Next to Pelham Bay Park toward the south is a handsome private property.
On the low boundary wall of this, facing the road and directly under a
ragged cherry-tree, Lila seated herself. She was "all in." She must wait
until a vehicle of some sort passed and beg for a lift. She was
half-starved; her feet could no longer carry her. A motor thrilled by at
high speed, a fiery, stinking dragon in the night. Mosquitoes tormented
her. She had no strength with which to oppose them. The hand in which
she had held the poison-ivy was beginning to itch and swell.
A second motor approached slowly and came to a halt. A young man got
out, opened one of the headlights, struck a match, and lighted it. Then
he lighted the other. The low stone wall on which Lila sat and Lila
herself were embraced by the ring of illumination. It must have been
obvious to any one but a fool that Lila was out of place in her
surroundings; her peach-basket hat, the oxford ties of which she had
been so proud, told a story of city breeding. Her face, innocent and
childlike, was very touching.
The young man shut off his motor, so that there was a sudden silence.
"Want a lift somewhere?" he asked cheerfully.
Lila could not remember when she had been too young to be warned against
the advances of strange men. "They give you a high old time, and then
they expect to be paid for it," had been so dinned into her that if she
had given the young man a sharp "No" for an answer it would have been
almost instinctive. Training and admonition rose strong within her. She
felt that she was going to refuse help. The thought was intolerable.
Wherefore, instead of answering, she burst into tears.
A moment later the young man was sitting by her side, and she was
pouring her tale of a day gone wrong into amused but sympathetic ears.
His voice and choice of words belonged to a world into which she had
never looked. She could not help trusting him and believing that he was
good--even when he put his arm around her and let her finish her cry on
his shoulder.
"And your friend left you--and you've got no car fare, and you've had
nothing to eat, and you can't walk any more because your shoes are too
tight. And you live----?"
She told him.
"I could take you right home to your mother," he said, "but I won't.
That would be a good ending to a day gone wrong, but not the best.
Come."
He supported her to his motor, a high-power runabout, and helped her in.
Never before had she sat in such reclining comfort. It was better than
sitting up in bed.
"We'll send your mother a telegram from New Rochelle so that she won't
worry," he said. "Just you let yourself go and try to enjoy everything.
Fortunately I know of a shoe store in New Rochelle. It won't be open;
but the proprietor has rooms above the store, and he'll be glad to make
a sale even if it is Sunday. The first principle to be observed in a
pleasant outing is a pair of comfortable feet."
"But I have no money," protested Lila.
"I have," said the young man; "too much, some people think."
Lila had been taught that if she accepted presents from young men she
put herself more or less in their power.
They whirled noiselessly across Pelham Bridge. Lila had given up in the
matter of accepting a present of shoes. In so doing she feared that she
had committed herself definitely to the paths that lead to destruction.
And when, having tried in vain to get a table at two inns between New
Rochelle and Larchmont, the young man said that he would take her to his
own home to dinner, she felt sure of it. But she was too tired to care,
and in the padded seat, and the new easy shoes, too blissfully
comfortable. They had sent her mother a telegram. The young man had
composed it. He had told the mother not to worry. "I'm dining out and
won't be home till late."
"We won't say how late," he had explained with an ingenuous smile,
"because we don't know, do we?"
They had gone to a drug store, and the clerk had bound a soothing
dressing on Lila's poisoned hand.
They turned from the main road into a long avenue over which trees met
in a continuous arch. The place was all a-twinkle with fireflies. Box,
roses, and honeysuckle filled the air with delicious odors--then strong,
pungent, bracing as wine, the smell of salt-marshes, and coldness off
the water. On a point of land among trees many lights glowed.
"That's my place," said the young man.
"We'll have dinner on the terrace--deep water comes right up to it.
There's no wind to-night. The candles won't even flicker."
As if the stopping of the automobile had been a signal, the front door
swung quietly open and a Chinese butler in white linen appeared against
a background of soft coloring and subdued lights.
As Lila entered the house her knees shook a little. She felt that she
was definitely committing herself to what she must always regret. She
was a fly walking deliberately into a spider's parlor. That the young
man hitherto had behaved most circumspectly, she dared not count in his
favor. Was it not always so in the beginning? He seemed like a jolly,
kindly boy. She had the impulse to scream and to run out of the house,
to hide in the shrubbery, to throw herself into the water. Her heart
beat like that of a trapped bird. She heard the front door close behind
her.
"I think you'd be more comfy," said the young man, "if you took off your
hat, don't you? Dinner'll be ready in about ten minutes. Fong will show
you where to go."
She followed the Chinaman up a flight of broad low steps. Their feet
made no sound on the thick carpeting. He held open the door of a
bedroom. It was all white and delicate and blue. Through a door at the
farther end she had a glimpse of white porcelain and shining nickel.
Her first act when the Chinaman had gone was to lock the door by which
she had entered. Then she looked from each of the windows in turn. The
terrace was beneath her, brick with a balustrade of white, with white
urns. The young man, bareheaded, paced the terrace like a sentinel. He
was smoking a cigarette.
To the left was a round table, set for two. She could see that the
chairs were of white wicker, with deep, soft cushions. In the centre of
the table was a bowl of red roses. Four candles burned upright in
massive silver candlesticks.
She took off her hat mechanically, washed her face and the hand that had
not been bandaged, and "did" her hair. She looked wonderfully pretty in
the big mirror over the dressing-table. The heavy ivory brushes looked
enormous in her delicate hands. Her eyes were great and round like those
of a startled deer.
She heard his voice calling to her from the terrace: "Hello, up there!
Got everything you want? Dinner's ready when you are."
She hesitated a long time with her hand on the door-key. But what was a
locked door in an isolated house to a bad man? She drew a deep breath,
turned the key, waited a little longer, and then, as a person steps into
a very cold bath, pushed the door open and went out.
He was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. She went down slowly,
her hand on the rail. She had no idea that she was making an exquisite
picture. She knew only that she was frightened.
"It's turned cool," said the young man. He caught up a light scarf of
Chinese embroidery and laid it lightly about her shoulders. She looked
him for the first time squarely in the face. She saw chiefly a pair of
rather small, deep-set blue eyes; at the outer corners were
multitudinous little wrinkles, dug by smiling. The eyes were clear as a
child's, full of compassionate laughter.
A feeling of perfect security came over her. She thanked Heaven that she
had not made a ridiculous scene. The chimes of a tall clock broke the
silence with music.
He offered her his arm, and she laid her fingers on it.
"I think we are served," he said, and led her to the terrace. He was
solicitous about placing cushions to the best advantage for her. He took
one from his own chair, and, on one knee, put it under her feet. He
smiled at her across the bowl of roses.
"How old are you?" he said. "You look like a man's kid sister."
She told him that she was seventeen and that she had worked for two
years in a department store.
"My father was a farmer," she said, "but he lost one arm, and couldn't
make it pay. So we had to come to the city."
"Is your father living?"
"Yes. But he says he is dead. He can't find any work to do. Mother
works like a horse, though, and so does Bert, and so do I. The others
are at school."
"Do you like your work?"
"Only for what it brings in."
"What does it bring in?"
"Six dollars a week."