CHAPTER XXXVIII
Ellen was greatly disturbed. At three o'clock that afternoon she foundEdith 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 youtrying 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 himhappy."
Unexpected tears came into Ellen's eyes. She stroked the girl's fairhair.
"Never mind," she said. "The Good Man's got a way of fixing things tosuit Himself. And I guess He knows best. We do what it's foreordained wedo, after all."
Mrs. Boyd was sleeping. Edith went back to her sewing. She had dependedall her life on her mother's needle, and now that that had failed hershe was hastily putting some clothing into repair. In the kitchen nearthe stove the suit she meant to be married in was hung to dry, afterpressing. She was quietly happy.
Willy Cameron found her there. He told her of Mrs. Davis' death, andthen placed the license on the table at her side.
"I think it would be better to-morrow, Edith," he said. He glanced downat 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 worthwhile, 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 hishand.
"I am going out, Edith," he said. "I shall be late getting back, and--Iam 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 toopen that letter and read it. Then go to the nearest telephone, and callup 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 againstan emergency that will almost surely never happen, and I am depending onthe most trustworthy person I know."
Very soon after that he went away. She sat for some time after hehad gone, fingering the blank white envelope and wondering, a littlefrightened but very proud of his trust.
Dan came in and went up the stairs. That reminded her of the dinner, andshe sat down in the kitchen with a pan of potatoes on her knee. As shepared them she sang. She was still singing when Ellen came back.
Something had happened to Ellen. She stood in the kitchen, her hat stillon, drawing her cotton gloves through her fingers and staring at Edithwithout seeing her.
"You're not sick, are you, Ellen?"
Ellen put down her gloves and slowly took off her hat, still with theabsorbed 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 liketalking about it."
"I don't want any tea. Do you know that that man Akers has married LilyCardew?"
"Married her!"
"The devil out of hell that he is." Ellen's voice was terrible. "Andall the time knowing that you--She's at home, the poor child, andMademoiselle just sat and cried when she told me. It's a secret," sheadded, fiercely. "You keep your mouth shut about it. She never livedwith him. She left him right off. I wouldn't know it now but theservants were talking about the house being forbidden to him, and I wentstraight to Mademoiselle. I said: 'You keep him away from Miss Lily,because I know something about him.' It was when I told her that shesaid they were married."
She went out and up the stairs, moving slowly and heavily. Edith satstill, the pan on her knee, and thought. Did Willy know? Was that why hewas willing to marry her? She was swept with bitter jealousy, and addedto that came suspicion. Something very near the truth flashed into hermind and stayed there. In her bitterness she saw Willy telling Lily ofAkers and herself, and taking her away, or having her taken. It musthave been something like that, or why had she left him?
But her anger slowly subsided; in the end she began to feel that the newsituation rendered her own position more secure, even justified herown approaching marriage. Since Lily was gone, why should she not marryWilly Cameron? If what Ellen had said was true she knew him well enoughto know that he would deliberately strangle his love for Lily. If itwere true, and if he knew it.
She moved about the kitchen, making up the fire, working automaticallyin that methodless way that always set Ellen's teeth on edge, andthinking. But subconsciously she was listening, too. She had heard Dango into his mother's room and close the door. She was bracing herselfagainst his coming down.
Dan was difficult those days, irritable and exacting. Moody, too, andmuch away from home. He hated idleness at its best, and the strike wasidleness at its worst. Behind the movement toward the general strike,too, he felt there was some hidden and sinister influence at work, aninfluence that was determined to turn what had commenced as a labormovement into a class uprising.
That very afternoon, for the first time, he had heard whispered thephrase: "when the town goes dark." There was a diabolical suggestion init that sent him home with his fists clenched.
He did not go to his mother's room at once. Instead, he drew a chair tohis window and sat there staring out on the little street. When the townwent dark, what about all the little streets like this one?
After an hour or so of ominous quiet Edith heard him go into hismother'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. AndDan'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, youdidn't tell her it was a lie, did you?"
"I should have, but I didn't. What do you mean, it will be trueto-morrow?"
"We are going to be married to-morrow."
"I'll lock you up first," he said, angrily. "I've been expectingsomething 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 withthat? Isn't it enough that he's got to support us, without your coaxinghim 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. Lettinghimself in for a nice life, isn't he? We're not his kind, and you knowit. He knows more in a minute than you'll know all your days. In aboutthree months he'll hate the very sight of you, and then where'll yoube?"
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 notfinished. He would say no more to her, but he would wait and have it outwith Willy himself.
Supper was silent. No one ate much, and Ellen, coming down with thetray, reported Mrs. Boyd as very tired, and wanting to settle downearly.
"She looks bad to me," she said to Edith. "I think the doctor ought tosee her."
"I'll go and send him."
Edith was glad to get out of the house. She had avoided the streetslately, but as it was the supper hour the pavements were empty. OnlyJoe Wilkinson, bare-headed, stood in the next doorway, and smiled andflushed slightly when he saw her.
"How's your mother?" he asked.
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p; "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 thelittle 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 littleWilkinsons, clamoring to go along.
"Do you mind?" he asked her. "They can trail along behind. The poor kidsdon't get out much."
"Bring them along, of course," she said, somewhat resignedly. And with aflash of her old spirit: "I might have brought Jinx, too. Then we'd havehad a real procession."
They moved down the street, with five little Wilkinsons trailing alongbehind, 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 outtaking 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 thinkI'm better than I am, Joe."
"You're the most wonderful girl in the world. I guess you know how Ifeel about that."
"Don't Joe!"
But at that moment a very little Wilkinson fell headlong and burst intoloud, despairing wails. Joe set her on her feet, brushed her down witha fatherly hand, and on her refusal to walk further picked her up andcarried her. The obvious impossibility of going on with what he had beensaying made him smile sheepishly.
"Can you beat it?" he said helplessly, "these darn kids--!" But he heldthe child close.
At the next corner he turned toward home. Edith stopped and watched hisvaliant young back, his small train of followers. He was going to bevery sad when he knew, poor Joe, with his vicarious fatherhood, hiscluttered, 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 allher courage to carry it through. Outside the Benedict Apartments shehesitated, 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 theelection coming on."
"What time does he usually get in?"
"Sometimes early, sometimes late," said Sam, watching her. Everythingpertaining to Louis Akers was of supreme interest those days to theBenedict employees. The beating he had received, the coming election,the mysterious young woman who had come but once, and the black daysthat had followed his return from the St. Elmo--out of such patchworkthey were building a small drama of their own. Sam was trying to fit inEdith's visit with the rest.
The Benedict was neither more moral nor less than its kind. Anunwritten law kept respectable women away, but the management showed noinclination to interfere where there was no noise or disorder. Employeeswere 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'simportant."
"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. Thetelephone 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'tmind. She'd been here before."
The thought of Edith never entered Akers' head. It was Lily, Lilymiraculously come back to him. Lily, his wife.
Going up in the elevator he hastily formulated a plan of action. Hewould not be too ready to forgive; she had cost him too much. But in theend he would take her in his arms and hold her close. Lily! Lily!
It was the bitterness of his disappointment that made him brutal. Wickedand unscrupulous as he was with men, with women he was as gentle as hewas cruel. He put them from him relentlessly and kissed them good-by. Itwas his boast that any one of them would come back to him if he wantedher.
Edith, listening for his step, was startled at the change in his facewhen 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, buthis 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, shewho was responsible for the shipwreck of his marriage. That she couldcome 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. Shewas taken away. And I'll get her back if I--You little fool, I ought tokill 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 thesight of his astounded face she went on hastily: "He knows, Lou, and heoffered 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 beterribly 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 aflash he saw the room at the Saint Elmo, and a cold-eyed man inside thedoorway. The humiliation of that scene had never left him, of his ownmaudlin inadequacy, of hearing from beyond a closed and locked door, theclosing of another door behind Lily and the man who had taken her awayfrom him. A mad anger and jealousy made him suddenly reckless.
"So," he said, "he is terribly in love with my wife, and he intends tomarry you. That's--interesting. Because, my sweet child, he's got a damnpoor chance of marrying you, or anybody."
"Lou!"
"Listen," he said deliberately. "Men who stick their heads into thelion's jaws are apt to lose them. Our young friend Cameron has donethat. I'll change the figure. When a man tries to stop a great machineby 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, andmixed himself a highball. It gave her a moment to summon her scatteredwits, 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 anyoutburst 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 metit with equal strategy.
"I'll tell him," she said, moving toward the door. "You haven't scaredme for a minute and you won't scare him. You and your machine!"
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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 acoward!"
She was through the doorway by that time, and in terror for fear, havingtold her so much, he would try to detain her. She saw the idea come intohis 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. Sheheard him open the door and come out into the hall, but she was well inadvance 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 flightshe stopped and listened, but he had gone back. She heard the slam ofhis door as he closed it.
But the insistent need of haste drove her on, headlong. She shot throughthe lobby, past the staring telephone girl, and into the street, andthere settled down into steady running, her elbows close to her sides,trying to remember to breathe slowly and evenly. She must get homesomehow, get the envelope and follow the directions inside. Her thoughtsraced with her. It was almost eleven o'clock and Willy had been gone forhours. She tried to pray, but the words did not come.