to be his salary and Edith's. + +“Why, Willy,” said Mrs. Boyd, “you can't turn all your money over to +us.” + +“You are all the family I have just now. Why not? Anyhow, I'll have +to keep out lunch money and carfare, and so will Edith. Now as to +expenses.” + +Ellen had made a great reduction in expenses, but food was high. And +there was gas and coal, and Dan's small insurance, and the rent. There +was absolutely no margin, and a sort of silence fell. + +“What about your tuition at night school?” Edith asked suddenly. + +“Spring term ended this week.” + +“But you said there was a summer one.” + +“Well, I'll tell you about that,” Willy said, feeling for words. “I'm +going to be busy helping Mr. Hendricks in his campaign. Then next +fall--well, I'll either go back or Hendricks will make me chief of +police, or something.” He smiled around the table. “I ought to get some +sort of graft out of it.” + +“Mother!” Edith protested. “He mustn't sacrifice himself for us. What +are we to him anyhow? A lot of stones hung around his neck. That's all.” + +It was after Willy had declared that this was his home now, and he had +a right to help keep it going, and after Ellen had observed that she had +some money laid by and would not take any wages during the strike, that +the meeting threatened to become emotional. Mrs. Boyd shed a few tears, +and as she never by any chance carried a handkerchief, let them flow +over her fichu. And Dan shook Willy's hand and Ellen's, and said that +if he'd had his way he'd be working, and not sitting round like a stiff +letting other people work for him. But Edith got up and went out into +the little back garden, and did not come back until the meeting was both +actually and morally broken up. When she heard Dan go out, and Ellen +and Mrs. Boyd go upstairs, chatting in a new amiability brought about by +trouble and sacrifice, she put on her hat and left the house. + +Ellen, rousing on her cot in Edith's upper room, heard her come in some +time later, and undress and get into bed. Her old suspicion of the girl +revived, and she sat upright. + +“Where I come from girls don't stay out alone until all hours,” she +said. + +“Oh, let me alone.” + +Ellen fell asleep, and in her sleep she dreamed that Mrs. Boyd had taken +sick and was moaning. The moaning was terrible; it filled the little +house. Ellen wakened suddenly. It was not moaning; it was strange, heavy +breathing, strangling; and it came from Edith's bed. + +“Are you sick?” she called, and getting up, her knees hardly holding +her, she lighted the gas at its unshaded bracket on the wall and ran to +the other bed. + +Edith was lying there, her mouth open, her lips bleached and twisted. +Her stertorous breathing filled the room, and over all was the odor of +carbolic acid. + +“Edith, for God's sake!” + +The girl was only partially conscious. Ellen ran down the stairs and +into Willy's room. + +“Get up,” she cried, shaking him. “That girl's killed herself.” + +“Lily!” + +“No, Edith. Carbolic acid.” + +Even then he remembered her mother. + +“Don't let her hear anything, It will kill her,” he said, and ran up the +stairs. Almost immediately he was down again, searching for alcohol; +he found a small quantity and poured that down the swollen throat. He +roused Dan then, and sent him running madly for Doctor Smalley, with +a warning to bring him past Mrs. Boyd's door quietly, and to bring an +intubation set with him in case her throat should close. Then, on one of +his innumerable journeys up and down the stairs he encountered Mrs. Boyd +herself, in her nightgown, and terrified. + +“What's the matter, Willy?” she asked. “Is it a fire?” + +“Edith is sick. I don't want you to go up. It may be contagious. It's +her throat.” + +And from that Mrs. Boyd deduced diphtheria; she sat on the stairs in her +nightgown, a shaken helpless figure, asking countless questions of those +that hurried past. But they reassured her, and after a time she went +downstairs and made a pot of coffee. Ensconced with it in the lower +hall, and milk bottle in hand, she waylaid them with it as they hurried +up and down. + +Upstairs the battle went on. There were times when the paralyzed muscles +almost stopped lifting the chest walls, when each breath was a new +miracle. Her throat was closing fast, too, and at eight o'clock came a +brisk young surgeon, and with Willy Cameron's assistance, an operation +was performed. After that, and for days, Edith breathed through a tube +in her neck. + +The fiction of diphtheria was kept up, and Mrs. Boyd, having a childlike +faith in medical men, betrayed no anxiety after the first hour or two. +She saw nothing incongruous in Ellen going down through the house while +she herself was kept out of that upper room where Edith lay, conscious +now but sullen, disfigured, silent. She was happy, too, to have her +old domain hers again, while Ellen nursed; to make again her flavorless +desserts, her mounds of rubberlike gelatine, her pies. She brewed broths +daily, and when Edith could swallow she sent up the results of hours of +cooking which Ellen cooled, skimmed the crust of grease from the top, +and heated again over the gas flame. + +She never guessed the conspiracy against her. + +Between Ellen and Edith there was no real liking. Ellen did her duty, +and more; got up at night; was gentle with rather heavy hands; bathed +the girl and brushed and braided her long hair. But there were hours +during that simulated quarantine when a brooding silence held in the +sick-room, and when Ellen, turning suddenly, would find Edith's eyes on +her, full of angry distrust. At those times Ellen was glad that Edith +could not speak. + +For at the end of a few days Ellen knew, and Edith knew she knew. + +Edith could not speak. She wrote her wants with a stub of pencil, or +made signs. One day she motioned toward a mirror and Ellen took it to +her. + +“You needn't be frightened,” she said. “When those scabs come off the +doctor says you'll hardly be marked at all.” + +But Edith only glanced at herself, and threw the mirror aside. + +Another time she wrote: “Willy?” + +“He's all right. They've got a girl at the store to take your place, but +I guess you can go back if you want to.” Then, seeing the hunger in the +girl's eyes: “He's out a good bit these nights. He's making speeches for +that Mr. Hendricks. As if he could be elected against Mr. Cardew!” + +The confinement told on Ellen. She would sit for hours, wondering what +had become of Lily. Had she gone back home? Was she seeing that other +man? Perhaps her valiant loyalty to Lily faded somewhat during those +days, because she began to guess Willy Cameron's secret. If a girl had +no eyes in her head, and couldn't see that Willy Cameron was the finest +gentleman who ever stepped in shoe leather, that girl had something +wrong about her. + +Then, sometimes, she wondered how Edith's condition was going to be kept +from her mother. She had measured Mrs. Boyd's pride by that time, her +almost terrible respectability. She rather hoped that the sick woman +would die some night, easily and painlessly in her sleep, because death +was easier than some things. She liked Mrs. Boyd; she felt a slightly +contemptuous but real affection for her. + +Then one night Edith heard Willy's voice below, and indicated that she +wanted to see him. He came in, stooping under the sheet which Mrs. Boyd +had heard belonged in the doorway of diphtheria, and stood looking down +at her. His heart ached. He sat down on the bed beside her and stroked +her hand. + +“Poor little girl,” he said. “We've got to make things very happy for +her, to make up for all this!” + +But Edith freed her hand, and reaching out for paper and pencil stub, +wrote something and gave it to Ellen. + +Ellen read it. + +“Tell him.” + +“I don't want to, Edith. You wait and do it yourself.” + +But Edith made an insistent gesture, and Ellen, flushed and wretched, +had to tell. He made no sign, but sat stroking Edith's hand, only he +stared rather fixedly at the wall, conscious that the girl's eyes were +watching him for a single gesture of surprise or anger. He felt no +anger, only a great perplexity and sadness, an older-brother grief. + +“I'm sorry, little sister,” he said, and did the kindest thing he could +think of, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. “Of course I know +how you feel, but it is a big thing to bear a child, isn't it? It is the +only miracle we have these days.” + +“A child with no father,” said Ellen, stonily. + +“Even then,” he persisted, “it's a big thing. We would have this one +come under happier circumstances if we could, but we will welcome and +take care of it, anyhow. A child's a child, and mighty valuable. And,” + he added--“I appreciate your wanting me to know, Edith.” + +He stayed a little while after that, but he read aloud, choosing a +humorous story and laughing very hard at all the proper places. In the +end he brought a faint smile to Edith's blistered lips, and a small lift +to the cloud that hung over her now, day and night. + +He made a speech that night, and into it he put all of his aching, +anxious soul; Edith and Dan and Lily were behind it. Akers and Doyle. +It was at a meeting in the hall over the city market, and the audience a +new men's non-partisan association. + +“Sometimes,” he said, “I am asked what it is that we want, we men who +are standing behind Hendricks as an independent candidate.” He was +supposed to bring Mr. Hendricks' name in as often as possible. “I answer +that we want honest government, law and order, an end to this conviction +that the country is owned by the unions and the capitalists, a fair deal +for the plain people, which is you and I, my friends. But I answer still +further, we want one thing more, a greater thing, and that thing we +shall have. All through this great country to-night are groups of men +hoping and planning for an incredible thing. They are not great in +numbers; they are, however, organized, competent, intelligent and +deadly. They plow the land with discord to sow the seeds of sedition. +And the thing they want is civil war. + +“And against them, what? The people like you and me; the men with homes +they love; the men with little businesses they have fought and labored +to secure; the clerks; the preachers; the doctors, the honest laborers, +the God-fearing rich. I tell you, we are the people, and it is time we +knew our power. + +“And this is the thing we want, we the people; the greater thing, the +thing we shall have; that this government, this country which we love, +which has three times been saved at such cost of blood, shall survive.” + +It was after that speech that he met Pink Denslow for the first time. +A square, solidly built young man edged his way through the crowd, and +shook hands with him. + +“Name's Denslow,” said Pink. “Liked what you said. Have you time to run +over to my club with me and have a high-ball and a talk?” + +“I've got all the rest of the night.” + +“Right-o!” said Pink, who had brought back a phrase or two from the +British. + +It was not until they were in the car that Pink said: + +“I think you're a friend of Miss Cardew's, aren't you?” + +“I know Miss Cardew,” said Willy Cameron, guardedly. And they were both +rather silent for a time. + +That night proved to be a significant one for them both, as it +happened. They struck up a curious sort of friendship, based on a humble +admiration on Pink's part, and with Willy Cameron on sheer hunger for +the society of his kind. He had been suffering a real mental starvation. +He had been constantly giving out and getting nothing in return. + +Pink developed a habit of dropping into the pharmacy when he happened +to be nearby. He was rather wistfully envious of that year in the camp, +when Lily Cardew and Cameron had been together, and at first it was +the bond of Lily that sent him to the shop. In the beginning the shop +irritated him, because it seemed an incongruous background for the fiery +young orator. But later on he joined the small open forum in the back +room, and perhaps for the first time in his idle years he began to +think. He had made the sacrifice of his luxurious young life to go to +war, had slept in mud and risked his body and been hungry and cold and +often frightfully homesick. And now it appeared that a lot of madmen +were going to try to undo all that he had helped to do. He was surprised +and highly indignant. Even a handful of agitators, it seemed, could do +incredible harm. + +One night he and Willy Cameron slipped into a meeting of a Russian +Society, wearing old clothes, which with Willy was not difficult, +and shuffling up dirty stairs without molestation. They came away +thoughtful. + +“Looks like it's more than talk,” Pink said, after a time. + +“They're not dangerous,” Willy Cameron said. “That's talk. But it shows +a state of mind. The real incendiaries don't show their hand like that.” + +“You think it's real, then?” + +“Some boils don't come to a head. But most do.” + +It was after a mob of foreigners had tried to capture the town of +Donesson, near Pittsburgh, and had been turned back by a hastily armed +body of its citizens, doctors, lawyers and shop-keepers, that a nebulous +plan began to form in Willy Cameron's active mind. + +If one could unite the plain people politically, or against a foreign +war, why could they not be united against an enemy at home? The South +had had a similar problem, and the result was the Ku Klux Klan. + +The Chief of Police was convinced that a plan was being formulated to +repeat the Seattle experiment against the city. The Mayor was dubious. +He was not a strong man; he had a conviction that because a thing never +had happened it never could happen. + +“The mob has done it before,” urged the Chief of Police one day. “They +took Paris, and it was damned disagreeable.” + +The Mayor was a trifle weak in history. + +“Maybe they did,” he agreed. “But this is different. This is America.” + +He was rather uneasy after that. It had occurred to him that the Chief +might have referred to Paris, Illinois. + +Now and then Pink coaxed Willy Cameron to his club, and for those rare +occasions he provided always a little group of men like themselves, +young, eager, loyal, and struggling with the new problems of the day. In +this environment Willy Cameron received as well as gave. + +Most of the men had been in the army, and he found in them an eager +anxiety to face the coming situation and combat it. In the end the +nucleus of the new Vigilance Committee was formed there. + +Not immediately. The idea was of slow growth even with its originator, +and it only reached the point of speech when Mr. Hendricks stopped in +one day at the pharmacy and brought a bundle which he slapped down on +the prescription desk. + +“Read that dynamite,” he said, his face flushed and lowering. “A man I +know got it translated for me. Read it and then tell me whether I'm an +alarmist and a plain fool, or if it means trouble around here.” + +There was no question in Willy Cameron's mind as to which it meant. + +Louis Akers had by that time announced his candidacy for Mayor, and +organized labor was behind him to an alarming extent. When Willy +Cameron went with Pink to the club that afternoon, he found Akers under +discussion, and he heard some facts about that gentleman's private life +which left him silent and morose. Pink knew nothing of Lily's friendship +with Akers. Indeed, Pink did not know that Lily was in the city, and +Willy Cameron had not undeceived him. It had pleased Anthony Cardew to +announce in the press that Lily was making a round of visits, and the +secret was not his to divulge. But the question which was always in his +mind rose again. What did she see in the man? How could she have thrown +away her home and her family for a fellow who was so obviously what Pink +would have called “a wrong one”? + +He roused, however, at a question. + +“He may,” he said; “with three candidates we're splitting the vote three +ways, and it's hard to predict. Mr. Cardew can't be elected, but he +weakens Hendricks. One thing's sure. Where's my pipe?” Silence while Mr. +Cameron searched for his pipe, and took his own time to divulge the +sure thing. “If Hendricks is elected he'll clear out the entire bunch of +anarchists. The present man's afraid. But if Akers can hypnotize labor +into voting for him, and he gets it, it will be up to the city to +protect itself, for he won't. He'll let them hold their infamous +meetings and spread their damnable doctrine, and--you know what they've +tried to do in other places.” He explained what he had in mind then, +finding them expectant and eager. There ought to be some sort of +citizen organization, to supplement the state and city forces. Nothing +spectacular; indeed, the least said about it the better. He harked back +then to his idea of the plain people, with homes to protect. + +“That needn't keep you fellows out,” he said, with his whimsical smile. +“But the rank and file will have to constitute the big end. We don't +want a lot of busybodies, pussy-footing around with guns and looking for +trouble. We had enough of that during the war. We would want some men +who would answer a riot call if they were needed. That's all.” + +He had some of the translations Hendricks had brought him in his pocket, +and they circulated around the group. + +“Do you think they mean to attack the city?” + +“That looks like it, doesn't it? And they are getting that sort of stuff +all the time. There are a hundred thousand of them in this end of the +state.” + +“Would you make it a secret organization?” + +“Yes. I like doing things in the open myself, but you've got to fight a +rat in his hole, if he won't come out.” + +“Would you hold office?” Pink asked. + +Willy Cameron smiled. + +“I'm a good bit like the boy who dug post holes in the daytime and took +in washing at night to support the family. But I'll work, if that's what +you mean.” + +“We'd better have a constitution and all that, don't you think?” Pink +asked. “We can draw up a tentative one, and then fix it up at the first +meeting. This is going to be a big thing. It'll go like a fire.” + +But Willy Cameron overruled that. + +“We don't need that sort of stuff,” he said, “and if we begin that we +might as well put it in the newspapers. We want men who can keep their +mouths shut, and who will sign some sort of a card agreeing to stand +by the government and to preserve law and order. Then an office and a +filing case, and their addresses, so we can get at them in a hurry if we +need them. Get me a piece of paper, somebody.” + +Then and there, in twenty words, Willy Cameron wrote the now historic +oath of the new Vigilance Committee, on the back of an old envelope. It +was a promise, an agreement rather than an oath. There was a little +hush as the paper passed from hand to hand. Not a man there but felt a +certain solemnity in the occasion. To preserve the Union and the flag, +to fight all sedition, to love their country and support it; the very +simplicity of the words was impressive. And the mere putting of it into +visible form crystallized their hitherto vague anxieties, pointed to a +real enemy and a real danger. Yet, as Willy Cameron pointed out, they +might never be needed. + +“Our job,” he said, “is only as a last resort. Only for real trouble. +Until the state troops can get here, for instance, and if the +constabulary is greatly outnumbered. It's their work up to a certain +point. We'll fight if they need us. That's all.” + +It was very surprising to him to find the enterprise financed +immediately. Pink offered an office in the bank building. Some one +agreed to pay a clerk who should belong to the committee. It was +practical, businesslike, and--done. And, although he had protested, he +found himself made the head of the organization. + +“--without title and without pay,” he stipulated. “If you wish a title +on me, I'll resign.” + +He went home that night very exalted and very humble. + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +For a time Lily remained hidden in the house on Cardew Way, walking +out after nightfall with Louis occasionally, but shrinkingly keeping to +quiet back streets. She had a horror of meeting some one she knew, +of explanations and of gossip. But after a time the desire to see her +mother became overwhelming. She took to making little flying visits +home at an hour when her grandfather was certain to be away, going in a +taxicab, and reaching the house somewhat breathless and excited. She was +driven by an impulse toward the old familiar things; she was homesick +for them all, for her mother, for Mademoiselle, for her own rooms, for +her little toilet table, for her bed and her reading lamp. For the old +house itself. + +She was still an alien where she was. Elinor Doyle was a perpetual +enigma to her; now and then she thought she had penetrated behind the +gentle mask that was Elinor's face, only to find beyond it something +inscrutable. There was a dead line in Elinor's life across which Lily +never stepped. Whatever Elinor's battles were, she fought them alone, +and Lily had begun to realize that there were battles. + +The atmosphere of the little house had changed. Sometimes, after she +had gone to bed, she heard Doyle's voice from the room across the hall, +raised angrily. He was nervous and impatient; at times he dropped the +unctuousness of his manner toward her, and she found herself looking +into a pair of cold blue eyes which terrified her. + +The brilliant little dinners had entirely ceased, with her coming. A +sort of early summer lethargy had apparently settled on the house. +Doyle wrote for hours, shut in the room with the desk; the group of +intellectuals, as he had dubbed them, had dispersed on summer vacations. +But she discovered that there were other conferences being held in the +house, generally late at night. + +She learned to know the nights when those meetings were to occur. On +those evenings Elinor always made an early move toward bed, and Lily +would repair to her hot low-ceiled room, to sit in the darkness by the +window and think long, painful thoughts. + +That was how she learned of the conferences. She had no curiosity about +them at first. They had something to do with the strike, she considered, +and with that her interest died. Strikes were a symptom, and ultimately, +through great thinkers like Mr. Doyle, they would discover the cure for +the disease that caused them. She was quite content to wait for that +time. + +Then, one night, she went downstairs for a glass of ice water, and found +the lower floor dark, and subdued voices coming from the study. The +kitchen door was standing open, and she closed and locked it, placing +the key, as was Elinor's custom, in a table drawer. The door was partly +glass, and Elinor had a fear of the glass being broken and thus the key +turned in the lock by some intruder. + +On toward morning there came a violent hammering at her bedroom door, +and Doyle's voice outside, a savage voice that she scarcely recognized. +When she had thrown on her dressing gown and opened the door he had +instantly caught her by the shoulder, and she bore the imprints of his +fingers for days. + +“Did you lock the kitchen door?” he demanded, his tones thick with fury. + +“Yes. Why not?” She tried to shake off his hand, but failed. + +“None of your business why not,” he said, and gave her an angry shake. +“Hereafter, when you find that door open, you leave it that way. That's +all.” + +“Take your hands off me!” She was rather like her grandfather at that +moment, and his lost caution came back. He freed her at once and laughed +a little. + +“Sorry!” he said. “I get a bit emphatic at times. But there are times +when a locked door becomes a mighty serious matter.” + +The next day he removed the key from the door, and substituted a bolt. +Elinor made no protest. + +Another night Elinor was taken ill, and Lilly had been forced to knock +at the study door and call Doyle. She had an instant's impression of the +room crowded with strange figures. The heavy odors of sweating bodies, +of tobacco, and of stale beer came through the half-open door and +revolted her. And Doyle had refused to go upstairs. + +She began to feel that she could not remain there very long. The +atmosphere was variable. It was either cynical or sinister, and she +hated them both. She had a curious feeling, too, that Doyle both wanted +her there and did not want her, and that he was changing his attitude +toward her Aunt Elinor. Sometimes she saw him watching Elinor from under +half-closed eyelids. + +But she could not fill her days with anxieties and suspicions, and she +turned to Louis Akers as a flower to the open day. He at least was what +he appeared to be. There was nothing mysterious about him. + +He came in daily, big, dominant and demonstrative, filling the house +with his presence, and demanding her in a loud, urgent voice. Hardly had +the door slammed before he would call: + +“Lily! Where are you?” + +Sometimes he lifted her off her feet and held her to him. + +“You little whiffet!” he would say. “I could crush you to death in my +arms.” + +Had his wooing all been violent she might have tired sooner, because +those phases of his passion for her tired her. But there were times when +he put her into a chair and sat on the floor at her feet, his handsome +face uplifted to hers in a sort of humble adoration, his arms across her +knees. It was not altogether studied. He was a born wooer, but he had +his hours of humility, of vague aspirations. His insistent body was +always greater than his soul, but now and then, when he was physically +weary, he had a spiritual moment. + +“I love you, little girl,” he would say. + +It was in one of those moments that she extracted a promise from him. +He had been, from his position on the floor, telling her about the +campaign. + +“I don't like your running against my father, Louis.” + +“He couldn't have got it, anyhow. And he doesn't want it. I do, honey. +I need it in my business. When the election's over you're going to marry +me.” + +She ignored that. + +“I don't like the men who come here, Louis. I wish they were not friends +of yours.” + +“Friends of mine! That bunch?” + +“You are always with them.” + +“I draw a salary for being with them, honey.” + +“But what do you draw a salary for?” He was immediately on the alert, +but her eyes were candid and unsuspicious. “They are strikers, aren't +they?” + +“Yes.” + +“Is it legal business?” + +“Partly that.” + +“Louis, is there going to be a general strike?” + +“There may be some bad times coming, honey.” He bent his head and kissed +her hands, lying motionless in her lap. “I wish you would marry me soon. +I want you. I want to keep you safe.” + +She drew her hands away. + +“Safe from what, Louis?” + +He sat back and looked up into her face. + +“You must remember, dear, that for all your theories, which are very +sweet, this is a man's world, and men have rather brutal methods of +settling their differences.” + +“And you advocate brutality?” + +“Well, the war was brutal, wasn't it? And you were in a white heat +supporting it, weren't you? How about another war,”--he chose his words +carefully--“just as reasonable and just? You've heard Doyle. You know +what I mean.” + +“Not now!” + +He was amazed at her horror, a horror that made her recoil from him and +push his hands away when he tried to touch her. He got up angrily and +stood looking down at her, his hands in his pockets. + +“What the devil did you think all this talk meant?” he demanded. “You've +heard enough of it.” + +“Does Aunt Elinor know?” + +“Of course.” + +“And she approves?” + +“I don't know and I don't care.” Suddenly, with one of the quick changes +she knew so well, he caught her hands and drawing her to her feet, put +his arms around her. “All I know is that I love you, and if you say the +word I'll cut the whole business.” + +“You would?” + +He amended his offer somewhat. + +“Marry me, honey,” he begged. “Marry me now. Do you think I'll let +anything in God's world come between us? Marry me, and I'll do more than +leave them.” He was whispering to her, stroking her hair. “I'll cut the +whole outfit. And on the day I go into your house as your husband I'll +tell your people some things they want to know. That's a promise.” + +“What will they do to you?” + +“Your people?” + +“The others.” + +He drew himself to his full height, and laughed. + +“They'll try to do plenty, old girl,” he said, “but I'm not afraid of +them, and they know it. Marry me, Lily,” he urged. “Marry me now. And +we'll beat them out, you and I.” + +He gave her a sense of power, over him and over evil. She felt suddenly +an enormous responsibility, that of a human soul waiting to be uplifted +and led aright. + +“You can save me, honey,” he whispered, and kneeling suddenly, he kissed +the toe of her small shoe. + +He was strong. But he was weak too. He needed her. “I'll do it, Louis,” + she said. “You--you will be good to me, won't you?” + +“I'm crazy about you.” + +The mood of exaltation upheld her through the night, and into the next +day. Elinor eyed her curiously, and with some anxiety. It was a long +time since she had been a girl, going about star-eyed with power over a +man, but she remembered that lost time well. + +At noon Louis came in for a hasty luncheon, and before he left he +drew Lily into the little study and slipped a solitaire diamond on her +engagement finger. To Lily the moment was almost a holy one, but he +seemed more interested in the quality of the stone and its appearance on +her hand than in its symbolism. + +“Got you cinched now, honey. Do you like it?” + +“It makes me feel that I don't belong to myself any longer.” + +“Well, you've passed into good hands,” he said, and laughed his great, +vibrant laugh. “Costing me money already, you mite!” + +A little of her exaltation died then. But perhaps men were like that, +shyly covering the things they felt deepest. + +She was rather surprised when he suggested keeping the engagement a +secret. + +“Except the Doyles, of course,” he said. “I am not taking any chances on +losing you, child.” + +“Not mother?” + +“Not unless you want to be kidnaped and taken home. It's only a matter +of a day or two, anyhow.” + +“I want more time than that. A month, anyhow.” + +And he found her curiously obstinate and determined. She did not +quite know herself why she demanded delay, except that she shrank from +delivering herself into hands that were so tender and might be so cruel. +It was instinctive, purely. + +“A month,” she said, and stuck to it. + +He was rather sulky when he went away, and he had told her the exact +amount he had paid for her ring. + +Having forced him to agree to the delay, she found her mood of +exaltation returning. As always, it was when he was not with he that she +saw him most clearly, and she saw his real need for her. She had a sense +of peace, too, now that at last something was decided. Her future, for +better or worse, would no longer be that helpless waiting which had +been hers for so long. And out of her happiness came a desire to do kind +things, to pat children on the head, to give alms to beggars, and--to +see Willy Cameron. + +She came downstairs that afternoon, dressed for the street. + +“I am going out for a little while, Aunt Nellie,” she said, “and when I +come back I want to tell you something.” + +“Perhaps. I can guess.” + +“Perhaps you can.” + +She was singing to herself as she went out the door. + +Elinor went back heavy-hearted to her knitting. It was very difficult +always to sit by and wait. Never to raise a hand. Just to wait and +watch. And pray. + +Lily was rather surprised, when she reached the Eagle Pharmacy, to find +Pink Denslow coming out. It gave her a little pang, too; he looked so +clean and sane and normal, so much a part of her old life. And it hurt +her, too, to see him flush with pleasure at the meeting. + +“Why, Lily!” he said, and stood there, gazing at her, hat in hand, the +sun on his gleaming, carefully brushed hair. He was quite inarticulate +with happiness. “I--when did you get back?” + +“I have not been away, Pink. I left home--it's a long story. I am +staying with my aunt, Mrs. Doyle.” + +“Mrs. Doyle? You are staying there?” + +“Why not? My father's sister.” + +His young face took on a certain sternness. + +“If you knew what I suspect about Doyle, Lily, you wouldn't let the same +roof cover you.” But he added, rather wistfully, “I wish I might see you +sometimes.” + +Lily's head had gone up a trifle. Why did her old world always try to +put her in the wrong? She had had to seek sanctuary, and the Doyle house +had been the only sanctuary she knew. + +“Since you feel as you do, I'm afraid that's impossible. Mr. Doyle's +roof is the only roof I have.” + +“You have a home,” he said, sturdily. + +“Not now. I left, and my grandfather won't have me back. You mustn't +blame him, Pink. We quarreled and I left. I was as much responsible as +he was.” + +For a moment after she turned and disappeared inside the pharmacy door +he stood there, then he put on his hat and strode down the street, +unhappy and perplexed. If only she had needed him, if she had not looked +so self-possessed and so ever so faintly defiant, as though she dared +him to pity her, he would have known what to do. All he needed was to be +needed. His open face was full of trouble. It was unthinkable that Lily +should be in that center of anarchy; more unthinkable that Doyle might +have filled her up with all sorts of wild ideas. Women were queer; they +liked theories. A man could have a theory of life and play with it and +boast about it, but never dream of living up to it. But give one to a +woman, and she chewed on it like a dog on a bone. If those Bolshevists +had got hold of Lily--! + +The encounter had hurt Lily, too. The fine edge of her exaltation was +gone, and it did not return during her brief talk with Willy Cameron. +He looked much older and very thin; there were lines around his eyes +she had never seen before, and she hated seeing him in his present +surroundings. But she liked him for his very unconsciousness of those +surroundings. One always had to take Willy Cameron as he was. + +“Do you like it, Willy?” she asked. It had dawned on her, with a sort +of panic, that there was really very little to talk about. All that they +had had in common lay far in the past. + +“Well, it's my daily bread, and with bread costing what it does, I cling +to it like a limpet to a rock.” + +“But I thought you were studying, so you could do something else.” + +“I had to give up the night school. But I'll get back to it sometime.” + +She was lost again. She glanced around the little shop, where once +Edith Boyd had manicured her nails behind the counter, and where now a +middle-aged woman stood with listless eyes looking out over the street. + +“You still have Jinx, I suppose?” + +“Yes. I--” + +Lily glanced up as he stopped. She had drawn off her gloves, and his +eyes had fallen on her engagement ring. To Lily there had always been a +feeling of unreality about his declaration of love for her. He had +been so restrained, so careful to ask nothing in exchange, so without +expectation of return, that she had put it out of her mind as an +impulse. She had not dreamed that he could still care, after these +months of silence. But he had gone quite white. + +“I am going to be married, Willy,” she said, in a low tone. It is +doubtful if he could have spoken, just then. And as if to add a +finishing touch of burlesque to the meeting, a small boy with a swollen +jaw came in just then and demanded something to “make it stop hurting.” + +He welcomed the interruption, she saw. He was very professional +instantly, and so absorbed for a moment in relieving the child's pain +that he could ignore his own. + +“Let's see it,” he said in a businesslike, slightly strained voice. +“Better have it out, old chap. But I'll give you something just to ease +it up a bit.” + +Which he proceeded to do. When he came back to Lily he was quite calm +and self-possessed. As he had never thought of dramatizing himself, nor +thought of himself at all, it did not occur to him that drama requires +setting, that tragedy required black velvet rather than tooth-brushes, +and that a small boy with an aching tooth was a comedy relief badly +introduced. + +All he knew was that he had somehow achieved a moment in which to steady +himself, and to find that a man can suffer horribly and still smile. He +did that, very gravely, when he came back to Lily. + +“Can you tell me about it?” + +“There is not very much to tell. It is Louis Akers.” + +The middle-aged clerk had disappeared. + +“Of course you have thought over what that means, Lily.” + +“He wants me to marry him. He wants it very much, Willy. And--I know you +don't like him, but he has changed. Women always think they have changed +men, I know. But he is very different.” + +“I am sure of that,” he said, steadily. + +There was something childish about her, he thought. Childish and +infinitely touching. He remembered a night at the camp, when some of the +troops had departed for over-seas, and he had found her alone and crying +in her hut. “I just can't let them go,” she had sobbed. “I just can't. +Some of them will never come back.” + +Wasn't there something of that spirit in her now, the feeling that she +could not let Akers go, lest worse befall him? He did not know. All he +knew was that she was more like the Lily Cardew he had known then than +she had been since her return. And that he worshiped her. + +But there was anger in him, too. Anger at Anthony Cardew. Anger at the +Doyles. And a smoldering, bitter anger at Louis Akers, that he should +take the dregs of his life and offer them to her as new wine. That he +should dare to link his scheming, plotting days to this girl, so wise +and yet so ignorant, so clear-eyed and yet so blind. + +“Do they know at home?” + +“I am going to tell mother to-day.” + +“Lily,” he said, slowly, “there is one thing you ought to do. Go home, +make your peace there, and get all this on the right footing. Then have +him there. You have never seen him in that environment, yet that is the +world he will have to live in, if you marry him. See how he fits there.” + +“What has that got to do with it?” + +“Think a minute. Am I quite the same to you here, as I was in the camp?” + +He saw her honest answer in her eyes. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +The new movement was growing rapidly, and with a surprising catholicity +of range. Already it included lawyers and doctors, chauffeurs, butchers, +clergymen, clerks of all sorts, truck gardeners from the surrounding +county, railroad employees, and some of the strikers from the mills, +men who had obeyed their union order to quit work, but had obeyed it +unwillingly; men who resented bitterly the invasion of the ranks of +labor by the lawless element which was fomenting trouble. + +Dan had joined. + +On the day that Lily received her engagement ring from Louis Akers, one +of the cards of the new Vigilance Committee was being inspected with +cynical amusement by two clerks in a certain suite of offices in the +Searing Building. They studied it with interest, while the man who had +brought it stood by. + +“Where'd you pick it up, Cusick?” + +“One of our men brought it into the store. Said you might want to see +it.” + +The three men bent over it. + +The Myers Housecleaning Company had a suite of three rooms. During the +day two stenographers, both men, sat before machines and made a pretense +of business at such times as the door opened, or when an occasional +client, seeing the name, came in to inquire for rates. At such times the +clerks were politely regretful. The firm's contracts were all they could +handle for months ahead. + +There was a constant ebb and flow of men in the office, presumably +professional cleaners. They came and went, or sat along the walls, +waiting. A large percentage were foreigners but the clerks proved to +be accomplished linguists. They talked, with more or less fluency, with +Croats, Serbs, Poles and Slavs. + +There was a supply room off the office, a room filled with pails and +brushes, soap and ladders. But there was a great safe also, and its +compartments were filled with pamphlets in many tongues, a supply +constantly depleted and yet never diminishing. Workmen, carrying out the +pails of honest labor, carried them loaded down with the literature it +was their only business to circulate. + +Thus, openly, and yet with infinite caution, was spread the doctrine +of no God; of no government, and of no church; of the confiscation of +private property; of strikes and unrest; of revolution, rape, arson and +pillage. + +And around this social cancer the city worked and played. Its theatres +were crowded, its expensive shops, its hotels. Two classes of people +were spending money prodigally; women with shawls over their heads, +women who in all their peasant lives had never owned a hat, drove in +automobiles to order their winter supply of coal, and vast amounts of +liquors were being bought by the foreign element against the approaching +prohibition law, and stored in untidy cellars. + +On the other hand, the social life of the city was gay with reaction +from war. The newspapers were filled with the summer plans of the +wealthy, and with predictions of lavish entertaining in the fall. Among +the list of debutantes Lily's name always appeared. + +And, in between the upper and the nether millstone, were being ground +the professional and salaried men with families, the women clerks, the +vast army who asked nothing but the right to work and live. They went +through their days doggedly, with little anxious lines around their +eyes, suffering a thousand small deprivations, bewildered, tortured with +apprehension of to-morrow, and yet patiently believing that, as things +could not be worse, they must soon commence to improve. + +“It's bound to clear up soon,” said Joe Wilkinson over the back fence +one night late in June, to Willy Cameron. Joe supported a large family +of younger brothers and sisters in the house next door, and was employed +in a department store. “I figure it this way--both sides need each +other, don't they? Something like marriage, you know. It'll all be over +in six months. Only I'm thanking heaven just now it's summer, because +our kids are hell on shoes.” + +“I hope so,” said Willy Cameron. “What are you doing over there, +anyhow?” + +“Wait and see,” said Joe, cryptically. “If you think you're going to be +the only Central Park in this vicinity you've got to think again.” He +hesitated and glanced around, but the small Wilkinsons were searching +for worms in the overturned garden mold. “How's Edith?” he asked. + +“She's all right, Joe.” + +“Seeing anybody yet?” + +“Not yet. In a day or so she'll be downstairs.” + +“You might tell her I've been asking about her.” + +There was something in Joel's voice that caught Willy Cameron's +attention. He thought about Joe a great deal that night. Joe was another +one who must never know about Edith's trouble. The boy had little +enough, and if he had built a dream about Edith Boyd he must keep his +dream. He was rather discouraged that night, was Willy Cameron, and he +began to think that dreams were the best things in life. They were a +sort of sanctuary to which one fled to escape realities. Perhaps no +reality was ever as beautiful as one's dream of it. + +Lily had passed very definitely out of his life. Sometimes during his +rare leisure he walked to Cardew Way through the warm night, and past +the Doyle house, but he never saw her, and because it did not occur to +him that she might want to see him he never made an attempt to call. +Always after those futile excursions he was inclined to long silences, +and only Jinx could have told how many hours he sat in his room at +night, in the second-hand easy chair he had bought, pipe in hand and +eyes on nothing in particular, lost in a dream world where the fields +bore a strong resemblance to the parade ground of an army camp, and +through which field he and Lily wandered like children, hand in hand. + +But he had many things to think of. So grave were the immediate +problems, of food and rent, of Mrs. Boyd and Edith, that a little of his +fine frenzy as to the lurking danger of revolution departed from him. +The meetings in the back room at the pharmacy took on a political +bearing, and Hendricks was generally the central figure. The ward felt +that Mr. Hendricks was already elected, and called him “Mr. Mayor.” At +the same time the steel strike pursued a course of comparative calm. At +Friendship and at Baxter there had been rioting, and a fatality or two, +but the state constabulary had the situation well in hand. On a Sunday +morning Willy Cameron went out to Baxter on the trolley, and came +home greatly comforted. The cool-eyed efficiency of the state police +reassured him. He compared them, disciplined, steady, calm with the +calmness of their dangerous calling, with the rabble of foreigners who +shuffled along the sidewalks, and he felt that his anxiety had been +rather absurd. + +He was still making speeches, and now and then his name was mentioned in +the newspapers. Mrs. Boyd, now mostly confined to her room, spent much +time in searching for these notices, and then in painfully cutting them +out and pasting them in a book. On those days when there was nothing +about him she felt thwarted, and was liable to sharp remarks on +newspapers in general, and on those of the city in particular. + +Then, just as he began to feel that the strike would pass off like +other strikes, and that Doyle and his crowd, having plowed the field for +sedition, would find it planted with healthier grain, he had a talk with +Edith. + +She came downstairs for the first time one Wednesday evening early in +July, the scars on her face now only faint red blotches, and he placed +her, a blanket over her knees, in the small parlor. Dan had brought her +down and had made a real effort to be kind, but his suspicion of the +situation made it difficult for him to dissemble, and soon he went out. +Ellen was on the doorstep, and through the open window came the shrieks +of numerous little Wilkinsons wearing out expensive shoe-leather on the +brick pavement. + +They sat in the dusk together, Edith very quiet, Willy Cameron talking +with a sort of determined optimism. After a time he realized that she +was not even listening. + +“I wish you'd close the window,” she said at last. “Those crazy +Wilkinson kids make such a racket. I want to tell you something.” + +“All right.” He closed the window and stood looking down at her. “Are +you sure you want me to hear it?” he asked gravely. + +“Yes. It is not about myself. I've been reading the newspapers while +I've been shut away up there, Willy. It kept me from thinking. And if +things are as bad as they say I'd better tell you, even if I get into +trouble doing it. I will, probably. Murder's nothing to them.” + +“Who are 'them'?” + +“You get the police to search the Myers Housecleaning Company, in the +Searing Building.” + +“Don't you think you'd better tell me more than that? The police will +want something definite to go on.” + +She hesitated. + +“I don't know very much. I met somebody there, once or twice, at night. +And I know there's a telephone hidden in the drawer of the desk in the +back room. I swore not to tell, but that doesn't matter now. Tell them +to examine the safe, too. I don't know what's in it. Dynamite, maybe.” + +“What makes you think the company is wrong? A hidden telephone isn't +much to go on.” + +“When a fellow's had a drink or two, he's likely to talk,” she said +briefly, and before that sordid picture Willy Cameron was silent. After +a time he said: + +“You won't tell me the name of the man you met there?” + +“No. Don't ask me, Willy. That's between him and me.” He got up and took +a restless turn or two about the little rooms. Edith's problem had begun +to obsess him. Not for long would it be possible to keep her condition +from Mrs. Boyd. He was desperately at a loss for some course to pursue. + +“Have you ever thought,” he said at last, “that this man, whoever he is, +ought to marry you?” + +Edith's face set like a flint. + +“I don't want to marry him,” she said. “I wouldn't marry him if he was +the last man on earth.” + +He knew very little of Edith's past. In his own mind he had fixed on +Louis Akers, but he could not be sure. + +“I won't tell you his name, either,” Edith added, shrewishly. Then her +voice softened. “I will tell you this, Willy,” she said wistfully. “I +was a good girl until I knew him. I'm not saying that to let myself out. +It's the truth.” + +“You're a good girl now,” he said gravely. + +Some time after he got his hat and came in to tell her he was going out. + +“I'll tell what you've told me to Mr. Hendricks,” he said. “And we may +go on and have a talk with the Chief of Police. If you are right it may +be important.” + +After that for an hour or two Edith sat alone, save when Ellen now and +then looked in to see if she was comfortable. + +Edith's mind was chaotic. She had spoken on impulse, a good impulse at +that. But suppose they trapped Louis Akers in the Searing Building? + +Ellen went now and then to the Cardew house, and brought back with her +the news of the family. At first she had sternly refused to talk about +the Cardews to Edith, but the days in the sick room had been long and +monotonous, and Edith's jealousy of Lily had taken the form, when she +could talk, of incessant questions. + +So Edith knew that Louis Akers had been the cause of Lily's leaving +home, and called her a poor thing in her heart. Quite lately she had +heard that if Lily was not already engaged she probably would be, soon. +Now her motives were mixed, and her emotions confused. She had wanted +to tell Willy Cameron what she knew, but she wanted Lily to marry Louis +Akers. She wanted that terribly. Then Lily would be out of the way, +and--Willy was not like Dan; he did not seem to think her forever lost. +He had always been thoughtful, but lately he had been very tender with +her. Men did strange things sometimes. He might be willing to forget, +after a long time. She could board the child out somewhere, if it lived. +Sometimes they didn't live. + +But if they arrested Louis, Lily Cardew would fling him aside like an +old shoe. + +She closed her eyes. That opened a vista of possibilities she would not +face. + +She stopped in her mother's room on her slow progress upstairs, moved +to sudden pity for the frail life now wearing to its close. If that +were life she did not want it, with its drab days and futile effort, its +incessant deprivations, its hands, gnarled with work that got nowhere, +its greatest blessing sleep and forgetfulness. + +She wondered why her mother did not want to die, to get away. + +“I'll soon be able to look after you a bit, mother,” she said from the +doorway. “How's the pain down your arm?” + +“Bring me the mucilage, Edie,” requested Mrs. Boyd. She was propped up +in bed and surrounded by newspapers. “I've found Willy's name again. +I've got fourteen now. Where's the scissors?” + +Eternity was such a long time. Did she know? Could she know, and still +sit among her pillows, snipping? + +“I wonder,” said Mrs. Boyd, “did anybody feed Jinx? That Ellen is so +saving that she grudges him a bone.” + +“He looks all right,” said Edith, and went on up to bed. Maybe the Lord +did that for people, when they reached a certain point. Maybe He took +away the fear of death, by showing after years of it that life was not +so valuable after all. She remembered her own facing of eternity, and +her dread of what lay beyond. She had prayed first, because she wanted +to have some place on the other side. She had prayed to be received +young and whole and without child. And her mother-- + +Then she had a flash of intuition. There was something greater than +life, and that was love. Her mother was upheld by love. That was what +the eternal cutting and pasting meant. She was lavishing all the love +of her starved days on Willy Cameron; she was facing death, because his +hand was close by to hold to. + +For just a moment, sitting on the edge of her bed, Edith Boyd saw what +love might be, and might do. She held out both hands in the darkness, +but no strong and friendly clasp caught them close. If she could only +have him to cling to, to steady her wavering feet along the gray path +that stretched ahead, years and years of it. Youth. Middle age. Old age. + +“I'd only drag him down,” she muttered bitterly. + +Willy Cameron, meanwhile, had gone to Mr. Hendricks with Edith's story, +and together late that evening they saw the Chief of Police at his +house. Both Willy Cameron and Mr. Hendricks advocated putting a watch +on the offices of the Myers Housecleaning Company and thus ultimately +getting the heads of the organization. But the Chief was unwilling to +delay. + +“Every day means more of their infernal propaganda,” he said, “and if +this girl's telling a straight story, the thing to do is to get the +outfit now. Those clerks, for instance--we'll get some information out +of them. That sort always squeals. They're a cheap lot.” + +“Going to ball it up, of course,” Mr. Hendricks said disgustedly, on the +way home. “Won't wait, because if Akers gets in he's out, and he wants +to make a big strike first. I'll drop in to-morrow evening and tell you +what's happened.” + +He came into the pharmacy the next evening, with a bundle of red-bound +pamphlets under his arm, and a look of disgust on his face. + +“What did I tell you, Cameron?” he demanded, breathing heavily. “Yes, +they got them all right. Got a safe full of stuff so inflammable that, +since I've read some of it, I'm ready to blow up myself. It's worse than +that first lot I showed you. They got the two clerks, and a half-dozen +foreigners, too. And that's all they got.” + +“They won't talk?” + +“Talk? Sure they'll talk. They say they're employed by the Myers +Housecleaning Company, that they never saw the inside of the vault, and +they're squealing louder than two pigs under a gate about false arrest. +They'll have to let them go, son. Here. You can do most everything. Can +you read Croatian? No? Well, here's something in English to cut your +wisdom teeth on. Overthrowing the government is where these fellows +start.” + +It was intelligent, that propaganda. Willy Cameron thought he saw behind +it Jim Doyle and other men like Doyle, men who knew the discontents of +the world, and would fatten by them; men who, secretly envious of the +upper classes and unable to attain to them, would pull all men to their +own level, or lower. Men who cloaked their own jealousies with the garb +of idealism. Intelligent it was, dangerous, and imminent. + +The pamphlets spoke of “the day.” It was a Prussian phrase. The +revolution was Prussian. And like the Germans, they offered loot as a +reward. They appealed to the ugliest passions in the world, to lust and +greed and idleness. + +At a signal the mass was to arise, overthrow its masters and rule +itself. + +Mr. Hendricks stood in the doorway of the pharmacy and stared out at the +city he loved. + +“Just how far does that sort of stuff go, Cameron?” he asked. “Will our +people take it up? Is the American nation going crazy?” + +“Not a bit of it,” said Willy Cameron stoutly. “They're about as able to +overthrow the government as you are to shove over the Saint Elmo Hotel.” + +“I could do that, with a bomb.” + +“No, you couldn't. But you could make a fairly sizeable hole in it. It's +the hole we don't want.” + +Mr. Hendricks went away, vaguely comforted. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +To old Anthony the early summer had been full of humiliations, which he +carried with an increased arrogance of bearing that alienated even his +own special group at his club. + +“Confound the man,” said Judge Peterson, holding forth on the golf links +one Sunday morning while Anthony Cardew, hectic with rage, searched for +a lost ball and refused to drop another. “He'll hold us up all morning, +for that ball, just as he tries to hold up all progress.” He lowered his +voice. “What's happened to the granddaughter, anyhow?” + +Senator Lovell lighted a cigarette. + +“Turned Bolshevist,” he said, briefly. + +The Judge gazed at him. + +“That's a pretty serious indictment, isn't it?” + +“Well, that's what I hear. She's living in Jim Doyle's house. I guess +that's the answer. Hey, Cardew! D'you want these young cubs behind us to +play through, or are you going to show some sense and come on?” + +Howard, fighting his father tooth and nail, was compelled to a reluctant +admiration of his courage. But there was no cordiality between them. +They were in accord again, as to the strike, although from different +angles. Both of them knew that they were fighting for very life; both +of them felt that the strikers' demands meant the end of industry, meant +that the man who risked money in a business would eventually cease to +control that business, although if losses came it would be he, and +not the workmen, who bore them. Howard had gone as far as he could in +concessions, and the result was only the demand for more. The Cardews, +father and son, stood now together, their backs against a wall, and +fought doggedly. + +But only anxiety held them together. + +His father was now backing Howard's campaign for the mayoralty, but he +was rather late with his support, and in private he retained his cynical +attitude. He had not come over at all until he learned that Louis Akers +was an opposition candidate. At that his wrath knew no bounds and the +next day he presented a large check to the campaign committee. + +Mr. Hendricks, hearing of it, was moved to a dry chuckle. + +“Can't you hear him?” he demanded. “He'd stalk into headquarters as +important as an office boy who's been sent to the bank for money, and +he'd slam down his check and say just two words.” + +“Which would be?” inquired Willy Cameron. + +“'Buy 'em',” quoted Mr. Hendricks. “The old boy doesn't know that things +have changed since the 80's. This city has changed, my lad. It's voting +now the way it thinks, right or wrong. That's why these foreign language +papers can play the devil with us. The only knowledge the poor wretches +have got of us is what they're given to read. And most of it stinks of +sedition. Queer thing, this thinking. A fellow can think himself into +murder.” + +The strike was going along quietly enough. There had been rioting +through the country, but not of any great significance. It was in +reality a sort of trench warfare, with each side dug in and waiting for +the other to show himself in the open. The representatives of the press, +gathered in the various steel cities, with automobiles arranged for +to take them quickly to any disturbance that might develop, found +themselves with little news for the telegraph, and time hung heavy on +their hands. + +On an evening in July, Howard found Grace dressing for dinner, and +realized with a shock that she was looking thin and much older. He +kissed her and then held her off and looked at her. + +“You've got to keep your courage up, dear,” he said. “I don't think it +will be long now.” + +“Have you seen her?” + +“No. But something has happened. Don't look like that, Grace. It's +not--” + +“She hasn't married that man?” + +“No. Not that. It only touches her indirectly. But she can't stay there. +Even Elinor--” he checked himself. “I'll tell you after dinner.” + +Dinner was very silent, although Anthony delivered himself of one speech +rather at length. + +“So far as I can make out, Howard,” he said, “this man Hendricks is +getting pretty strong. He has a young fellow talking for him who gets +over pretty well. It's my judgment that Hendricks had better be bought +off. He goes around shouting that he's a plain man, after the support of +the plain people. Although I'm damned if I know what he means by that.” + +Anthony Cardew was no longer comfortable in his own house. He placed +the blame for it on Lily, and spent as many evenings away from home as +possible. He considered that life was using him rather badly. Tied to +the city in summer by a strike, his granddaughter openly gone over +to his enemy, his own son, so long his tool and his creature, merely +staying in his house to handle him, an income tax law that sent him to +his lawyers with new protests almost daily! A man was no longer master +even in his own home. His employees would not work for him, his family +disobeyed him, his government held him up and shook him. In the good old +days-- + +“I'm going out,” he said, as he rose from the table. “Grace, that chef +is worse than the last. You'd better send him off.” + +“I can't get any one else. I have tried for weeks. There are no servants +anywhere.” + +“Try New York.” + +“I have tried--it is useless.” + +No cooks, either. No servants. Even Anthony recognized that, with the +exception of Grayson, the servants in his house were vaguely hostile +to the family. They gave grudging service, worked short hours, and, +the only class of labor to which the high cost of food was a negligible +matter, demanded wages he considered immoral. + +“I don't know what the world's coming to,” he snarled. “Well, I'm off. +Thank God, there are still clubs for a man to go to.” + +“I want to have a talk with you, father.” + +“I don't want to talk.” + +“You needn't. I want you to listen, and I want Grace to hear, too.” + +In the end he went unwillingly into the library, and when Grayson had +brought liqueurs and coffee and had gone, Howard drew the card from his +pocket. + +“I met young Denslow to-day,” he said. “He came in to see me. As a +matter of fact, I signed a card he had brought along, and I brought one +for you, sir. Shall I read it?” + +“You evidently intend to.” + +Howard read the card slowly. Its very simplicity was impressive, as +impressive as it had been when Willy Cameron scrawled the words on the +back of an old envelope. Anthony listened. + +“Just what does that mean?” + +“That the men behind this movement believe that there is going to be a +general strike, with an endeavor to turn it into a revolution. Perhaps +only local, but these things have a tendency to spread. Denslow had some +literature which referred to an attempt to take over the city. They have +other information, too, all pointing the same way.” + +“Strikers?” + +“Foreign strikers, with the worst of the native born. Their plans are +fairly comprehensive; they mean to dynamite the water works, shut down +the gas and electric plants, and cut off all food supplies. Then when +they have starved and terrorized us into submission, we'll accept their +terms.” + +“What terms?” + +“Well, the rule of the mob, I suppose. They intend to take over the +banks, for one thing.” + +“I don't believe it. It's incredible.” + +“They meant to do it in Seattle.” + +“And didn't. Don't forget that.” + +“They may have learned some things from Seattle,” Howard said quietly. + +“We have the state troops.” + +“What about a half dozen similar movements in the state at the same +time? Or rioting in other places, carefully planned to draw the troops +and constabulary away?” + +In the end old Anthony was impressed, if not entirely convinced. But +he had no faith in the plain people, and said so. “They'll see property +destroyed and never lift a hand,” he said. “Didn't I stand by in +Pittsburgh during the railroad riots, and watch them smile while the +yards burned? Because the railroads meant capital to them, and they hate +capital.” + +“Precisely,” said Howard, “but after twenty-four hours they were +fighting like demons to restore law and order. It is”--he fingered the +card--“to save that twenty-four hours that this organization is being +formed. It is secret. Did I tell you that? And the idea originated with +the young man you spoke about as supporting Hendricks--you met him here +once, a friend of Lily's. His name is Cameron--William Wallace Cameron.” + +Old Anthony remained silent, but the small jagged vein on his forehead +swelled with anger. After a time: + +“I suppose Doyle is behind this?” he asked. “It sounds like him.” + +“That is the supposition. But they have nothing on him yet; he is too +shrewd for that. And that leads to something else. Lily cannot continue +to stay there.” + +“I didn't send her there.” + +“Actually, no. In effect--but we needn't go into that now. The situation +is very serious. I can imagine that nothing could fit better into his +plans than to have her there. She gives him a cachet of respectability. +Do you want that?” + +“She is probably one of them now. God knows how much of his rotten +doctrine she has absorbed.” + +Howard flushed, but he kept his temper. + +“His theories, possibly. His practice, no. She certainly has no idea... +it has come to this, father. She must have a home somewhere, and if it +cannot be here, Grace and I must make one for her elsewhere.” + +Probably Anthony Cardew had never respected Howard more than at that +moment, or liked him less. + +“Both you and Grace are free to make a home where you please.” + +“We prefer it here, but you must see yourself that things cannot go on +as they are. We have waited for you to see that, all three of us, and +now this new situation makes it imperative to take some action.” + +“I won't have that fellow Akers coming here.” + +“He would hardly come, under the circumstances. Besides, her friendship +with him is only a part of her revolt. If she comes home it will be with +the understanding that she does not see him again.” + +“Revolt?” said old Anthony, raising his eyebrows. + +“That is what it actually was. She found her liberty interfered with, +and she staged her own small rebellion. It was very human, I think.” + +“It was very Cardew,” said old Anthony, and smiled faintly. He had, to +tell the truth, developed a grudging admiration for his granddaughter in +the past two months. He saw in her many of his own qualities, good and +bad. And, more than he cared to own, he had missed her and the young +life she had brought into the quiet house. Most important of all, she +was the last of the Cardews. Although his capitulation when it came was +curt, he was happier than he had been for weeks. + +“Bring her home,” he said, “but tell her about Akers. If she says that +is off, I'll forget the rest.” + +On her way to her room that night Grace Cardew encountered Mademoiselle, +a pale, unhappy Mademoiselle, who seemed to spend her time mostly in +Lily's empty rooms or wandering about corridors. Whenever the three +members of the family were together she would retire to her own +quarters, and there feverishly with her rosary would pray for a +softening of hearts. She did not comprehend these Americans, who were so +kind to those beneath them and so hard to each other. + +“I wanted to see you, Mademoiselle,” Grace said, not very steadily. “I +have good news for you.” + +Mademoiselle began to tremble. “She is coming? Lily is coming?” + +“Yes. Will you have some fresh flowers put in her rooms in the morning?” + +Suddenly Mademoiselle forgot her years of repression, and flinging her +arms around Grace's neck she kissed her. Grace held her for a moment, +patting her shoulder gently. + +“We must try to make her very happy, Mademoiselle. I think things will +be different now.” + +Mademoiselle stood back and wiped her eyes. + +“But she must be different, too,” she said. “She is sweet and good, +but she is strong of will, too. The will to do, to achieve, that is +one thing, and very good. But the will to go one's own way, that is +another.” + +“The young are always headstrong, Mademoiselle.” + +But, alone later on, her rosary on her knee, Mademoiselle wondered. If +youth were the indictment against Lily, was she not still young? It took +years, or suffering, or sometimes both, to break the will of youth and +chasten its spirit. God grant Lily might not have suffering. + +It was Grace's plan to say nothing to Lily, but to go for her herself, +and thus save her the humiliation of coming back alone. All morning +housemaids were busy in Lily's rooms. Rugs were shaken, floors waxed +and rubbed, the silver frames and vases in her sitting room polished +to refulgence. And all morning Mademoiselle scolded and ran suspicious +fingers into corners, and arranged and re-arranged great boxes of +flowers. + +Long before the time she had ordered the car Grace was downstairs, +dressed for the street, and clad in cool shining silk, was pacing the +shaded hall. There was a vague air of expectation about the old house. +In a room off the pantry the second man was polishing the buttons of +his livery, using a pasteboard card with a hole in it to save the fabric +beneath. Grayson pottered about in the drawing room, alert for the +parlor maid's sins of omission. + +The telephone in the library rang, and Grayson answered it, while Grace +stood in the doorway. + +“A message from Miss Lily,” he said. “Mrs. Doyle has telephoned that +Miss Lily is on her way here.” + +Grace was vaguely disappointed. She had wanted to go to Lily with her +good news, to bring her home bag and baggage, to lead her into the house +and to say, in effect, that this was home, her home. She had felt that +they, and not Lily, should take the first step. + +She went upstairs, and taking off her hat, smoothed her soft dark hair. +She did not want Lily to see how she had worried; she eyed herself +carefully for lines. Then she went down, to more waiting, and for the +first time, to a little doubt. + +Yet when Lily came all was as it should have been. There was no doubt +about her close embrace of her mother, her happiness at seeing her. She +did not remove her gloves, however, and after she had put Grace in a +chair and perched herself on the arm of it, there was a little pause. +Each was preparing to tell something, each hesitated. Because Grace's +task was the easier it was she who spoke first. + +“I was about to start over when you telephoned, dear,” she said. “I--we +want you to come home to us again.” + +There was a queer, strained silence. + +“Who wants me?” Lily asked, unsteadily. + +“All of us. Your grandfather, too. He expects to find you here to-night. +I can explain to your Aunt Elinor over the telephone, and we can send +for your clothes.” + +Suddenly Lily got up and walked the length of the room. When she came +back her eyes were filled with tears, and her left hand was bare. + +“It nearly kills me to hurt you,” she said, “but--what about this?” + +She held out her hand. + +Grace seemed frozen in her chair. At the sight of her mother's face Lily +flung herself on her knees beside the chair. + +“Mother, mother,” she said, “you must know how I love you. Love you +both. Don't look like that. I can't bear it.” + +Grace turned away her face. + +“You don't love us. You can't. Not if you are going to marry that man.” + +“Mother,” Lily begged, desperately, “let me come home. Let me bring him +here. I'll wait, if you'll only do that. He is different; I know all +that you want to say about his past. He has never had a real chance +in all his life. He won't belong at first, but--he's a man, mother, a +strong man. And it's awfully important. He can do so much, if he only +will. And he says he will, if I marry him.” + +“I don't understand you,” Grace said coldly. “What can a man like that +do, but wreck all our lives?” + +Resentment was rising fast in Lily, but she kept it down. “I'll tell you +about that later,” she said, and slowly got to her feet. “Is that all, +mother? You won't see him? I can't bring him here? Isn't there any +compromise? Won't you meet me half-way?” + +“When you say half-way, you mean all the way, Lily.” + +“I wanted you so,” Lily said, drearily, “I need you so just now. I am +going to be married, and I have no one to go to. Aunt Elinor doesn't +understand, either. Every way I look I find--I suppose I can't come back +at all, then.” + +“Your grandfather's condition was that you never see this Louis Akers +again.” + +Lily's resentment left her. Anger was a thing for small matters, trivial +affairs. This that was happening, an irrevocable break with her family, +was as far beyond anger as it was beyond tears. She wondered dully if +any man were worth all this. Perhaps she knew, sub-consciously, that +Louis Akers was not. All her exaltation was gone, and in its stead was a +sort of dogged determination to see the thing through now, at any cost; +to re-make Louis into the man he could be, to build her own house of +life, and having built it, to live in it as best she could. + +“That is a condition I cannot fulfill, mother. I am engaged to him.” + +“Then you love him more than you do any of us, or all of us.” + +“I don't know. It is different,” she said vaguely. + +She kissed her mother very tenderly when she went away, but there was +a feeling of finality in them both. Mademoiselle, waiting at the top of +the stairs, heard the door close and could not believe her ears. Grace +went upstairs, her face a blank before the servants, and shut herself +in her room. And in Lily's boudoir the roses spread a heavy, funereal +sweetness over the empty room. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +The strike had been carried on with comparatively little disorder. +In some cities there had been rioting, but half-hearted and +easily controlled. Almost without exception it was the foreign and +unassimilated element that broke the peace. Alien women spat on the +state police, and flung stones at them. Here and there property +was destroyed. A few bomb outrages filled the newspapers with great +scare-heads, and sent troops and a small army of secret service men here +and there. + +In the American Federation of Labor a stocky little man grimly fought to +oppose the Radical element, which was slowly gaining ground, and at the +same time to retain his leadership. The great steel companies, united +at last by a common danger and a common fate if they yielded, stood +doggedly and courageously together, waiting for a return of sanity to +the world. The world seemed to have gone mad. Everywhere in the country +production was reduced by the cessation of labor, and as a result the +cost of living was mounting. + +And every strike lost in the end. Labor had yet to learn that to cease +to labor may express a grievance, but that in itself it righted no +wrongs. Rather, it turned that great weapon, public opinion, without +which no movement may succeed, against it. And that to stand behind +the country in war was not enough. It must stand behind the country in +peace. + +It had to learn, too, that a chain is only as strong as its weakest +link. The weak link in the labor chain was its Radical element. Rioters +were arrested with union cards in their pockets. In vain the unions +protested their lack of sympathy with the unruly element. The vast +respectable family of union labor found itself accused of the sins of +the minority, and lost standing thereby. + +At Friendship the unruly element was very strong. For a time it held its +meetings in a hall. When that was closed it resorted to the open air. + +On the fifteenth of July it held an incendiary meeting on the unused +polo field, and the next day awakened to the sound of hammers, and +to find a high wooden fence, reenforced with barbed wire, being built +around the field, with the state police on guard over the carpenters. In +a few days the fence was finished, only to be partly demolished the next +night, secretly and noiselessly. But no further attempts were made to +hold meetings there. It was rumored that meetings were being secretly +held in the woods near the town, but the rendezvous was not located. + +On the restored fence around the polo grounds a Red flag was found one +morning, and two nights later the guard at the padlocked gate was shot +through the heart, from ambush. + +Then, about the first of August, out of a clear sky, sporadic riotings +began to occur. They seemed to originate without cause, and to end as +suddenly as they began. Usually they were in the outlying districts, +but one or two took place in the city itself. The rioters were not +all foreign strikers from the mills. They were garment workers, hotel +waiters, a rabble of the discontented from all trades. The riots were to +no end, apparently. They began with a chance word, fought their furious +way for an hour or so, and ended, leaving a trail of broken heads and +torn clothing behind them. + +On toward the end of July one such disturbance grew to considerable +size. The police were badly outnumbered, and a surprising majority of +the rioters were armed, with revolvers, with wooden bludgeons, lengths +of pipe and short, wicked iron bars. Things were rather desperate until +the police found themselves suddenly and mysteriously reenforced by +a cool-headed number of citizens, led by a tall thin man who limped +slightly, and who disposed his heterogeneous support with a few words +and considerable skill. + +The same thin young man, stopping later in an alley way to investigate +an arm badly bruised by an iron bar, overheard a conversation between +two roundsmen, met under a lamppost after the battle, for comfort and a +little conversation. + +“Can you beat that, Henry?” said one. “Where the hell'd they come from?” + +“Search me,” said Henry. “D'you see the skinny fellow? Limped, too. +D'you notice that? Probably hurt in France. But he hasn't forgotten how +to fight, I'll tell the world.” + +The outbreaks puzzled the leaders of the Vigilance Committee. Willy +Cameron was inclined to regard them as without direction or intention, +purely as manifestations of hate, and as such contrary to the plans of +their leaders. And Mr. Hendricks, nursing a black eye at home after the +recent outburst, sized up the situation shrewdly. + +“You can boil a kettle too hard,” he said, “and then the lid pops off. +Doyle and that outfit of his have been burning the fire a little high, +that's all. They'll quit now, because they want to get us off guard +later. You and your committee can take a vacation, unless you can set +them to electioneering for me. They've had enough for a while, the +devils. They'll wait now for Akers to get in and make things easy for +them. Mind my words, boy. That's the game.” + +And the game it seemed to be. Small violations of order still occurred, +but no big ones. To the headquarters in the Denslow Bank came an +increasing volume of information, to be duly docketed and filed. Some of +it was valueless. Now and then there came in something worth following +up. Thus one night Pink and a picked band, following a vague clew, went +in automobiles to the state borderline, and held up and captured two +trucks loaded with whiskey and destined for Friendship and Baxter. He +reported to Willy Cameron late that night. + +“Smashed it all up and spilled it in the road,” he said. “Hurt like +sin to do it, though. Felt like the fellow who shot the last passenger +pigeon.” + +But if the situation in the city was that of armed neutrality, in the +Boyd house things were rapidly approaching a climax, and that through +Dan. He was on edge, constantly to be placated and watched. The strike +was on his nerves; he felt his position keenly, resented Willy Cameron +supporting the family, and had developed a curious jealousy of his +mother's affection for him. + +Toward Edith his suspicions had now become certainty, and an open break +came on an evening when she said that she felt able to go to work again. +They were at the table, and Ellen was moving to and from the kitchen, +carrying in the meal. Her utmost thrift could not make it other than +scanty, and finally Dan pushed his plate away. + +“Going back to work, are you?” he sneered. “And how long do you think +you'll be able to work?” + +“You keep quiet,” Edith flared at him. “I'm going to work. That's all +you need to know. I can't sit here and let a man who doesn't belong +to us provide every bite we eat, if you can.” Willy Cameron got up and +closed the door, for Mrs. Boyd an uncanny ability to hear much that went +on below. + +“Now,” he said when he came back, “we might as well have this out. Dan +has a right to be told, Edith, and he can help us plan something.” He +turned to Dan. “It must be kept from your mother, Dan.” + +“Plan something!” Dan snarled. “I know what to plan, all right. I'll +find the--” he broke into foul, furious language, but suddenly Willy +Cameron rose, and there was something threatening in his eyes. + +“I know who it is,” Dan said, more quietly, “and he's got to marry her, +or I'll kill him.” + +“You know, do you? Well, you don't,” Edith said, “and I won't marry him +anyhow.” + +“You will marry him. Do you think I'm going to see mother disgraced, +sick as she is, and let you get away with it? Where does Akers live? You +know, don't you? You've been there, haven't you?” + +All Edith's caution was forgotten in her shame and anger. + +“Yes, I know,” she said, hysterically, “but I won't tell you. And I +won't marry him. I hate him. If you go to him he'll beat you to death.” + Suddenly the horrible picture of Dan in Akers' brutal hands overwhelmed +her. “Dan, you won't go?” she begged. “He'll kill you.” + +“A lot you'd care,” he said, coldly. “As if we didn't have enough +already! As if you couldn't have married Joe Wilkinson, next door, and +been a decent woman. And instead, you're a--” + +“Be quiet, Dan,” Willy Cameron interrupted him. “That sort of talk +doesn't help any. Edith is right. If you go to Akers there will be a +fight. And that's no way to protect her.” + +“God!” Dan muttered. “With all the men in the world, to choose that +rotten anarchist!” + +It was sordid, terribly tragic, the three of them sitting there in the +badly lighted little room around the disordered table, with Ellen grimly +listening in the doorway, and the odors of cooking still heavy in +the air. Edith sat there, her hands on the table, staring ahead, and +recounted her wrongs. She had never had a chance. Home had always been a +place to get away from. Nobody had cared what became of her. And hadn't +she tried to get out of the way? Only they all did their best to make +her live. She wished she had died. + +Dan, huddled low in his chair, his legs sprawling, stared at nothing +with hopeless eyes. + +Afterwards Willy Cameron could remember nothing of the scene in detail. +He remembered its setting, but of all the argument and quarreling only +one thing stood out distinctly, and that was Edith's acceptance of Dan's +accusation. It was Akers, then. And Lily Cardew was going to marry him. +Was in love with him. + +“Does he know how things are?” he asked. + +She nodded. “Yes.” + +“Does he offer to do anything?” + +“Him? He does not. And don't you go to him and try to get him to marry +me. I tell you I'd die first.” + +He left them there, sitting in the half light, and going out into the +hall picked up his hat. Mrs. Boyd heard him and called to him, and +before he went out he ran upstairs to her room. It seemed to him, as he +bent over her, that her lips were bluer than ever, her breath a little +shallower and more difficult. Her untouched supper tray was beside her. + +“I wasn't hungry,” she explained. “Seems to me, Willy, if you'd let +me go downstairs so I could get some of my own cooking I'd eat better. +Ellen's all right, but I kind o' crave sweet stuff, and she don't like +making desserts.” + +“You'll be down before long,” he assured her. “And making me pies. +Remember those pies you used to bake?” + +“You always were a great one for my pies,” she said, complacently. + +He kissed her when he left. He had always marveled at the strange lack +of demonstrativeness in the household, and he knew that she valued his +small tendernesses. + +“Now remember,” he said, “light out at ten o'clock, and no going +downstairs in the middle of the night because you smell smoke. When you +do, it's my pipe.” + +“I don't think you hardly ever go to bed, Willy.” + +“Me? Get too much sleep. I'm getting fat with it.” + +The stale little joke was never stale with her. He left her smiling, and +went down the stairs and out into the street. + +He had no plan in his mind except to see Louis Akers, and to find out +from him if he could what truth there was in Edith Boyd's accusation. +He believed Edith, but he must have absolute certainty before he did +anything. Girls in trouble sometimes shielded men. If he could get the +facts from Louis Akers--but he had no idea of what he would do then. He +couldn't very well tell Lily, but her people might do something. Or Mrs. +Doyle. + +He knew Lily well enough to know that she would far rather die than +marry Akers, under the circumstances. That her failure to marry Louis +Akers would mean anything as to his own relationship with her he never +even considered. All that had been settled long ago, when she said she +did not love him. + +At the Benedict he found that his man had not come home, and for an hour +or two he walked the streets. The city seemed less majestic to him than +usual; its quiet by-streets were lined with homes, it is true, but those +very streets hid also vice and degradation, and ugly passions. They +sheltered, but also they concealed. + +At eleven o'clock he went back to the Benedict, and was told that Mr. +Akers had come in. + +It was Akers himself who opened the door. Because the night was hot he +had shed coat and shirt, and his fine torso, bare to the shoulders and +at the neck, gleamed in the electric light. Willy Cameron had not seen +him since those spring days when he had made his casual, bold-eyed +visits to Edith at the pharmacy, and he had a swift insight into the +power this man must have over women. He himself was tall; but Akers was +taller, fully muscled, his head strongly set on a neck like a column. +But he surmised that the man was soft, out of condition. And he had lost +the first elasticity of youth. + +Akers' expression had changed from one of annoyance to watchfulness when +he opened the door. + +“Well!” he said. “Making a late call, aren't you?” + +“What I had to say wouldn't wait.” + +Akers had, rather unwillingly, thrown the door wide, and he went in. +The room was very hot, for a small fire, littered as to its edges with +papers, burned in the grate. Although he knew that Akers had guessed the +meaning of his visit at once and was on guard, there was a moment or two +when each sparred for an opening. + +“Sit down. Have a cigarette?” + +“No, thanks.” He remained standing. + +“Or a high-ball? I still have some fairly good whiskey.” + +“No. I came to ask you a question, Mr. Akers.” + +“Well, answering questions is one of the best little things I do.” + +“You know about Edith Boyd's condition. She says you are responsible. Is +that true?” + +Louis Akers was not unprepared. Sooner or later he had known that Edith +would tell. But what he had not counted on was that she would tell +any one who knew Lily. He had felt that her leaving the pharmacy had +eliminated that chance. “What do you mean, her condition?” + +“You know. She says she has told you.” + +“You're pretty thick with her yourself, aren't you?” + +“I happen to live at the Boyd house.” + +He was keeping himself well under control, but Akers saw his hand +clench, and resorted to other tactics. He was not angry himself, but he +was wary now; he considered that life was unnecessarily complicated, and +that he had a distinct grievance. + +“I have asked you a question, Mr. Akers.” + +“You don't expect me to answer it, do you?” + +“I do.” + +“If you have come here to talk to me about marrying her--” + +“She won't marry you,” Willy Cameron said steadily. “That's not the +point I want your own acknowledgment of responsibility, that's all.” + +Akers was puzzled, suspicious, and yet relieved. He lighted a cigarette +and over the match stared at the other man's quiet face. + +“No!” he said suddenly. “I'm damned if I'll take the responsibility. She +knew her way around long before I ever saw her. Ask her. She can't lie +about it. I can produce other men to prove what I say. I played around +with her, but I don't know whose child that is, and I don't believe she +does.” + +“I think you are lying.” + +“All right. But I can produce the goods.” + +Willy Cameron went very pale. His hands were clenched again, and Akers +eyed him warily. + +“None of that,” he cautioned. “I don't know what interest you've got in +this, and I don't give a God-damn. But you'd better not try any funny +business with me.” + +Willy Cameron smiled. Much the sort of smile he had worn during the +rioting. + +“I don't like to soil my hands on you,” he said, “but I don't mind +telling you that any man who ruins a girl's life and then tries to get +out of it by defaming her, is a skunk.” + +Akers lunged at him. + +Some time later Mr. William Wallace Cameron descended to the street. +He wore his coat collar turned up to conceal the absence of certain +articles of wearing apparel which he had mysteriously lost. And he wore, +too, a somewhat distorted, grim and entirely complacent smile. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +The city had taken the rioting with a weary philosophy. It was tired of +fighting. For two years it had labored at high tension for the European +war. It had paid taxes and bought bonds, for the war. It had saved and +skimped and denied itself, for the war. And for the war it had made +steel, steel for cannon and for tanks, for ships and for railroads. It +had labored hard and well, and now all it wanted was to be allowed to +get back to normal things. It wanted peace. + +It said, in effect: “I have both fought and labored, sacrificed and +endured. Give me now my rest of nights, after a day's work. Give me +marriage and children. Give me contentment. Give me the things I have +loved long since, and lost awhile.” + +And because the city craved peace, it was hard to rouse it to its +danger. It was war-weary, and its weariness was not of apathy, but of +exhaustion. It was not yet ready for new activity. + +Then, the same night that had seen Willy Cameron's encounter with Akers, +it was roused from its lethargy. A series of bomb outrages shook the +downtown district. The Denslow Bank was the first to go. Willy Cameron, +inspecting a cut lip in his mirror, heard a dull explosion, and ran down +to the street. There he was joined by Joe Wilkinson, in trousers over +his night shirt, and as they looked, a dull red glare showed against +the sky. Joe went back for more clothing, but Willy Cameron ran down the +street. At the first corner he heard a second explosion, further away +and to the east, but apparently no fire followed it. That, he learned +later, was the City Club, founded by Anthony Cardew years before. + +The Denslow Bank was burning. The facade had been shattered and from the +interior already poured a steady flow of flame and smoke. He stood among +the crowd, while the engines throbbed and the great fire hose lay +along the streets, and watched the little upper room where the precious +records of the Committee were burning brightly. The front wall gone, +the small office stood open to the world, a bright and shameless thing, +flaunting its nakedness to the crowd below. + +He wondered why Providence should so play into the hands of the enemy. + +After a time he happened on Pink Denslow, wandering alone on the +outskirts of the crowd. + +“Just about kill the governor, this,” said Pink, heavily. “Don't suppose +the watchmen got out, either. Not that they'd care,” he added, savagely. + +“How about the vaults? I suppose they are fireproof?” + +“Yes. Do you realize that every record we've got has gone? D'you suppose +those fellows knew about them?” + +Willy Cameron had been asking himself the same question. + +“Trouble is,” Pink went on, “you don't know who to trust. They're not +all foreigners. Let's get away from here; it makes me sick.” + +They wandered through the night together, almost unconsciously in the +direction of the City Club, but within a block of it they realized that +something was wrong. A hospital ambulance dashed by, its gong ringing +wildly, and a fire engine, not pumping, stood at the curb. + +“Come on,” Pink said suddenly. “There were two explosions. It's just +possible--” + +The club was more sinister than the burning bank; it was a mass of grim +wreckage, black and gaping, with now and then the sound of settling +masonry, and already dotted with the moving flash-lights of men who +searched. + +To Pink this catastrophe was infinitely greater than that of the bank. +Men he knew had lived there. There were old club servants who were like +family retainers; one or two employees were ex-service men for whom he +had found employment. He stood there, with Willy Cameron's hand on his +arm, with a new maturity and a vast suffering in his face. + +“Before God,” he said solemnly, “I swear never to rest until the fellows +behind this are tried, condemned and hanged. You've heard it, Cameron.” + +The death list for that night numbered thirteen, the two watchmen at +the bank and eleven men at the club, two of them members. Willy Cameron, +going home at dawn, exhausted and covered with plaster dust, bought +an extra and learned that a third bomb, less powerful, had wrecked the +mayor's house. It had been placed under the sleeping porch, and but for +the accident of a sick baby the entire family would have been wiped out. + +Even his high courage began to waver. His records were gone; that +was all to do over again. But what seemed to him the impasse was this +fighting in the dark. An unseen enemy, always. And an enemy which +combined with skill a total lack of any rules of warfare, which killed +here, there and everywhere, as though for the sheer joy of killing. It +struck at the high but killed the low. And it had only begun. + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +Dominant family traits have a way of skipping one generation and +appearing in the next. Lily Cardew at that stage of her life had a +considerable amount of old Anthony's obstinacy and determination, +although it was softened by a long line of Cardew women behind her, +women who had loved, and suffered dominance because they loved. Her very +infatuation for Louis Akers, like Elinor's for Doyle, was possibly an +inheritance from her fore-mothers, who had been wont to overlook the +evil in a man for the strength in him. Only Lily mistook physical +strength for moral fibre, insolence and effrontery for courage. + +In both her virtues and her faults, however, irrespective of heredity, +Lily represented very fully the girl of her position and period. With no +traditions to follow, setting her course by no compass, taught to think +but not how to think, resentful of tyranny but unused to freedom, +she moved ahead along the path she had elected to follow, blindly and +obstinately, yet unhappy and suffering. + +Her infatuation for Louis Akers had come to a new phase of its rapid +development. She had reached that point where a woman realizes that the +man she loves is, not a god of strength and wisdom, but a great child +who needs her. It is at that point that one of two things happens: the +weak woman abandons him, and follows her dream elsewhere. The woman +of character, her maternal instinct roused, marries him, bears him +children, is both wife and mother to him, and finds in their united +weaknesses such strength as she can. + +In her youth and self-sufficiency Lily stood ready to give, rather than +to receive. She felt now that he needed her more than she needed him. +There was something unconsciously patronizing those days in her attitude +toward him, and if he recognized it he did not resent it. Women had +always been “easy” for him. Her very aloofness, her faint condescension, +her air of a young grande dame, were a part of her attraction for him. + +Love sees clearly, and seeing, loves on. But infatuation is blind; when +it gains sight, it dies. Already Lily was seeing him with the critical +eyes of youth, his loud voice, his over-fastidious dress, his occasional +grossnesses. To offset these she placed vast importance on his promise +to leave his old associates when she married him. + +The time was very close now. She could not hold him off much longer, +and she began to feel, too, that she must soon leave the house on Cardew +Way. Doyle's attitude to her was increasingly suspicious and ungracious. +She knew that he had no knowledge of Louis's promise, but he began to +feel that she was working against him, and showed it. + +And in Louis Akers too she began to discern an inclination not to pull +out until after the election. He was ambitious, and again and again he +urged that he would be more useful for the purpose in her mind if he +were elected first. + +That issue came to a climax the day she had seen her mother and learned +the terms on which she might return home. She was alarmed by his noisy +anger at the situation. + +“Do sit down, Louis, and be quiet,” she said. “You have known their +attitude all along, haven't you?” + +“I'll show them,” he said, thickly. “Damned snobs!” He glanced at her +then uneasily, and her expression put him on his guard. “I didn't mean +that, little girl. Honestly I didn't. I don't care for myself. It's +you.” + +“You must understand that they think they are acting for my good. And +I am not sure,” she added, her clear eyes on him, “that they are not +right. You frighten me sometimes, Louis.” + +But a little later he broke out again. If he wasn't good enough to enter +their house, he'd show them something. The election would show them +something. They couldn't refuse to receive the mayor of the city. +She saw then that he was bent on remaining with Doyle until after the +election. + +Lily sat back, listening and thinking. Sometimes she thought that he +did not love her at all. He always said he wanted her, but that was +different. + +“I think you love yourself more than you love me, Louis,” she said, when +he had exhausted himself. “I don't believe you know what love is.” + +That brought him to his knees, his arms around her, kissing her hands, +begging her not to give him up, and once again her curious sense of +responsibility for him triumphed. + +“You will marry me soon, dear, won't you?” he implored her. But she +thought of Willy Cameron, oddly enough, even while his arms were around +her; of the difference in the two men. Louis, big, crouching, suppliant +and insistent; Willy Cameron, grave, reserved and steady, taking what +she now knew was the blow of her engagement like a gentleman and a +soldier. + +They represented, although she did not know it, the two divisions of men +in love, the men who offer much and give little, the others who, out of +a deep humility, offer little and give everything they have. + +In the end, nothing was settled. After he had gone Lily, went up to +Elinor's room. She had found in Elinor lately a sort of nervous tension +that puzzled her, and that tension almost snapped when Lily told her of +her visit home, and of her determination to marry Louis within the next +few days. Elinor had dropped her sewing and clenched her hands in her +lap. + +“Not soon, Lily!” she said. “Oh, not soon. Wait a little--wait two +months.” + +“Two months?” Lily said wonderingly. “Why two months?” + +“Because, at the end of two months, nothing would make you marry him,” + Elinor said, almost violently. “I have sat by and waited, because I +thought you would surely see your mistake. But now--Lily, do you envy me +my life?” + +“No,” Lily said truthfully; “but you love him.” + +Elinor sat, her eyes downcast and brooding. + +“You are different,” she said finally. “You will break, where I have +only bent.” + +But she said no more about a delay. She had been passive too long to be +able to take any strong initiative now. And all her moral and physical +courage she was saving for a great emergency. + +Cardew Way was far from the center of town, and Lily knew nothing of the +bomb outrages of that night. + +When she went down to breakfast the next morning she found Jim Doyle +pacing the floor of the dining room in a frenzy of rage, a newspaper +clenched in his hand. By the window stood Elinor, very pale and with +slightly reddened eyes. They had not heard her, and Doyle continued a +furious harangue. + +“The fools!” he said. “Damn such material as I have to work with! This +isn't the time, and they know it. I've warned them over and over. The +fools!” + +Elinor saw her then, and made a gesture of warning. But it was too late. +Lily had a certain quality of directness, and it did not occur to her to +dissemble. + +“Is anything wrong?” she asked, and went at once to Elinor. She had once +or twice before this stood between them for Elinor's protection. + +“Everything is as happy as a May morning,” Doyle sneered. “Your Aunt +Elinor has an unpleasant habit of weeping for joy.” + +Lily stiffened, but Elinor touched her arm. + +“Sit down and eat your breakfast, Lily,” she said, and left the room. + +Doyle stood staring at Lily angrily. He did not know how much she +had heard, how much she knew. At the moment he did not care. He had +a reckless impulse to tell her the truth, but his habitual caution +prevailed. He forced a cold smile. + +“Don't bother your pretty head about politics,” he said. + +Lily was equally cold. Her dislike of him had been growing for weeks, +coupled to a new and strange distrust. + +“Politics? You seem to take your politics very hard.” + +“I do,” he said urbanely. “Particularly when I am fighting my wife's +family. May I pour you some coffee?” + +And pour it he did, eyeing her furtively the while, and brought it to +her. + +“May I give you a word of advice, Lily?” he said. “Don't treat your +husband to tears at breakfast--unless you want to see him romping off to +some other woman.” + +“If he cared to do that I shouldn't want him anyhow.” + +“You're a self-sufficient child, aren't you? Well, the best of us do it, +sometimes.” + +He had successfully changed the trend of her thoughts, and he went out, +carrying the newspaper with him. + +Nevertheless, he began to feel that her presence in the house was a +menace. With all her theories he knew that a word of the truth would +send her flying, breathless with outrage, out of his door. He could +quite plainly visualize that home-coming of hers. The instant steps that +would be taken against him, old Anthony on the wire appealing to the +governor, Howard closeted with the Chief of Police, an instant closing +of the net. And he was not ready for the clash. + +No. She must stay. If only Elinor would play the game, instead of puling +and mouthing! In the room across the hall where his desk stood he paced +the floor, first angrily, then thoughtfully, his head bent. He saw, and +not far away now, himself seated in the city hall, holding the city in +the hollow of his hand. From that his dreams ranged far. He saw himself +the head, not of the nation--there would be no nation, as such--but of +the country. The very incidents of the night before, blundering as they +were, showed him the ease with which the new force could be applied. + +He was drunk with power. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +Lily had an unexpected visitor that afternoon, in the person of Pink +Denslow. She had assumed some of Elinor's cares for the day, for Elinor +herself had not been visible since breakfast. It soothed the girl to +attend to small duties, and she was washing and wiping Elinor's small +stock of fine china when the bell rang. + +“Mr. Denslow is calling,” said Jennie. “I didn't know if you'd see him, +so I said I didn't know if you were in.” + +Lily's surprise at Pink's visit was increased when she saw him. He was +covered with plaster dust, even to the brim of his hat, and his hands +were scratched and rough. + +“Pink!” she said. “Why, what is the matter?” + +For the first time he was conscious of his appearance, and for the first +time in his life perhaps, entirely indifferent to it. + +“I've been digging in the ruins,” he said. “Is that man Doyle in the +house?” + +Her color faded. Suddenly she noticed a certain wildness about Pink's +eyes, and the hard strained look of his mouth. + +“What ruins, Pink?” she managed to ask. + +“All the ruins,” he said. “You know, don't you? The bank, our bank, and +the club?” + +It seemed to her afterwards that she knew before he told her, saw it +all, a dreadful picture which had somehow superimposed upon it a vision +of Jim Doyle with the morning paper, and the thing that this was not the +time for. + +“That's all,” he finished. “Eleven at the club, two of them my own +fellows. In France, you know. I found one of them myself, this morning.” + He stared past her, over her head. “Killed for nothing, the way the +Germans terrorized Belgium. Haven't you seen the papers?” + +“No, they wouldn't let you see them, of course. Lily, I want you to +leave here. If you don't, if you stay now, you're one of them, whether +you believe what they preach or not. Don't you see that?” + +She was not listening. Her faith was dying hard, and the mental shock +had brought her dizziness and a faint nausea. He stood watching her, and +when she glanced up at him it seemed to her that Pink was hard. Hard and +suspicious, and the suspicion was for her. It was incredible. + +“Do you believe what they preach?” he demanded. “I've got to know, Lily. +I've suffered the tortures of the damned all night.” + +“I didn't know it meant this.” + +“Do you?” he repeated. + +“No. You ought to know me better than that. But I don't believe that it +started here, Pink. He was very angry this morning, and he wouldn't let +me see the paper.” + +“He's behind it all right,” Pink said grimly. “Maybe he didn't plant the +bombs, but his infernal influence did it, just the same. Do you mean +to say you've lived here all this time and don't know he is plotting a +revolution? What if he didn't authorize these things last night? He is +only waiting, to place a hundred bombs instead of three. A thousand, +perhaps.” + +“Oh, no!” + +“We've got their own statements. Department of Justice found them. The +fools, to think they can overthrow the government! Can you imagine men +planning to capture this city and hold it?” + +“It wouldn't be possible, Pink?” + +“It isn't possible now, but they'll make a try at it.” + +There was a short pause, with Lily struggling to understand. Pink's +set face relaxed somewhat. All that night he had been fighting for his +belief in her. + +“I never dreamed of it, Pink. I suppose all the talk I've heard meant +that, but I never--are you sure? About Jim Doyle, I mean.” + +“We know he is behind it. We haven't got the goods on him yet, but we +know. Cameron knows. You ask him and he'll tell you.” + +“Willy Cameron?” + +“Yes. He's had some vision, while the rest of us--! He's got a lot of us +working now, Lily. We are on the right trail, too, although we lost some +records last night that put us back a couple of months. We'll get them, +all right. We'll smash their little revolution into a cocked hat.” + It occurred to him, then, that this house was a poor place for such a +confidence. “I'll tell you about it later. Get your things now, and let +me take you home.” + +But Lily's problem was too complex for Pink's simple remedy. She was +stricken with sudden conviction; the very mention of Willy Cameron gave +Pink's statements authority. But to go like that, to leave Elinor in +that house, with all that it implied, was impossible. And there was her +own private problem to dispose of. + +“I'll go this afternoon, Pink. I'll promise you that. But I can't go +with you now. I can't. You'll have to take my word, that's all. And you +must believe I didn't know.” + +“Of course you didn't know,” he said, sturdily. “But I hate like thunder +to go and leave you here.” He picked up his hat, reluctantly. “If I can +do anything--” + +Lily's mind was working more clearly now. This was the thing Louis Akers +had been concerned with, then, a revolution against his country. But +it was the thing, too, that he had promised to abandon. He was not a +killer. She knew him well, and he was not a killer. He had got to a +certain point, and then the thing had sickened him. Even without her he +would never have gone through with it. But it would be necessary now to +get his information quickly. Very quickly. + +“Suppose,” she said, hesitatingly, “suppose I tell you that I think I am +going to be able to help you before long?” + +“Help? I want you safe. This is not work for women.” + +“But suppose I can bring you a very valuable ally?” she persisted. “Some +one who knows all about certain plans, and has changed his views about +them?” + +“One of them?” + +“He has been.” + +“Is he selling his information?” + +“In a way, yes,” said Lily, slowly. + +“Ware the fellow who sells information,” Pink said. “But we'll be glad +to have it. We need it, God knows. And--you'll leave?” + +“I couldn't stay, could I?” + +He kissed her hand when he went away, doing it awkwardly and +self-consciously, but withal reverently. She wondered, rather dully, why +she could not love Pink. A woman would be so safe with him, so sure. + +She had not even then gathered the full force of what he had told her. +But little by little things came back to her; the man on guard in the +garden; the incident of the locked kitchen door; Jim Doyle once talking +angrily over a telephone in his study, although no telephone, so far as +she knew, was installed in the room; his recent mysterious absences, and +the increasing visits of the hateful Woslosky. + +She went back to Louis. This was what he had meant. He had known all +along, and plotted with them; even if his stomach had turned now, he +had been a party to this infamy. Even then she did not hate him; she saw +him, misled as she had been by Doyle's high-sounding phrases, lured on +by one of those wild dreams of empire to which men were sometimes given. +She did not love him any more; she was sorry for him. + +She saw her position with the utmost clearness. To go home was to +abandon him, to lose him for those who needed what he could give, to +send him back to the enemy. She had told Pink she could secure an ally +for a price, and she was the price. There was not an ounce of melodrama +in her, as she stood facing the situation. She considered, quite simply, +that she had assumed an obligation which she must carry out. Perhaps her +pride was dictating to her also. To go crawling home, bowed to the dust, +to admit that life had beaten her, to face old Anthony's sneers and her +mother's pity--that was hard for any Cardew. + +She remembered Elinor's home-comings of years ago, the strained air of +the household, the whispering servants, and Elinor herself shut away, +or making her rare, almost furtive visits downstairs when her father was +out of the house. + +No, she could not face that. + +Her own willfulness had brought her to this pass; she faced that +uncompromisingly. She would marry Louis, and hold him to his promise, +and so perhaps out of all this misery some good would come. But at the +thought of marriage she found herself trembling violently. With no love +and no real respect to build on, with an intuitive knowledge of the +man's primitive violences, the reluctance toward marriage with him which +she had always felt crystallized into something very close to dread. + +But a few minutes later she went upstairs, quite steady again, and fully +determined. At Elinor's door she tapped lightly, and she heard movements +within. Then Elinor opened the door wide. She had been lying on her bed, +and automatically after closing the door she began to smooth it. Lily +felt a wave of intense pity for her. + +“I wish you would go away from here, Aunt Elinor,” she said. + +Elinor glanced up, without surprise. + +“Where could I go?” + +“If you left him definitely, you could go home.” + +Elinor shook her head, dumbly, and her passivity drove Lily suddenly to +desperation. + +“You know what is going on,” she said, her voice strained. “You don't +believe it is right; you know it is wicked. Clothe it in all the fine +language in the world, Aunt Elinor, and it is still wicked. If you stay +here you condone it. I won't. I am going away.” + +“I wish you had never come, Lily.” + +“It's too late for that,” Lily said, stonily. “But it is not too late +for you to get away.” + +“I shall stay,” Elinor said, with an air of finality. But Lily made one +more effort. + +“He is killing you.” + +“No, he is killing himself.” Suddenly Elinor flared into a passionate +outburst. “Don't you think I know where all this is leading? Do you +believe for a moment that I think all this can lead to anything but +death? It is a madness, Lily; they are all mad, these men. Don't you +know that I have talked and argued and prayed, against it?” + +“Then come away. You have done all you could, and you have failed, +haven't you?” + +“It is not time for me to go,” Elinor said. And Lily, puzzled and +baffled, found herself again looking into Elinor's quiet, inscrutable +eyes. + +Elinor had taken it for granted that the girl was going home, and +together they packed almost in silence. Once Elinor looked up from +folding a garment, and said: + +“You said you had not understood before, but that now you do. What did +you mean?” + +“Pink Denslow was here.” + +“What does he know?” + +“Do you think I ought to tell you, Aunt Elinor? It isn't that I don't +trust you. You must believe that, but don't you see that so long as you +stay here--he said that to me--you are one of them.” + +Elinor resumed her folding. + +“Yes, I suppose I am one of them,” she said quietly. “And you are right. +You must not tell me anything. Pink is Henry Denslow's son, I suppose.” + +“Yes.” + +“Do they--still live in the old house?” + +“Yes.” + +Elinor continued her methodical work. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + + +Willy Cameron was free that evening. Although he had not slept at all +the night before, he felt singularly awake and active. The Committee +had made temporary quarters of his small back room at the pharmacy, +and there had sat in rather depressed conclave during a part of the +afternoon. Pink Denslow had come in late, and had remained, silent and +haggard, through the debate. + +There was nothing to do but to start again in an attempt to get files +and card indexes. Greater secrecy was to be preserved and enjoined, the +location of the office to be known only to a small inner circle, +and careful policing of it and of the building which housed it to be +established. As a further safeguard, two duplicate files would be kept +in other places. The Committee groaned over its own underestimate of the +knowledge of the radicals. + +The two buildings chosen for destruction were, respectively, the bank +building where their file was kept, and the club, where nine-tenths +of the officers of the Committee were members. The significance of the +double outrage was unquestionable. + +When the meeting broke up Pink remained behind. He found it rather +difficult to broach the matter in his mind. It was always hard for him +to talk about Lily Cardew, and lately he had had a growing conviction +that Willy Cameron found it equally difficult. He wondered if Cameron, +too, was in love with Lily. There had been a queer look in his face on +those rare occasions when Pink had mentioned her, a sort of exaltation, +and an odd difficulty afterwards in getting back to the subject in hand. + +Pink had developed an enormous affection and admiration for Willy +Cameron, a strange, loyal, half wistful, totally unselfish devotion. It +had steadied him, when the loss of Lily might have made him reckless, +and had taken the form in recent weeks of finding innumerable business +opportunities, which Willy Cameron cheerfully refused to take. + +“I'll stay here until this other thing is settled,” was Willy's +invariable answer. “I have a certain amount of time here, and the +fellows can drop in to see me without causing suspicion. In an office it +would be different. And besides, I can't throw Mr. Davis down. His wife +is in bad shape.” + +So, that afternoon, Pink waited until the Committee had dispersed, and +then said, with some difficulty: + +“I saw her, Cameron. She has promised to leave.” + +“To-day?” + +“This afternoon. I wanted to take her away, but she had some things to +do.” + +“Then she hadn't known before?” + +“No. She thought it was just talk. And they'd kept the papers from her. +She hadn't heard about last night. Well, that's all. I thought you'd +want to know.” + +Pink started out, but Willy Cameron called him back. + +“Have any of your people any influence with the Cardews?” + +“No one has any influence with the Cardews, if you mean the Cardew men. +Why?” + +“Because Cardew has got to get out of the mayoralty campaign. That's +all.” + +“That's a-plenty,” said Pink, grinning. “Why don't you go and tell him +so?” + +“I'm thinking of it. He hasn't a chance in the world, but he'll defeat +Hendricks by splitting the vote, and let the other side in. And you know +what that means.” + +“I know it,” Pink observed, “but Mr. Cardew doesn't, and he won't after +you've told him. They've put a lot of money in, and once a Cardew has +invested in a thing he holds on like death. Especially the old man. +Wouldn't wonder he was the fellow who pounded the daylights out of Akers +last night,” he added. + +Willy Cameron, having carefully filled his pipe, closed the door into +the shop, and opened a window. + +“Akers?” he inquired. + +“Noon edition has it,” Pink said. “Claims to have been attacked in his +rooms by two masked men. Probably wouldn't have told it, but the doctor +talked. Looks as though he could wallop six masked men, doesn't he?” + +“Yes,” said Willy Cameron, reflectively. “Yes; he does, rather.” + +He felt more hopeful than he had for days. Lily on her way home, clear +once more of the poisonous atmosphere of Doyle and his associates; Akers +temporarily out of the way, perhaps for long enough to let the normal +influences of her home life show him to her in a real perspective; and a +rather unholy but very human joy that he had given Akers a part of what +was coming to him--all united to cheer him. He saw Lily going home, and +a great wave of tenderness flooded him. If only they would be tactful +and careful, if only they would be understanding and kind. If they would +only be normal and every-day, and accept her as though she had never +been away. These people were so hedged about with conventions and +restrictions, they put so much emphasis on the letter and so little on +the spirit. If only--God, if only they wouldn't patronize her! + +His mother would have known how to receive her. He felt, that afternoon, +a real homesickness for his mother. He saw her, ample and comfortable +and sane, so busy with the comforts of the body that she seemed to +ignore the soul, and yet bringing healing with her every matter-of-fact +movement. + +If only Lily could have gone back to her, instead of to that great +house, full of curious eyes and whispering voices. + +He saw Mr. Hendricks that evening on his way home to supper. Mr. +Hendricks had lost flesh and some of his buoyancy, but he was +persistently optimistic. + +“Up to last night I'd have said we were done, son,” he observed. “But +this bomb business has settled them. The labor vote'll split on it, sure +as whooping cough.” + +“They've bought a half-page in all the morning papers, disclaiming all +responsibility and calling on all citizens to help them in protecting +private property.” + +“Have they, now,” said Hendricks, with grudging admiration. “Can you +beat that? Where do they get the money, anyhow? If I lost my watch these +days I'd have to do some high-finance before I'd be able to advertise +for it.” + +“All right, see Cardew,” were his parting words. “But he doesn't want +this election any more than I want my right leg. He'll stick. You can +talk, Cameron, I'll say it. But you can't pry him off with kind words, +any more than you can a porous plaster.” + +Behind Mr. Hendricks' colloquialisms there was something sturdy and +fine. His very vernacular made him popular; his honesty was beyond +suspicion. If he belonged to the old school in politics, he had most +of its virtues and few of its vices. He would take care of his friends, +undoubtedly, but he was careful in his choice of friends. He would make +the city a good place to live in. Like Willy Cameron, he saw it, not +a center of trade so much as a vast settlement of homes. Business +supported the city in his mind, not the city business. + +Nevertheless the situation was serious, and it was with a sense of a +desperate remedy for a desperate disease that Willy Cameron, after a +careful toilet, rang the bell of the Cardew house that night. He had no +hope of seeing Lily, but the mere thought that they were under one roof +gave him a sense of nearness and of comfort in her safety. + +Dinner was recently over, and he found both the Cardews, father and son, +in the library smoking. He had arrived at a bad moment, for the bomb +outrage, coming on top of Lily's refusal to come home under the given +conditions, had roused Anthony to a cold rage, and left Howard with a +feeling of helplessness. + +Anthony Cardew nodded to him grimly, but Howard shook hands and offered +him a chair. + +“I heard you speak some time ago, Mr. Cameron,” he said. “You made me +wish I could have had your support.” + +“I came to talk about that. I am sorry to have to come in the evening, +but I am not free at any other time.” + +“When we go into politics,” said old Anthony in his jibing voice, “the +ordinary amenities have to go. When you are elected, Howard, I shall +live somewhere else.” + +Willy Cameron smiled. + +“I don't think you will be put to that inconvenience, Mr. Cardew.” + +“What's that?” Old Anthony's voice was incredulous. Here, in his own +house, this whipper-snapper-- + +“I am sure Mr. Howard Cardew realizes he cannot be elected.” + +The small ragged vein on Anthony's forehead was the storm signal for the +family. Howard glanced at him, and said urbanely: + +“Will you have a cigar, Mr. Cameron? Or a liqueur?” + +“Nothing, thank you. If I can have a few minutes' talk with you--” + +“If you mean that as a request for me to go out, I will remind you that +I am heavily interested in this matter myself,” said old Anthony. “I +have put in a great deal of money. If you people are going to drop out, +I want to hear it. You've played the devil with us already, with your +independent candidate who can't talk English.” + +Willy Cameron kept his temper. + +“No,” he said, slowly. “It wasn't a question of Mr. Hendricks +withdrawing. It was a question of Mr. Cardew getting out.” + +Sheer astonishment held old Anthony speechless. + +“It's like this,” Willy Cameron said. “Your son knows it. Even if we +drop out he won't get it. Justly or unjustly--and I mean that--nobody +with the name of Cardew can be elected to any high office in this city. +There's no reflection on anybody in my saying that. I am telling you a +fact.” + +Howard had listened attentively and without anger. “For a long time, Mr. +Cameron,” he said, “I have been urging men of--of position in the city, +to go into politics. We have needed to get away from the professional +politician. I went in, without much hope of election, to--well, you can +say to blaze a trail. It is not being elected that counts with me, so +much as to show my willingness to serve.” + +Old Anthony recovered his voice. + +“The Cardews made this town, sir,” he barked. “Willingness to serve, +piffle! We need a business man to run the city, and by God, we'll get +it!” + +“You'll get an anarchist,” said Willy Cameron, slightly flushed. + +“If you want my opinion, young man, this is a trick, a political trick. +And how do we know that your Vigilance Committee isn't a trick, too? +You try to tell us that there is an organized movement here to do heaven +knows what, and by sheer terror you build up a machine which appeals to +the public imagination. You don't say anything about votes, but you see +that they vote for your man. Isn't that true?” + +“Yes. If they can keep an anarchist out of office. Akers is an +anarchist. He calls himself something else, but that's what it amounts +to. And those bombs last night were not imaginary.” + +The introduction of Louis Akers' name had a sobering effect on Anthony +Cardew. After all, more than anything else, he wanted Akers defeated. +The discussion slowly lost its acrimony, and ended, oddly enough, in +Willy Cameron and Anthony Cardew virtually uniting against Howard. +What Willy Cameron told about Jim Doyle fed the old man's hatred of +his daughter's husband, and there was something very convincing about +Cameron himself. Something of fearlessness and honesty that began, +slowly, to dispose Anthony in his favor. + +It was Howard who held out. + +“If I quit now it will look as though I didn't want to take a licking,” + he said, quietly obstinate. “Grant your point, that I'm defeated. All +right, I'll be defeated--but I won't quit.” + +And Anthony Cardew, confronted by that very quality of obstinacy which +had been his own weapon for so many years, retired in high dudgeon to +his upper rooms. He was living in a strange new world, a reasonable soul +on an unreasonable earth, an earth where a man's last sanctuary, his +club, was blown up about him, and a man's family apparently lived only +to thwart him. + +With Anthony gone, Howard dropped the discussion with the air of a man +who has made a final stand. + +“What you have said about Mr. Doyle interests me greatly,” he observed, +“because--you probably do not know this--my sister married him some +years ago. It was a most unhappy affair.” + +“I do know it. For that reason I am glad that Miss Lily has come home.” + +“Has come home? She has not come home, Mr. Cameron. There was a +condition we felt forced to make, and she refused to agree to it. +Perhaps we were wrong. I--” + +Willy Cameron got up. + +“Was that to-day?” he asked. + +“No.” + +“But she was coming home to-day. She was to leave there this afternoon.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“Denslow saw her there this afternoon. She agreed to leave at once. He +had told her of the bombs, and of other things. She hadn't understood +before, and she was horrified. It is just possible Doyle wouldn't let +her go.” + +“But--that's ridiculous. She can't be a prisoner in my sister's house.” + +“Will you telephone and find out if she is there?” Howard went to the +telephone at once. It seemed to Willy Cameron that he stood there for +uncounted years, and as though, through all that eternity of waiting, he +knew what the answer would be. And that he knew, too, what that answer +meant, where she had gone, what she had done. If only she had come to +him. If only she had come to him. He would have saved her from herself. +He-- + +“She is not there,” Howard Cardew said, in a voice from which all life +had gone. “She left this afternoon, at four o'clock. Of course she has +friends. Or she may have gone to a hotel. We had managed to make it +practically impossible for her to come home.” + +Willy Cameron glanced at his watch. He had discounted the worst before +it came, and unlike the older man, was ready for action. It was he who +took hold of the situation. + +“Order a car, Mr. Cardew, and go to the hotels,” he said. “And if you +will drop me downtown--I'll tell you where--I'll follow up something +that has just occurred to me.” + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + + +In one way Howard had been correct in his surmise. It had been Lily's +idea to go to a hotel until she had made some definite plan. She would +telephone Louis then, and the rest--she did not think beyond that. She +called a taxi and took a small bag with her, but in the taxicab she +suddenly realized that she could not go to any of the hotels she knew. +She would be recognized at once. + +She wanted a little time to herself, time to think. And before it was +discovered that she had left Cardew Way she must see Louis, and judge +again if he intended to act in good faith. While he was with her, +reiterating his promises, she believed him, but when he was gone, she +always felt, a curious doubt. + +She thought then of finding a quiet room somewhere, and stopping the +cab, bought a newspaper. It was when she was searching for the “rooms +for rent” column that she saw he had been attacked and slightly injured. + +They had got him. He had said that if they ever suspected him of playing +them false they would get him, and now they had done so. That removed +the last doubt of his good faith from her mind. She felt indignation and +dismay, and a sort of aching consciousness that always she brought only +trouble to the people who cared for her; she felt that she was going +through her life, leaving only unhappiness behind her. + +He had suffered, and for her. + +She told the chauffeur to go to the Benedict Apartments, and sitting +back read the notice again. He had been attacked by two masked men and +badly bruised, after putting up a terrific resistance. They would +wear masks, of course. They loved the theatrical. Their very flag was +theatrical. And he had made a hard fight That was like him, too; he was +a fighter. + +She was a Cardew, and she loved strength. There were other men, men like +Willy Cameron, for instance, who were lovable in many ways, but they +were not fighters. They sat back, and let life beat them, and they took +the hurt bravely and stoically. But they never got life by the throat +and shook it until it gave up what they wanted. + +She had never been in a bachelors' apartment house before, and she +was both frightened and self-conscious. The girl at the desk eyed her +curiously while she telephoned her message, and watched her as she moved +toward the elevator. “Ever seen her before?” she said to the hall boy. + +“No. She's a new one.” + +“Face's kind of familiar to me,” said the telephone girl, reflectively. +“Looks worried, doesn't she? Two masked men! Huh! All Sam took up there +last night was a thin fellow with a limp.” + +The hall boy grinned. + +“Then his limp didn't bother him any. Sam says y'ought to seen that +place.” + +In the meantime, outside the door of Akers' apartment, Lily's fine +courage almost left her. Had it not been for the eyes of the elevator +man, fixed on her while he lounged in his gateway, she might have gone +away, even then. But she stood there, committed to a course of action, +and rang. + +Louis himself admitted her, an oddly battered Louis, in a dressing gown +and slippers; an oddly watchful Louis, too, waiting, after the manner of +men of his kind the world over, to see which way the cat would jump. +He had had a bad day, and his nerves were on edge. All day he had sat +there, unable to go out, and had wondered just when Cameron would see +her and tell her about Edith Boyd. For, just as Willy Cameron rushed him +for the first time, there had been something from between clenched teeth +about marrying another girl, under the given circumstances. Only that +had not been the sort of language in which it was delivered. + +“I just saw about it in the newspaper,” Lily said. “How dreadful, +Louis.” + +He straightened himself and drew a deep breath. The game was still his, +if he played it right. + +“Bad enough, dear,” he said, “but I gave them some trouble, too.” He +pushed a chair toward her. “It was like you to come. But I don't like +your seeing me all mussed up, little girl.” + +He made a move then to kiss her, but she drew back. + +“Please!” she said. “Not here. And I can't sit down. I can't stay. I +only came because I wanted to tell you something and I didn't want to +telephone it. Louis, Jim Doyle knew about those bombs last night. He +didn't want it to happen before the election, but--that doesn't alter +the fact, does it?” + +“How do you know he knew?” + +“I do know. That's all. And I have left Aunt Elinor's.” + +“No!” + +“I couldn't stay, could I?” She looked up at him, the little wistful +glance that Willy always found so infinitely touching, like the appeal +of a willful but lovable child, that has somehow got into trouble. “And +I can't go home, Louis, unless I--” + +“Unless you give me up,” he finished for her. “Well?” + +She hesitated. She hated making terms with him, and yet somehow she must +make terms. + +“Well?” he repeated. “Are you going to throw me over?” + +Apparently merely putting the thought into words crystallized all his +fears of the past hours; seeing her there, too, had intensified his want +of her. She stood there, where he had so often dreamed of seeing her, +but still holding him off with the aloofness that both chilled and +inflamed him, and with a question in her eyes. He held out his arms, but +she drew back. + +“Do you mean what you have said, Louis, about leaving them, if I marry +you, and doing all you can to stop them?” + +“You know I mean it.” + +“Then--I'll not go home.” + +“You are going to marry me? Now?” + +“Whenever you say.” + +Suddenly she was trembling violently, and her lips felt dry and stiff. +He pushed her into a chair, and knelt down beside her. + +“You poor little kid,” he said, softly. + +Through his brain were racing a hundred thoughts; Lily his, in his arms, +in spite of that white-faced drug clerk with the cold eyes; himself in +the Cardew house, one of them, beating old Anthony Cardew at his own +cynical game; and persistently held back and often rising again to the +surface, Woslosky and Doyle and the others, killers that they were, +pursuing him with their vengeance over the world. They would have to be +counted in; they were his price, as he, had he known it, was Lily's. + +“My wife!” he said. “My wife.” + +She stiffened in his arms. + +“I must go, Louis,” she said. “I can't stay here. I felt very queer +downstairs. They all stared so.” + +There was a clock on the mantel shelf, and he looked at it. It was a +quarter before five. + +“One thing is sure, Lily,” he said. “You can't wander about alone, +and you are right--you can't stay here. They probably recognized you +downstairs. You are pretty well known.” + +For the first time it occurred to her that she had compromised herself, +and that the net, of her own making, was closing fast about her. + +“I wish I hadn't come.” + +“Why? We can fix that all right in a jiffy.” + +But when he suggested an immediate marriage she made a final struggle. +In a few days, even to-morrow, but not just then. He listened, +impatiently, his eyes on the clock. Beside it in the mirror he saw his +own marred face, and it added to his anger. In the end he took control +of the situation; went into his bedroom, changed into a coat, and came +out again, ready for the street. He telephoned down for a taxicab, and +then confronted her, his face grim. + +“I've let you run things pretty much to suit yourself, Lily,” he said. +“Now I'm in charge. It won't be to-morrow or next week or next month. It +will be now. You're here. You've given them a chance to talk downstairs. +You've nowhere to go, and you're going to marry me at once.” + +In the cab he explained more fully. They would get a license, and then +go to one of the hotels. There they could be married, in their own +suite. + +“All regularly and in order, honey,” he said, and kissed her hand. She +had hardly heard. She was staring ahead, not thinking, not listening, +not seeing, fighting down a growing fear of the man before her, of his +sheer physical proximity, of his increasing exuberance. + +“I'm mad about you, girl,” he said. “Mad. And now you are going to be +mine, until death do us part.” + +She shivered and drew away, and he laughed a little. Girls were like +that, at such times. They always took a step back for every two steps +forward. He let her hand go, and took a careful survey of his face in +the mirror of the cab. The swelling had gone down, but that bruise below +his eye would last for days. He cursed under his breath. + + +It was after nine o'clock when one of the Cardew cars stopped not far +from the Benedict Apartments, and Willy Cameron got out. + +He was quite certain that Louis Akers would know where Lily was, and +he anticipated the interview with a sort of grim humor. There might +be another fight; certainly Akers would try to get back at him for the +night before. But he set his jaw. He would learn where Lily was if +he had to choke the knowledge out of that leering devil's thick white +throat. His arrival in the foyer of the Benedict Apartments caused more +than a ripple of excitement. + +“Well, look who's here!” muttered the telephone girl, and watched his +approach, with its faint limp, over the top of her desk. Behind, from +his cage, the elevator man was staring with avid interest. + +“I suppose Mr. Akers is in?” said Willy Cameron, politely. The girl +smiled up at him. + +“I'll say he ought to be, after last night! What're you going to do now? +Kill him?” + +In spite of his anxiety there was a faint twinkle in Willy Cameron's +eyes. + +“No,” he said slowly. “No. I think not. I want to talk to him.” + +“Sam,” called the telephone girl, “take this gentleman up to +forty-three.” + +“Forty-three's out.” Sam partly shut the elevator door; he had seen +Forty-three's rooms the night before, and he had the discretion of his +race. “Went out with a lady at quarter to five.” + +Willy Cameron took a step or two toward the cage. + +“You don't happen to be lying, I suppose?” + +“No, sir!” said Sam. “I'll take you up to look, if you like. And about +an hour ago he sent a boy here with a note, to get some of his clothes. +The young lady at the desk was out at the movies at the time.” + +“I was getting my supper, Sam.” + +Willy Cameron had gone very white. + +“Did the boy say where he was taking the things?” + +“To the Saint Elmo Hotel, sir.” + +On the street again Willy Cameron took himself fiercely in hand. There +were a half-dozen reasons why Akers might go to the Saint Elmo. He +might, for one thing, have thought that he, Cameron, would go back to +the Benedict. He might be hiding from Dan, or from reporters. But there +had been, apparently, no attempt to keep his new quarters secret. If +Lily was at the Saint Elmo-- + +He found a taxicab, and as it drew up at the curb before the hotel he +saw the Cardew car moving away. It gave him his first real breath for +twenty minutes. Lily was not there. + +But Louis Akers was. He got his room number from a clerk and went up, +still determinedly holding on to himself. Afterwards he had no clear +recollection of any interval between the Benedict and the moment he +found himself standing outside a door on an upper floor of the Saint +Elmo. From that time on it was as clear as crystal, his own sudden calm, +the overturning of a chair inside, a man's voice, slightly raised, which +he recognized, and then the thin crash of a wineglass dropped or thrown +to the floor. + +He opened the door and went in. + +In the center of the sitting room a table was set, and on it the +remains of a dinner for two. Akers was standing by the table, his chair +overturned behind him, a splintered glass at his feet, staring angrily +at the window. Even then Willy Cameron saw that he had had too much to +drink, and that he was in an ugly mood. He was in dinner clothes, but +with his bruised face and scowling brows he looked a sinister imitation +of a gentleman. + +By the window, her back to the room, was Lily. + +Neither of them glanced at the door. Evidently the waiter had been +moving in and out, and Akers considered him as little as he would a dog. + +“Come and sit down,” he said angrily. “I've quit drinking, I tell you. +Good God, just because I've had a little wine--and I had the hell of a +time getting it--you won't eat and won't talk. Come here.” + +“I'm not hungry.” + +“Come here.” + +“Stay where you are, Lily,” said Willy Cameron, from inside the closed +door. “Or perhaps you'd better get your wraps. I came to take you home.” + +Akers had wheeled at the voice, and now stood staring incredulously. +First anger, and then a grin of triumph, showed in his face. Drink had +made him not so much drunk as reckless. He had lost last night, but +to-day he had won. + +“Hello, Cameron,” he said. + +Willy Cameron ignored him. + +“Will you come?” he said to Lily. + +“I can't, Willy.” + +“Listen, Lily dear,” he said gravely. “Your father is searching the city +for you. Do you know what that means? Don't you see that you must go +home at once? You can't dine here in a private suite, like this, and not +expose yourself to all sorts of talk.” + +“Go on,” said Akers, leering. “I like to hear you.” + +“Especially,” continued Willy Cameron, “with a man like this.” + +Akers took a step toward him, but he was not too sure of himself, and +he knew now that the other man had a swing to his right arm like the +driving rod of a locomotive. He retreated again to the table, and his +hand closed over a knife there. + +“Louis!” Lily said sharply. + +He picked up the knife and smiled at her, his eyes cunning. “Not going +to kill him, my dear,” he said. “Merely to give him a hint that I'm not +as easy as I was last night.” + +That was a slip, and he knew it. Lily had left the window and come +forward, a stricken slip of a girl, and he turned to her angrily. + +“Go into the other room and close the door,” he ordered. “When I've +thrown this fellow out, you can come back.” + +But Lily's eyes were fixed on Willy Cameron's face. + +“It was you last night?” + +“Yes.” + +“Why?” + +“Because,” Willy Cameron said steadily, “he had got a girl into trouble, +and then insulted her. I wouldn't tell you, but you've got to know the +truth before it's too late.” + +Lily threw out both hands dizzily, as though catching for support. But +she steadied herself. Neither man moved. + +“It is too late, Willy,” she said. “I have just married him.” + + + +CHAPTER XXX + + +At midnight Howard Cardew reached home again, a tired and broken man. +Grace had been lying awake in her bedroom, puzzled by his unexplained +absence, and brooding, as she now did continually, over Lily's absence. + +At half past eleven she heard Anthony Cardew come in and go upstairs, +and for some time after that she heard him steadily pacing back and +forth overhead. Sometimes Grace felt sorry for Anthony. He had made +himself at such cost, and now when he was old, he had everything and yet +nothing. + +They had never understood women, these Cardews. Howard was gentle with +them where Anthony was hard, but he did not understand, either. She +herself, of other blood, got along by making few demands, but the Cardew +women were as insistent in their demands as the men. Elinor, Lily--She +formed a sudden resolution, and getting up, dressed feverishly. She had +no plan in her mind, nothing but a desperate resolution to put Lily's +case before her grandfather, and to beg that she be brought home without +conditions. + +She was frightened as she went up the stairs. Never before had she +permitted things to come to an issue between herself and Anthony. But +now it must be done. She knocked at the door. + +Anthony Cardew opened it. The room was dark, save for one lamp burning +dimly on a great mahogany table, and Anthony's erect figure was little +more than a blur of black and white. + +“I heard you walking about,” she said breathlessly. “May I come in and +talk to you?” + +“Come in,” he said, with a sort of grave heaviness. “Shall I light the +other lamps?” + +“Please don't.” + +“Will you sit down? No? Do you mind if I do? I am very tired. I suppose +it is about Lily?” + +“Yes. I can't stand it any longer. I can't.” + +Sitting under the lamp she saw that he looked very old and very weary. A +tired little old man, almost a broken one. + +“She won't come back?” + +“Not under the conditions. But she must come back, father. To let her +stay on there, in that house, after last night--” + +She had never called him “father” before. It seemed to touch him. + +“You're a good woman, Grace,” he said, still heavily. “We Cardews all +marry good women, but we don't know how to treat them. Even Howard--” + His voice trailed off. “No, she can't stay there,” he said, after a +pause. + +“But--I must tell you--she refuses to give up that man.” + +“You are a woman, Grace. You ought to know something about girls. Does +she actually care for him, or is it because he offers the liberty +she thinks we fail to give her? Or”--he smiled faintly--“is it Cardew +pig-headedness?” + +Grace made a little gesture of despair. + +“I don't know. She wanted to come home. She begged--it was dreadful.” + Grace hesitated. “Even that couldn't be as bad as this, father,” she +said. “We have all lived our own lives, you and Howard and myself, and +now we won't let her do it.” + +“And a pretty mess we have made of them!” His tone was grim. “No, I +can't say that we offer her any felicitous examples. But the fellow's +plan is transparent enough. He is ambitious. He sees himself installed +here, one of us. Mark my words, Grace, he may love the child, but his +real actuating motive is that. He's a Radical, because since he can't +climb up, he'll pull down. But once let him get his foot on the Cardew +ladder, and he'll climb, over her, over all of us.” + +He sat after that, his head dropped on his chest, his hands resting on +the arms of his chair, in a brooding reverie. Grace waited. + +“Better bring her home,” he said finally. “Tell her I surrender. I want +her here. Let her bring that fellow here, too, if she has to see him. +But for God's sake, Grace,” he added, with a flash of his old fire, +“show her some real men, too.” + +Suddenly Grace bent over and kissed him. He put up his hand, and patted +her on the shoulder. + +“A good woman, Grace,” he said, “and a good daughter to me. I'm sorry. +I'll try to do better.” + +As Grace straightened she heard the door close below, and Howard's +voice. Almost immediately she heard him coming up the staircase, and +going out into the hall she called softly to him. + +“Where are you?” he asked, looking up. “Is father there?” + +“Yes.” + +“I want you both to come down to the library, Grace.” + +She heard him turn and go slowly down the stairs. His voice had been +strained and unnatural. As she turned she found Anthony behind her. + +“Something has happened!” + +“I rather think so,” said old Anthony, slowly. + +They went together down the stairs. + +In the library Lily was standing, facing the door, a quiet figure, +listening and waiting. Howard had dropped into a chair and was staring +ahead. And beyond the circle of lights was a shadowy figure, vaguely +familiar, tall, thin, and watchful. Willy Cameron. + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + + +The discovery that Lily had left his house threw Jim Doyle into a +frenzy. The very manner of her going filled him with dark suspicion. +Either she had heard more that morning than he had thought, or--In his +cunning mind for weeks there had been growing a smoldering suspicion +of his wife. She was too quiet, too acquiescent. In the beginning, when +Woslosky had brought the scheme to him, and had promised it financial +support from Europe, he had taken a cruel and savage delight in +outlining it to her, in seeing her cringe and go pale. + +He had not feared her then. She had borne with so much, endured, +tolerated, accepted, that he had not realized that she might have a +breaking point. + +The plan had appealed to his cynical soul from the first. It was the +apotheosis of cynicism, this reducing of a world to its lowest level. +And it had amused him to see his wife, a gentlewoman born, bewildered +before the chaos he depicted. + +“But--it is German!” she had said. + +“I bow before intelligence. It is German. Also it is Russian. Also it +is of all nations. All this talk now, of a League of Nations, a few dull +diplomats acting as God over the peoples of the earth!” His eyes blazed. +“While the true league, of the workers of the world, is already in +effect!” + +But he watched her after that, not that he was afraid of her, but +because her re-action as a woman was important. He feared women in the +movement. It had its disciples, fervent and eloquent, paid and unpaid +women agitators, but he did not trust them. They were invariably women +without home ties, women with nothing to protect, women with everything +to gain and nothing to lose. The woman in the home was a natural +anti-radical. Not the police, not even the army, but the woman in the +home was the deadly enemy of the great plan. + +He began to hate Elinor, not so much for herself, as for the women she +represented. She became the embodiment of possible failure. She stood in +his path, passively resistant, stubbornly brave. + +She was not a clever woman, and she was slow in gathering the full +significance of a nation-wide general strike, that with an end of all +production the non-producing world would be beaten to its knees. And +then she waited for a world movement, forgetting that a flame must start +somewhere and then spread. But she listened and learned. There was a +great deal of talk about class and mass. She learned that the mass, for +instance, was hungry for a change. It would welcome any change. Woslosky +had been in Russia when the Kerensky regime was overthrown, and had seen +that strange three days when the submerged part of the city filled the +streets, singing, smiling, endlessly walking, exalted and without guile. + +No problems troubled them. They had ceased to labor, and that was +enough. + +Had it not been for its leaders, the mass would have risen like a tide, +and ebbed again. + +Elinor had struggled to understand. This was not Socialism. Jim had been +a Socialist for years. He had believed that the gradual elevation of the +few, the gradual subjection of the many, would go on until the majority +would drag the few down to their own level. But this new dream was +something immediate. At her table she began to hear talk of substituting +for that slow process a militant minority. She was a long time, months, +in discovering that Jim Doyle was one of the leaders of that militant +minority, and that the methods of it were unspeakably criminal. + +Then had begun Elinor Doyle's long battle, at first to hold him back, +and that failing, the fight between her duty to her husband and that to +her country. He had been her one occupation and obsession too long to +be easily abandoned, but she was sturdily national, too. In the end she +made her decision. She lived in his house, mended his clothing, served +his food, met his accomplices, and--watched. + +She hated herself for it. Every fine fiber of her revolted. But as time +went on, and she learned the full wickedness of the thing, her days +became one long waiting. She saw one move after another succeed, strike +after strike slowing production, and thus increasing the cost of living. +She saw the growing discontent and muttering, the vicious circle of +labor striking for more money, and by its own ceasing of activity making +the very increases they asked inadequate. And behind it all she saw +the ceaseless working, the endless sowing, of a grim-faced band of +conspirators. + +She was obliged to wait. A few men talking in secret meetings, a hidden +propaganda of crime and disorder--there was nothing to strike at. And +Elinor, while not clever, had the Cardew shrewdness. She saw that, +like the crisis in a fever, the thing would have to come, be met, and +defeated. + +She had no hope that the government would take hold. Government was +aloof, haughty, and secure in its own strength. Just now, too, it was +objective, not subjective. It was like a horse set to win a race, and +unconscious of the fly on its withers. But the fly was a gadfly. + +Elinor knew Doyle was beginning to suspect her. Sometimes she thought +he would kill her, if he discovered what she meant to do. She did +not greatly care. She waited for some inkling of the day set for the +uprising in the city, and saved out of her small house allowance by +innumerable economies and subterfuges. When she found out the time she +would go to the Governor of the State. He seemed to be a strong man, +and she would present him facts. Facts and names. Then he must act--and +quickly. + +Cut off from her own world, and with no roots thrown out in the new, she +had no friends, no one to confide in or of whom to ask assistance. And +she was afraid to go to Howard. He would precipitate things. The leaders +would escape, and a new group would take their places. Such a group, she +knew, stood ready for that very emergency. + +On the afternoon of Lily's departure she heard Doyle come in. He had not +recovered from his morning's anger, and she heard his voice, raised in +some violent reproof to Jennie. He came up the stairs, his head sagged +forward, his every step deliberate, heavy, ominous. He had an evening +paper in his hand, and he gave it to her with his finger pointing to a +paragraph. + +“You might show that to the last of the Cardews,” he sneered. + +It was the paragraph about Louis Akers. Elinor read it. “Who were the +masked men?” she asked. “Do you know?” + +“I wish to God I did. I'd--Makes him a laughing stock, of course. And +just now, when--Where's Lily?” + +Elinor put down the paper. + +“She is not here. She went home this afternoon.” + +He stared at her, angrily incredulous. + +“Home?” + +“This afternoon.” + +She passed him and went out into the hall. But he followed her and +caught her by the arm as she reached the top of the staircase. + +“What made her go home?” + +“I don't know, Jim.” + +“She didn't say?” + +“Don't hold me like that. No.” + +She tried to free her arm, but he held her, his face angry and +suspicious. + +“You are lying to me,” he snarled. “She gave you a reason. What was it?” + +Elinor was frightened, but she had not lost her head. She was thinking +rapidly. + +“She had a visitor this afternoon, a young man. He must have told her +something about last night. She came up and told me she was going.” + +“You know he told her something, don't you?” + +“Yes.” Elinor had cowered against the wall. “Jim, don't look like that. +You frighten me. I couldn't keep her here. I--” + +“What did he tell her?” + +“He accused you.” + +He was eyeing her coldly, calculatingly. All his suspicions of the past +weeks suddenly crystallized. “And you let her go, after that,” he said +slowly. “You were glad to have her go. You didn't deny what she said. +You let her run back home, with what she had guessed and what you told +her to-day. You--” + +He struck her then. The blow was as remorseless as his voice, as +deliberate. She fell down the staircase headlong, and lay there, not +moving. + +The elderly maid came running from the kitchen, and found him half-way +down the stairs, his eyes still calculating, but his body shaking. + +“She fell,” he said, still staring down. But the servant faced him, her +eyes full of hate. + +“You devil!” she said. “If she's dead, I'll see you hang for it.” + +But Elinor was not dead. Doctor Smalley, making rounds in a nearby +hospital and answering the emergency call, found her lying on her bed, +fully conscious and in great pain, while her husband bent over her in +seeming agony of mind. She had broken her leg. He sent Doyle out during +the setting. It was a principle of his to keep agonized husbands out of +the room. + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + + +Life had beaten Lily Cardew. She went about the house, pathetically +reminiscent of Elinor Doyle in those days when she had sought sanctuary +there; but where Elinor had seen those days only as interludes in her +stormy life, Lily was finding a strange new peace. She was very tender, +very thoughtful, insistently cheerful, as though determined that her own +ill-fortune should not affect the rest of the household. + +But to Lily this peace was not an interlude, but an end. Life for her +was over. Her bright dreams were gone, her future settled. Without so +putting it, even to herself, she dedicated herself to service, to small +kindnesses, and little thoughtful acts. She was, daily and hourly, +making reparation to them all for what she had cost them, in hope. + +That was the thing that had gone out of life. Hope. Her loathing of +Louis Akers was gone. She did not hate him. Rather she felt toward him a +sort of numbed indifference. She wished never to see him again, but the +revolt that had followed her knowledge of the conditions under which he +had married her was gone. She tried to understand his viewpoint, to make +allowances for his lack of some fundamental creed to live by. But as the +days went on, with that healthy tendency of the mind to bury pain, she +found him, from a figure that bulked so large as to shut out all the +horizon of her life, receding more and more. + +But always he would shut off certain things. Love, and marriage, and of +course the hope of happiness. Happiness was a thing one earned, and she +had not earned it. + +After the scene at the Saint Elmo, when he had refused to let her go, +and when Willy Cameron had at last locked him in the bedroom of the +suite and had taken her away, there had followed a complete silence. +She had waited for some move or his part, perhaps an announcement of the +marriage in the newspapers, but nothing had appeared. He had commenced +a whirlwind campaign for the mayoralty and was receiving a substantial +support from labor. + +The months at the house on Cardew Way seemed more and more dream-like, +and that quality of remoteness was accentuated by the fact that she +had not been able to talk to Elinor. She had telephoned more than once +during the week, but a new maid had answered. Mrs. Doyle was out. Mrs. +Doyle was unable to come to the telephone. The girl was a foreigner, +with something of Woslosky's burr in her voice. + +Lily had not left the house since her return. During that family +conclave which had followed her arrival, a stricken thing of few words +and long anxious pauses, her grandfather had suggested that. He had +been curiously mild with her, her grandfather. He had made no friendly +overtures, but he had neither jibed nor sneered. + +“It's done,” he had said briefly. “The thing now is to keep her out of +his clutches.” He had turned to her. “I wouldn't leave the house for few +days, Lily.” + +It was then that Willy Cameron had gone. Afterwards she thought that +he must have been waiting, patiently protective, to see how the old man +received her. + +Her inability to reach Elinor began to dismay her, at last. There was +something sinister about it, and finally Howard himself went to the +Doyle house. Lily had come back on Thursday, and on the following +Tuesday he made his call, timing it so that Doyle would probably be away +from home. But he came back baffled. + +“She was not at home,” he said. “I had to take the servant's word for +it, but I think the girl was lying.” + +“She may be ill. She almost never goes out.” + +“What possible object could they have in concealing her illness?” Howard +said impatiently. + +But he was very uneasy, and what Lily had told him since her return only +increased his anxiety. The house was a hotbed of conspiracy, and for her +own reasons Elinor was remaining there. It was no place for a sister +of his. But Elinor for years had only touched the outer fringes of +his life, and his days were crowded with other things; the increasing +arrogance of the strikers, the utter uselessness of trying to make +terms with them, his own determination to continue to fight his futile +political campaign. He put her out of his mind. + +Then, at the end of another week, a curious thing happened. Anthony and +Lily were in the library. Old Anthony without a club was Old Anthony +lost, and he had developed a habit, at first rather embarrassing to the +others, of spending much of his time downstairs. He was no sinner turned +saint. He still let the lash of his tongue play over the household, but +his old zest in it seemed gone. He made, too, small tentative overtures +to Lily, intended to be friendly, but actually absurdly self-conscious. +Grace, watching him, often felt him rather touching. It was obvious to +her that he blamed himself, rather than Lily, for what had happened. + +On this occasion he had asked Lily to read to him. + +“And leave out the politics,” he had said, “I get enough of that +wherever I go.” + +As she read she felt him watching her, and in the middle of a paragraph +he suddenly said: + +“What's become of Cameron?” + +“He must be very busy. He is supporting Mr. Hendricks, you know.” + +“Supporting him! He's carrying him on his back,” grunted Anthony. “What +is it, Grayson?” + +“A lady--a woman--calling on Miss Cardew.” + +Lily rose, but Anthony motioned her back. + +“Did she give any name?” + +“She said to say it was Jennie, sir.” + +“Jennie! It must be Aunt Elinor's Jennie!” + +“Send her in,” said Anthony, and stood waiting Lily noticed his face +twitching; it occurred to her then that this strange old man might still +love his daughter, after all the years, and all his cruelty. + +It was the elderly servant from the Doyle house who came in, a tall +gaunt woman, looking oddly unfamiliar to Lily in a hat. + +“Why, Jennie!” she said. And then: “Is anything wrong?” + +“There is and there isn't,” Jennie said, somberly. “I just wanted to +tell you, and I don't care if he kills me for it. It was him that threw +her downstairs. I heard him hit her.” + +Old Anthony stiffened. + +“He threw Aunt Elinor downstairs?” + +“That's how she broke her leg.” + +Sheer amazement made Lily inarticulate. + +“But they said--we didn't know--do you mean that she has been there all +this time, hurt?” + +“I mean just that,” said Jennie, stolidly. “I helped set it, with him +pretending to be all worked up, for the doctor to see. He got rid of +me all right. He's got one of his spies there now, a Bolshevik like +himself. You can ask the neighbors.” + +Howard was out, and when the woman had gone Anthony ordered his car. +Lily, frightened by the look on his face, made only one protest. + +“You mustn't go alone,” she said. “Let me go, too. Or take +Grayson--anybody.” + +But he went alone; in the hall he picked up his hat and stick, and drew +on his gloves. + +“What is the house number?” + +Lily told him and he went out, moving deliberately, like a man who has +made up his mind to follow a certain course, but to keep himself well in +hand. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + + +Acting on Willy Cameron's suggestion, Dan Boyd retained his membership +in the union and frequented the meetings. He learned various things, +that the strike vote had been padded, for instance, and that the +Radicals had taken advantage of the absence of some of the conservative +leaders to secure such support as they had received. He found the better +class of workmen dissatisfied and unhappy. Some of them, men who loved +their tools, had resented the order to put them down where they were and +walk out, and this resentment, childish as it seemed, was an expression +of their general dissatisfaction with the autocracy they had themselves +built up. + +Finally Dan's persistent attendance and meek acquiescence, added to his +war record, brought him reward. He was elected member of a conference to +take to the Central Labor Council the suggestion for a general strike. +It was arranged that the delegates take the floor one after the other, +and hold it for as long as possible. Then they were to ask the President +of the Council to put the question. + +The arguments were carefully prepared. The general strike was to be +urged as the one salvation of the labor movement. It would prove the +solidarity of labor. And, at the Council meeting a few days later, the +rank and file were impressed by the arguments. Dan, gnawing his nails +and listening, watched anxiously. The idea was favorably received, +and the delegates went back to their local unions, to urge, coerce and +threaten. + +Not once, during the meeting, had there been any suggestion of violence, +but violence was in the air, nevertheless. The quantity of revolutionary +literature increased greatly during the following ten days, and now it +was no longer furtively distributed. It was sold or given away at all +meetings; it flooded the various headquarters with its skillful compound +of lies and truth. The leaders notified of the situation, pretended +that it was harmless raving, a natural and safe outlet for suppressed +discontents. + +Dan gathered up an armful of it and took it home. On a Sunday following, +there was a mass meeting at the Colosseum, and a business agent of +one of the unions made an impassioned speech. He recited old and new +grievances, said that the government had failed to live up to its +promises, that the government boards were always unjust to the workers, +and ended with a statement of the steel makers' profits. Dan turned +impatiently to a man beside him. + +“Why doesn't he say how much of that profit the government gets?” he +demanded. + +But the man only eyed him suspiciously. + +Dan fell silent. He knew it was wrong, but he had no gift of tongue. +It was at that meeting that for the first time he heard used the word +“revolution.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + + +Old Anthony's excursion to his daughter's house had not prospered. +During the drive to Cardew Way he sat forward on the edge of the seat of +his limousine, his mouth twitching with impatience and anger, his stick +tightly clutched in his hand. Almost before the machine stopped he was +out on the pavement, scanning the house with hostile eyes. + +The building was dark. Paul, the chauffeur, watching curiously, for +the household knew that Anthony Cardew had sworn never to darken his +daughter's door, saw his erect, militant figure enter the gate and lose +itself in the shadow of the house. There followed a short interval of +nothing in particular, and then a tall man appeared in the rectangle of +light which was the open door. + +Jim Doyle was astounded when he saw his visitor. Astounded and alarmed. +But he recovered himself quickly, and smiled. + +“This is something I never expected to see,” he said, “Mr. Anthony +Cardew on my doorstep.” + +“I don't give a damn what you expected to see,” said Mr. Anthony Cardew. +“I want to see my daughter.” + +“Your daughter? You have said for a good many years that you have no +daughter.” + +“Stand aside, sir. I didn't come here to quibble.” + +“But I love to quibble,” sneered Doyle. “However, if you insist--I might +as well tell you, I haven't the remotest intention of letting you in.” + +“I'll ask you a question,” said old Anthony. “Is it true that my +daughter has been hurt?” + +“My wife is indisposed. I presume we are speaking of the same person.” + +“You infernal scoundrel,” shouted Anthony, and raising his cane, brought +it down with a crack on Doyle's head. The chauffeur was half-way up +the walk by that time, and broke into a run. He saw Doyle, against the +light, reel, recover and raise his fist, but he did not bring it down. + +“Stop that!” yelled the chauffeur, and came on like a charging steer. +When he reached the steps old Anthony was hanging his stick over his +left forearm, and Doyle was inside the door, trying to close it. This +was difficult, however, because Anthony had quietly put his foot over +the sill. + +“I am going to see my daughter, Paul,” said Anthony Cardew. “Can you +open the door?” + +“Open it!” Paul observed truculently. “Watch me!” + +He threw himself against the door, but it gave suddenly, and sent him +sprawling inside at Doyle's feet. He was up in an instant, squared to +fight, but he only met Jim Doyle's mocking smile. Doyle stood, arms +folded, and watched Anthony Cardew enter his house. Whatever he feared +he covered with the cynical mask that was his face. + +He made no move, offered no speech. + +“Is she upstairs?” + +“She is asleep. Do you intend to disturb her?” + +“I do,” said old Anthony grimly. “I'll go first, Paul. You follow me, +but I'd advise you to come up backwards.” + +Suddenly Doyle laughed. + +“What!” he said, “Mr. Anthony Cardew paying his first visit to my humble +home, and anticipating violence! You underestimate the honor you are +doing me.” + +He stood like a mocking devil at the foot of the staircase until the +two men had reached the top. Then he followed them. The mask had dropped +from his face, and anger and watchfulness showed in it. If she talked, +he would kill her. But she knew that. She was not a fool. + +Elinor lay in the bed, listening. She had recognized her father's voice, +and her first impulse was one of almost unbearable relief. They had +found her. They had come to take her away. For she knew now that she was +a prisoner; even without the broken leg she would have been a prisoner. +The girl downstairs was one of them, and her jailer. A jailer who fed +her, and gave her grudgingly the attention she required, but that was +all. + +Just when Doyle had begun to suspect her she did not know, but on the +night after her injury he had taken pains to verify his suspicions. He +had found first her little store of money, and that had angered him. In +the end he had broken open a locked trinket box and found a notebook +in which for months she had kept her careful records. Here and there, +scattered among house accounts, were the names of the radical members +of The Central Labor Council, and other names, spoken before her and +carefully remembered. He had read them out to her as he came to them, +suffering as she was, and she had expected death then. But he had not +killed her. He had sent Jennie away and brought in this Russian girl, a +mad-eyed fanatic named Olga, and from that time on he visited her once +daily. In his anger and triumph over her he devised the most cunning +of all punishments; he told her of the movement's progress, of its +ingeniously contrived devilments in store, of its inevitable success. +What buildings and homes were to be bombed, the Cardew house first among +them; what leading citizens were to be held as hostages, with all that +that implied; and again the Cardews headed the list. + +When Doctor Smalley came he or the Russian were always present, +solicitous and attentive. She got out of her bed one day, and dragging +her splinted leg got to her desk, in the hope of writing a note and +finding some opportunity of giving it to the doctor. Only to discover +that they had taken away her pen, pencils and paper. + +She had been found there by Olga, but the girl had made no comment. Olga +had helped her back into bed without a word, but from that time on had +spent most of her day on the upper floor. Not until Doyle came in would +she go downstairs to prepare his food. + +Elinor lay in her bed and listened to her father coming up the stairs. +She knew, before he reached the top, that Doyle would never let her be +taken away. He would kill her first. He might kill Anthony Cardew. She +had a sickening sense of tragedy coming up the staircase, tragedy which +took the form of her father's familiar deliberate step. Perhaps had she +known of the chauffeur's presence she might have chanced it, for every +fiber of her tired body was crying for release. But she saw only her +father, alone in that house with Doyle and the smoldering Russian. + +The key turned in the lock. + +Anthony Cardew stood in the doorway, looking at her. With her long hair +in braids, she seemed young, almost girlish. She looked like the little +girl who had gone to dancing school in short white frocks and long black +silk stockings, so many years ago. + +“I've just learned about it, Elinor,” he said. He moved to the bed and +stood beside it, looking down, but he did not touch her. “Are you able +to be taken away from here?” + +She knew that Doyle was outside, listening, and she hardened her heart +for the part she had to play. It was difficult; she was so infinitely +moved by her father's coming, and in the dim light he, too, looked like +himself of years ago. + +“Taken away? Where?” she asked. + +“You don't want to stay here, do you?” he demanded bluntly. + +“This is my home, father.” + +“Good God, home! Do you mean to tell me that, with all you must know +about this man, you still want to stay with him?” + +“I have no other home.” + +“I am offering you one.” + +Old Anthony was bewildered and angry. Elinor put out a hand to touch +him, but he drew back. + +“After he has thrown you downstairs and injured you--” + +“How did you hear that?” + +“The servant you had here came to see me to-night, Elinor. She said +that that blackguard outside there had struck you and you fell down the +stairs. If you tell me that's the truth I'll break every bone in his +body.” + +Sheer terror for Anthony made her breathless. + +“But it isn't true,” she said wildly. “You mustn't think that. I fell. I +slipped and fell.” + +“Then,” said Anthony, speaking slowly, “you are not a prisoner here?” + +“A prisoner? I'd be a prisoner anywhere, father. I can't walk.” + +“That door was locked.” + +She was fighting valiantly for him. + +“I can't walk, father. I don't require a locked door to keep me in.” + +He was too confused and puzzled to notice the evasion. + +“Do you mean to say that you won't let me have you taken home? You are +still going to stay with this man? You know what he is, don't you?” + +“I know what you think he is.” She tried to smile, and he looked away +from her quickly and stared around the room, seeing nothing, however. +Suddenly he turned and walked to the door; but he stopped there, his +hand on the knob, and us face twitching. + +“Once more, Elinor,” he said, “I ask you if you will let me take you +back with me. This is the last time. I have come, after a good many +years of bad feeling, to make my peace with you and to offer you a home. +Will you come?” + +“No.” + +Her courage almost failed her. She lay back, her eyes closed and her +face colorless. The word itself was little more than a whisper. + +Her father opened the door and went out. She heard him going down the +stairs, heard other footsteps that followed him, and listened in an +agony of fear that Doyle would drop him in the hall below. But nothing +happened. The outside door closed, and after a moment she opened her +eyes. Doyle was standing by the bed. + +“So,” he said, “you intend to give me the pleasure of your society for +some time, do you?” + +She said nothing. She was past any physical fear for herself. + +“You liar!” he said softly. “Do you think I don't understand why you +want to remain here? You are cleverer than I thought you were, but you +are not as clever as I am. You'd have done better to have let him take +you away.” + +“You would have killed him first.” + +“Perhaps I would.” He lighted a cigarette. “But it is a pleasant thought +to play with, and I shall miss it when the thing is fait accompli. I see +Olga has left you without ice water. Shall I bring you some?” + +He was still smiling faintly when he brought up the pitcher, some time +later, and placed it on the stand beside the bed. + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + + +In the Boyd house things went on much as before, but with a new +heaviness. Ellen, watching keenly, knew why the little house was so +cheerless and somber. It had been Willy Cameron who had brought to +it its gayer moments, Willy determinedly cheerful, slamming doors and +whistling; Willy racing up the stairs with something hot for Mrs. Boyd's +tray; Willy at the table, making them forget the frugality of the meals +with campaign anecdotes; Willy, lamenting the lack of a chance to fish, +and subsequently eliciting a rare smile from Edith by being discovered +angling in the kitchen sink with a piece of twine on the end of his +umbrella. + +Rather forced, some of it, but eminently good for all of them. And then +suddenly it ceased. He made an effort, but there was no spontaneity in +him. He came in quietly, never whistled, and ate very little. He began +to look almost gaunt, too, and Edith, watching him with jealous, loving +eyes, gave voice at last to the thought that was in her mind. + +“I wish you'd go away,” she said, “and let us fight this thing out +ourselves. Dan would have to get something to do, then, for one thing.” + +“But I don't want to go away, Edith.” + +“Then you're a fool,” she observed, bitterly. “You can't help me any, +and there's no use hanging mother around your neck.” + +“She won't be around any one's neck very long, Edith dear.” + +“After that, will you go away?” + +“Not if you still want me.” + +“Want you!” + +Dan was out, and Ellen had gone up for the invalid's tray. They were +alone together, standing in the kitchen doorway. + +Suddenly Edith, beside him, ran her hand through his arm. + +“If I had been a different sort of girl, Willy, do you think--could you +ever have cared for me?” + +“I never thought about you that way,” he said, simply. “I do care for +you. You know that.” + +She dropped her hand. + +“You are in love with Lily Cardew. That's why you don't--I've known it +all along, Willy. I used to think you'd get over it, never seeing her +and all that. But you don't, do you?” She looked up at him. “The real +thing lasts, I suppose. It will with me. I wish to heaven it wouldn't.” + +He was most uncomfortable, but he drew her hand within his arm again and +held it there. + +“Don't get to thinking that you care anything about me,” he said. +“There's not as much love in the world as there ought to be, and we all +need to hold hands, but--don't fancy anything like that.” + +“I wanted to tell you. If I hadn't known about her I wouldn't have told +you, but--you said it when you said there's not as much love as there +ought to be. I'm gone, but I guess my caring for you hasn't hurt me any. +It's the only reason I'm alive to-day.” + +She freed her hand, and stood staring out over the little autumn +garden. There was such brooding trouble in her face that he watched her +anxiously. + +“I think mother suspects,” she said at last. + +“I hope not, Edith.” + +“I think she does. She watches me all the time, and she asked to see Dan +to-night. Only he didn't come home.” + +“You must deny it, Edith,” he said, almost fiercely. “She must not know, +ever. That is one thing we can save her, and must save her.” + +But, going upstairs as usual before he went out, he realized that Edith +was right, and that matters had reached a crisis. The sick woman had +eaten nothing, and her eyes were sunken and anxious. There was an +unspoken question in them, too, as she turned them on him. Most +significant of all, the little album was not beside her, nor the usual +litter of newspapers on the bed. + +“I wish you weren't going out, Willy,” she said querulously. “I want to +talk to you about something.” + +“Can't we discuss it in the morning?” + +“I won't sleep till I get it off my mind, Willy.” But he could not face +that situation then. He needed time, for one thing. Surely there must be +some way out, some way to send this frail little woman dreamless to her +last sleep, life could not be so cruel that death would seem kind. + +He spoke at three different meetings that night, for the election was +close at hand. Pink Denslow took him about in his car, and stood waiting +for him at the back of the crowd. In the intervals between hall and hall +Pink found Willy Cameron very silent and very grave, but he could not +know that the young man beside him was trying to solve a difficult +question. Which was: did two wrongs ever make a right? + +At the end of the last meeting Willy Cameron decided to walk home. + +“I have some things to think over. Pink,” he said. “Thanks for the car. +It saves a lot of time.” + +Pink sat at the wheel, carefully scrutinizing Willy. It struck him then +that Cameron looked fagged and unhappy. + +“Nothing I can do, I suppose?” + +“Thanks, no.” + +Pink knew nothing of Lily's marriage, nor of the events that had +followed it. To his uninquiring mind all was as it should be with her; +she was at home again, although strangely quiet and very sweet, and +her small world was at peace with her. It was all right with her, he +considered, although all wrong with him. Except that she was strangely +subdued, which rather worried him. It was not possible, for instance, +to rouse her to one of their old red-hot discussions on religion, or +marriage, or love. + +“I saw Lily Cardew this afternoon, Cameron.” + +“Is she all right?” asked Willy Cameron, in a carefully casual tone. + +“I don't know.” Pink's honest voice showed perplexity. “She looks all +right, and the family's eating out of her hand.. But she's changed +somehow. She asked for you.” + +“Thanks. Well, good-night, old man.” + +Willy Cameron was facing the decision of his life that night, as he +walked home. Lily was gone, out of his reach and out of his life. But +then she had never been within either. She was only something wonderful +and far away, like a star to which men looked and sometimes prayed. Some +day she would be free again, and then in time she would marry. Some one +like Pink, her own sort, and find happiness. + +But he knew that he would always love her, to the end of his days, and +even beyond, in that heaven in which he so simply believed. All the +things that puzzled him would be straightened out there, and perhaps a +man who had loved a woman and lost her here would find her there, and +walk hand in hand with her, through the bright days of Paradise. + +Not that that satisfied him. He was a very earthly lover, with the +hungry arms of youth. He yearned unspeakably for her. He would have +died for her as easily as he would have lived for her, but he could do +neither. + +That was one side of him. The other, having put her away in that warm +corner of his heart which was hers always, was busy with the practical +problem of the Boyds. He saw only one way out, and that way he had been +seeing with increasing clearness for several days. Edith's candor that +night, and Mrs. Boyd's suspicions, clearly pointed to it. There was one +way by which to save Edith and her child, and to save the dying woman +the agony of full knowledge. + +Edith was sitting on the doorstep, alone. He sat down on the step below +her, rather silent, still busy with his problem. Although the night was +warm, the girl shivered. + +“She's not asleep. She's waiting for me to go up, Willy. She means to +call me in and ask me.” + +“Then I'd better say what I have to say quickly. Edith, will you marry +me?” + +She drew off and looked at him. + +“I'd better explain what I mean,” he said, speaking with some +difficulty. “I mean--go through the ceremony with me. I don't mean +actual marriage. That wouldn't be fair to either of us, because you know +that I care for some one else.” + +“But you mean a real marriage?” + +“Of course. Your child has the right to a name, dear. And, if you don't +mind telling a lie to save our souls, and for her peace of mind, we can +say that it took place some time ago.” + +She gazed at him dazedly. Then something like suspicion came into her +face. + +“Is it because of what I told you to-night?” + +“I had thought of it before. That helped, of course.” + +It seemed so surprisingly simple, put into words, and the light on the +girl's face was his answer. A few words, so easily spoken, and two lives +were saved. No, three, for Edith's child must be considered. + +“You are like God,” said Edith, in a low voice. “Like God.” And fell to +soft weeping. She was unutterably happy and relieved. She sat there, not +daring to touch him, and looked out into the quiet street. Before her +she saw all the things that she had thought were gone; honor, a place +in the world again, the right to look into her mother's eyes; she saw +marriage and happy, golden days. He did not love her, but he would be +hers, and perhaps in His own good time the Manager of all destinies +would make him love her. She would try so hard to deserve that. + +Mrs. Boyd was asleep when at last Edith went up the staircase, and +Ellen, lying sleepless on her cot in the hot attic room, heard the girl +softly humming to herself as she undressed, and marveled. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + + +When Lily had been at home for some time, and Louis Akers had made no +attempt to see her, or to announce the marriage, the vigilance of the +household began to relax. Howard Cardew had already consulted the family +lawyer about an annulment, and that gentleman had sent a letter to +Akers, which had received no reply. + +Then one afternoon Grayson, whose instructions had been absolute as to +admitting Akers to the house, opened the door to Mrs. Denslow, who was +calling, and found behind that lady Louis Akers himself. He made an +effort to close the door behind the lady, but Akers was too quick for +him, and a scene at the moment was impossible. + +He ushered Mrs. Denslow into the drawing room, and coming out, closed +the doors. + +“My instructions, sir, are to say to you that the ladies are not at +home.” + +But Akers held out his hat and gloves with so ugly a look that Grayson +took them. + +“I have come to see my wife,” he said. “Tell her that, and that if she +doesn't see me here I'll go upstairs and find her.” + +When Grayson still hesitated he made a move toward the staircase, and +the elderly servant, astounded at the speech and the movement, put down +the hat and faced him. + +“I do not recognize any one in the household by that name, sir.” + +“You don't, don't you? Very well. Tell Miss Cardew I am here, and that +either she will come down or I'll go up. I'll wait in the library.” + +He watched Grayson start up the stairs, and then went into the library. +He was very carefully dressed, and momentarily exultant over the success +of his ruse, but he was uneasy, too, and wary, and inclined to regard +the house as a possible trap. He had made a gambler's venture, risking +everything on the cards he held, and without much confidence in them. +His vanity declined to believe that his old power over Lily was gone, +but he had held a purely physical dominance over so many women that he +knew both his strength and his limitations. + +What he could not understand, what had kept him awake so many nights +since he had seen her, was her recoil from him on Willy Cameron's +announcement. She had known he had led the life of his sort; he +had never played the plaster saint to her. And she had accepted her +knowledge of his connection with the Red movement, on his mere promise +to reform. But this other, this accident, and she had turned from him +with a horror that made him furious to remember. These silly star-eyed +virgins, who accepted careful abstractions and then turned sick at life +itself, a man was a fool to put himself in their hands. + +Mademoiselle was with Lily in her boudoir when Grayson came up, a thin, +tired-faced, suddenly old Mademoiselle, much given those days to early +masses, during which she prayed for eternal life for the man who had +ruined Lily's life, and that soon. To Mademoiselle marriage was a final +thing and divorce a wickedness against God and His establishment on +earth. + +Lily, rather like Willy Cameron, was finding on her spirit at that time +a burden similar to his, of keeping up the morale of the household. + +Grayson came in and closed the door behind him. Anger and anxiety were +in his worn old face, and Lily got up quickly. “What is it, Grayson?” + +“I'm sorry, Miss Lily. He was in the vestibule behind Mrs. Denslow, and +I couldn't keep him out. I think he had waited for some one to call, +knowing I couldn't make a scene.” + +Mademoiselle turned to Lily. + +“You must not see him,” she said in rapid French. “Remain here, and I +shall telephone for your father. Lock your door. He may come up. He will +do anything, that man.” + +“I am going down,” Lily said quietly. “I owe him that. You need not +be frightened. And don't tell mother; it will only worry her and do no +good.” + +Her heart was beating fast as she went down the stairs. From the drawing +room came the voices of Grace and Mrs. Denslow, chatting amiably. The +second man was carrying in tea, the old silver service gleaming. Over +all the lower floor was an air of peace and comfort, the passionless +atmosphere of daily life running in old and easy grooves. + +When Lily entered the library she closed the door behind her. She had, +on turning, a swift picture of Grayson, taking up his stand in the hall, +and it gave her a sense of comfort. She knew he would remain there, +impassively waiting, so long as Akers was in the house. + +Then she faced the man standing by the center table. He made no move +toward her, did not even speak at once. It left on her the burden of the +opening, of setting the key of what was to come. She was steady enough +now. + +“Perhaps it is as well that you came, Louis,” she said. “I suppose we +must talk it over some time.” + +“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes on her. “We must. I have married a wife, and +I want her, Lily.” + +“You know that is impossible.” + +“Because of something that happened before I knew you? I never made +any pretensions about my life before we met. But I did promise to go +straight if you'd have me, and I have. I've lived up to my bargain. What +about you?” + +“It was not a part of my bargain to marry you while you--I have thought +and thought, Louis. There is only one thing to be done. You will have to +divorce me, and marry her.” + +“Marry her? A girl of the streets, who chooses to say that I am the +father of her child! It's the oldest trick in the word. Besides--” He +played his best card--“she won't marry me. Ask Cameron, who chose to +make himself so damned busy about my affairs. He's in love with her. Ask +him.” + +In spite of herself Lily winced. Out of the wreckage of the past few +weeks one thing had seemed to remain, something to hold to, solid and +dependable and fine, and that had been Willy Cameron. She had found, in +these last days, something infinitely comforting in the thought that he +cared for her. It was because he had cared that he had saved her from +herself. But, if this were true-- + +“I am not going back to you, Louis. I think you know that. No amount of +talking about things can change that.” + +“Why don't you face life and try to understand it?” he demanded, +brutally. “Men are like that. Women are like that--sometimes. You can't +measure human passions with a tape line. That's what you good women try +to do, and you make life a merry little hell.” He made an effort, and +softened his voice. “I'll be true to you, Lily, if you'll come back.” + +“No,” she said, “you would mean to be, but you would not. You have no +foundation to build on.” + +“Meaning that I am not a gentleman.” + +“Not that. I know you, that's all. I understand so much that I didn't +before. What you call love is only something different. When that was +gone there would be the same thing again. You would be sorry, but I +would be lost.” + +Her coolness disconcerted him. Two small triangular bits of color showed +in his face. He had been prepared for tears, even for a refusal to +return, but this clear-eyed appraisal of himself, and the accuracy of +it, confused him. He took refuge in the only method he knew; he threw +himself on her pity; he made violent, passionate love to her, but her +only expression was one of distaste. When at last he caught her to him +she perforce submitted, a frozen thing that told him, more than any +words, how completely he had lost her. He threw her away from him, then, +baffled and angry. + +“You little devil!” he said. “You cold little devil!” + +“I don't love you. That's all. I think now that I never did.” + +“You pretended damned well.” + +“Don't you think you'd better go?” Lily said wearily. “I don't like to +hurt you. I am to blame for a great deal. But there is no use going on, +is there? I'll give you your freedom as soon as I can. You will want +that, of course.” + +“My freedom! Do you think I am going to let you go like that? I'll fight +you and your family in every court in the country before I give you up. +You can't bring Edith Boyd up against me, either. If she does that I'll +bring up other witnesses, other men, and she knows it.” + +Lily was very pale, but still calm. She made a movement toward the bell, +but he caught her hand before she could ring it. + +“I'll get your Willy Cameron, too,” he said, his face distorted with +anger. “I'll get him good. You've done a bad thing for your friends and +your family to-day, Lily. I'll go the limit on getting back at them. +I've got the power, and by God, I'll use it.” + +He flung out into the hall, and toward the door. There he encountered +Grayson, who reminded him of his hat and gloves, or he would have gone +without them. + +Grayson, going into the library a moment later, found Lily standing +there, staring ahead and trembling violently. He brought her a cup of +tea, and stood by, his old face working, while she drank it. + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + + +The strike had apparently settled down to the ordinary run of strikes. +The newspaper men from New York were gradually recalled, as the mill +towns became orderly, and no further acts of violence took place. Here +and there mills that had gone down fired their furnaces again and went +back to work, many with depleted shifts, however. + +But the strikers had lost, and knew it. Howard Cardew, facing the +situation with his customary honesty, saw in the gradual return of +the men to work only the urgency of providing for their families, and +realized that it was not peace that was coming, but an armed neutrality. +The Cardew Mills were still down, but by winter he was confident they +would be open again. To what purpose? To more wrangling and bickering, +more strikes? Where was the middle ground? He was willing to give the +men a percentage of the profits they made. He did not want great wealth, +only an honest return for his invested capital. But he wanted to manage +his own business. It was his risk. + +The coal miners were going out. The Cardews owned coal mines. The miners +wanted to work a minimum day for a maximum wage, but the country must +have coal. Shorter hours meant more men for the mines, and they would +have to be imported. But labor resented the importation of foreign +workers. + +Again, what was the answer? + +Still, he was grateful for peace. The strike dragged on, with only +occasional acts of violence. From the hill above Baxter a sniper daily +fired with a long range rifle at the toluol tank in the center of one +of the mills, and had so far escaped capture, as the tank had escaped +damage. But he knew well enough that a long strike was playing into the +hands of the Reds. It was impossible to sow the seeds of revolution +so long as a man's dinner-pail was full, his rent paid, and his family +contented. But a long strike, with bank accounts becoming exhausted and +credit curtailed, would pave the way for revolution. + +Old Anthony had had a drastic remedy for strikes. + +“Let all the storekeepers, the country over, refuse credit to the +strikers, and we'd have an end to this mess,” he said. + +“We'd have an end to the storekeepers, too,” Howard had replied, grimly. + +One good thing had come out of the bomb outrages. They had had a +salutary effect on the honest labor element. These had no sympathy with +such methods and said so. But a certain element, both native and foreign +born, secretly gloated and waited. + +One thing surprised and irritated Howard. Public sentiment was not so +much with the strikers, as against the mill owners. The strike worked +a hardship to the stores and small businesses dependent on the +great mills; they forgot the years when the Cardews had brought them +prosperity, had indeed made them possible, and they felt now only +bitter resentment at the loss of trade. In his anger Howard saw them as +parasites, fattening on the conceptions and strength of those who had +made the city. They were men who built nothing, originated nothing. Men +who hated the ladder by which they had climbed, who cared little how +shaky its foundation, so long as it stood. + +In September, lured by a false security, the governor ordered the +demobilization of the state troops, save for two companies. The men at +the Baxter and Friendship plants, owned by the Cardews, had voted to +remain out, but their leaders appeared to have them well in hand, and +no trouble was anticipated. The agents of the Department of Justice, +however, were still suspicious. The foreigners had plenty of money. +Given as they were to hoarding their savings in their homes, the local +banks were unable to say if they were drawing on their reserves or were +being financed from the outside. + +Shortly before the mayoralty election trouble broke out in the western +end of the state, and in the north, in the steel towns. There were ugly +riotings, bombs were sent through the mails, the old tactics of night +shootings and destruction of property began. In the threatening chaos +Baxter and Friendship, and the city nearby, stood out by contrast for +their very orderliness. The state constabulary remained in diminished +numbers, a still magnificent body of men but far too few for any real +emergency, and the Federal agents, suspicious but puzzled, were removed +to more turbulent fields. + +The men constituting the Vigilance Committee began to feel a sense +of futility, almost of absurdity. They had armed and enrolled +themselves--against what? The growth of the organization slowed down, +but it already numbered thousands of members. Only its leaders retained +their faith in its ultimate necessity, and they owed perhaps more than +they realized to Willy Cameron's own conviction. + +It was owing to him that the city was divided into a series of zones, so +that notification of an emergency could be made rapidly by telephone and +messenger. Owing to him, too, was a new central office, with some one +on duty day and night. Rather ironically, the new quarters were the +dismantled rooms of the Myers Housecleaning Company. + +On the day after his proposal to Edith, Willy Cameron received an +unexpected holiday. Mrs. Davis, the invalid wife of the owner of the +Eagle Pharmacy, died and the store was closed. He had seen Edith for +only a few moments that morning, but it was understood then that the +marriage would take place either that day or the next. + +He had been physically so weary the night before that he had slept, but +the morning found him with a heaviness of spirit that he could not throw +off. The exaltation of the night before was gone, and all that remained +was a dogged sense of a duty to be done. Although he smiled at Edith, +his face remained with her all through the morning. + +“I'll make it up to him,” she thought, humbly. “I'll make it up to him +somehow.” + +Then, with Ellen out doing her morning marketing, she heard the +feeble thump of a cane overhead which was her mother's signal. She was +determined not to see her mother again until she could say that she was +married, but the thumping continued, and was followed by the crash of a +broken glass. + +“She's trying to get up!” Edith thought, panicky. “If she gets up it +will kill her.” + +She stood at the foot of the stairs, scarcely breathing, and listened. +There was a dreadful silence above. She stole up, finally, to where she +could see her mother. Mrs. Boyd was still in her bed, but lying with +open eyes, unmoving. + +“Mother,” she called, and ran in. “Mother.” + +Mrs. Boyd glanced at her. + +“I thought that glass would bring you,” she said sharply, but with +difficulty. “I want you to stand over there and let me look at you.” + +Edith dropped on her knees beside the bed, and caught her mother's hand. + +“Don't! Don't talk like that, mother,” she begged. “I know what you +mean. It's all right, mother. Honestly it is. I--I'm married, mother.” + +“You wouldn't lie to me, Edith?” + +“No. I'm telling you. I've been married a long time. You--don't you +worry, mother. You just lie there and quit worrying. It's all right.” + +There was a sudden light in the sick woman's eyes, an eager light that +flared up and died away again. + +“Who to?” she asked. “If it's some corner loafer, Edie--” Edith had +gained new courage and new facility. Anything was right that drove the +tortured look from her mother's eyes. + +“You can ask him when he comes home this evening.” + +“Edie! Not Willy?” + +“You've guessed it,” said Edith, and burying her face in the bed +clothing, said a little prayer, to be forgiven for the lie and for all +that she had done, to be more worthy thereafter, and in the end to earn +the love of the man who was like God to her. + +There are lies and lies. Now and then the Great Recorder must put one +on the credit side of the balance, one that has saved intolerable +suffering, or has made well and happy a sick soul. + +Mrs. Boyd lay back and closed her eyes. + +“I haven't been so tickled since the day you were born,” she said. + +She put out a thin hand and laid it on the girl's bowed head. When Edith +moved, a little later, her mother was asleep, with a new look of peace +on her face. + +It was necessary before Ellen saw her mother to tell her what she had +done. She shrank from doing it. It was one thing for Willy to have done +it, to have told her the plan, but Edith was secretly afraid of Ellen. +And Ellen's reception of the news justified her fears. + +“And you'd take him that way!” she said, scornfully. “You'd hide behind +him, besides spoiling his life for him! It sounds like him to offer, and +it's like you to accept.” + +“It's to save mother,” said Edith, meekly. + +“It's to save yourself. You can't fool me. And if you think I'm going to +sit by and let him do it, you can think again.” + +“It's as good as done,” Edith flashed. “I've told mother.” + +“That you're going to be, or that you are?” + +“That we are married.” + +“All right,” Ellen said triumphantly. “She's quiet and peaceful now, +isn't she? You don't have to get married now, do you? You take my +advice, and let it go at that.” + +It was then that Edith realized what she had done. He would still marry +her, of course, but behind all his anxiety to save her had been the real +actuating motive of his desire to relieve her mother's mind. That was +done now. Then, could she let him sacrifice himself for her? + +She could. She could and she would. She set her small mouth firmly, and +confronted the future; she saw herself, without his strength to support +her, going down and down. She remembered those drabs of the street on +whom she had turned such cynical eyes in her virtuous youth, and she saw +herself one of that lost sisterhood, sodden, hectic, hopeless. + +When Willy Cameron left the pharmacy that day it was almost noon. He +went to the house of mourning first, and found Mr. Davis in a chair in +a closed room, a tired little man in a new black necktie around a not +over-clean collar, his occupation of years gone, confronting a new and +terrible leisure that he did not know how to use. + +“You know how it is, Willy,” he said, blinking his reddened eyelids. +“You kind of wish sometimes that you had somebody to help you bear your +burden, and then it's taken away, but you're kind of bent over and used +to it. And you'd give your neck and all to have it back.” + +Willy Cameron pondered that on his way up the street. + +There was one great longing in him, to see Lily again. In a few hours +now he would have taken a wife, and whatever travesty of marriage +resulted, he would have to keep away from Lily. He meant to play square +with Edith. + +He wondered if it would hurt Lily to see him, remind her of things she +must be trying to forget. He decided in the end that it would hurt her, +so he did not go. But he walked, on his way to see Pink Denslow at the +temporary bank, through a corner of the park near the house, and took a +sort of formal and heart-breaking farewell of her. + +Time had been when life had seemed only a long, long trail, with Lily at +the end of it somewhere, like water to the thirsty traveler, or home to +the wanderer; like a camp fire at night. But now, life seemed to him a +broad highway, infinitely crowded, down which he must move, surrounded +yet alone. + +But at least he could walk in the middle of the road, in the sunlight. +It was the weaklings who were crowded to the side. He threw up his head. + +It had never occurred to him that he was in any, danger, either from +Louis Akers or from the unseen enemy he was fighting. He had a curious +lack of physical fear. But once or twice that day, as he went about, +he happened to notice a small man, foreign in appearance and shabbily +dressed. He saw him first when he came out of the marriage license +office, and again when he entered the bank. + +He had decided to tell Pink of his approaching marriage and to ask him +to be present. He meant to tell him the facts. The intimacy between them +was now very close, and he felt that Pink would understand. He neither +wanted nor expected approval, but he did want honesty between them. He +had based his life on honesty. + +Yet the thing was curiously hard to lead up to. It would be hard to set +before any outsider the conditions at the Boyd house, or his own sense +of obligation to help. Put into everyday English the whole scheme +sounded visionary and mock-heroic. + +In the end he did not tell Pink at all, for Pink came in with excitement +written large all over him. + +“I sent for you,” he said, “because I think we've got something at last. +One of our fellows has just been in, that storekeeper I told you about +from Friendship, Cusick. He says he has found out where they're meeting, +back in the hills. He's made a map of it. Look, here's the town, and +here's the big hill. Well, behind it, about a mile and a half, there's a +German outfit, a family, with a farm. They're using the barn, according +to this chap.” + +“The barn wouldn't hold very many of them.” + +“That's the point. It's the leaders. The family has an alibi. It goes in +to the movies in the town on meeting nights. The place has been searched +twice, but he says they have a system of patrols that gives them +warning. The hills are heavily wooded there, and he thinks they have +rigged up telephones in the trees.” + +There was a short silence. Willy Cameron studied the rug. + +“I had to swear to keep it to ourselves,” Pink said at last. “Cusick +won't let the Federal agents in on it. They've raided him for liquor +twice, and he's sick as a poisoned pup.” + +“How about the county detectives?” + +“You know them. They'll go in and fight like hell when the time comes, +but they're likely to gum the game where there's any finesse required. +We'd better find out for ourselves first.” + +Willy Cameron smiled. + +“What you mean is, that it's too good a thing to throw to the other +fellow. Well, I'm on, if you want me. But I'm no detective.” + +Pink had come armed for such surrender. He produced a road map of the +county and spread it on the desk. + +“Here's the main road to Friendship,” he said, “and here's the road they +use. But there's another way, back of the hills. Cusick said it was a +dirt lane, but dry. It's about forty miles by it to a point a mile or so +behind the farm. He says he doesn't think they use that road. It's too +far around.” + +“All right,” said Willy Cameron. “We use that road, and get to the farm, +and what then? Surrender?” + +“Not on your life. We hide in the barn. That's all.” + +“That's enough. They'll search the place, automatically. You're talking +suicide, you know.” + +But his mind was working rapidly. He was a country boy, and he knew +barns. There would be other outbuildings, too, probably a number of +them. The Germans always had plenty of them. And the information was too +detailed to be put aside lightly. + +“When does he think they will meet again?” + +“That's the point,” Pink said eagerly. “The family has been all over the +town this morning. It is going on a picnic, and he says those picnics of +theirs last half the night. What he got from the noise they were making +was that they were raising dust again, and something's on for to-night.” + +“They'll leave somebody there. Their stock has to be looked after.” + +“This fellow says they drop everything and go. The whole outfit. They're +as busy raising an alibi as the other lot is raising the devil.” + +But Willy Cameron was a Scot, and hard-headed. + +“It looks too simple, Pink,” he said reflectively. He sat for some time, +filling and lighting his pipe, and considering as he did so. He was +older than Pink; not much, but he felt extremely mature and very +responsible. + +“What do we know about Cusick?” he asked, finally. + +“One of the best men we've got. They've fired his place once, and he's +keen to get them.” + +“You're anxious to go?” + +“I'm going,” said Pink, cheerfully. + +“Then I'd better go along and look after you. But I tell you how I see +it. After I've done that I'll go as far as you like. Either there is +nothing to it and we're fools for our pains, or there's a lot to it, +and in that case we are a pair of double-distilled lunatics to go there +alone.” + +Pink laughed joyously. + +Life had been very dull for him since his return from France. He had +done considerable suffering and more thinking than was usual with him, +but he had had no action. But behind his boyish zest there was something +more, something he hid as he did the fact that he sometimes said his +prayers; a deep and holy thing, that always gave him a lump in his +throat at Retreat, when the flag came slowly down and the long lines of +men stood at attention. Something he was half ashamed and half proud of, +love of his country. + + * * * * * + +At the same time another conversation was going on in the rear room of +a small printing shop in the heart of the city. It went on to the +accompaniment of the rhythmic throb of the presses, and while two +printers, in their shirt sleeves, kept guard both at the front and rear +entrances. + +Doyle sat with his back to the light, and seated across from him, +smoking a cheap cigar, was the storekeeper from Friendship, Cusick. In a +corner on the table, scowling, sat Louis Akers. + +“I don't know why you're so damned suspicious, Jim,” he was saying. +“Cusick says the stall about the Federal agents went all right.” + +“Like a house a-fire,” said Cusick, complacently. + +“I think, Akers,” Doyle observed, eyeing his subordinate, “that you +are letting your desire to get this Cameron fellow run away with your +judgment. If we get him and Denslow, there are a hundred ready to take +their places.” + +“Cameron is the brains of the outfit,” Akers said sulkily. + +“How do you know Cameron will go?” + +Akers rose lazily and stretched himself. + +“I've got a hunch. That's all.” + +A girl came in from the composing room, a bundle of proofs in her hand. +With one hand Akers took the sheets from her; with the other he settled +his tie. He smiled down at her. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + + +Ellen was greatly disturbed. At three o'clock that afternoon she found +Edith and announced her intention of going out. + +“I guess you can get the supper for once,” she said ungraciously. + +Edith looked up at her with wistful eyes. + +“I wish you didn't hate me so, Ellen.” + +“I don't hate you.” Ellen was slightly mollified. “But when I see you +trying to put your burdens on other people--” + +Edith got up then and rather timidly put her arms around Ellen's neck. + +“I love him so, Ellen,” she whispered, “and I'll try so hard to make him +happy.” + +Unexpected tears came into Ellen's eyes. She stroked the girl's fair +hair. + +“Never mind,” she said. “The Good Man's got a way of fixing things to +suit Himself. And I guess He knows best. We do what it's foreordained we +do, after all.” + +Mrs. Boyd was sleeping. Edith went back to her sewing. She had depended +all her life on her mother's needle, and now that that had failed her +she was hastily putting some clothing into repair. In the kitchen near +the stove the suit she meant to be married in was hung to dry, after +pressing. She was quietly happy. + +Willy Cameron found her there. He told her of Mrs. Davis' death, and +then placed the license on the table at her side. + +“I think it would be better to-morrow, Edith,” he said. He glanced down +at the needle in her unaccustomed fingers; she seemed very appealing, +with her new task and the new light in her eyes. After all, it was worth +while, even if it cost a lifetime, to take a soul out of purgatory. + +“I had to tell mother, Willy.” + +“That's all right Did it cheer her any?” + +“Wonderfully. She's asleep now.” + +He went up to his room, and for some time she heard him moving about. +Then she heard the scraping of his chair as he drew it to his desk, +and vaguely wondered. When he came down he had a sealed envelope in his +hand. + +“I am going out, Edith,” he said. “I shall be late getting back, and--I +am going to ask you to do something for me.” + +She loved doing things for him. She flushed slightly. + +“If I am not back here by two o'clock to-night,” he said, “I want you to +open that letter and read it. Then go to the nearest telephone, and call +up the number I've written down. Ask for the man whose name is given, +and read him the message.” + +“Willy!” she gasped. “You are doing something dangerous!” + +“What I really expect,” he said, smiling down at her, “is to be back, +feeling more or less of a fool, by eleven o'clock. I'm providing against +an emergency that will almost surely never happen, and I am depending on +the most trustworthy person I know.” + +Very soon after that he went away. She sat for some time after he +had gone, fingering the blank white envelope and wondering, a little +frightened but very proud of his trust. + +Dan came in and went up the stairs. That reminded her of the dinner, and +she sat down in the kitchen with a pan of potatoes on her knee. As she +pared them she sang. She was still singing when Ellen came back. + +Something had happened to Ellen. She stood in the kitchen, her hat still +on, drawing her cotton gloves through her fingers and staring at Edith +without seeing her. + +“You're not sick, are you, Ellen?” + +Ellen put down her gloves and slowly took off her hat, still with the +absorbed eyes of a sleep-walker. + +“I'm not sick,” she said at last. “I've had bad news.” + +“Sit down and I'll make you a cup of tea. Then maybe you'll feel like +talking about it.” + +“I don't want any tea. Do you know that that man Akers has married Lily +Cardew?” + +“Married her!” + +“The devil out of hell that he is.” Ellen's voice was terrible. “And +all the time knowing that you--She's at home, the poor child, and +Mademoiselle just sat and cried when she told me. It's a secret,” she +added, fiercely. “You keep your mouth shut about it. She never lived +with him. She left him right off. I wouldn't know it now but the +servants were talking about the house being forbidden to him, and I went +straight to Mademoiselle. I said: 'You keep him away from Miss Lily, +because I know something about him.' It was when I told her that she +said they were married.” + +She went out and up the stairs, moving slowly and heavily. Edith sat +still, the pan on her knee, and thought. Did Willy know? Was that why he +was willing to marry her? She was swept with bitter jealousy, and added +to that came suspicion. Something very near the truth flashed into her +mind and stayed there. In her bitterness she saw Willy telling Lily of +Akers and herself, and taking her away, or having her taken. It must +have been something like that, or why had she left him? + +But her anger slowly subsided; in the end she began to feel that the new +situation rendered her own position more secure, even justified her +own approaching marriage. Since Lily was gone, why should she not marry +Willy Cameron? If what Ellen had said was true she knew him well enough +to know that he would deliberately strangle his love for Lily. If it +were true, and if he knew it. + +She moved about the kitchen, making up the fire, working automatically +in that methodless way that always set Ellen's teeth on edge, and +thinking. But subconsciously she was listening, too. She had heard Dan +go into his mother's room and close the door. She was bracing herself +against his coming down. + +Dan was difficult those days, irritable and exacting. Moody, too, and +much away from home. He hated idleness at its best, and the strike was +idleness at its worst. Behind the movement toward the general strike, +too, he felt there was some hidden and sinister influence at work, an +influence that was determined to turn what had commenced as a labor +movement into a class uprising. + +That very afternoon, for the first time, he had heard whispered the +phrase: “when the town goes dark.” There was a diabolical suggestion in +it that sent him home with his fists clenched. + +He did not go to his mother's room at once. Instead, he drew a chair to +his window and sat there staring out on the little street. When the town +went dark, what about all the little streets like this one? + +After an hour or so of ominous quiet Edith heard him go into his +mother's room. Her hands trembled as she closed her door. + +She heard him coming down at last, and suddenly remembering the license, +hid it in a drawer. She knew that he would destroy it if he saw it. And +Dan's face justified the move. He came in and stood glowering at her, +his hands in his pockets. + +“What made you tell that lie to mother?” he demanded. + +“She was worried, Dan. And it will be true to-morrow. You--Dan, you +didn't tell her it was a lie, did you?” + +“I should have, but I didn't. What do you mean, it will be true +to-morrow?” + +“We are going to be married to-morrow.” + +“I'll lock you up first,” he said, angrily. “I've been expecting +something like that. I've watched you, and I've seen you watching him. +You'll not do it, do you hear? D'you think I'd let you get away with +that? Isn't it enough that he's got to support us, without your coaxing +him to marry you?” + +She made no reply, but went on with a perfunctory laying of the table. +Her mouth had gone very dry. + +“The poor fish,” Dan snarled. “I thought he had some sense. Letting +himself in for a nice life, isn't he? We're not his kind, and you know +it. He knows more in a minute than you'll know all your days. In about +three months he'll hate the very sight of you, and then where'll you +be?” + +When she made no reply, he called to the dog and went out into the yard. +She saw him there, brooding and sullen, and she knew that he had not +finished. He would say no more to her, but he would wait and have it out +with Willy himself. + +Supper was silent. No one ate much, and Ellen, coming down with the +tray, reported Mrs. Boyd as very tired, and wanting to settle down +early. + +“She looks bad to me,” she said to Edith. “I think the doctor ought to +see her.” + +“I'll go and send him.” + +Edith was glad to get out of the house. She had avoided the streets +lately, but as it was the supper hour the pavements were empty. Only +Joe Wilkinson, bare-headed, stood in the next doorway, and smiled and +flushed slightly when he saw her. + +“How's your mother?” he asked. + +“She's not so well. I'm going to get the doctor.” + +“Do you mind if I get my hat and walk there with you?” + +“I'm going somewhere else from there, Joe.” + +“Well, I'll walk a block or two, anyhow.” + +She waited impatiently. She liked Joe, but she did not want him then. +She wanted to think and plan alone and in the open air, away from the +little house with its odors and its querulous thumping cane upstairs; +away from Ellen's grim face and Dan's angry one. + +He came out almost immediately, followed by a string of little +Wilkinsons, clamoring to go along. + +“Do you mind?” he asked her. “They can trail along behind. The poor kids +don't get out much.” + +“Bring them along, of course,” she said, somewhat resignedly. And with a +flash of her old spirit: “I might have brought Jinx, too. Then we'd have +had a real procession.” + +They moved down the street, with five little Wilkinsons trailing along +behind, and Edith was uncomfortably aware that Joe's eyes were upon her. + +“You don't look well,” he said at last. “You're wearing yourself out +taking care of your mother, Edith.” + +“I don't do much for her.” + +“You'd say that, of course. You're very unselfish.” + +“Am I?” She laughed a little, but the words touched her. “Don't think +I'm better than I am, Joe.” + +“You're the most wonderful girl in the world. I guess you know how I +feel about that.” + +“Don't Joe!” + +But at that moment a very little Wilkinson fell headlong and burst into +loud, despairing wails. Joe set her on her feet, brushed her down with +a fatherly hand, and on her refusal to walk further picked her up and +carried her. The obvious impossibility of going on with what he had been +saying made him smile sheepishly. + +“Can you beat it?” he said helplessly, “these darn kids--!” But he held +the child close. + +At the next corner he turned toward home. Edith stopped and watched his +valiant young back, his small train of followers. He was going to be +very sad when he knew, poor Joe, with his vicarious fatherhood, his +cluttered, noisy, anxious life. + +Life was queer. Queer and cruel. + +From the doctor's office, the waiting room lined with patient figures, +she went on. She had a very definite plan in mind, but it took all +her courage to carry it through. Outside the Benedict Apartments she +hesitated, but she went in finally, upheld by sheer determination. + +The chair at the telephone desk was empty, but Sam remembered her. + +“He's out, miss,” he said. “He's out most all the time now, with the +election coming on.” + +“What time does he usually get in?” + +“Sometimes early, sometimes late,” said Sam, watching her. Everything +pertaining to Louis Akers was of supreme interest those days to the +Benedict employees. The beating he had received, the coming election, +the mysterious young woman who had come but once, and the black days +that had followed his return from the St. Elmo--out of such patchwork +they were building a small drama of their own. Sam was trying to fit in +Edith's visit with the rest. + +The Benedict was neither more moral nor less than its kind. An +unwritten law kept respectable women away, but the management showed no +inclination to interfere where there was no noise or disorder. Employees +were supposed to see that no feminine visitors remained after midnight, +that was all. + +“You might go up and wait for him,” Sam suggested. “That is, if it's +important.” + +“It's very important.” + +He threw open the gate of the elevator hospitably. + +At half past ten that night Louis Akers went back to his rooms. The +telephone girl watched him sharply as he entered. + +“There's a lady waiting for you, Mr. Akers.” + +He swung toward her eagerly. + +“A lady? Did she give any name?” + +“No. Sam let her in and took her up. He said he thought you wouldn't +mind. She'd been here before.” + +The thought of Edith never entered Akers' head. It was Lily, Lily +miraculously come back to him. Lily, his wife. + +Going up in the elevator he hastily formulated a plan of action. He +would not be too ready to forgive; she had cost him too much. But in the +end he would take her in his arms and hold her close. Lily! Lily! + +It was the bitterness of his disappointment that made him brutal. Wicked +and unscrupulous as he was with men, with women he was as gentle as he +was cruel. He put them from him relentlessly and kissed them good-by. It +was his boast that any one of them would come back to him if he wanted +her. + +Edith, listening for his step, was startled at the change in his face +when he saw her. + +“You!” he said thickly. “What are you doing here?” + +“I've been waiting all evening. I want to ask you something.” + +He flung his hat into a chair and faced her. + +“Well?” + +“Is it true that you are married to Lily Cardew?” + +“If I am, what are you going to do about it?” His eyes were wary, but +his color was coming back. He was breathing more easily. + +“I only heard it to-day. I must know, Lou. It's awfully important.” + +“What did you hear?” He was watching her closely. + +“I heard you were married, but that she had left you.” + +It seemed to him incredible that she had come there to taunt him, she +who was responsible for the shipwreck of his marriage. That she could +come there and face him, and not expect him to kill her where she stood. + +He pulled himself together. + +“It's true enough.” He swore under his breath. “She didn't leave me. She +was taken away. And I'll get her back if I--You little fool, I ought to +kill you. If you wanted a cheap revenge, you've got it.” + +“I don't want revenge, Lou.” + +He caught her by the arm. + +“Then what brought you here?” + +“I wanted to be sure Lily Cardew was married.” + +“Well, she is. What about it?” + +“That's all.” + +“That's not all. What about it?” + +She looked up at him gravely. + +“Because, if she is, I am going to marry Mr. Cameron tomorrow.” At the +sight of his astounded face she went on hastily: “He knows, Lou, and he +offered anyhow.” + +“And what,” he said slowly, “has my wife to do with that?” + +“I wanted to be fair to him. And I think he is--I think he used to be +terribly in love with her.” + +Quite apart from his increasing fear of Willy Cameron and his Committee, +there had been in Akers for some time a latent jealousy of him. In a +flash he saw the room at the Saint Elmo, and a cold-eyed man inside the +doorway. The humiliation of that scene had never left him, of his own +maudlin inadequacy, of hearing from beyond a closed and locked door, the +closing of another door behind Lily and the man who had taken her away +from him. A mad anger and jealousy made him suddenly reckless. + +“So,” he said, “he is terribly in love with my wife, and he intends to +marry you. That's--interesting. Because, my sweet child, he's got a damn +poor chance of marrying you, or anybody.” + +“Lou!” + +“Listen,” he said deliberately. “Men who stick their heads into the +lion's jaws are apt to lose them. Our young friend Cameron has done +that. I'll change the figure. When a man tries to stop a great machine +by putting his impudent fingers into the cog wheels, the man's a fool. +He may lose his hand, or he may lose his life.” + +Fortunately for Edith he moved on that speech to the side table, and +mixed himself a highball. It gave her a moment to summon her scattered +wits, to decide on a plan of action. Her early training on the streets, +her recent months of deceit, helped her now. If he had expected any +outburst from her it did not come. + +“If you mean that he is in danger, I don't believe it.” + +“All right, old girl. I've told you.” + +But the whiskey restored his equilibrium again. + +“That is,” he added slowly, “I've warned you. You'd better warn him. +He's doing his best to get into trouble.” + +She knew him well, saw the craftiness come back into his eyes, and met +it with equal strategy. + +“I'll tell him,” she said, moving toward the door. “You haven't scared +me for a minute and you won't scare him. You and your machine!” + +She dared not seem to hurry. + +“You're a boaster,” she said, with the door open. “You always were. +And you'll never lay a hand on him. You're like all bullies; you're a +coward!” + +She was through the doorway by that time, and in terror for fear, having +told her so much, he would try to detain her. She saw the idea come into +his face, too, just as she slipped outside. He made a move toward her. + +“I think--” he began. + +She slammed the door and ran down the hallway toward the stairs. She +heard him open the door and come out into the hall, but she was well in +advance and running like a deer. + +“Edith!” he called. + +She stumbled on the second flight of stairs and fell a half-dozen steps, +but she picked herself up and ran on. At the bottom of the lower flight +she stopped and listened, but he had gone back. She heard the slam of +his door as he closed it. + +But the insistent need of haste drove her on, headlong. She shot through +the lobby, past the staring telephone girl, and into the street, and +there settled down into steady running, her elbows close to her sides, +trying to remember to breathe slowly and evenly. She must get home +somehow, get the envelope and follow the directions inside. Her thoughts +raced with her. It was almost eleven o'clock and Willy had been gone for +hours. She tried to pray, but the words did not come. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + + +At something after seven o'clock that night Willy Cameron and Pink +Denslow reached that point on the Mayville Road which had been +designated by the storekeeper, Cusick. They left the car there, hidden +in a grove, and struck off across country to the west. Willy Cameron +had been thoughtful for some time, and as they climbed a low hill, going +with extreme caution, he said: + +“I'm still skeptical about Cusick, Pink. Do you think he's straight?” + +“One of the best men we've got,” Pink replied, confidently. “He's put us +on to several things.” + +“He's foreign born, isn't he?” + +“That's his value. They don't suspect him for a minute.” + +“But--what does he get out of it?” + +“Good citizen,” said Pink, with promptness. “You've got to remember, +Cameron, that a lot of these fellows are better Americans than we are. +They're like religious converts, stronger than the ones born in the +fold. They're Americans because they want to be. Anyhow, you ought to be +strong for him, Cameron. He said to tell you, but no one else.” + +“I'll tell you how strong I am for him later,” Willy Cameron said, +grimly. “Just at this minute I'm waiting to be shown.” + +They advanced with infinite caution, for the evening was still light. +Going slowly, it was well after eight and fairly dark before they came +within sight of the farm buildings in the valley below. Long unpainted, +they were barely discernable in the shadows of the hills. The land +around had been carefully cleared, and both men were dismayed at the +difficulty of access without being seen. + +“Doesn't look very good, does it?” Pink observed. “I will say this, for +seclusion and keeping away unwanted visitors, it has it all over any +dug-out I ever saw in France.” + +“Listen!” Willy Cameron said, tensely. + +They stood on the alert, but only the evening sounds of country and +forest rewarded them. + +“What was it?” Pink inquired, after perhaps two minutes of waiting. + +“Plain scare on my part, probably. I don't so much mind this little +excursion, Pink, as I hate the idea that a certain gentleman named +Cusick may have a chance to come to our funerals and laugh himself to +death.” + +When real darkness had fallen, they had reached the lower fringe of the +woods. Pink had the fault of the city dweller, however, of being unable +to step lightly in the dark, and their progress had been less silent +than it should have been. In spite of his handicap, Willy Cameron made +his way with the instinctive knowledge of the country bred boy, treading +like a cat. + +“Pretty poor,” Pink said in a discouraged whisper, after a twig had +burst under his foot with a report like the shot of a pistol. “You +travel like a spook, while I--” + +“Listen, Pink. I'm going in alone to look around. Stop muttering and +listen to me. It's poor strategy not to have a reserve somewhere, isn't +it?” + +“I'm a poor prune at the best,” Pink said stubbornly, “but I am not +going to let you go into that place alone. You can rave all you want.” + +“Very well. Then we'll both stay here. You are about as quiet as a horse +going through a corn patch.” + +After some moments Pink spoke again. + +“If you insist on stealing the whole show,” he said, sulkily, “what am I +to do? Run to town for help, if you need it?” + +“I'm not going to round up the outfit, if there is one. I haven't lost +my mind. I'll see what is going on, or about to go on. Then I'll come +back.” + +“Here?” + +Cameron considered. + +“Better meet at the machine,” he decided, after a glance at the sky. “In +half an hour you won't be able to see your hand in front of you. Wait +here for a half-hour or so, and then start back, and for heaven's sake +don't shoot at anything you see moving. As a matter of fact, I might +as well have your revolver. I won't need it, but it may avoid any +accidental shooting by a youth I both love and admire!” + +“If I hear any shooting, I'll come in,” Pink said, still sulky. + +“Come in and welcome,” said Willy Cameron, and Pink knew he was smiling. + +He took the revolver and slipped away into the darkness, leaving Pink +both melancholy and disturbed. Unaccustomed to night in the woods, he +found his nerves twitching at every sound. In the war there had been a +definite enemy, definitely placed. Even when he had gone into that vile +strip between the trenches, there had been a general direction for the +inimical. Here-- + +He moved carefully, and stood with his back against a tree. + +Not a sound came from the farm buildings. Willy Cameron's progress, too, +was noiseless. With no way to tell the lapse of time, and gauging it by +his war experience, when an hour had apparently passed by, he knew that +Cameron had been gone about ten minutes. + +Time dragged on. A cow, unmilked, lowed plaintively once or twice. A +September night breeze set the dying leaves on the trees to rustling, +and stirred the dried ones about his feet. Pink's mind, gradually +reassured, turned to other things. He thought of Lily Cardew, for one. +Like Willy Cameron, he knew he would always love her, but unlike Willy, +the first pain of her loss was gone. He was glad that time was over. +He was glad that she was at home again, safe from those--Some one was +moving near him, passing within twenty feet. Whoever it was was stepping +cautiously but blunderingly. It was not Cameron, then. He was a footfall +only, not even an outline. Before Pink could decide on a line of action, +the sound was lost. + +Every sense acute, he waited. He had decided that if the incident were +repeated, he would make an effort to get the fellow from behind, but +there was no return. The wind had died again, and there was no longer +even the rustling of the leaves to break the utter stillness. + +Suddenly he saw a red flash near the barn, and an instant later heard +the report of a pistol. Came immediately after that a brief fusillade of +shots, a pause, then two or three scattering ones. + +With the first shot Pink started running. He was vaguely conscious of +other steps near him, running also, but he could see nothing. His whole +mind was set on finding Willy Cameron. Alone he had not a chance, but +two of them together could put up a fight. He pelted along, stumbling, +recovering, stumbling again. + +Another shot was fired. They hadn't got him yet, or they wouldn't be +shooting. He raised his voice in a great call. + +“Cameron! Here! Cameron!” + +He ran into a low fence then, and it threw him. He had hardly got to +his knees before the other running figure had hurled itself on him, and +struck him with the butt of a revolver. He dropped flat and lay still. + + * * * * * + +For weeks Woslosky had known of the growing strength of the Vigilance +Committee, and that it was arming steadily. + +It threatened absolutely the success of his plans. Even the election of +Akers and the changes he would make in the city police; even the ruse +of other strikes and machine-made riotings to call away the state +troops,--none of these, or all of them, would be effectual against an +organized body of citizens, duly called to the emergency. + +And such an organization was already effected. Within a week, when the +first card reached his hands, it had grown to respectable proportions. +Woslosky went to Doyle, and they made their counter-moves quickly. No +more violence. A seemingly real but deceptive orderliness. They were +dealing with inflammatory material, however, and now and then it got +out of hand. Unlike Doyle the calculating, who made each move slowly and +watched its results with infinite zest, the Pole chafed under delay. + +“We can't hold them much longer,” he complained, bitterly. “This thing +of holding them off until after the election--and until Akers takes +office--it's got too many ifs in it.” + +“It was haste lost Seattle,” said Doyle, as unmoved as Woslosky was +excited. + +Woslosky did not like Louis Akers. What was more important, he +distrusted him. When he heard of his engagement to Lily Cardew he warned +Doyle about him. + +“He's in this thing for what he can get out of it,” he said. “He'll go +as far as he can, with safety, to be accepted by the Cardews.” + +“Exactly,” was Doyle's dry comment, “with safety, you said. Well, he +knows you and he knows me, and he'll he straight because he's afraid not +to be.” + +“When there's a woman in it!” said the Pole, skeptically. + +But Doyle only smiled. He had known many women and loved none of them, +and he was temperamentally unable to understand the type of man who saw +the world through a woman's eyes and in them. + +So Woslosky was compelled to watch the growth of Willy Cameron's +organization, and to hold in check the violent passions he had himself +roused, and to wait, gnawing his nails with inaction and his heart with +rage. But these certain things he discovered: + +That the organization's growth was coincident with a new interest in +local politics, as though some vital force had wakened the plain people +to a sense of responsibility. + +That a drug clerk named Cameron was the founder and moving spirit of the +league, and that he was, using Hendricks' candidacy as a means, rousing +the city to a burning patriotic activity that Mr. Woslosky regarded as +extremely pernicious. + +And that this same Willy Cameron had apparently a knowledge of certain +plans, which was rather worse than pernicious. Mr. Woslosky's name for +it was damnable. + +For instance, there were the lists of the various city stores and their +estimated contents, missing from Mr. Woslosky's own inconspicuous trunk +in a storage house. On that had been based the plan for feeding the +revolution, by the simple expedient of exchanging by organized pillage +the contents of the city stores for food stuffs from the farmers in +outlying districts. + +Revolution, according to Mr. Woslosky, could only be starved out. He had +no anxiety as to troops which would be sent against them, because he had +a cynical belief that a man's country was less to him than various other +things, including his stomach. He believed that all armies were riddled +with sedition and fundamentally opposed to law. + +Copies of other important matters, too, were missing. Lists of officials +for the revolutionary city government and of deputies to take the places +of the disbanded police, plans for manning, by the radicals, the city +light, water and power plants; a schedule of public eating houses to +take the place of the restaurants. + +Woslosky began to find this drug clerk with the ridiculous given name +getting on his nerves. He considered him a dangerous enemy to progress, +that particular form of progress which Mr. Woslosky advocated, and +he suspected him of a lack of ethics regarding trunks in storage. Mr. +Woslosky had the old-world idea that the best government was a despotism +tempered by assassination. He thought considerably about Willy Cameron. + +But the plan concerning the farm house was, in the end, devised by Louis +Akers. Woslosky was skeptical. It was true that Cameron might stick his +head into the lion's jaws, but precautions had been known to be taken at +such times to prevent their closing. However, the Pole was desperate. + +He took six picked men with him that afternoon to the farm, and made a +strategic survey of the situation. The house was closed and locked, +but he was not concerned with the house. Cusick had told Denslow the +meetings were held late at night in the barn, and to the barn Woslosky +repaired, sawed-off shotgun under his coat and cigarette in mouth, and +inspected it with his evil smile. Two men, young and reckless, might +easily plan to conceal themselves under the hay in the loft, and-- + +Woslosky put down his gun and went down into the cow barn below, +whistling softly to himself. He began to enjoy the prospect. He gathered +some eggs from the feed boxes, carrying them in his hat, and breaking +the lock of the kitchen door he and his outfit looted the closet +there and had an early supper, being careful to extinguish the fire +afterwards. + +Not until dusk was falling did he post his men, three outside among +the outbuildings, one as a sentry near the woods, and two in the barn +itself. He himself took up his station inside the barn door, sitting on +the floor with his gun across his knees. Looking out from there, he saw +the sharp flash of a hastily extinguished match, and snarled with anger. +He had forbidden smoking. + +“I've got to go out,” he said cautiously. “Don't you fools shoot me when +I come back.” + +He slipped out into what was by that time complete blackness. + +Some five minutes later he came back, still noiselessly, and treading +like a cat. He could only locate the barn door by feeling for it, and +above the light scraping of his fingers he could hear, inside, cautious +footsteps over the board floor. He scowled again. Damn this country +quiet, anyhow! But he had found the doorway, and was feeling his way +through when he found himself caught and violently thrown. The fall +and the surprise stunned him. He lay still for an infuriated helpless +second, with a knee on his chest and both arms tightly held, to hear one +of his own men above him saying: + +“Got him, all right. Woslosky, you've got the rope, haven't you?” + +“You fool!” snarled Woslosky from the floor, “let me up. You've half +killed me. Didn't I tell you I was going out?” + +He scrambled to his feet, and to an astounded silence. + +“But you came in a couple of minutes ago. Somebody came in. You heard +him, Cusick, didn't you?” + +Woslosky whirled and closed and fastened the barn doors, and almost with +the same movement drew a searchlight and flashed it over the place. It +was apparently empty. + +The Pole burst into blasphemous anger, punctuated with sharp questions. +Both men had heard the cautious entrance they had taken for his own, +both men had remained silent and unsuspicious, and both were positive +whoever had come in had not gone out again. + +He stationed one man at the door, and commenced a merciless search. The +summer's hay filled one end, but it was closely packed below and offered +no refuge. Armed with the shotgun, and with the flash in his pocket, +Woslosky climbed the ladder to the loft, going softly. He listened at +the top, and then searched it with the light, holding it far to the left +for a possible bullet. The loft was empty. He climbed into it and walked +over it, gun in one hand and flash in the other, searching for some +buried figure. But there was nothing. The loft was fragrant with the +newly dried hay, sweet and empty. Woslosky descended the ladder again, +the flash extinguished, and stood again on the barn floor, considering. +Cusick was a man without imagination, and he had sworn that some one had +come in. Then-- + +Suddenly there was a whirr of wings outside and above, excited +flutterings first, and then a general flight of the pigeons who roosted +on the roof. Woslosky listened and slowly smiled. + +“We've got him, boys,” he said, without excitement. “Outside, and call +the others. He's on the roof.” + +Cusick whistled shrilly, and as the Pole ran out he met the others +coming pell-mell toward him. He flung a guard of all five of them around +the barn, and himself walked off a hundred feet or so and gazed upward. +The very outline of the ridge pole was indistinguishable, and he swore +softly. In the hope of drawing an answering flash he fired, but without +result. The explosion echoed and reechoed, died away. + +He called to Cusick, and had him try the same experiment, following the +line of the gutter as nearly as possible in the darkness, on that side, +and emptying his revolver. Still silence. + +Woslosky began to doubt. The pigeons might have seen his flashlight, +might have heard his own stealthy movements. He was intensely irritated. +The shooting, if the alarm had been false, had ruined everything. He +saw, as in a vision, Doyle's sneering face when he told him. Beside him +Cusick was reloading his revolver in the darkness. + +Then, out of the night, came a call from the direction of the woods, and +unintelligible at that distance. + +“What's that?” Cusick said hoarsely. + +Woslosky made no reply. He was listening. Some one was approaching, now +running, now stopping as though confused. Woslosky held his gun ready, +and waited. Then, from a distance, he heard his name called. + +He stepped inside the door of the barn and showed the light for a +moment. Soon after the sentry floundered in, breathless and excited. + +“I got one of them,” he gasped. “Hit him with my gun. He's lying back by +the stone fence.” + +“Did you call out, or did he?” + +“He did. That's how I knew it wasn't one of our fellows. He called +Cameron, so he's the other one.” + +Woslosky drew a deep breath. Then it was Cameron on the roof. It was +Cameron they wanted. + +“He'll sleep for an hour or two, if he ever wakes up,” Pink's assailant +boasted. But Woslosky was taking no chances that night. He sent two men +after Pink, and began to pace the floor thoughtfully. If he could have +waited for daylight it would have been simple enough, but he did not +know how much time he had. He did not underestimate young Cameron's +intelligence, and it had occurred to him that that young Scot might +cannily have provided against his failure to return. Then, too, the +state constabulary had an uncomfortable habit of riding lonely back +roads at night, and shots could be heard a long distance off. + +He had never surveyed the barn roof closely, but he knew that it was +steeply pitched. Cameron, then, was probably braced somewhere in the +gutter. The departure of the two men had left him short-handed, and he +waited impatiently for their return. With a ladder, provided it could be +quietly placed, a man could shoot from a corner along two sides of the +roof. With two ladders, at diagonal corners, they could get him. But a +careful search discovered no ladders on the place. + +He went out, and standing close against the wall for protection, called +up. + +“We know you're there, Cameron,” he said. “If you come down we won't +hurt you. If you don't, we'll get you, and you know it.” + +But he received no reply. + +Soon after that the two men carried in Pink Denslow, and laid him on the +floor of the barn. Then Woslosky tried again, more reckless this time +with anger. He stood out somewhat from the wall and called: + +“One more chance, Cameron, or we'll put a bullet through your friend +here. Come down, or we'll--” + +Something struck him heavily and he fell, with a bullet in the shoulder. +He struggled to his feet and gained the shelter of the wall, his face +twisted with pain. + +“All right,” he said, “if that's the way you feel about it!” + +He regained the barn and had his arm supported in an extemporized sling. +Then he ordered Pink to be tied, and fighting down his pain considered +the situation. Cameron was on the roof, and armed. Even if he had no +extra shells he still had five shots in reserve, and he would not waste +any of them. Whoever tried to scale the walls would be done in at once; +whoever attempted to follow him to the roof by way of the loft would +be shot instantly. And his own condition demanded haste; the bullet, +striking from above, had broken his arm. Every movement was torture. + +He thought of setting fire to the barn. Then Cameron would have the +choice of two things, to surrender or to be killed. He might get some of +them first, however. Well, that was a part of the game. + +He delivered a final ultimatum from the shelter of the doorway. + +“I've just thought of something, Cameron,” he called. “We're going to +fire the barn. Your young friend is here, tied, and we'll leave him +here. Do you get that? Either throw down that gun of yours, and come +down, or I'm inclined to think you'll be up against it. I'll give you a +minute or so to think it over.” + +At half-past eleven o'clock that night the first of four automobiles +drove into Friendship. It was driven by a hatless young man in a +raincoat over a suit of silk pajamas, and it contained four County +detectives and the city Chief of Police. Behind it, but well +outdistanced, came the other cars, some of them driven by leading +citizens in a state of considerable deshabille. + +At a cross street in Friendship the lead car drew up, and flashlights +were turned on a road map in the rear of the car. There was some +argument over the proper road, and a member of the state constabulary, +riding up to investigate, showed a strong inclination to place them +under arrest. + +It took a moment to put him right. + +“Wish I could go along,” he said, wistfully. “The place you want is back +there. I can't leave the town, but I'll steer you out. You'll probably +run into some of our fellows back there.” + +He rode on ahead, his big black horse restive in the light from the +lamps behind him. At the end of a lane he stopped. + +“Straight ahead up there,” he said. “You'll find--” + +He broke off and stared ahead to where a dull red glare, reflected on +the low hanging clouds, had appeared over the crest of the hill. + +“Something doing up there,” he called suddenly. “Let's go.” + +He jerked his revolver free, dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, +and was off on a dead run. Half way up the hill the car passed him, the +black going hard, and its rider's face, under the rim of his uniform +hat, a stern profile. His reins lay loose on the animal's neck, and he +was examining his gun. + +The road mounted to a summit, and dipped again. They were in a long +valley, and the burning barn was clearly outlined at the far end of it. +One side was already flaming, and tongues of fire leaped out through the +roof. The men in the car were standing now, doors open, ready to leap, +while the car lurched and swayed over the uneven road. Behind them they +heard the clatter of the oncoming horse. + +As they drew nearer they could see three watching figures against the +burning building, and as they turned into the lane which led to the +barnyard a shot rang out and one of the figures dropped and lay still. +There was a cry of warning from somewhere, and before the detectives +could leap from the car, the group had scattered, running wildly. The +state policeman threw his horse back on its hunches, and fired without +apparently taking aim at one of the running shadows. The man threw up +his arms and fell. The state policeman galloped toward him, dismounted +and bent over him. + +Firing as they ran, detectives leaped out of the car and gave chase, +and so it was that the young gentleman in bedroom slippers and pajamas, +standing in his car and shielding his eyes against the glare, saw a +curious thing. + +First of all, the roof blazed up brightly, and he perceived a human +figure, hanging by its hands from the eaves and preparing to drop. The +young gentleman in pajamas was feeling rather out of things by that +time, so he made a hasty exit from his car toward the barn, losing a +slipper as he did so, and yelling in a slightly hysterical manner. It +thus happened that he and the dropping figure reached the same spot at +almost the same moment, one result of which was that the young gentleman +in pajamas found himself struck a violent blow with a doubled-up fist, +and at the same moment his bare right foot was tramped on with extreme +thoroughness. + +The young gentleman in pajamas reeled back dizzily and gave tongue, +while standing on one foot. The person he addressed was the state +constable, and his instructions were to get the fugitive and kill him. +But the fugitive here did a very strange thing. Through the handkerchief +which it was now seen he wore tied over his mouth, he told the running +policeman to go to perdition, and then with seeming suicidal intent +rushed into the burning barn. From it he emerged a moment later, +dragging a figure bound hand and foot, blackened with smoke, and with +its clothing smoldering in a dozen places; a figure which alternately +coughed and swore in a strangled whisper, but which found breath for +a loud whoop almost immediately after, on its being immersed, as it +promptly was, in a nearby horse-trough. + +Very soon after that the other cars arrived. They drew up and men +emerged from them, variously clothed and even more variously armed, but +all they saw was the ruined embers of the barn, and in the glow +five figures. Of the five one lay, face up to the sky, as though the +prostrate body followed with its eyes the unkillable traitor soul of +one Cusick, lately storekeeper at Friendship. Woslosky, wounded for +the second time, lay on an automobile rug on the ground, conscious +but sullenly silent. On the driving seat of an automobile sat a young +gentleman with an overcoat over a pair of silk pajamas, carefully +inspecting the toes of his right foot by the light of a match, while +another young gentleman with a white handkerchief around his head was +sitting on the running board of the same car, dripping water and rather +dazedly staring at the ruins. + +And beside him stood a gaunt figure, blackened of face, minus eyebrows +and charred of hair, and considerably torn as to clothing. A figure +which seemed disinclined to talk, and which gave its explanations +in short, staccato sentences. Having done which, it relapsed into +uncompromising silence again. + +Some time later the detectives returned. They had made no further +captures, for the refugees had known the country, and once outside the +light from the burning barn search was useless. The Chief of Police +approached Willy Cameron and stood before him, eyeing him severely. + +“The next time you try to raid an anarchist meeting, Cameron,” he said, +“you'd better honor me with your confidence. You've probably learned a +lesson from all this.” + +Willy Cameron glanced at him, and for the first time that night, smiled. + +“I have,” he said; “I'll never trust a pigeon again.” The Chief thought +him slightly unhinged by the night's experience. + + + +CHAPTER XL + + +Edith Boyd's child was prematurely born at the Memorial Hospital early +the next morning. It lived only a few moments, but Edith's mother never +knew either of its birth or of its death. + +When Willy Cameron reached the house at two o'clock that night he found +Dan in the lower hall, a new Dan, grave and composed but very pale. + +“Mother's gone, Willy,” he said quietly. “I don't think she knew +anything about it. Ellen heard her breathing hard and went in, but she +wasn't conscious.” He sat down on the horse-hair covered chair by the +stand. “I don't know anything about these things,” he observed, still +with that strange new composure. “What do you do now?” + +“Don't worry about that, Dan, just now. There's nothing to do until +morning.” + +He looked about him. The presence of death gave a new dignity to the +little house. Through the open door he could see in the parlor Mrs. +Boyd's rocking chair, in which she had traveled so many conversational +miles. Even the chair had gained dignity; that which it had once +enthroned had now penetrated the ultimate mystery. + +He was shaken and very weary. His mind worked slowly and torpidly, so +that even grief came with an effort. He was grieved; he knew that. Some +one who had loved him and depended on him was gone; some one who loved +life had lost it. He ran his hand over his singed hair. + +“Where is Edith?” + +Dan's voice hardened. + +“She's out somewhere. It's like her, isn't it?” + +Willy Cameron roused himself. + +“Out?” he said incredulously. “Don't you know where she is?” + +“No. And I don't care.” + +Willy Cameron was fully alert now, and staring down at Dan. + +“I'll tell you something, Dan. She probably saved my life to-night. I'll +tell you how later. And if she is still out there is something wrong.” + +“She used to stay out to all hours. She hasn't done it lately, but I +thought--” + +Dan got up and reached for his hat. + +“Where'll I start to look for her?” + +But Willy Cameron had no suggestion to make. He was trying to think +straight, but it was not easy. He knew that for some reason Edith had +not waited until midnight to open the envelope. She had telephoned her +message clearly, he had learned, but with great excitement, saying that +there was a plot against his life, and giving the farmhouse and the +message he had left in full; and she had not rung off until she knew +that a posse would start at once. And that had been before eleven +o'clock. + +Three hours. He looked at his watch. Either she had been hurt or was +a prisoner, or--he came close to the truth then. He glanced at Dan, +standing hat in hand. + +“We'll try the hospitals first, Dan,” he said. “And the best way to do +that is by telephone. I don't like Ellen being left alone here, so you'd +better let me do that.” + +Dan acquiesced unwillingly. He resumed his seat in the hail, and Willy +Cameron went upstairs. Ellen was moving softly about, setting in order +the little upper room. The windows were opened, and through them came +the soft night wind, giving a semblance of life and movement under it to +the sheet that covered the quiet figure on the bed. + +Willy Cameron stood by it and looked down, with a great wave of +thankfulness in his heart. She had been saved much, and if from some new +angle she was seeing them now it would be with the vision of eternity, +and its understanding. She would see how sometimes the soul must lose +here to gain beyond. She would see the world filled with its Ediths, and +she would know that they too were a part of the great plan, and that the +breaking of the body sometimes freed the soul. + +He was shy of the forms of religion, but he voiced a small inarticulate +prayer, standing beside the bed while Ellen straightened the few toilet +articles on the dresser, that she might have rest, and then a long and +placid happiness. And love, he added. There would be no Heaven without +love. + +Ellen was looking at him in the mirror. + +“Your hair looks queer, Willy,” she said. “And I declare your clothes +are a sight.” She turned, sternly. “Where have you been?” + +“It's a long story, Ellen. Don't bother about it now. I'm worried about +Edith.” + +Ellen's lips closed in a grim line. + +“The less said about her the better. She came back in a terrible state +about something or other, ran in and up to your room, and out again. I +tried to tell her her mother wasn't so well, but she looked as if she +didn't hear me.” + +It was four o'clock in the morning when Willy Cameron located Edith. He +had gone to the pharmacy and let himself in, intending to telephone, +but the card on the door, edged with black, gave him a curious sense +of being surrounded that night by death, and he stood for a moment, +unwilling to begin for fear of some further tragedy. In that moment, +what with reaction from excitement and weariness, he had a feeling +of futility, of struggling to no end. One fought on, and in the last +analysis it was useless. + +“So soon passeth it away, and we are gone.” + +He saw Mr. Davis, sitting alone in his house; he saw Ellen moving about +that quiet upper room; he saw Cusick lying on the ground beside the +smoldering heap that had been the barn, and staring up with eyes that +saw only the vast infinity that was the sky. All the struggling and the +fighting, and it came to that. + +He picked up the telephone book at last, and finding the hospital list +in the directory began his monotonous calling of numbers, and still the +revolt was in his mind. Even life lay through the gates of death; daily +and hourly women everywhere laid down their lives that some new soul be +born. But the revulsion came with that, a return to something nearer the +normal. Daily and hourly women lived, having brought to pass the miracle +of life. + +At half-past four he located Edith at the Memorial, and learned that her +child had been born dead, but that she was doing well. He was suddenly +exhausted; he sat down on a stool before the counter, and with his arms +across it and his head on them, fell almost instantly asleep. When he +waked it was almost seven and the intermittent sounds of early morning +came through the closed doors, as though the city stirred but had not +wakened. + +He went to the door and opened it, looking out. He had been wrong +before. Death was a beginning and not an end; it was the morning of the +spirit. Tired bodies lay down to sleep and their souls wakened to the +morning, rested; the first fruits of them that slept. + +From the chimneys of the houses nearby small spirals of smoke began to +ascend, definite promise of food and morning cheer behind the closed +doors, where the milk bottles stood like small white sentinels and the +morning paper was bent over the knob. Morning in the city, with children +searching for lost stockings and buttoning little battered shoes; with +women hurrying about, from stove to closet, from table to stove; with +all burdens a little lighter and all thoughts a little kinder. Morning. + + + +CHAPTER XLI + + +In her bed in the maternity ward Edith at first lay through the days, +watching the other women with their babies, and wondering over the +strange instinct that made them hover, like queer mis-shaped ministering +angels, over the tiny quivering bundles. Some of them were like herself, +or herself as she might have been, bearing their children out of +wedlock. Yet they faced their indefinite futures impassively, content +in relief from pain, in the child in their arms, in present peace and +security. She could not understand. + +She herself felt no sense of loss. Having never held her child in her +arms she did not feel them empty. + +She had not been told of her mother's death; men were not admitted to +the ward, but early on that first morning, when she lay there, hardly +conscious but in an ecstasy of relief from pain, Ellen had come. A tired +Ellen with circles around her eyes, and a bag of oranges in her arms. + +“How do you feel?” she had asked, sitting down self-consciously beside +the bed. The ward had its eyes on her. + +“I'm weak, but I'm all right. Last night was awful, Ellen.” + +She had roused herself with an effort. Ellen reminded her of something, +something that had to do with Willy Cameron. Then she remembered, and +tried to raise herself in the bed. + +“Willy!” she gasped. “Did he come home? Is he all right?” + +“He's all right. It was him that found you were here. You lie back now; +the nurse is looking.” + +Edith lay down and closed her eyes, and the ecstasy of relief and peace +gave to her pale face an almost spiritual look. Ellen saw it, and patted +her arm with a roughened hand. + +“You poor thing!” she said. “I've been as mean to you as I knew how to +be. I'm going to be different, Edith. I'm just a cross old maid, and I +guess I didn't understand.” + +“You've been all right,” Edith said. + +Ellen kissed her when she went away. + +So for three days Edith lay and rested. She felt that God had been very +good to her, and she began to think of God as having given her another +chance. This time He had let her off, but He had given her a warning. +He had said, in effect, that if she lived straight and thought straight +from now on He would forget this thing she had done. But if she did +not-- + +Then what about Willy Cameron? Did He mean her to hold him to that now? +Willy did not love her. Perhaps he would grow to love her, but she was +seeing things more clearly than she had before, and one of the things +she saw was that Willy Cameron was a one-woman man, and that she was not +the woman. + +“But I love him so,” she would cry to herself. + +The ward moved in its orderly routine around her. The babies were +carried out, bathed and brought back, their nuzzling mouths open for +the waiting mother-breast. The nurses moved about, efficient, kindly, +whimsically maternal. Women went out when their hour came, swollen +of feature and figure, and were wheeled back later on, etherealized, +purified as by fire, and later on were given their babies. Their faces +were queer then, frightened and proud at first, and later watchful and +tenderly brooding. + +For three days Edith's struggle went on. She had her strong hours and +her weak ones. There were moments when, exhausted and yet exalted, +she determined to give him up altogether, to live the fiction of the +marriage until her mother's death, and then to give up the house and +never see him again. If she gave him up she must never see him again. At +those times she prayed not to love him any longer, and sometimes, for a +little while after that, she would have peace. It was almost as though +she did not love him. + +But there were the other times, when she lay there and pictured them +married, and dreamed a dream of bringing him to her feet. He had offered +a marriage that was not a marriage, but he was a man, and human. He did +not want her now, but in the end he would want her; young as she was she +knew already the strength of a woman's physical hold on a man. + +Late on the afternoon of the third day Ellen came again, a swollen-eyed +Ellen, dressed in black with black cotton gloves, and a black veil +around her hat. Ellen wore her mourning with the dogged sense of duty +of her class, and would as soon have gone to the burying ground in her +kitchen apron as without black. She stood in the doorway of the ward, +hesitating, and Edith saw her and knew. + +Her first thought was not of her mother at all. She saw only that the +God who had saved her had made her decision for her, and that now she +would never marry Willy Cameron. All this time He had let her dream and +struggle. She felt very bitter. + +Ellen came and sat down beside her. + +“She's gone. Edith,” she said; “we didn't tell you before, but you have +to know sometime. We buried her this afternoon.” + +Suddenly Edith forgot Willy Cameron, and God, and Dan, and the years +ahead. She was a little girl again, and her mother was saying: + +“Brush your teeth and say your prayers, Edie. And tomorrow's Saturday. +So you don't need to get up until you're good and ready.” + +She lay there. She saw her mother growing older and more frail, the +house more untidy, and her mother's bright spirit fading to the drab of +her surroundings. She saw herself, slipping in late at night, listening +always for that uneasy querulous voice. And then she saw those recent +months, when her mother had bloomed with happiness; she saw her +struggling with her beloved desserts, cheerfully unconscious of any +failure in them; she saw her, living like a lady, as she had said, with +every anxiety kept from her. There had been times when her thin face had +been almost illuminated with her new content and satisfaction. + +Suddenly grief and remorse overwhelmed her. + +“Mother!” she said, huskily. And lay there, crying quietly, with Ellen +holding her hand. All that was hard and rebellious in Edith Boyd was +swept away in that rush of grief, and in its place there came a new +courage and resolution. She would meet the future alone, meet it and +overcome it. But not alone, either; there was always-- + +It was a Sunday afternoon, and the nurse had picked up the worn ward +Bible and was reading from it, aloud. In their rocking chairs in a +semi-circle around her were the women, some with sleeping babies in +their arms, others with tense, expectant faces. + +“Let not your heart be troubled,” read the nurse, in a grave young +voice. “Ye believe in God. Believe also in Me. In my Father's house--” + +There was always God. + +Edith Boyd saw her mother in the Father's house, pottering about some +small celestial duty, and eagerly seeking and receiving approval. She +saw her, in some celestial rocking chair, her tired hands folded, slowly +rocking and resting. And perhaps, as she sat there, she held Edith's +child on her knee, like the mothers in the group around the nurse. Held +it and understood at last. + + + +CHAPTER XLII + + +It was at this time that Doyle showed his hand, with his customary +fearlessness. He made a series of incendiary speeches, the general theme +being that the hour was close at hand for putting the fear of God into +the exploiting classes for all time to come. His impassioned oratory, +coming at the psychological moment, when the long strike had brought its +train of debt and evictions, made a profound impression. Had he asked +for a general strike vote then, he would have secured it. + +As it was, it was some time before all the unions had voted for it. And +the day was not set. Doyle was holding off, and for a reason. Day by +day he saw a growth of the theory of Bolshevism among the so-called +intellectual groups of the country. Almost every university had its +radicals, men who saw emerging from Russia the beginning of a new earth. +Every class now had its Bolshevists. They found a ready market for their +propaganda, intelligent and insidious as it was, among a certain liberal +element of the nation, disgruntled with the autocracy imposed upon them +by the war. + +The reaction from that autocracy was a swinging to the other extreme, +and, as if to work into the hands of the revolutionary party, living +costs remained at the maximum. The cry of the revolutionists, to all +enough and to none too much, found a response not only in the anxious +minds of honest workmen, but among an underpaid intelligentsia. Neither +political party offered any relief; the old lines no longer held, and +new lines of cleavage had come. Progressive Republicans and Democrats +had united against reactionary members of both parties. There were no +great leaders, no men of the hour. + +The old vicious cycle of empires threatened to repeat itself, the old +story of the many led by the few. Always it had come, autocracy, the too +great power of one man; then anarchy, the overthrow of that power by the +angry mob. Out of that anarchy the gradual restoration of order by +the people themselves, into democracy. And then in time again, by that +steady gravitation of the strong up and the weak down, some one man who +emerged from the mass and crowned himself, or was crowned. And there was +autocracy again, and again the vicious circle. + +But such movements had always been, in the last analysis, the work of +the few. It had always been the militant minority which ruled. Always +the great mass of the people had submitted. They had fought, one way +or the other when the time came, but without any deep conviction behind +them. They wanted peace, the right to labor. They warred, to find peace. +Small concern was it, to the peasant plowing his field, whether one man +ruled over him or a dozen. He wanted neither place nor power. + +It came to this, then, Willy Cameron argued to himself. This new world +conflict was a struggle between the contented and the discontented. In +Europe, discontent might conquer, but in America, never. There were too +many who owned a field or had the chance to labor. There were too many +ways legitimately to aspire. Those who wanted something for nothing were +but a handful to those who wanted to give that they might receive. + + * * * * * + +Three days before the election, Willy Cameron received a note from Lily, +sent by hand. + +“Father wants to see you to-night,” she wrote, “and mother suggests +that as you are busy, you try to come to dinner. We are dining alone. Do +come, Willy. I think it is most important.” + +He took the letter home with him and placed it in a locked drawer of +his desk, along with a hard and shrunken doughnut, tied with a bow of +Christmas ribbon, which had once helped to adorn the Christmas tree they +had trimmed together. There were other things in the drawer; a postcard +photograph, rather blurred, of Lily in the doorway of her little hut, +smiling; and the cigar box which had been her cash register at the camp. + +He stood for some time looking down at the post card; it did not seem +possible that in the few months since those wonderful days, life could +have been so cruel to them both. Lily married, and he himself-- + +Ellen came up when he was tying his tie. She stood behind him, watching +him in the mirror. + +“I don't know what you've done to your hair, Willy,” she said; “it +certainly looks queer.” + +“It usually looks queer, so why worry, heart of my heart?” But he turned +and put an arm around her shoulders. “What would the world be without +women like you, Ellen?” he said gravely. + +“I haven't done anything but my duty,” Ellen said, in her prim voice. +“Listen, Willy. I saw Edith again to-day, and she told me to do +something.” + +“To go home and take a rest? That's what you need.” + +“No. She wants me to tear up that marriage license.” + +He said nothing for a moment. “I'll have to see her first.” + +“She said it wouldn't be any good, Willy. She's made up her mind.” She +watched him anxiously. “You're not going to be foolish, are you? She +says there's no need now, and she's right.” + +“Somebody will have to look after her.” + +“Dan can do that. He's changed, since she went.” Ellen glanced toward +Mrs. Boyd's empty room. “You've done enough, Willy. You've seen +them through, all of them. I--isn't it time you began to think about +yourself?” + +He was putting on his coat, and she picked a bit of thread from it, with +nervous fingers. + +“Where are you going to-night, Willy?” + +“To the Cardews. Mr. Cardew has sent for me.” + +She looked up at him. + +“Willy, I want to tell you something. The Cardews won't let that +marriage stand, and you know it. I think she cares for you. Don't look +at me like that. I do.” + +“That's because you are fond of me,” he said, smiling down at her. +“I'm not the sort of man girls care about, Ellen. Let's face that. The +General Manager said when he planned me, 'Here's going to be a fellow +who is to have everything in the world, health, intelligence, wit and +the beauty of an Adonis, but he has to lack something, so we'll make it +that'.” + +But Ellen, glancing up swiftly, saw that although his tone was light, +there was pain in his eyes. + +He reflected on Edith's decision as he walked through the park toward +the Cardew house. It had not surprised him, and yet he knew it had cost +her an effort. How great an effort, man-like, he would never understand, +but something of what she had gone through he realized. He wondered +vaguely whether, had there never been a Lily Cardew in his life, he +could ever have cared for Edith. Perhaps. Not the Edith of the early +days, that was certain. But this new Edith, with her gentleness and +meekness, her clear, suffering eyes, her strange new humility. + +She had sent him a message of warning about Akers, and from it he had +reconstructed much of the events of the night she had taken sick. + +“Tell him to watch Louis Akers,” she had said. “I don't know how near +Willy was to trouble the other night, Ellen, but they're going to try to +get him.” + +Ellen had repeated the message, watching him narrowly, but he had only +laughed. + +“Who are they?” she had persisted. + +“I'll tell you all about it some day,” he had said. But he had told Dan +the whole story, and, although he did not know it, Dan had from that +time on been his self-constituted bodyguard. During his campaign +speeches Dan was always near, his right hand on a revolver in his coat +pocket, and for hours at a time he stood outside the pharmacy, favoring +every seeker for drugs or soap or perfume with a scowling inspection. +When he could not do it, he enlisted Joe Wilkinson in the evenings, and +sometimes the two of them, armed, policed the meeting halls. + +As a matter of fact, Joe Wilkinson was following him that night. On +his way to the Cardews Willy Cameron, suddenly remembering the uncanny +ability of Jinx to escape and trail him, remaining meanwhile at a safe +distance in the rear, turned suddenly and saw Joe, walking sturdily +along in rubber-soled shoes, and obsessed with his high calling of +personal detective. + +Joe, discovered, grinned sheepishly. + +“Thought that looked like your back,” he said. “Nice evening for a walk, +isn't it?” + +“Let me look at you, Joe,” said Willy Cameron. “You look strange to me. +Ah, now I have it. You look like a comet without a tail. Where's the +family?” + +“Making taffy. How--is Edith?” + +“Doing nicely.” He avoided the boy's eyes. + +“I guess I'd better tell you. Dan's told me about her. I--” Joe +hesitated. Then: “She never seemed like that sort of a girl,” he +finished, bitterly. + +“She isn't that sort of girl, Joe.” + +“She did it. How could a fellow know she wouldn't do it again?” + +“She has had a pretty sad sort of lesson.” + +Joe, his real business forgotten, walked on with eyes down and shoulders +drooping. + +“I might as well finish with it,” he said, “now I've started. I've +always been crazy about her. Of course now--I haven't slept for two +nights.” + +“I think it's rather like this, Joe,” Willy Cameron said, after a pause. +“We are not one person, really. We are all two or three people, and +all different. We are bad and good, depending on which of us is the +strongest at the time, and now and then we pay so much for the bad we +do that we bury that part. That's what has happened to Edith. Unless, of +course,” he added, “we go on convincing her that she is still the thing +she doesn't want to be.” + +“I'd like to kill the man,” Joe said. But after a little, as they neared +the edge of the park, he looked up. + +“You mean, go on as if nothing had happened?” + +“Precisely,” said Willy Cameron, “as though nothing had happened.” + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + + +The atmosphere of the Cardew house was subtly changed and very friendly. +Willy Cameron found himself received as an old friend, with no tendency +to forget the service he had rendered, or that, in their darkest hour, +he had been one of them. + +To his surprise Pink Denslow was there, and he saw at once that Pink +had been telling them of the night at the farm house. Pink was himself +again, save for a small shaved place at the back of his head, covered +with plaster. + +“I've told them, Cameron,” he said. “If I could only tell it generally +I'd be the most popular man in the city, at dinners.” + +“Pair of young fools,” old Anthony muttered, with his sardonic smile. +But in his hand-clasp, as in Howard's, there was warmth and a sort of +envy, envy of youth and the adventurous spirit of youth. + +Lily was very quiet. The story had meant more to her than to the others. +She had more nearly understood Pink's reference to the sealed envelope +Willy Cameron had left, and the help sent by Edith Boyd. She connected +that with Louis Akers, and from that to Akers' threat against Cameron +was only a step. She was frightened and somewhat resentful, that this +other girl should have saved him from a revenge that she knew was +directed at herself. That she, who had brought this thing about, had sat +quietly at home while another woman, a woman who loved him, had saved +him. + +She was puzzled at her own state of mind. + +Dinner was almost gay. Perhaps the gayety was somewhat forced, with Pink +keeping his eyes from Lily's face, and Howard Cardew relapsing now +and then into abstracted silence. Because of the men who served, the +conversation was carefully general. It was only in the library later, +the men gathered together over their cigars, that the real reason for +Willy Cameron's summons was disclosed. + +Howard Cardew was about to withdraw from the contest. “I'm late in +coming to this decision,” he said. “Perhaps too late. But after a +careful canvas of the situation, I find you are right, Cameron. Unless +I withdraw, Akers”--he found a difficulty in speaking the name--“will be +elected. At least it looks that way.” + +“And if he is,” old Anthony put in, “he'll turn all the devils of hell +loose on us.” + +It was late; very late. The Cardews stood ready to flood the papers with +announcements of Howard's withdrawal, and urging his supporters to vote +for Hendricks, but the time was short. Howard had asked his campaign +managers to meet there that night, and also Hendricks and one or two of +his men, but personally he felt doubtful. + +And, as it happened, the meeting developed more enthusiasm than +optimism. Cardew's withdrawal would be made the most of by the +opposition. They would play it up as the end of the old regime, the +beginning of new and better things. + +Before midnight the conference broke up, to catch the morning editions. +Willy Cameron, detained behind the others, saw Lily in the drawing-room +alone as he passed the door, and hesitated. + +“I have been waiting for you, Willy,” she said. + +But when he went in she seemed to have nothing to say. She sat in a +low chair, in a soft dark dress which emphasized her paleness. To Willy +Cameron she had never seemed more beautiful, or more remote. + +“Do you remember how you used to whistle 'The Long, Long Trail,' Willy?” + she said at last. “All evening I have been sitting here thinking what a +long trail we have both traveled since then.” + +“A long, hard trail,” he assented. + +“Only you have gone up, Willy. And I have gone down, into the valley. +I wish”--she smiled faintly--“I wish you would look down from your peak +now and then. You never come to see me.” + +“I didn't know you wanted me,” he said bluntly. + +“Why shouldn't I want to see you?” + +“I couldn't help reminding you of things.” + +“But I never forget them, anyhow. Sometimes I almost go mad, +remembering. It isn't quite as selfish as it sounds. I've hurt them all +so. Willy, do you mind telling me about the girl who opened that letter +and sent you help?” + +“About Edith Boyd? I'd like to tell you, Lily. Her mother is dead, and +she lost her child. She is in the Memorial Hospital.” + +“Then she has no one but you?” + +“She has a brother.” + +“Tell me about her sending help that night. She really saved your life, +didn't she?” + +While he was telling her she sat staring straight ahead, her fingers +interlaced in her lap. She was telling herself that all this could +not possibly matter to her, that she had cut herself off, finally and +forever, from the man before her; that she did not even deserve his +friendship. + +Quite suddenly she knew that she did not want his friendship. She wanted +to see again in his face the look that had been there the night he had +told her, very simply, that he loved her. And it would never be there; +it was not there now. She had killed his love. All the light in his face +was for some one else, another girl, a girl more unfortunate but less +wicked than herself. + +When he stopped she was silent. Then: + +“I wonder if you know how much you have told me that you did not intend +to tell?” + +“That I didn't intend to tell? I have made no reservations, Lily.” + +“Are you sure? Or don't you realize it yourself?” + +“Realize what?” He was greatly puzzled. + +“I think, Willy,” she said, quietly, “that you care a great deal more +for Edith Boyd than you think you do.” + +He looked at her in stupefaction. How could she say that? How could she +fail to know better than that? And he did not see the hurt behind her +careful smile. + +“You are wrong about that. I--” He made a little gesture of despair. He +could not tell her now that he loved her. That was all over. + +“She is in love with you.” + +He felt absurd and helpless. He could not deny that, yet how could she +sit there, cool and faintly smiling, and not know that as she sat there +so she sat enshrined in his heart. She was his saint, to kneel and pray +to; and she was his woman, the one woman of his life. More woman than +saint, he knew, and even for that he loved her. But he did not know the +barbarous cruelty of the loving woman. + +“I don't know what to say to you, Lily,” he said, at last. “She--it is +possible that she thinks she cares, but under the circumstances--” + +“Ellen told Mademoiselle you were going to marry her. That's true, isn't +it?” + +“Yes.” + +“You always said that marriage without love was wicked, Willy.” + +“Her child had a right to a name. And there were other things. I can't +very well explain them to you. Her mother was ill. Can't you understand, +Lily? I don't want to throw any heroics.” In his excitement he had +lapsed into boyish vernacular. “Here was a plain problem, and a simple +way to solve it. But it is off now, anyhow; things cleared up without +that.” + +She got up and held out her hand. + +“It was like you to try to save her,” she said. + +“Does this mean I am to go?” + +“I am very tired, Willy.” + +He had a mad impulse to take her in his arms, and holding her close to +rest her there. She looked so tired. For fear he might do it he held his +arms rigidly at his sides. + +“You haven't asked me about him,” she said unexpectedly. + +“I thought you would not care to talk about him. That's over and done, +Lily. I want to forget about it, myself.” + +She looked up at him, and had he had Louis Akers' intuitive knowledge of +women he would have understood then. + +“I am never going back to him, Willy. You know that, don't you?” + +“I hoped it, of course.” + +“I know now that I never loved him.” + +But the hurt of her marriage was still too fresh in him for speech. He +could not discuss Louis Akers with her. + +“No,” he said, after a moment, “I don't think you ever did. I'll come in +some evening, if I may, Lily. I must not keep you up now.” + +How old he looked, for him! How far removed from those busy, cheerful +days at the camp! And there were new lines of repression in his face; +from the nostrils to the corners of his mouth. Above his ears his hair +showed a faint cast of gray. + +“You have been having rather a hard time, Willy, haven't you'?” she +said, suddenly. + +“I have been busy, of course.” + +“And worried?” + +“Sometimes. But things are clearing up now.” + +She was studying him with the newly opened eyes of love. What was it he +showed that the other men she knew lacked? Sensitiveness? Kindness? But +her father was both sensitive and kind. So was Pink, in less degree. In +the end she answered her own question, and aloud. + +“I think it is patience,” she said. And to his unspoken question: “You +are very patient, aren't you?” + +“I never thought about it. For heaven's sake don't turn my mind in on +myself, Lily. I'll be running around in circles like a pup chasing his +tail.” + +He made a movement to leave, but she seemed oddly reluctant to let him +go. + +“Do you know that father says you have more influence than any other man +in the city?” + +“That's more kind than truthful.” + +“And--I think he and grandfather are planning to try to get you, when +the mills reopen. Father suggested it, but grandfather says you'd have +the presidency of the company in six months, and he'd be sharpening your +lead pencils.” + +Suddenly Willy Cameron laughed, and the tension was broken. + +“If he did it with his tongue they'd be pretty sharp,” he said. + +For just a moment, before he left, they were back to where they had been +months ago, enjoying together their small jokes and their small mishaps. +The present fell away, with its hovering tragedy, and they were boy and +girl together. Exaltation and sacrifice were a part of their love, as +of all real and lasting passion, but there was always between them also +that soundest bond of all, liking and comradeship. + +“I love her. I like her. I adore her,” was the cry in Willy Cameron's +heart when he started home that night. + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + + +Elinor Doyle was up and about her room. She walked slowly and with +difficulty, using crutches, and she spent most of the time at her +window, watching and waiting. From Lily there came, at frequent +intervals, notes, flowers and small delicacies. The flowers and food +Olga brought to her, but the notes she never saw. She knew they came. +She could see the car stop at the curb, and the chauffeur, his shoulders +squared and his face watchful, carrying a white envelope up the walk, +but there it ended. + +She felt more helpless than ever. The doctor came less often, but the +vigilance was never relaxed, and she had, too, less and less hope of +being able to give any warning. Doyle was seldom at home, and when he +was he had ceased to give her his taunting information. She was quite +sure now of his relations with the Russian girl, and her uncertainty +as to her course was gone. She was no longer his wife. He held another +woman in his rare embraces, a traitor like himself. It was sordid. He +was sordid. + +Woslosky had developed blood poisoning, and was at the point of death, +with a stolid policeman on guard at his bedside. She knew that from the +newspapers she occasionally saw. And she connected Doyle unerringly with +the tragedy at the farm behind Friendship. She recognized, too, since +that failure, a change in his manner to her. She saw that he now both +hated her and feared her, and that she had become only a burden and +a menace to him. He might decide to do away with her, to kill her. +He would not do it himself; he never did his own dirty work, but the +Russian girl--Olga was in love with Jim Doyle. Elinor knew that, as she +knew many things, by a sort of intuition. She watched them in the room +together, and she knew that to Doyle the girl was an incident, the +vehicle of his occasional passion, a strumpet and a tool. He did not +even like her; she saw him looking at her sometimes with a sort of +amused contempt. But Olga's somber eyes followed him as he moved, lit +with passion and sometimes with anger, but always they followed him. + +She was afraid of Olga. She did not care particularly about death, but +it must not come before she had learned enough to be able to send out a +warning. She thought if it came it might be by poison in the food that +was sent up, but she had to eat to live. She took to eating only +one thing on her tray, and she thought she detected in the girl an +understanding and a veiled derision. + +By Doyle's increasing sullenness she knew things were not going well +with him, and she found a certain courage in that, but she knew him +too well to believe that he would give up easily. And she drew certain +deductions from the newspapers she studied so tirelessly. She saw the +announcement of the unusual number of hunting licenses issued, for one +thing, and she knew the cover that such licenses furnished armed men +patrolling the country. The state permitted the sale of fire-arms +without restriction. Other states did the same, or demanded only the +formality of a signature, never verified. + +Would they never wake to the situation? + +She watched the election closely. She knew that if Akers were elected +the general strike and the chaos to follow would be held back until +he had taken office and made the necessary changes in the city +administration, but that if he went down to defeat the Council would +turn loose its impatient hordes at once. + +She waited for election day with burning anxiety. When it came it so +happened that she was left alone all day in the house. Early in the +morning Olga brought her a tray and told her she was going out. She was +changed, the Russian; she had dropped the mask of sodden servility and +stood before her, erect, cunningly intelligent and oddly powerful. + +“I am going to be away all day, Mrs. Doyle,” she said, in her excellent +English. “I have work to do.” + +“Work?” said Elinor. “Isn't there work to do here?” + +“I am not a house-worker. I came to help Mr. Doyle. To-day I shall make +speeches.” + +Elinor was playing the game carefully. “But--can you make speeches?” she +asked. + +“Me? That is my work, here, in Russia, everywhere. In Russia it is the +women who speak, the men who do what the women tell them to do. Here +some day it will be the same.” + +Always afterwards Elinor remembered the five minutes that followed, for +Olga, standing before her, suddenly burst into impassioned oratory. +She cited the wrongs of the poor under the old regime. She painted in +glowing colors the new. She was excited, hectic, powerful. Elinor in +her chair, an aristocrat to the finger-tips, was frightened, interested, +thrilled. + +Long after Olga had gone she sat there, wondering at the real +conviction, the intensity of passion, of hate and of revenge that +actuated this newest tool of Doyle's. Doyle and his associates might be +actuated by self-interest, but the real danger in the movement lay not +with the Doyles of the world, but with these fanatic liberators. They +preached to the poor a new religion, not of creed or of Church, but +of freedom. Freedom without laws of God or of man, freedom of love, of +lust, of time, of all responsibility. And the poor, weighted with laws +and cares, longed to throw off their burdens. + +Perhaps it was not the doctrine itself that was wrong. It was its +imposition by force on a world not yet ready for it that was wrong; +its imposition by violence. It might come, but not this way. Not, God +preventing, this way. + +There was a polling place across the street, in the basement of a school +house. The vote was heavy and all day men lounged on the pavements, +smoking and talking. Once she saw Olga in the crowd, and later on Louis +Akers drove up in an open automobile, handsome, apparently confident, +and greeted with cheers. But Elinor, knowing him well, gained nothing +from his face. + +Late that night she heard Doyle come in and move about the lower floor. +She knew every emphasis of his walk, and when in the room underneath she +heard him settle down to steady, deliberate pacing, she knew that he was +facing some new situation, and, after his custom, thinking it out alone. + +At midnight he came up the stairs and unlocked her door. He entered, +closing the door behind him, and stood looking at her. His face was so +strange that she wondered if he had decided to do away with her. + +“To-morrow,” he said, in an inflectionless voice, “you will be moved by +automobile to a farm I have selected in the country. You will take only +such small luggage as the car can carry.” + +“Is Olga going with me?” + +“No. Olga is needed here.” + +“I suppose I am to understand from this that Louis has been defeated and +there is no longer any reason for delay in your plans.” + +“You can understand what you like.” + +“Am I to know where I am going?” + +“You will find that out when you get there. I will tell you this: It is +a lonely place, without a telephone. You'll be cut off from your family, +I am afraid.” + +She gazed at him. It seemed unbelievable to her that she had once lain +in this man's arms. + +“Why don't you kill me, Jim? I know you've thought about it.” + +“Yes, I've thought of it. But killing is a confession of fear, my dear. +I am not afraid of you.” + +“I think you are. You are afraid now to tell me when you are going to +try to put this wild plan into execution.” + +He smiled at her with mocking eyes. + +“Yes,” he agreed again. “I am afraid. You have a sort of diabolical +ingenuity, not intelligence so much as cunning. But because I always do +the thing I'm afraid to do, I'll tell you. Of course, if you succeed in +passing it on--” He shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, then. With your +usual logic of deduction, you have guessed correctly. Louis Akers has +been defeated. Your family--and how strangely you are a Cardew!--lost +its courage at the last moment, and a gentleman named Hendricks is now +setting up imitation beer and cheap cigars to his friends.” + +Behind his mocking voice she knew the real fury of the man, kept +carefully in control by his iron will. + +“As you have also correctly surmised,” he went on, “there is now nothing +to be gained by any delay. A very few days, three or four, and--” His +voice grew hard and terrible--“the first stone in the foundation of +this capitalistic government will go. Inevitable law, inevitable +retribution--” His voice trailed off. He turned like a man asleep and +went toward the door. There he stopped and faced her. + +“I've told you,” he said darkly. “I am not afraid of you. You can no +more stop this thing than you can stop living by ceasing to breathe. It +has come.” + +She heard him in his room for some time after that, and she surmised +from the way he moved, from closet to bed and back again, that he was +packing a bag. At two o'clock she heard Olga coming in; the girl was +singing in Russian, and Elinor had a sickening conviction that she had +been drinking. She heard Doyle send her off to bed, his voice angry and +disgusted, and resume his packing, and ten minutes later she heard a +car draw up on the street, and knew that he was off, to begin the +mobilization of his heterogeneous forces. + +Ever since she had been able to leave her bed Elinor had been +formulating a plan of escape. Once the door had been left unlocked, but +her clothing had been removed from the room, and then, too, she had +not learned the thing she was waiting for. Now she had clothing, a dark +dressing gown and slippers, and she had the information. But the door +was securely locked. + +She had often thought of the window, In the day time it frightened her +to look down, although it fascinated her, too. But at night it seemed +much simpler. The void below was concealed in the darkness, a soft +darkness that hid the hard, inhospitable earth. A darkness one could +fall into and onto. + +She was not a brave woman. She had moral rather than physical courage. +It was easier for her to face Doyle in a black mood than the gulf below +the window-sill, but she knew now that she must get away, if she were to +go at all. She got out of bed, and using her crutches carefully moved +to the sill, trying to accustom herself to the thought of going over the +edge. The plaster cast on her leg was a real handicap. She must get it +over first. How heavy it was, and unwieldy! + +She found her scissors, and, stripping the bed, sat down to cut and tear +the bedding into strips. Prisoners escaped that way; she had read about +such things. But the knots took up an amazing amount of length. It was +four o'clock in the morning when she had a serviceable rope, and she +knew it was too short. In the end she tore down the window curtains and +added them, working desperately against time. + +She began to suspect, too, that Olga was not sleeping. She smelled +faintly the odor of the long Russian cigarettes the girl smoked. She put +out her light and worked in the darkness, a strange figure of adventure, +this middle-aged woman with her smooth hair and lined face, sitting in +her cambric nightgown with her crutches on the floor beside her. + +She secured the end of the rope to the foot of her metal bed, pushing +the bed painfully and cautiously, inch by inch, to the window. And in +so doing she knocked over the call-bell on the stand, and almost +immediately she heard Olga moving about. + +The girl was coming unsteadily toward the door. If she opened it-- + +“I don't want anything, Olga,” she called, “I knocked the bell over +accidentally.” + +Olga hesitated, muttered, moved away again. Elinor was covered with a +cold sweat. + +She began to think of the window as a refuge. Surely nothing outside +could be so terrible as this house itself. The black aperture seemed +friendly; it beckoned to her with friendly hands. + +She dropped her crutches. They fell with two soft thuds on the earth +below and it seemed to her that they were a long time in falling. She +listened after that, but Olga made no sign. Then slowly and painfully +she worked her injured leg over the sill, and sat there looking down and +breathing with difficulty. Then she freed her dressing gown around her, +and slid over the edge. + + + +CHAPTER XLV + + +Election night found various groups in various places. In the back room +of the Eagle Pharmacy was gathered once again the neighborhood forum, a +wildly excited forum, which ever and anon pounded Mr. Hendricks on the +back, and drank round after round of soda water and pop. Doctor Smalley, +coming in rather late found them all there, calling Mr. Hendricks “Mr. +Mayor” or “Your Honor,” reciting election anecdotes, and prophesying the +end of the Reds. Only Willy Cameron, sitting on a table near the window, +was silent. + +Mr. Hendricks, called upon for a speech, rose with his soda water glass +in his hand. + +“I've got a toast for you, boys,” he said. “You've been talking all +evening about my winning this election. Well, I've been elected, but I +didn't win it. It was the plain people of this town who elected me, and +they did it because my young friend on the table yonder told them to.” + He raised his glass. “Cameron!” he said. + +“Cameron! Cameron!” shouted the crowd. “Speech! Cameron!” + +But Willy shook his head. + +“I haven't any voice left,” he said, “and you've heard me say all I know +a dozen times. The plain truth is that Mr. Hendricks got the election +because he was the best man, and enough people knew it. That's all.” + +To Mr. Hendricks the night was one of splendid solemnity. He felt at +once very strong and very weak, very proud and very humble. He would do +his best, and if honesty meant anything, the people would have it, but +he knew that honesty was not enough. The city needed a strong man; he +hoped that the Good Man who made cities as He made men, both evil and +good, would lend him a hand with things. As prayer in his mind was +indissolubly connected with church, he made up his mind to go to church +the next Sunday and get matters straightened out. + +At the same time another group was meeting at the Benedict. + +Louis Akers had gone home early. By five o'clock he knew that the +chances were against him, but he felt a real lethargy as to the outcome. +He had fought, and fought hard, but it was only the surface mind of him +that struggled. Only the surface mind of him hated, and had ambitions, +dreamed revenge. Underneath that surface mind was a sore that ate like a +cancer, and that sore was his desertion by Lily Cardew. For once in his +life he suffered, who had always inflicted pain. + +At six o'clock Doyle had called him on the telephone and told him that +Woslosky was dead, but the death of the Pole had been discounted in +advance, and already his place had been filled by a Russian agent, who +had taken the first syllable of his name and called himself Ross. Louis +Akers heard the news apathetically, and went back to his chair again. + +By eight o'clock he knew that he had lost the election, but that, too, +seemed relatively unimportant. He was not thinking coherently, but +certain vague ideas floated through his mind. There was a law of +compensation in the universe: it was all rot to believe that one was +paid or punished in the hereafter for what one did. Hell was real, but +it was on earth and its place was in a man's mind. He couldn't get away +from it, because each man carried his own hell around with him. It was +all stored up there; nothing he had done was left out, and the more he +put into it the more he got out, when the time came. + +This was his time. + +Ross and Doyle, with one or two others, found him there at nine o'clock, +an untasted meal on the table, and the ends of innumerable cigarettes on +the hearth. In the conference that followed he took but little part. The +Russian urged immediate action, and Doyle by a saturnine silence tacitly +agreed with him. But Louis only half heard them. His mind was busy with +that matter of hell. Only once he looked up. Ross was making use of the +phrase: “Militant minority.” + +“Militant minority!” he said scornfully, “you overwork that idea, Ross. +What we've got here now is a militant majority, and that's what elected +Hendricks. You're licked before you begin. And my advice is, don't +begin.” + +But they laughed at him. + +“You act like a whipped dog,” Doyle said, “crawling under the doorstep +for fear somebody else with a strap comes along.” + +“They're organized against us. We could have put it over six months ago. +Not now.” + +“Then you'd better get out,” Doyle said, shortly. + +“I'm thinking of it.” + +But Doyle had no real fear of him. He was sulky. Well, let him sulk. + +Akers relapsed into silence. His interest in the conspiracy had always +been purely self-interest; he had never had Woslosky's passion, or +Doyle's cold fanaticism. They had carried him off his feet with their +promises, but how much were they worth? They had failed to elect him. +Every bit of brains, cunning and resource in their organization had been +behind him, and they had failed. + +This matter of hell, now? Suppose one put by something on the other +account? Suppose one turned square? Wouldn't that earn something? +Suppose that one went to the Cardews and put all his cards on the table, +asking nothing in return? Suppose one gave up the by-paths of life, +and love in a hedgerow, and did the other thing? Wouldn't that earn +something? + +He roused himself and took a perfunctory part in the conversation, but +his mind obstinately returned to itself. He knew every rendezvous of the +Red element in the country; he knew where their literature was printed; +he knew the storehouses of arms and ammunition, and the plans for +carrying on the city government by the strikers after the reign of +terrorization which was to subdue the citizens. + +Suppose he turned informer? Could he set a price, and that price Lily? +But he discarded that. He was not selling now, he was earning. He would +set himself right first, and--provided the government got the leaders +before those leaders got him, as they would surely try to do--he would +have earned something, surely. + +Lily had come to him once when he called. She might come again, when he +had earned her. + +Doyle sat back in his chair and watched him. He saw that he had gone +to pieces under defeat, and men did strange things at those times. With +uncanny shrewdness he gauged Akers' reaction; his loss of confidence +and, he surmised, his loyalty. He would follow his own interest now, and +if he thought that it lay in turning informer, he might try it. But it +would take courage. + +When the conference broke up Doyle was sure of where his man stood. +He was not worried. They did not need Akers any longer. He had been a +presentable tool, a lay figure to give the organization front, and they +had over-rated him, at that. He had failed them. Doyle, watching him +contemptuously, realized in him his own fallacious judgment, and hated +Akers for proving him wrong. + +Outside the building Doyle drew the Russian aside, and spoke to him. +Ross started, then grinned. + +“You're wrong,” he said. “He won't try it. But of course he may, and +we'll see that he doesn't get away with it.” + +From that time on Louis Akers was under espionage. + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + + +DOCTOR Smalley was by way of achieving a practice. During his morning +and evening office hours he had less and less time to read the papers +and the current magazines in his little back office, or to compare the +month's earnings, visit by visit, with the same month of the previous +year. + +He took to making his hospital rounds early in the morning, rather to +the outrage of various head nurses, who did not like the staff to come +a-visiting until every counterpane was drawn stiff and smooth, every +bed corner a geometrical angle, every patient washed and combed and +temperatured, and in the exact center of the bed. + +Interns were different. They were like husbands. They came and went, +seeing things at their worst as well as at their best, but mostly at +their worst. Like husbands, too, they developed a sort of philosophy as +to the early morning, and would only make occasional remarks, such as: + +“Cyclone struck you this morning, or anything?” + +Doctor Smalley, being a bachelor, was entirely blind to the early +morning deficiencies of his wards. Besides, he was young and had had a +cold shower and two eggs and various other things, and he saw the +world at eight A.M. as a good place. He would get into his little car, +whistling, and driving through the market square he would sometimes +stop and buy a bag of apples for the children's ward, or a bunch of +fall flowers. Thus armed, it was impossible for the most austere of head +nurses to hate him. + +“We're not straightened up yet, doctor,” they would say. + +“Looks all right to me,” he would reply cheerfully, and cast an eager +eye over the ward. To him they were all his children, large and small, +and if he did not exactly carry healing in his wings, having no wings, +he brought them courage and a breath of fresh morning air, slightly +tinged with bay rum, and the feeling that this was a new day. A new +page, on which to write such wonderful things (in the order book) as: +“Jennie may get up this afternoon.” Or: “Lizzie Smith, small piece of +beef steak.” + +On the morning after the election Doctor Smalley rose unusually early, +and did five minutes of dumb bells, breathing very deep before his +window, having started the cold water in the tub first. At the end of +that time he padded in his bare feet to the top of the stairs and called +in a huge, deep-breathing voice: + +“Ten minutes.” + +These two cryptic words seeming to be perfectly understood below, +followed the sound of a body plunging into water, a prolonged “Wow!” + from the bathroom, and noisy hurried splashing. Dressing was a rapid +process, due to a method learned during college days, which consists +of wearing as little as possible, and arranging it at night so that two +thrusts (trousers and under-drawers), one enveloping gesture (shirt and +under-shirt), and a gymnastic effort of standing first on one leg and +then on the other (socks and shoes), made a fairly completed toilet. + +While putting on his collar and tie the doctor stood again by the +window, and lustily called the garage across the narrow street. + +“Jim!” he yelled. “Annabelle breakfasted yet?” + +Annabelle was his shabby little car. + +Annabelle had breakfasted, on gasoline, oil and water. The doctor +finished tying his tie, singing lustily, and went to the door. At the +door he stopped singing, put on a carefully professional air, restrained +an impulse to slide down the stair-rail, and descended with the +dignity of a man with a growing practice and a possible patient in the +waiting-room. + +At half-past seven he was on his way to the hospital. He stopped at the +market and bought three dozen oranges out of a ten-dollar bill he had +won on the election, and almost bought a live rabbit because it looked +so dreary in its slatted box. He restrained himself, because his +housekeeper had a weakness for stewed rabbit, and turned into Cardew +Way. He passed the Doyle house slowly, inspecting it as he went, because +he had a patient there, and because he had felt that there was something +mysterious about the household, quite aside from the saturnine Doyle +himself. He knew all about Doyle, of course; all, that is, that there +was to know, but he was a newcomer to the city, and he did not know that +Doyle's wife was a Cardew. Sometimes he had felt that he was under +a sort of espionage all the time he was in the house. But that was +ridiculous, wasn't it? Because they could not know that he was on the +Vigilance Committee. + +There was something curious about one of the windows. He slowed +Annabelle and gazed at it. That was strange; there was a sort of white +rope hanging from Mrs. Doyle's window. + +He stopped Annabelle and stared. Then he drew up to the curb and got out +of the car. He was rather uneasy when he opened the gate and started up +the walk, but there was no movement of life in the house. At the foot of +the steps he saw something, and almost stopped breathing. Behind a clump +of winter-bare shrubbery was what looked like a dark huddle of clothing. + +It was incredible. + +He parted the branches and saw Elinor Doyle lying there, conscious and +white with pain. Perhaps never in his life was Doctor Smalley to be so +rewarded as with the look in her eyes when she saw him. + +“Why, Mrs. Doyle!” was all he could think to say. + +“I have broken my other leg, doctor,” she said, “the rope gave way.” + +“You come down that rope?” + +“I tried to. I was a prisoner. Don't take me back to the house, doctor. +Don't take me back!” + +“Of course I'll not take you back,” he said, soothingly. “I'll carry you +out to my car. It may hurt, but try to be quiet. Can you get your arms +around my neck?” + +She managed that, and he raised her slowly, but the pain must have been +frightful, for a moment later he felt her arms relax and knew that she +had fainted. He got to the car somehow, kicked the oranges into the +gutter, and placed her, collapsed, on the seat. It was only then that +he dared to look behind him, but the house, like the street, was without +signs of life. As he turned the next corner, however, he saw Doyle +getting off a streetcar, and probably never before had Annabelle made +such speed as she did for the next six blocks. + +Hours later Elinor Cardew wakened in a quiet room with gray walls, and +with the sickening sweet odor of ether over everything. Instead of Olga +a quiet nurse sat by her bed, and standing by a window, in low-voiced +conversation, were two men. One she knew, the doctor. The other, a tall +young man with a slight limp as he came toward her, she had never seen +before. A friendly young man, thin, and grave of voice, who put a hand +over hers and said: + +“You are not to worry about anything, Mrs. Doyle. You understand me, +don't you? Everything is all right. I am going now to get your people.” + +“My husband?” + +“Your own people,” he said. “I have already telephoned to your brother. +And the leg's fixed. Everything's as right as rain.” + +Elinor closed her eyes. She felt no pain and no curiosity. Only there +was something she had to do, and do quickly. What was it? But she could +not remember, because she felt very sleepy and relaxed, and as though +everything was indeed as right as rain. + +It was evening when she looked up again, and the room was dark. The +doctor had gone, and the grave young man was still in the room. There +was another figure there, tall and straight, and at first she thought it +was Jim Doyle. + +“Jim!” she said. And then: “You must go away, Jim. I warn you. I am +going to tell all I know.” + +But the figure turned, and it was Howard Cardew, a tense and strained +Howard Cardew, who loomed amazingly tall and angry, but not with her. + +“I'm sorry, Nellie dear,” he said, bending over her. “If we'd only +known--can you talk now?” + +Her mind was suddenly very clear. + +“I must. There is very little time.” + +“I want to tell you something first, Nellie. I think we have located the +Russian woman, but we haven't got Doyle.” + +Howard was not very subtle, but Willy Cameron saw her face and +understood. It was strange beyond belief, he felt, this loyalty of women +to their men, even after love had gone; this feeling that, having once +lain in a man's arms, they have taken a vow of protection over that man. +It was not so much that they were his as that he was theirs. Jim Doyle +had made her a prisoner, had treated her brutally, was a traitor to her +and to his country, but--he had been hers. She was glad that he had got +away. + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + + +It was dark when Howard Cardew and Willy Cameron left the hospital. +Elinor's information had been detailed and exact. Under cover of the +general strike the radical element intended to take over the city. +On the evening of the first day of the strike, armed groups from the +revolutionary party would proceed first to the municipal light plant, +and, having driven out any employees who remained at their posts, +or such volunteers as had replaced them, would plunge the city into +darkness. + +Elinor was convinced that following this would come various bomb +outrages, perhaps a great number of them, but of this she had no +detailed information. What she did know, however, was the dependence +that Doyle and the other leaders were placing in the foreign element +in the nearby mill towns and from one or two mining districts in the +county. + +Around the city, in the mill towns, there were more than forty thousand +foreign laborers. Subtract from that the loyal aliens, but add a certain +percentage of the native-born element, members of seditious societies +and followers of the red flag, and the Reds had a potential army of +dangerous size. + +As an actual fighting force they were much less impressive. Only a small +percentage, she knew and told them, were adequately armed. There were +a few machine guns, and some long-range rifles, but by far the greater +number had only revolvers. The remainder had extemporized weapons, bars +of iron, pieces of pipe, farm implements, lances of wood tipped with +iron and beaten out on home forges. + +They were a rabble, not an army, without organization and with few +leaders. Their fighting was certain to be as individualistic as their +doctrines. They had two elements in their favor only, numbers and +surprise. + +To oppose them, if the worst came, there were perhaps five thousand +armed men, including the city and county police, the state constabulary, +and the citizens who had signed the cards of the Vigilance Committee. +The local post of the American Legion stood ready for instant service, +and a few national guard troops still remained in the vicinity. “What +they expect,” she said, looking up from her pillows with tragic eyes, +“is that the police and the troops will join them. You don't think they +will, do you?” + +They reassured her, and after a time she slept again. When she wakened, +at midnight, the room was empty save for a nurse reading under a night +lamp behind a screen. Elinor was not in pain. She lay there, listening +to the night sounds of the hospital, the watchman shuffling along the +corridor in slippers, the closing of a window, the wail of a newborn +infant far away. + +There was a shuffling of feet in the street below, the sound of many +men, not marching but grimly walking, bent on some unknown errand. The +nurse opened the window and looked out. + +“That's queer!” she said. “About thirty men, and not saying a word. They +walk like soldiers, but they're not in uniform.” + +Elinor pondered that, but it was not for some days that she knew that +Pink Denslow and a picked number of volunteers from the American Legion +had that night, quite silently and unemotionally, broken into the +printing office where Doyle and Akers had met Cusick, and had, not so +silently but still unemotionally, destroyed the presses and about a ton +of inflammatory pamphlets. + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + + +There was a little city, and few men within it; And there came a great +king against it, and besieged it, And built great bulwarks against +it; Now there was found in it a Poor Wise Man, And he by his wisdom +delivered the city.--Ecclesiastes IX:14, 15. + +The general strike occurred two days later, at mid-day. During the +interval a joint committee representing the workers, the employers and +the public had held a protracted sitting, but without result, and by +one o'clock the city was in the throes of a complete tie-up. Laundry and +delivery wagons were abandoned where they stood. Some of the street cars +had been returned to the barns, but others stood in the street where the +crews had deserted them. + +There was no disorder, however, and the city took its difficulties with +a quiet patience and a certain sense of humor. Bulletins similar to the +ones used in Seattle began to appear. + +“Strikers, the world is the workers' for the taking, and the workers are +the vast majority in society. Your interests are paramount to those of a +small, useless band of parasites who exploit you to their advantage. You +have nothing to lose but your chains and you have a world to gain. The +world for the workers.” + +There was one ray of light in the darkness, however. The municipal +employees had refused to strike, and only by force would the city go +dark that night. It was a blow to the conspirators. In the strange +psychology of the mob, darkness was an essential to violence, and by +three o'clock that afternoon the light plant and city water supply had +been secured against attack by effectual policing. The power plant for +the car lines was likewise protected, and at five o'clock a line of +street cars, stalled on Amanda Street, began to show signs of life. + +The first car was boarded by a half dozen youngish men, unobtrusively +ready for trouble, and headed by a tall youth who limped slightly and +wore an extremely anxious expression. He went forward and commenced +a series of experiments with levers and brake, in which process +incidentally he liberated a quantity of sand onto the rails. A moment +later the car lurched forward, and then stopped with a jerk. + +Willy Cameron looked behind him and grinned. The entire guard was piled +in an ignoble mass on the floor. + +By six o'clock volunteer crews were running a number of cars, and had +been subjected to nothing worse than abuse. Strikers lined the streets +and watched them, but the grim faces of the guards kept them back. They +jeered from the curbs, but except for the flinging of an occasional +stone they made no inimical move. + +By eight o'clock it was clear that the tie-up would be only partial. +Volunteers from all walks of life were in line at the temporary +headquarters of the Vigilance Committee and were being detailed, for +police duty, to bring in the trains with the morning milk, to move +street cars and trucks. The water plant and the reservoirs were +protected. Willy Cameron, abandoning his car after the homeward rush of +the evening, found a line before the Committee Building which extended +for blocks down the street. + +Troops had been sent for, but it took time to mobilize and move them. +It would be morning before they arrived. And the governor, over the long +distance wire to the mayor, was inclined to be querulous. + +“We'll send them, of course,” he said. “But if the strikers are keeping +quiet--I don't know what the country's coming to. We're holding a +conference here now. There's rioting breaking out all over the state.” + + * * * * * + +There was a conference held in the Mayor's office that night: Cameron +and Cardew and one or two others of the Vigilance Committee, two agents +of the government secret service, the captains of the companies of state +troops and constabulary, the Chief of Police, the Mayor himself, and +some representatives of the conservative element of organized labor. +Quiet men, these last, uneasy and anxious, as ignorant as the others of +which way the black cat, the symbol of sabotage and destruction, would +jump. The majority of their men would stand for order, they declared, +but there were some who would go over. They urged, to offset that +reflection on their organization that the proletariat of the city might +go over, too. + +But, by midnight, it seemed as though the situation was solving itself. +In the segregated district there had been a small riot, and another +along the river front, disturbances quickly ended by the police and +the volunteer deputies. The city had not gone dark. The bombs had not +exploded. Word came in that by back roads and devious paths the most +rabid of the agitators were leaving town. And before two o'clock Howard +Cardew and some of the others went home to bed. + +At three o'clock the Cardew doorbell rang, and Howard, not asleep, +flung on his dressing gown and went out into the hall. Lily was in her +doorway, intent and anxious. + +“Don't answer it, father,” she begged. “You don't know what it may be.” + +Howard smiled, but went back and got his revolver. The visitor was Willy +Cameron. + +“I don't like to waken you,” he said, “but word has come in of +suspicious movements at Baxter and Friendship, and one or two other +places. It looks like concerted action of some sort.” + +“What sort of concerted action?” + +“They still have one card to play. The foreign element outside hasn't +been heard from. It looks as though the fellows who left town to-night +have been getting busy up the river.” + +“They wouldn't be such fools as to come to the city.” + +“They've been made a lot of promises. They may be out of hand, you +know.” + +While Howard was hastily dressing, Willy Cameron waited below. He caught +a glimpse of himself in the big mirror and looked away. His face was +drawn and haggard, his eyes hollow and his collar a wilted string. He +was dusty and shabby, too, and to Lily, coming down the staircase, he +looked almost ill. + +Lily was in a soft negligee garment, her bare feet thrust into slippers, +but she was too anxious to be self-conscious. + +“Willy,” she said, “there is trouble after all?” + +“Not in the city. Things are not so quiet up the river.” + +She placed a hand on his arm. + +“Are you and father going up the river?” + +He explained, after a momentary hesitation. “It may crystallize into +something, or it may not,” he finished. + +“You think it will, don't you?” + +“It will be nothing more, at the worst, than rioting.” + +“But you may be hurt!” + +“I may have one chance to fight for my country,” he said, rather grimly. +“Don't begrudge me that.” But he added: “I'll not be hurt. The thing +will blow up as soon as it starts.” + +“You don't really believe that, do you?” + +“I know they'll never get into the city.” + +But as he moved away she called him back, more breathlessly than ever, +and quite white. + +“I don't want you to go without knowing--Willy, do you remember once +that you said you cared for me?” + +“I remember.” He stared straight ahead. + +“Are you--all over that?” + +“You know better than that, don't you?” + +“But I've done so many things,” she said, wistfully. “You ought to hate +me.” And when he said nothing, for the simple reason that he could not +speak: “I've ruined us both, haven't I?” + +Suddenly he caught up her hand and, bending over it, held it to his +lips. + +“Always,” he said, huskily, “I love you, Lily. I shall always love you.” + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + + +Howard went back to the municipal building, driving furiously through +the empty streets. The news was ominous. Small bodies of men, avoiding +the highways, were focusing at different points in the open country. +The state police had been fired at from ambush, and two of them had been +killed. They had ridden into and dispersed various gatherings in the +darkness, but only to have them re-form in other places. The enemy was +still shadowy, elusive; it was apparently saving its ammunition. It +did little shooting, but reports of the firing of farmhouses and of +buildings in small, unprotected towns began to come in rapidly. + +In a short time the messages began to be more significant, indicating +that the groups were coalescing and that a revolutionary army, with the +city its objective, was coming down the river, evidently making for the +bridge at Chester Street. + +“They've lighted a fire they can't put out,” was Howard's comment. His +mouth was very dry and his face twitching, for he saw, behind the frail +barrier of the Chester Street bridge, the quiet houses of the city, the +sleeping children. He saw Grace and Lily, and Elinor. He was among the +first to reach the river front. + +All through the dawn volunteers labored at the bridge head. Members +of the Vigilance Committee, policemen and firemen, doctors, lawyers, +clerks, shop-keepers, they looted the river wharves with willing, +unskillful hands. They turned coal wagons on their sides, carried +packing cases and boxes, and, under the direction of men who wore the +Legion button, built skillfully and well. Willy Cameron toiled with +the others. He lifted and pulled and struggled, and in the midst of +his labor he had again that old dream of the city. The city was a vast +number of units, and those units were homes. Behind each of those men +there was, somewhere, in some quiet neighborhood, a home. It was for +their homes they were fighting, for the right of children to play in +peaceful streets, for the right to go back at night to the rest they had +earned by honest labor, for the right of the hearth, of lamp-light and +sunlight, of love, of happiness. + +Then, in the flare of a gasoline torch, he came face to face with Louis +Akers. The two men confronted each other, silently, with hostility. +Neither moved aside, but it was Akers who spoke first. + +“Always busy, Cameron,” he said. “What'd the world do without you, +anyhow?” + +“Aren't you on the wrong side of this barricade?” + +“Smart as ever,” Akers observed, watching him intently. “As it happens, +I'm here because I want to be, and because I can't get where I ought to +be.” + +For a furious moment Willy Cameron thought he was referring to his wife, +but there was something strange in Akers' tone. + +“I could be useful to you fellows,” he was saying, “but it seems you +don't want help. I've been trying to see the Mayor all night.” + +“What do you want to see him about?” + +“I'll tell him that.” + +Willy Cameron hesitated. + +“I think it's a trick, Akers.” + +“All right. Then go to the devil!” + +He turned away sullenly, leaving Willy Cameron still undecided. It would +be like the man as he knew him, this turning informer when he saw the +strength of the defense, and Cameron had a flash of intuition, too, that +Akers might see, in this new role, some possible chance to win back with +Lily Cardew. He saw how the man's cheap soul might dramatize itself. + +“Akers!” he called. + +Akers stopped, but he did not turn. + +“I've got a car here. If you mean what you say, and it's straight, I'll +take you.” + +“Where's the car?” + +On their way to it, threading in and out among the toiling crowd, +Willy Cameron had a chance to observe the change in the other man, his +drooping shoulders and the almost lassitude of his walk. He went ahead, +charging the mass and going through it by sheer bulk and weight, his +hands in his coat pockets, his soft hat pulled low over his face. +Neither of them noticed that one of the former clerks of the Myers +Housecleaning Company followed close behind, or that, holding to a tire, +he rode on the rear of the Cardew automobile as it made its way into the +center of the city. + +In the car Akers spoke only once. + +“Where is Howard Cardew?” he asked. + +“With the Mayor, probably. I left him there.” + +It seemed to him that Akers found the answer satisfactory. He sat back +in the deep seat, and lighted a cigarette. + +The Municipal Building was under guard. Willy Cameron went up the steps +and spoke to the sentry there. It was while his back was turned that the +sharp crack of a revolver rang out, and he whirled, in time to see Louis +Akers fall forward on his face and lie still. + + * * * * * + +The shadowy groups through the countryside had commenced to coalesce. +Groups of twenty became a rabble of five hundred. The five hundred grew, +and joined other five hundreds. From Baxter alone over two thousand +rioters, mostly foreigners, started out, and by daylight the main body +of the enemy reached the outskirts of the city, a long, irregular line +of laughing, jostling, shouting men, constantly renewed at the rear +until the procession covered miles of roadway. They were of all races +and all types; individually they were, many of them, like boys playing +truant from school, not quite certain of themselves, smiling and yet +uneasy, not entirely wicked in intent. But they were shepherded by men +with cunning eyes, men who knew well that a mob is greater than the +sum of its parts, more wicked than the individuals who compose it, more +cruel, more courageous. + +As it marched it laughed. It was like a lion at play, ready to leap at +the first scratch that brought blood. + +Where the street car line met the Friendship Road the advance was met +by the Chief of Police, on horseback and followed by a guard of mounted +men, and ordered back. The van hesitated, but it was urged ahead, +pushed on by the irresistible force behind it, and it came on no longer +singing, but slowly, inevitably, sullenly protesting and muttering. Its +good nature was gone. + +As the Chief turned his horse was shot under him. He took another horse +from one of his guard, and they retired, moving slowly and with drawn +revolvers. There was no further shooting at that time, nothing but +the irresistible advance. The police could no more have held the armed +rabble than they could have held the invading hordes in Belgium. At the +end of the street the Chief stopped and looked back. They had passed +over his dead horse as though it were not there. + +In the mill district, which they had now reached, they received +reenforcements, justifying the judgment of the conference that to have +erected their barricades there would have been to expose the city's +defenders to attack from the rear. And the mill district suffered +comparatively little. It was the business portion of the city toward +which they turned their covetous eyes, the great stores, the hotels and +restaurants, the homes of the wealthy. + +Pleased by the lack of opposition the mob grew more cheerful. The lion +played. They pressed forward, wanton and jeering, firing now and then at +random, breaking windows as they passed, looting small shops which they +stripped like locusts. Their pockets bulging, and the taste of pillage +forecasting what was to come, they moved onward more rapidly, shooting +at upper windows or into the air, laughing, yelling, cursing, talking. +From the barricades, long before the miles-long column came into view, +could be heard the ominous far-off muttering of the mob. + +It was when they found the bridge barricaded on the far side, however, +that the lion bared its teeth and snarled. Temporarily checked by the +play of machine guns which swept the bridge and kept it clear for a +time, they commenced wild, wasteful firing, from the bridge-head and +from along the Cardew wharves. Their leaders were prepared, and sent +snipers into the bridge towers, but the machine guns continued to fire. + +That the struggle would be on the bridge Doyle and his Council had +anticipated from the reports of the night before. They were prepared +to take a heavy loss on the bridges, but they had not prepared for the +thing that defeated them; that as the mob is braver than the individual, +so also it is more cowardly. + +Pushed forward from the rear and unable to retreat through the dense +mass behind that was every moment growing denser, a few hundreds +found themselves facing the steady machine-gun fire from behind the +barricades, and unable either to advance or to retire. Thus trapped, +they turned on their own forces behind them, and tried to fight their +way to safety, but the inexorable pressure kept on, and the defenders, +watching and powerless, saw men fling themselves from the bridges and +disappear in the water below, rather than advance into the machine-gun +zone. The guns were not firing into the rioters, but before them, to +hold them back, and into that leaden stream there were no brave spirits +to hurl themselves. + +The trapped men turned on their own and battled for escape. With the +same violence which had been directed toward the city they now fought +each other, and the bridge slowly cleared. But the mob did not disperse. + +It spread out on the bank across, a howling, frustrated, futile mass, +disorganized and demoralized, which fired its useless guns across the +river, which seethed and tossed and struggled, and spent itself in its +own wild fury. And all the time cool-eyed men, on the wharves across, +watched and waited for the time to attack. + +“They're sick at their stomachs now,” said an old army sergeant, +watching, to Willy Cameron. “The dirty devils! They'll be starting their +filthy work over there soon, and that's the zero hour.” + +Willy Cameron nodded. He had seen one young Russian boy with a +child-like face venture forward alone into the fire zone and drop. He +still lay there, on the bridge. And all of Willy Cameron was in revolt. +What had he been told, that boy, that had made him ready to pour out +his young life like wine? There were others like him in that milling +multitude on the river bank across, young men who had come to America +with a dream in their hearts, and America had done this to them. Or had +she? She had taken them in, but they were not her own, and now, since +she would not take them, they would take her. Was that it? Was it that +America had made them her servants, but not her children? He did not +know. + + * * * * * + +Robbed of the city proper, the mob turned on the mill district it +had invaded. Its dream of lust and greed was over, but it could still +destroy. + +Like a battle charge, as indeed it was, the mounted city and state +police crossed the bridge. It was followed by the state troops on foot, +by city policemen in orderly files, and then by the armed citizens. +The bridge vibrated to the step of marching men, going out to fight for +their homes. The real battle was fought there, around the Cardew mills, +a battle where the loyalists were greatly outnumbered, and where the +rioters fought, according to their teaching, with every trick they could +devise. Posted in upper windows they fired down from comparative safety; +ambulances crossed and re-crossed the bridges. The streets were filled +with rioting men, striking out murderously with bars and spikes. Fires +flamed up and burned themselves out. In one place, eight blocks of +mill-workers' houses, with their furnishings, went in a quarter of an +hour. + +Willy Cameron was fighting like a demon. Long ago his reserve of +ammunition had given out, and he was fighting with the butt end of his +revolver. Around him had rallied some of the men he knew best, Pink and +Mr. Hendricks, Doctor Smalley, Dan and Joe Wilkinson, and they stayed +together as, street by street, the revolutionists were driven back. +There were dead and wounded everywhere, injured men who had crawled into +the shelter of doorways and sat or lay there, nursing their wounds. + +Suddenly, to his amazement, Willy saw old Anthony Cardew. He had somehow +achieved an upper window of the mill office building, and he was showing +himself fearlessly, a rifle in his hands; in his face was a great anger, +but there was more than that. Willy Cameron, thinking it over later, +decided that it was perplexity. He could not understand. + +He never did understand. For other eyes also had seen old Anthony +Cardew. Willy Cameron, breasting the mob and fighting madly toward the +door of the building, with Pink behind him, heard a cheer and an angry +roar, and, looking up, saw that the old man had disappeared. They found +him there later on, the rifle beside him, his small and valiant figure +looking, with eyes no longer defiant, toward the Heaven which puts, for +its own strange purpose, both evil and good into the same heart. + +By eleven o'clock the revolution was over. Sodden groups of men, +thoroughly cowed and frightened, were on their way by back roads to the +places they had left a few hours before. They had no longer dreams of +empire. Behind them they could see, on the horizon, the city itself, +the smoke from its chimneys, the spires of its churches. Both, homes +and churches, they had meant to destroy, but behind both there was the +indestructible. They had failed. + +They turned, looked back, and went on. + + * * * * * + +On the crest of a hill-top overlooking the city a man was standing, +looking down to where the softened towers of the great steel bridges +rose above the river mist like fairy towers. Below him lay the city, +powerful, significant, important. + +The man saw the city only as a vast crucible, into which he had flung +his all, and out of which had come only defeat and failure. But the +city was not a crucible. The melting pot of a nation is not a thing of +cities, but of the human soul. + +The city was not a melting pot. It was a sanctuary. The man stood silent +and morose, his chin dropped on his chest, and stared down. + +Beside and somewhat behind him stood a woman, a somber, passionate +figure, waiting passively. His eyes traveled from the city to her, and +rested on her, contemptuous, thwarted, cynical. + +“You fool,” he said, “I hate you, and you know it.” + +But she only smiled faintly. “We'd better get away now, Jim,” she said. + +He got into the car. + + + + +CHAPTER L + + +Late that afternoon Joe Wilkinson and Dan came slowly up the street, +toward the Boyd house. The light of battle was still in Dan's eyes, his +clothes were torn and his collar missing, and he walked with the fine +swagger of the conqueror. + +“Y'ask me,” he said, “and I'll tell the world this thing's done for. It +was just as well to let them give it a try, and find out it won't work.” + +Joe said nothing. He was white and very tired, and a little sick. + +“If you don't mind I'll go in your place and wash up,” he remarked, as +they neared the house. “I'll scare the kids to death if they see me like +this.” + +Edith was in the parlor. She had sat there almost all day, in an agony +of fear. At four o'clock the smallest Wilkinson had hammered at the +front door, and on being admitted had made a shameless demand. + +“Bed and thugar,” she had said, looking up with an ingratiating smile. + +“You little beggar!” + +“Bed and thugar.” + +Edith had got the bread and sugar, and, having lured the baby into +the parlor, had held her while she ate, receiving now and then an +exceedingly sticky kiss in payment. After a little the child's head +began to droop, and Edith drew the small head down onto her breast. She +sat there, rocking gently, while the chair slowly traveled, according to +its wont, about the room. + +The child brought her comfort. She began to understand those grave +rocking figures in the hospital ward, women who sat, with eyes that +seemed to look into distant places, with a child's head on their +breasts. + +After all, that was life for a woman. Love was only a part of the scheme +of life, a means to an end. And that end was the child. + +For the first time she wished that her child had lived. + +She felt no bitterness now, and no anger. He was dead. It was hard to +think of him as dead, who had been so vitally alive. She was sorry he +had had to die, but death was like love and children, it was a part of +some general scheme of things. Suppose this had been his child she was +holding? Would she so easily have forgiven him? She did not know. + +Then she thought of Willy Cameron. The bitterness had strangely gone +out of that, too. Perhaps, vaguely, she began to realize that only young +love gives itself passionately and desperately, when there is no hope of +a return, and that the agonies of youth, although terrible enough, pass +with youth itself. + +She felt very old. + +Joe found her there, the chair displaying its usual tendency to climb +the chimney flue, and stood in the doorway, looking at her with haunted, +hungry eyes. There was a sort of despair in Joe those days, and now he +was tired and shaken from the battle. + +“I'll take her home in a minute,” he said, still with the strange eyes. + +He came into the room, and suddenly he was kneeling beside the chair, +his head buried against the baby's warm, round body. His bent shoulders +shook, and Edith, still with the maternal impulse strong within her, put +her hand on his bowed head. + +“Don't, Joe!” + +He looked up. + +“I loved you so, Edith!” + +“Don't you love me now?” + +“God knows I do. I can't get over it. I can't. I've tried, Edith.” + +He sat back on the floor and looked at her. + +“I can't,” he repeated. “And when I saw you like that just now, with the +kid in your arms--I used to think that maybe you and I--” + +“I know, Joe. No decent man would want me now.” + +She was still strangely composed, peaceful, almost detached. + +“That!” he said, astonished. “I don't mean that, Edith. I've had my +fight about that, and got it over. That's done with. I mean--” he got up +and straightened himself. “You don't care about me.” + +“But I do care for you. Perhaps not quite the way you care, Joe, but +I've been through such a lot. I can't seem to feel anything terribly. I +just want peace.” + +“I could give you that,” he said eagerly. + +Edith smiled. Peace, in that noisy house next door, with children and +kittens and puppies everywhere! And yet it would be peace, after all, +a peace of the soul, the peace of a good man's love. After a time, too, +there might come another peace, the peace of those tired women in the +ward, rocking. + +“If you want me, I'll marry you,” she said, very simply. “I'll be a good +wife, Joe. And I want children. I want the right to have them.” + +He never noticed that the kiss she gave him, over the sleeping baby, was +slightly tinged with granulated sugar. + + + +CHAPTER LI + + +OLD Anthony's body had been brought home, and lay in state in his great +bed. There had been a bad hour; death seems so strangely to erase faults +and leave virtues. Something strong and vital had gone from the house, +and the servants moved about with cautious, noiseless steps. In Grace's +boudoir, Howard was sitting, his arms around his wife, telling her the +story of the day. At dawn he had notified her by telephone of Akers' +murder. + +“Shall I tell Lily?” she had asked, trembling. + +“Do you want to wait until I get back?” + +“I don't know how she will take it, Howard. I wish you could be here, +anyhow.” + +But then had come the battle and his father's death, and in the end it +was Willy Cameron who told her. He had brought back all that was mortal +of Anthony Cardew, and, having seen the melancholy procession up the +stairs, had stood in the hall, hating to intrude but hoping to be +useful. Howard found him there, a strange, disheveled figure, bearing +the scars of battle, and held out his hand. + +“It's hard to thank you, Cameron,” he said; “you seem to be always +about when we need help. And”--he paused--“we seem to have needed it +considerably lately.” + +Willy Cameron flushed. + +“I feel rather like a meddler, sir.” + +“Better go up and wash,” Howard said. “I'll go up with you.” + +It happened, therefore, that it was in Howard Cardew's opulent +dressing-room that Howard first spoke to Willy Cameron of Akers' death, +pacing the floor as he did so. + +“I haven't told her, Cameron.” He was anxious and puzzled. “She'll have +to be told soon, of course. I don't know anything about women. I don't +know how she'll take it.” + +“She has a great deal of courage. It will be a shock, but not a grief. +But I have been thinking--” Willy Cameron hesitated. “She must not feel +any remorse,” he went on. “She must not feel that she contributed to it +in any way. If you can make that clear to her--” + +“Are you sure she did not?” + +“It isn't facts that matter now. We can't help those. And no one can +tell what actually led to his change of heart. It is what she is to +think the rest of her life.” + +Howard nodded. + +“I wish you would tell her,” he said. “I'm a blundering fool when it +comes to her. I suppose I care too much.” + +He caught rather an odd look in Willy Cameron's face at that, and +pondered over it later. + +“I will tell her, if you wish.” + +And Howard drew a deep breath of relief. It was shortly after that he +broached another matter, rather diffidently. + +“I don't know whether you realize it or not, Cameron,” he said, “but +this thing to-day might have been a different story if it had not been +for you. And--don't think I'm putting this on a reward basis. It's +nothing of the sort--but I would like to feel that you were working with +me. I'd hate like thunder to have you working against me,” he added. + +“I am only trained for one thing.” + +“We use chemists in the mills.” + +But the discussion ended there. Both men knew that it would be taken +up later, at some more opportune time, and in the meantime both had one +thought, Lily. + +So it happened that Lily heard the news of Louis Akers' death from Willy +Cameron. She stood, straight and erect, and heard him through, watching +him with eyes sunken by her night's vigil and by the strain of the day. +But it seemed to her that he was speaking of some one she had known long +ago, in some infinitely remote past. + +“I am sorry,” she said, when he finished. “I didn't want him to die. You +know that, don't you? I never wished him--Willy, I say I am sorry, but I +don't really feel anything. It's dreadful.” + +Before he could catch her she had fallen to the floor, fainting for the +first time in her healthy young life. + + * * * * * + +An hour later Mademoiselle went down to the library door. She found +Willy Cameron pacing the floor, a pipe clenched in his teeth, and a look +of wild despair in his eyes. + +Mademoiselle took a long breath. She had changed her view-point somewhat +since the spring. After all, what mattered was happiness. Wealth and +worldly ambition were well enough, but they brought one, in the end, +to the thing which waited for all in some quiet upstairs room, with the +shades drawn and the heavy odors of hot-house flowers over everything. + +“She is all right, quite, Mr. Cameron,” she said. “It was but a crisis +of the nerves, and to be expected. And now she demands to see you.” + +Grayson, standing in the hall, had a swift vision of a tall figure, +which issued with extreme rapidity from the library door, and went up +the stairs, much like a horse taking a series of hurdles. But the figure +lost momentum suddenly at the top, hesitated, and apparently moved +forward on tiptoe. Grayson went into the library and sniffed at the +unmistakable odor of a pipe. Then, having opened a window, he went and +stood before a great portrait of old Anthony Cardew. Tears stood in +the old man's eyes, but there was a faint smile on his lips. He saw the +endless procession of life. First, love. Then, out of love, life. Then +death. Grayson was old, but he had lived to see young love in the Cardew +house. Out of love, life. He addressed a little speech to the picture. + +“Wherever you are, sir,” he said, “you needn't worry any more. The line +will carry on, sir. The line will carry on.” + +Upstairs in the little boudoir Willy Cameron knelt beside the couch, and +gathered Lily close in his arms. + + +CHAPTER LII + + +Thanksgiving of the year of our Lord 1919 saw many changes. It saw, +slowly emerging from the chaos of war, new nations, like children, +taking their first feeble steps. It saw a socialism which, born at full +term might have thrived, prematurely and forcibly delivered, and making +a valiant but losing fight for life. It saw that war is never good, +but always evil; that war takes everything and gives nothing, save that +sometimes a man may lose the whole world and gain his own soul. + +It saw old Anthony Cardew gone to his fathers, into the vast democracy +of heaven, and Louis Akers passed through the Traitors' Gate of eternity +to be judged and perhaps reprieved. For a man is many men, good and bad, +and the Judge of the Tower of Heaven is a just Judge. + +It saw Jim Doyle a fugitive, Woslosky dead, and the Russian, Ross, +bland, cunning and eternally plotting, in New England under another +name. And Mr. Hendricks ordering a new suit for the day of taking +office. And Doctor Smalley tying a bunch of chrysanthemums on Annabelle, +against a football game, and taking a pretty nurse to see it. + +It saw Ellen roasting a turkey, and a strange young man in the Eagle +Pharmacy, a young man who did not smoke a pipe, and allowed no visitors +in the back room. And it saw Willy Cameron in the laboratory of the +reopened Cardew Mills, dealing in tons instead of grains and drams, +and learning to touch any piece of metal in the mill with a moistened +fore-finger before he sat down upon it. + + * * * * * + +But it saw more than that. + +On the evening of Thanksgiving Day there was an air of repressed +excitement about the Cardew house. Mademoiselle, in a new silk dress, +ran about the lower floor, followed by an agitated Grayson with a cloth, +for Mademoiselle was shifting ceaselessly and with trembling hands vases +of flowers, and spilling water at each shift. At six o'clock had arrived +a large square white box, which the footman had carried to the rear and +there exhibited, allowing a palpitating cook, scullery maid and divers +other excitable and emotional women to peep within. + +After which he tied it up again and carried it upstairs. + +At seven o'clock Elinor Cardew, lovely in black satin, was carried down +the stairs and placed in a position which commanded both the hall and +the drawing-room. For some strange reason it was essential that she +should see both. + +At seven-thirty came in a rush: + +(a)--Mr. Alston Denslow, in evening clothes and gardenia, and feeling in +his right waist-coat pocket nervously every few minutes. + +(b)--An excited woman of middle age, in a black silk dress still faintly +bearing the creases of five days in a trunk, and accompanied by a +mongrel dog, both being taken upstairs by Grayson, Mademoiselle, +Pink, and Howard Cardew. (“He said Jinx was to come,” she explained +breathlessly to her bodyguard. “I never knew such a boy!”) + +(c)--Mr. Davis, in a frock coat and white lawn tie, and taken upstairs +by Grayson, who mistook him for the bishop. + +(d)--Aunt Caroline, in her diamond dog collar and purple velvet, and +determined to make the best of things. + +(e)--The real bishop this time, and his assistant, followed by a valet +with a suitcase, containing the proper habiliments for a prince of the +church while functioning. (A military term, since the Bishop had been in +the army.) + +(f)--A few unimportant important people, very curious, and the women +uncertain about the proper garb for a festive occasion in a house of +mourning. + +(g)--Set of silver table vases, belated. + +(h)--Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks, Mayor and Mayoress-elect. Extremely +dignified. + +(i)--An overfull taxicab, containing inside it Ellen, Edith, Dan and +Joe. The overflow, consisting of a tall young man, displaying repressed +excitement and new evening clothes, with gardenia, sat on the seat +outside beside the chauffeur and repeated to himself a sort of chant +accompanied by furious searchings of his pockets. “Money. Checkbook. +Tickets. Trunk checks,” was the burden of his song. + +(j)--Doctor Smalley and Annabelle. He left Annabelle outside. + + * * * * * + +The city moved on about its business. In thousands of homes the lights +shone down on little family groups, infinitely tender little groups. The +workers of the city were there, the doors shut, the fires burning. To +each man the thing he had earned, not the thing that he took. To all +men the right to labor, to love, and to rest. To children, the right +to play. To women, the hearth, and the peace of the hearth. To lovers, +love, and marriage, and home. + +The city moved on about its business, and its business was homes. + + * * * * * + +At the great organ behind the staircase the organist sat. In stiff rows +near him were the Cardew servants, marshaled by Grayson and in their +best. + +Grayson stood, very rigid, and waited. And as he waited he kept his eyes +on the portrait of old Anthony, in the drawing-room beyond. There was a +fixed, rapt look in Grayson's eyes, and there was reassurance. It was as +though he would say to the portrait: “It has all come out very well, you +see, sir. It always works out somehow. We worry and fret, we old ones, +but the young come along, and somehow or other they manage, sir.” + +What he actually said was to tell a house maid to stop sniveling. + +Over the house was the strange hush of waiting. It had waited before +this, for birth and for death, but never before-- + +The Bishop was waiting also, and he too had his eyes fixed on old +Anthony's portrait, a straight, level-eyed gaze, as of man to man, as of +prince of the church to prince of industry. The Bishop's eyes said: +“All shall be done properly and in order, and as befits the Cardews, +Anthony.” + +The Bishop was as successful in his line as Anthony Cardew had been in +his. He cleared his throat. + +The organist sat at the great organ behind the staircase, waiting. He +was playing very softly, with his eyes turned up. He had played the +same music many times before, and always he felt very solemn, as one who +makes history. He sighed. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was only an +accompaniment to life, to which others sang and prayed, were christened, +confirmed and married. But what was the song without the music? He +wished the scullery maid would stop crying. + +Grayson touched him on the arm. + +“All ready, sir,” he said. + +***** + +Willy Cameron stood at the foot of the staircase, looking up. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Poor Wise Man, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A POOR WISE MAN *** + +***** This file should be named 1970-0.txt or 1970-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/7/1970/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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