A Poor Wise Man, Mary Roberts Rinehart [classic book list TXT] 📗

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