“Then I’d better say what I have to say
quickly. Edith, will you marry me?”
She drew off and looked at him.
“I’d better explain what I mean,”
he said, speaking with some difficulty. “I
mean—go through the ceremony with me.
I don’t mean actual marriage. That wouldn’t
be fair to either of us, because you know that I care
for some one else.”
“But you mean a real marriage?”
“Of course. Your child has the right to
a name, dear. And, if you don’t mind telling
a lie to save our souls, and for her peace of mind,
we can say that it took place some time ago.”
She gazed at him dazedly. Then something like
suspicion came into her face.
“Is it because of what I told you to-night?”
“I had thought of it before. That helped,
of course.”
It seemed so surprisingly simple, put into words,
and the light on the girl’s face was his answer.
A few words, so easily spoken, and two lives were
saved. No, three, for Edith’s child must
be considered.
“You are like God,” said Edith, in a low
voice. “Like God.” And fell
to soft weeping. She was unutterably happy and
relieved. She sat there, not daring to touch
him, and looked out into the quiet street. Before
her she saw all the things that she had thought were
gone; honor, a place in the world again, the right
to look into her mother’s eyes; she saw marriage
and happy, golden days. He did not love her,
but he would be hers, and perhaps in His own good
time the Manager of all destinies would make him love
her. She would try so hard to deserve that.
Mrs. Boyd was asleep when at last Edith went up the
staircase, and Ellen, lying sleepless on her cot in
the hot attic room, heard the girl softly humming
to herself as she undressed, and marveled.
When Lily had been at home for some time, and Louis
Akers had made no attempt to see her, or to announce
the marriage, the vigilance of the household began
to relax. Howard Cardew had already consulted
the family lawyer about an annulment, and that gentleman
had sent a letter to Akers, which had received no reply.
Then one afternoon Grayson, whose instructions had
been absolute as to admitting Akers to the house,
opened the door to Mrs. Denslow, who was calling,
and found behind that lady Louis Akers himself.
He made an effort to close the door behind the lady,
but Akers was too quick for him, and a scene at the
moment was impossible.
He ushered Mrs. Denslow into the drawing room, and
coming out, closed the doors.
“My instructions, sir, are to say to you that
the ladies are not at home.”
But Akers held out his hat and gloves with so ugly
a look that Grayson took them.
“I have come to see my wife,” he said.
“Tell her that, and that if she doesn’t
see me here I’ll go upstairs and find her.”
