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!”