CHAPTER XIX
The surface peace of the house on Cardew Way, the even tenor of herdays there, the feeling she had of sanctuary did not offset Lily's clearknowledge that she had done a cruel and an impulsive thing. Even hergrandfather, whose anger had driven her away, she remembered now as afeeble old man, fighting his losing battle in a changing world, and yetwith 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 tenetsto which they adhered so religiously. She had broken the unwritten lawnot to break bread with an enemy of her house. She had done what theyhad expressly forbidden, done it over and over.
"On top of all this," old Anthony had said, after reading the tale ofher delinquencies from some notes in his hand, "you dined last nightopenly at the Saint Elmo Hotel with this same Louis Akers, a man openlymy 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 tokill 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 lethim come here--"
"Never in this house," said old Anthony, savagely crushing notes in hishand. "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, arake, a--dog."
"Just a moment, father," Howard had put in, quietly. "Lily, do you carefor 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 tomarry 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 abitterness of language that turned Lily cold and obstinate. She heardhim through, with her father vainly trying to break in and save thesituation; 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. Butshut in her bedroom with the doors locked, Anthony's furious words cameback, 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 theopposition. Except Ellen. She had felt lately that Ellen, in her humbleway, had espoused her cause.
She had sent for Ellen.
In spite of the warmth of her greeting, Lily had felt a reserve in AuntElinor's welcome. It was as though she was determinedly making the bestof 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 youcan 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 allshe 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 emotionalexhaustion. She had thought she heard Willy Cameron's voice. But thatwas 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 longoverlaid with her infatuation. She would go home again, and make whatamends she could. They were wrong about Louis Akers, but they wereright, too.
Lying there, as the dawn slowly turned her windows to gray, she saw himwith a new clarity. She had a swift vision of what life with him wouldmean. Intervals of passionate loving, of boyish dependence on her, andthen--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. Hewas born to be a wanderer in love, an experimenter in passion. She evenrecognized in him an incurable sensuous curiosity about women, thatwould be quite remote from his love for her. He would see nothing wrongin his infidelities, so long as she did not know and did not suffer. Andhe would come back to her from them, watchful for suspicion, relievedwhen he did not find it, and bringing her small gifts which would beactually 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 theword that her father was downstairs. Elinor was very pale. It had beena shock to her to see her brother in her home after all the years, and astill 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 lipstrembling. 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 seemy 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 theworld. But he was very uneasy and depressed, at that. He had come on adifficult errand, and because he had no finesse he blundered badly.It was some time before she gathered the full meaning of what he wassaying.
"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 rememberthat he is a very old man, and that his mind is not elastic. He isfeeling very bitter now, but he will get over it."
"And I am to travel around waiting to be forgiven! I was ready to goback, but--he won't have me. Is that it?"
"Only just for the present." He threw out his hands. "I have triedeverything. 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, noconcession, no argument with the men, it makes it very difficult, inmany 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 deepanger against Anthony now. She merely saw that between them, they, sheand her grandfather, had dug a gulf that could not be passed. Andin Howard's efforts she saw the temporizing that her impatient youthresented.
"I am afraid it is a final break, father," she said. "And if he shutsme out I must live my own life. But I am not going to run away to AuntCornelia or Europe. I shall stay here."
He had to be content with that. After all, his own sister--but he wishedit were not Jim Doyle's house. Not that he regarded Lily's shift towardwhat he termed Bolshevism very seriously; all youth had a slant towardsocialism, and outgrew it. But he went away sorely troubled, after a fewwords 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 thinkthere 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 thanLily. And I'm too old to start out by myself. My habits are formed, andbesides, I--" She checked herself.
"I could take a house somewhere for both of you, Lily and yourself," hesaid 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 ashappy a
s I can."
He felt that he had to make his own case clear, or he might havenoticed with what care she was choosing her words. His father's age, hisunconscious dependence on Grace, his certainty to retire soon from thearbitrary stand he had taken. Elinor hardly heard him. Monthsafterwards he was to remember the distant look in her eyes, a sort ofhalf-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 cominghere."
"I know, Howard."
"Don't let her marry him, Nellie! Better than any one, you ought to knowwhat 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 findhimself facing the fact that, driven by some strange urge he couldnot understand, the leaders wished a strike. There were times when hewondered what would happen if he should suddenly yield every point, makeevery concession. They would only make further demands, he felt. Theyseemed determined to put him out of business. If only he could havedealt with the men directly, instead of with their paid representatives,he felt that he would get somewhere. But always, interposed betweenhimself 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 notalways good faith. The union system was wrong. It was like politics. Thefew handled the many. The union, with its all-powerful leaders, was onlyanother form of autocracy. It was Prussian. Yet the ideal behind theunion was sound enough.
He had no quarrel with the union. He puzzled it out, travelingunaccustomed mental paths. The country was founded on liberty. All menwere created free and equal. Free, yes, but equal? Was not equality along way ahead along a thorny road? Men were not equal in the effortthey made, nor did equal efforts bring equal result. If there was classantagonism behind all this unrest, would there not always be those whorose by dint of ceaseless effort? Equality of opportunity, yes. Equalityof effort and result, no.
To destroy the chance of gain was to put a premium on inertia; to killambition; to reduce the high without raising the low.
At noon on the same day Willy Cameron went back to the house on CardewWay, to find Lily composed and resigned, instead of the militant figurehe had expected. He asked her to go home, and she told him then that shehad no longer a home to go to.
"I meant to go, Willy," she finished. "I meant to go this morning. Butyou see how things are."
He had stood for a long time, looking at nothing very hard. "I see," hesaid 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." Thenhe faced her. "Besides, Lily, you're wrong. Dead wrong. You've hurtthree 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 inits name." Even in his unhappiness he was controversial. "We are neverreally free, so long as we love people, and they love us. Well--" Hepicked up his old felt hat and absently turned down the brim; it wasraining. "I'll have to get back. I've overstayed my lunch hour as itis."
"You haven't had any luncheon?"
"I wasn't hungry," he had said, and had gone away, his coat collarturned up against the shower. Lily had had a presentiment that he wastaking 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 asshe had been; rather, although she did not put it that way, as thoughsomething fine had passed her way, like Pippa singing, and had then goneon.
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 herown point at the cost of much suffering. She telephoned to her motherdaily, broken little conversations with long pauses while Grace steadiedher voice. Once her mother hung up the receiver hastily, and Lilyguessed that her grandfather had come in. She felt very bitter towardhim.
But she found the small oneage interesting, in a quiet way; to makeher own bed and mend her stockings--Grace had sent her a trunkful ofclothing; and on the elderly maid's afternoon out, to help Elinor withthe supper. She seldom went out, but Louis Akers came daily, and on thesixth day of her stay she promised to marry him.
She had not meant to do it, but it was difficult to refuse him. She hadlet him think she would do it ultimately, for one thing. And, howeverclearly she might analyze him in his absences, his strange attractionreasserted itself when he was near. But her acceptance of him was almoststoical.
"But not soon, Louis," she said, holding him off. "And--I ought to tellyou--I don't think we will be happy together."
"Why not?"
"Because--" she found it hard to put into words--"because love with youis a sort of selfish thing, I think."
"I'll lie down now and let you tramp on me," he said exultantly, andheld out his arms. But even as she moved toward him she voiced her innerperplexity.
"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 foryou."
There was a new air of maturity about Lily those days, and sometimesa sort of aloofness that both maddened him and increased his desire topossess her. She went into his arms, but when he held her closest shesometimes seemed farthest away.
"I want you now."
"I want to be engaged a long time, Louis. We have so much to learn abouteach other."
He thought that rather childish. But whatever had been his motive in thebeginning, he was desperately in love with her by that time, and becauseof that he frightened her sometimes. He was less sure of himself, too,even after she had accepted him, and to prove his continued dominanceover 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 shedid not.
But her infatuation persisted, although there were times when hisinordinate vitality and his caresses gave her a sense of physicalweariness, times when sheer contact revolted her. He seemed always towant to touch her. Fastidiously reared, taught a sort of aloofness fromchildhood, Lily found herself wondering if all men in love were likethat, always having to be held off.