A Poor Wise Man by Mary Roberts Rinehart (best book recommendations .TXT) 📕

white heat supporting it, weren’t you? How about another war,” - he chose his words carefully - “just as reasonable and just? You’ve heard Doyle. You know what I mean.”

“Not now!”

He was amazed at her horror, a horror that made her recoil from him and push his hands away when he tried to touch her. He got up angrily and stood looking down at her, his hands in his pockets.

“What the devil did you think all this talk meant?” he demanded. “You’ve heard enough of it.”

“Does Aunt Elinor know?”

“Of course.”

“And she approves?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Suddenly, with one of the quick changes she knew so well, he caught her hands and drawing her to her feet, put his arms around her. “All I know is that I love you, and if you say the word I’ll cut the whole business.”

“You would?”

He amended his offer somewhat.

“Marry me, honey,” he begged. “Marry me now. Do you think I’ll let anything in God’s world come between us? Marry me, and I’ll do more than leave them.” He was whispering to her, stroking her hair. “I’ll cut the whole outfit. And on the day I go into your house as your husband I’ll tell your people some things they want to know. That’s a promise.”

“What will they do to you?”

“Your people?”

“The others.”

He drew himself to his full height, and laughed.

“They’ll try to do plenty, old girl,” he said, “but I’m not afraid of them, and they know it. Marry me, Lily,” he urged. “Marry me now. And we’ll beat them out, you and I.”

He gave her a sense of power, over him and over evil. She felt suddenly an enormous responsibility, that of a human soul waiting to be uplifted and led aright.

“You can save me, honey,” he whispered, and kneeling suddenly, he kissed the toe of her small shoe.

He was strong. But he was weak too. He needed her. “I’ll do it, Louis,” she said. “You - you will be good to me, won’t you?”

“I’m crazy about you.”

The mood of exaltation upheld her through the night, and into the next day. Elinor eyed her curiously, and with some anxiety. It was a long time since she had been a girl, going about star-eyed with power over a man, but she remembered that lost time well.

At noon Louis came in for a hasty luncheon, and before he left he drew Lily into the little study and slipped a solitaire diamond on her engagement finger. To Lily the moment was almost a holy one, but he seemed more interested in the quality of the stone and its appearance on her hand than in its symbolism.

“Got you cinched now, honey. Do you like it?”

“It makes me feel that I don’t belong to myself any longer.”

“Well, you’ve passed into good hands,” he said, and laughed his great, vibrant laugh. “Costing me money already, you mite!”

A little of her exaltation died then. But perhaps men were like that, shyly covering the things they felt deepest.

She was rather surprised when he suggested keeping the engagement a secret.

“Except the Doyles, of course,” he said. “I am not taking any chances on losing you, child.”

“Not mother?”

“Not unless you want to be kidnaped and taken home. It’s only a matter of a day or two, anyhow.”

“I want more time than that. A month, anyhow.”

And he found her curiously obstinate and determined. She did not quite know herself why she demanded delay, except that she shrank from delivering herself into hands that were so tender and might be so cruel. It was instinctive, purely.

“A month,” she said, and stuck to it.

He was rather sulky when he went away, and he had told her the exact amount he had paid for her ring.

Having forced him to agree to the delay, she found her mood of exaltation returning. As always, it was when he was not with he that she saw him most clearly, and she saw his real need for her. She had a sense of peace, too, now that at last something was decided. Her future, for better or worse, would no longer be that helpless waiting which had been hers for so long. And out of her happiness came a desire to do kind things, to pat children on the head, to give alms to beggars, and - to see Willy Cameron.

She came’ downstairs that afternoon, dressed for the street.

“I am going out for a little while, Aunt Nellie,” she said, “and when I come back I want to tell you something.”

“Perhaps. I can guess.”

“Perhaps you can.”

She was singing to herself as she went out the door.

Elinor went back heavy-hearted to her knitting. It was very difficult always to sit by and wait. Never to raise a hand. Just to wait and watch.” And pray.

Lily was rather surprised, when she reached the Eagle Pharmacy, to find Pink Denslow coming out. It gave her a little pang, too; he looked so clean and sane and normal, so much a part of her old life. And it hurt her, too, to see him flush with pleasure at the meeting.

“Why, Lily!” he said, and stood there, gazing at her, hat in hand, the sun on his gleaming, carefully brushed hair. He was quite inarticulate with happiness. “I - when did you get back?”

“I have not been away, Pink. I left home - it’s a long story. I am staying with my aunt, Mrs. Doyle.”

“Mrs. Doyle? You are staying there?”

“Why not? My father’s sister.”

His young face took on a certain sternness.

“If you knew what I suspect about Doyle, Lily, you wouldn’t let the same roof cover you.” But he added, rather wistfully, “I wish I might see you sometimes.”

Lily’s head had gone up a trifle. Why did her old world always try to put her in the wrong? She had had to seek sanctuary, and the Doyle house had been the only sanctuary she knew.

“Since you feel as you do, I’m afraid that’s impossible. Mr. Doyle’s roof is the only roof I have.”

“You have a home,” he said, sturdily.

“Not now. I left, and my grandfather won’t have me back. You mustn’t blame him, Pink. We quarreled and I left. I was as much responsible as he was.”

For a moment after she turned and disappeared inside the pharmacy door he stood there, then he put on his hat and strode down the street, unhappy and perplexed. If only she had needed him, if she had not looked so self-possessed and so ever so faintly defiant, as though she dared him to pity her, he would have known what to do. All he needed was to be needed. His open face was full of trouble. It was unthinkable that Lily should be in that center of anarchy; more unthinkable that Doyle might have filled her up with all sorts of wild ideas. Women were queer; they liked theories. A man could have a theory of life and play with it and boast about it, but never dream of living up to it. But give one to a woman, and she chewed on it like a dog on a bone. If those Bolshevists had got hold of Lily - !

The encounter had hurt Lily, too. The fine edge of her exaltation was gone, and it did not return during her brief talk with Willy Cameron. He looked much older and very thin; there were lines around his eyes she had never seen before, and she hated seeing him in his present surroundings. But she liked him for his very unconsciousness of those surroundings. One always had to take Willy Cameron as he was.

“Do you like it, Willy?” she asked. It had dawned on her, with a sort of panic, that there was really very little to talk about. All that they had had in common lay far in the past.

“Well, it’s my daily bread, and with bread costing what it does, I cling to it like a limpet to a rock.”

“But I thought you were studying, so you could do something else.”

“I had to give up the night school. But I’ll get back to it sometime.

She was lost again. She glanced around the little shop, where once Edith Boyd had manicured her nails behind the counter, and where now a middle-aged woman stood with listless eyes looking out over the street.

“You still have Jinx, I suppose?”

“Yes. I - “

Lily glanced up as he stopped. She had drawn off her gloves, and his eyes had fallen on her engagement ring. To Lily there had always been a feeling of unreality about his declaration of love for her. He had been so restrained, so careful to ask nothing in exchange, so without expectation of return, that she had put it out of her mind as an impulse. She had not dreamed that he could still care, after these months of silence. But he had gone quite white.

“I am going to be married, Willy,” she said, in a low tone. It is doubtful if he could have spoken, just then. And as if to add a finishing touch of burlesque to the meeting, a small boy with a swollen jaw came in just then and demanded something to “make it stop hurting.”

He welcomed the interruption, she saw. He was very professional instantly, and so absorbed for a moment in relieving the child’s pain that he could ignore his own.

“Let’s see it,” he said in a businesslike, slightly strained voice. “Better have it out, old chap. But I’ll give you something just to ease it up a bit.”

Which he proceeded to do. When he came back to Lily he was quite calm and self-possessed. As he had never thought of dramatizing himself, nor thought of himself at all, it did not occur to him that drama requires setting, that tragedy required black velvet rather than tooth-brushes, and that a small boy with an aching tooth was a comedy relief badly introduced.

All he knew was that he had somehow achieved a moment in which to steady himself, and to find that a man can suffer horribly and still smile. He did that, very gravely, when he came back to Lily.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“There is not very much to tell. It is Louis Akers.”

The middle-aged clerk had disappeared.

“Of course you have thought over what that means, Lily.”

“He wants me to marry him. He wants it very much, Willy. And - I know you don’t like him, but he has changed. Women always think they have changed men, I know. But he is very different.”

“I am sure of that,” he said, steadily.

There was something childish about her, he thought. Childish and infinitely touching. He remembered a night at the camp, when some of the troops had departed for over-seas, and he had found her alone and crying in her hut. “I just can’t let them go,” she had sobbed. “I just can’t. Some of them will never come back.”

Wasn’t there something of that spirit in her now, the feeling that she could not let Akers go, lest worse befall him? He did not know. All he knew was that she was more like the Lily Cardew he had known then than she had been since her return. And that he worshiped her.

But there was anger in him, too. Anger at Anthony Cardew. Anger at the Doyles. And a smoldering, bitter anger at Louis Akers, that he should take the dregs of his life and offer them to her as new wine. That he should dare to link his scheming, plotting days to this girl, so wise