CHAPTER XII
Howard Cardew was in his dressing room, sitting before the fire. Hisman had put out his dinner clothes and retired, and Howard was siftingbefore the fire rather listlessly.
In Grace's room, adjoining, he could hear movements and low voices.Before Lily's return, now and then when he was tired Grace and he haddined by the fire in her boudoir. It had been very restful. He was stillin love with his wife, although, as in most marriages, there was one whogave more than the other. In this case it was Grace who gave, and Howardwho received. But he loved her. He never thought of other women. Onlyhis father had never let him forget her weaknesses.
Sometimes he was afraid that he was looking at Grace with his father'seyes, rather than his own.
He had put up a hard fight with his father. Not about Grace. That wasover and done with, although it had been bad while it lasted. But hisreal struggle had been to preserve himself, to keep his faiths and hisideals, and even his personality. In the inessentials he had yieldedeasily, and so bought peace. Or perhaps a truce, of a sort. But for theessentials he was standing with a sort of dogged conviction that if helowered his flag it would precipitate a crisis. He was not brilliant,but he was intelligent, progressive and kindly. He knew that his fatherconsidered him both stupid and obstinate.
There was going to be a strike. The quarrel now was between Anthony'scurt "Let them strike," and his own conviction that a strike at thistime might lead to even worse things. The men's demands were exorbitant.No business, no matter how big, could concede them and live. But Howardwas debating another phase of the situation.
Not all the mills would go down. A careful canvass of some of the otherindependent concerns had shown the men eighty, ninety, even one hundredper cent, loyal. Those were the smaller plants, where there had alwaysbeen a reciprocal good feeling between the owners and the men; there themen knew the owners, and the owners knew the men, who had been with themfor years.
But the Cardew Mills would go down. There had been no liaison betweenthe Cardews and the workmen. The very magnitude of the business forbadethat. And for many years, too, the Cardews had shown a gross callousnessto the welfare of the laborers. Long ago he had urged on his father theprogressive attitude of other steel men, but Anthony had jeered, andwhen Howard had forced the issue and gained concessions, it was toolate. The old grievances remained in too many minds. To hate the Cardewsbad become a habit. Their past sins would damn them now. The strike waswrong, a wicked thing. It was without reason and without aim. The menwere knocking a hole in the boat that floated them. But--
There was a tap at his door, and he called "Come in." From her babyhoodLily had had her own peculiar method of signaling that she stoodwithout, a delicate rapid tattoo of finger nails on the panel. Hewatched smilingly for her entrance.
"Well!" she said. "Thank goodness you haven't started to dress. I triedto get here earlier, but my hair wouldn't go up, I want to make a goodimpression to-night."
"Is there a dinner on? I didn't know it."
"Not a dinner. A young man. I came to see what you are going to wear."
"Really! Well, I haven't a great variety. The ordinary dinner dress of agentleman doesn't lend itself to any extraordinary ornamentation. Ifyou like, I'll pin on that medal from the Iron and Steel--Who's coming,Lily?"
"Grayson says grandfather's dining out."
"I believe so."
"What a piece of luck! I mean--you know what he'd say if I asked him notto dress for dinner."
"Am I to gather that you are asking me?"
"You wouldn't mind, would you? He hasn't any evening clothes."
"Look here, Lily," said her father, sitting upright. "Who is coming hereto-night? And why should he upset the habits of the entire family?"
"Willy Cameron. You know, father. And he has the queerest ideas aboutus. Honestly. And I want him to like us, and it's such a good chance,with grandfather out."
He ignored that.
"How about our liking him?"
"Oh, you'll like him. Everybody does. You will try to make a goodimpression, won't you, father?"
He got up, and resting his hands on her shoulders, smiled down into herupturned face. "I will," he said. "But I think I should tell you thatyour anxiety arouses deep and black suspicions in my mind. Am I tounderstand that you have fixed your young affections on this WillyCameron, and that you want your family to help you in your darkdesigns?"
Lily laughed.
"I love him," she said. "I really do. I could listen to him for hours.But people don't want to marry Willy Cameron. They just love him."
There was born in Howard's mind a vision of a nice pink and white youngman, quite sexless, whom people loved but did not dream of marrying.
"I see," he said slowly. "Like a puppy."
"Not at all like a puppy."
"I'm afraid I'm not subtle, my dear. Well, ring for Adams, and--youthink he wouldn't care for the medal?"
"I think he'd love it. He'd probably think some king gave it to you. I'msure he believes that you and grandfather habitually hobnob with kings."She turned to go out. "He doesn't approve of kings."
"You are making me extremely uneasy," was her father's shot. "I onlyhope I acquit myself well."
"Hurry, then. He is sure to be exactly on the hour." Howard was stillsmiling slightly to himself when, a half-hour later, he descendedthe staircase. But he had some difficulty first in reconciling hispreconceived idea of Willy with the tall young man, with the faintunevenness of step, who responded to his greeting so calmly and soeasily. "We are always glad to see any of Lily's friends."
"It is very good of you to let me come, sir."
Why, the girl was blind. This was a man, a fine, up-standing fellow,with a clean-cut, sensitive face, and honest, almost beautiful eyes. Howdid women judge men, anyhow?
And, try as he would, Howard Cardew could find no fault with WillyCameron that night. He tried him out on a number of things. In religion,for instance, he was orthodox, although he felt that the church had notcome up fully during the war.
"Religion isn't a matter only of churches any more," said Mr. Cameron."It has to go out into the streets, I think, sir. It's a-well, Christleft the tabernacle, you remember."
That was all right. Howard felt that himself sometimes. He was avestryman at Saint Peter's, and although he felt very devout during theservice, especially during the offertory, when the music filled the fineold building, he was often conscious that he shed his spirituality atthe door, when he glanced at the sky to see what were the prospects foran afternoon's golf.
In politics Willy Cameron was less satisfactory.
"I haven't decided, yet," he said. "I voted for Mr. Wilson in 1916, butalthough I suppose parties are necessary, I don't like to feel that I amparty-bound. Anyhow, the old party lines are gone. I rather look--"
He stopped. That terrible speech of Edith Boyd's still rankled.
"Go on, Willy," said Lily. "I told them they'd love to you talk."
"That's really all, sir," said Willy Cameron, unhappily. "I am a Scot,and to start a Scot on reform is fatal."
"Ah, you believe in reform?"
"We are not doing very well as we are, sir."
"I should like extremely to know how you feel about things," saidHoward, gravely.
"Only this: So long as one party is, or is considered, therepresentative of capital, the vested interests, and the other of labor,the great mass of the people who are neither the one nor the othercannot be adequately represented."
"And the solution?"
"Perhaps a new party. Or better still, a liberalizing of theRepublican."
"Before long," said Lily suddenly, "there will be no state. There willbe enough for everybody, and nobody will have too much."
Howard smiled at her indulgently.
"How do you expect to accomplish this ideal condition?"
"That's the difficulty about it," said Lily, thoughtfully. "It means arevolution. It would be peaceful, though. The thing to do is to convinc
epeople that it is simple justice, and then they will divide what theyhave."
"Why, Lily!" Grace's voice was anxious. "That's Socialism."
But Howard only smiled tolerantly, and changed the subject. Everyone had these attacks of idealism in youth. They were the exaggeratedaltruism of adolescence; a part of its dreams and aspirations. Hechanged the subject.
"I like the boy," he said to Grace, later, over the cribbage board inthe morning room. "He has character, and a queer sort of magnetism. Itmightn't be a bad thing--"
Grace was counting.
"I forgot to tell you; I think she refused Pink Denslow the other day."
"I rather gathered, from the way she spoke of young Cameron, that sheisn't interested there either."
"Not a bit," said Grace, complacently. "You needn't worry about him."
Howard smiled. He was often conscious that after all the years of theircommon life, his wife's mind and his traveled along parallel lines thatnever met.
Willy Cameron was extremely happy. He had brought his pipe along,although without much hope, but the moment they were settled by thelibrary fire Lily had suggested it.
"You know you can't talk unless you have it in your hand to wavearound," she said. "And I want to know such a lot of things. Where youlive, and all that."
"I live in a boarding house. More house than board, really. And thework's all right. I'm going to study metallurgy some day. There arenight courses at the college, only I haven't many nights."
He had lighted his pipe, and kept his eyes on it mostly, or on the fire.He was afraid to look at Lily, because there was something he could notkeep out of his eyes, but must keep from her. It had been both betterand worse than he had anticipated, seeing her in her home. Lily herselfhad not changed. She was her wonderful self, in spite of her frock andher surroundings. But the house, her people, with their ease of wealthand position, Grace's slight condescension, the elaborate simplicity ofdining, the matter-of-course-ness of the service. It was not that Lilywas above him. That was ridiculous. But she was far removed from him.
"There is something wrong with you, Willy," she said unexpectedly. "Youare not happy, or you are not well. Which is it? You are awfully thin,for one thing."
"I'm all right," he said, evading her eyes.
"Are you lonely? I don't mean now, of course."
"Well, I've got a dog. That helps. He's a helpless sort of mutt. I carryhis meat home from the shop in my pocket, and I feel like a butcher'swagon, sometimes. But he's taken a queer sort of liking to me, and he issomething to talk to."
"Why didn't you bring him along?"
Dogs were forbidden in the Cardew house, by old Anthony's order, as werepipes, especially old and beloved ones, but Lily was entirely reckless.
"He did follow me. He's probably sitting on the doorstep now. I tried tosend him back, but he's an obstinate little beast."
Lily got up.
"I am going to bring him in," she said. "And if you'll ring that bellwe'll get him some dinner."
"I'll get him, while you ring."
Half an hour later Anthony Cardew entered his house. He had spent amiserable evening. Some young whipper snapper who employed a handful ofmen had undertaken to show him where he, Anthony Cardew, was a clog inthe wheel of progress. Not in so many words, but he had said: "Temporamutantur, Mr. Cardew. And the wise employer meets those changeshalf-way."
"You young fools want to go all the way."
"Not at all. We'll meet them half-way, and stop."
"Bah!" said Anthony Cardew, and had left the club in a temper. The clubwas going to the dogs, along with the rest of the world. There was onlya handful of straight-thinking men like himself left in it. Lot of youngcravens, letting their men dominate them and intimidate them.
So he slammed into his house, threw off his coat and hat, and--sniffed.A pungent, acrid odor was floating through a partly closed door. AnthonyCardew flung open the door and entered.
Before the fire, on a deep velvet couch, sat his granddaughter. Besideher was a thin young man in a gray suit, and the thin young man waswaving an old pipe about, and saying:
"Tempora mutantur, Lily. The wise employer--"
"I am afraid, sir," said Anthony, in a terrible voice, "that you arenot acquainted with the rules of my house. I object to pipes. There arecigars in the humidor behind you."
"Very sorry, Mr. Cardew," Willy Cameron explained. "I didn't know. I'llput it away, sir."
But Anthony was not listening. His eyes had traveled from an emptyplatter on the hearth-rug to a deep chair where Jinx, both warm andfed at the same time, and extremely distended with meat, lay sleeping.Anthony put out a hand and pressed the bell beside him.
"I want you to meet Mr. Cameron, grandfather." Lily was rather pale, butshe had the Cardew poise. "He was in the camp when I was."
Grayson entered on that, however, and Anthony pointed to Jinx.
"Put that dog out," he said, and left the room, his figure rigid anduncompromising.
"Grayson," Lily said, white to the lips, "that dog is to remain here.He's perfectly quiet. And, will you find Ellen and ask her to comehere?"
"Haven't I made enough trouble?" asked Willy Cameron, unhappily. "I cansee her again, you know."
"She's crazy to see you, Willy. And besides--"
Grayson had gone, after a moment's hesitation.
"Don't you see?" she said. "The others have always submitted. I did,too. But I can't keep it up, Willy. I can't live here and let him treatme like that. Or my friends. I know what will happen. I'll run away,like Aunt Elinor."
"You must not do that, Lily." He was very grave.
"Why not? They think she is unhappy. She isn't. She ran away and marrieda man she cared about. I may call you up some day and ask you to marryme!" she added, less tensely. "You would be an awfully good husband, youknow."
She looked up at him, still angry, but rather amused with this newconceit.
"Don't!"
She was startled by the look on his face.
"You see," he said painfully, "what only amuses you in that ideais--well, it doesn't amuse me, Lily."
"I only meant--" she was very uncomfortable. "You are so real anddependable and kind, and I--"
"I know what you mean. Like Jinx, there. I'm sorry! I didn't mean that.But you must not talk about marrying me unless you mean it. You see, Ihappen to care."
"Willy!"
"It won't hurt you to know, although I hadn't meant to tell you. And ofcourse, you know, I am not asking you to marry me. Only I'd like you tofeel that you can count on me, always. The one person a woman can counton is the man who loves her."
And after a little silence:
"You see, I know you are not in love with me. I cared from thebeginning, but I always knew that."
"I wish I did." She was rather close to tears. She had not felt atall like that with Pink. But, although she knew he was suffering, hisquietness deceived her. She had the theory of youth about love, that itwas a violent thing, tempestuous and passionate. She thought that lovedemanded, not knowing that love gives first, and then asks. She couldnot know how he felt about his love for her, that it lay in a sort ofcathedral shrine in his heart. There were holy days when saints lefttheir niches and were shown in city streets, but until that holy daycame they remained in the church.
"You will remember that, won't you?"
"I'll remember, Willy."
"I won't be a nuisance, you know. I've never had any hope, so I won'tmake you unhappy. And don't be unhappy about me, Lily. I would ratherlove you, even knowing I can't have you, than be loved by anybody else."
Perhaps, had he shown more hurt, he would have made it seem more real toher. But he was frightfully anxious not to cause her pain.
"I'm really very happy, loving you," he added, and smiled down at herreassuringly. But he had for all that a wild primitive impulse whichalmost overcame him for a moment, to pick her up in his arms and carryher out the door and away with him. Somewhere, anywhere. Away from thatgri
m old house, and that despotic little man, to liberty and happinessand--William Wallace Cameron.
Ellen came in, divided between uneasiness and delight, and inquiredpainstakingly about his mother, and his uncle in California, and thePresbyterian minister. But she was uncomfortable and uneasy and refusedto sit down, and Willy watched her furtively slipping out again with aslight frown. It was not right, somehow, this dividing of the world intoclasses, those who served and those who were served. But he had an ideathat it was those below who made the distinction, nowadays. It was themasses who insisted on isolating the classes. They made kings, perhapsthat they might some day reach up and pull them off their thrones. Atthe top of the stairs Ellen found Mademoiselle, who fixed her with coldeyes.
"What were you doing down there," she demanded.
"Miss Lily sent for me, to see that young man I told you about."
"How dare you go down? And into the library?"
"I've just told you," said Ellen, her face setting. "She sent for me."
"Why didn't you say you were in bed?"
"I'm no liar, Mademoiselle. Besides, I guess it's no crime to see a boyI've known all his life, and his mother and me like sisters."
"You are a fool," said Mademoiselle, and turning clumped back in herbedroom slippers to her room.
Ellen went up to her room. Heretofore she had given her allegiance toMademoiselle and Mrs. Cardew, and in a more remote fashion, to Howard.But Ellen, crying angry tears in her small white bed that night, senseda new division in the family, with Mademoiselle and Anthony and Howardand Grace on one side, and Lily standing alone, fighting valiantly forthe right to live her own life, to receive her own friends, and thefriends of her friends, even though one of these latter might be aservant in her own house.
Yet Ellen, with the true snobbishness of the servants' hall, disapprovedof Lily's course while she admired it.
"But they're all against her," Ellen reflected. "The poor thing! Andjust because of Willy Cameron. Well, I'll stand by her, if they throw meout for it."
In her romantic head there formed strange, delightful visions. Lilyeloping with Willy Cameron, assisted by herself. Lily in the littleCameron house, astounding the neighborhood with her clothes and hercharm, and being sponsored by Ellen. The excitement of the village, andthe visits to Ellen to learn what to wear for a first call, and werecards necessary?
Into Ellen's not very hard-working but monotonous life had comes itsfirst dream of romance.