The Titan 10 страница

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day, Rita noticed, and he took an excited interest at times in

other women. To be the be-all and end-all of some one man's life

was the least that Rita could conceive or concede as the worth of

her personality, and so, as the years went on and Harold began to

be unfaithful, first in moods, transports, then in deeds, her mood

became dangerous. She counted them up--a girl music pupil, then

an art student, then the wife of a banker at whose house Harold

played socially. There followed strange, sullen moods on the part

of Rita, visits home, groveling repentances on the part of Harold,

tears, violent, passionate reunions, and then the same thing over

again. What would you?

Rita was not jealous of Harold any more; she had lost faith in his

ability as a musician. But she was disappointed that her charms

were not sufficient to blind him to all others. That was the fly

in the ointment. It was an affront to her beauty, and she was

still beautiful. She was unctuously full-bodied, not quite so

tall as Aileen, not really as large, but rounder and plumper,

softer and more seductive. Physically she was not well set up,

so vigorous; but her eyes and mouth and the roving character of

her mind held a strange lure. Mentally she was much more aware

than Aileen, much more precise in her knowledge of art, music,

literature, and current events; and in the field of romance she

was much more vague and alluring. She knew many things about

flowers, precious stones, insects, birds, characters in fiction,

and poetic prose and verse generally.

At the time the Cowperwoods first met the Sohlbergs the latter

still had their studio in the New Arts Building, and all was

seemingly as serene as a May morning, only Harold was not getting

along very well. He was drifting. The meeting was at a tea given

by the Haatstaedts, with whom the Cowperwoods were still friendly,

and Harold played. Aileen, who was there alone, seeing a chance

to brighten her own life a little, invited the Sohlbergs, who seemed

rather above the average, to her house to a musical evening. They

came.

On this occasion Cowperwood took one look at Sohlberg and placed

him exactly. " An erratic, emotional temperament, " he thought.

" Probably not able to place himself for want of consistency and

application. " But he liked him after a fashion. Sohlberg was

interesting as an artistic type or figure--quite like a character

in a Japanese print might be. He greeted him pleasantly.

" And Mrs. Sohlberg, I suppose, " he remarked, feelingly, catching

a quick suggestion of the rhythm and sufficiency and naive taste

that went with her. She was in simple white and blue--small blue

ribbons threaded above lacy flounces in the skin. Her arms and

throat were deliciously soft and bare. Her eyes were quick, and

yet soft and babyish--petted eyes.

" You know, " she said to him, with a peculiar rounded formation of

the mouth, which was a characteristic of her when she talked--a

pretty, pouty mouth, " I thought we would never get heah at all.

There was a fire" --she pronounced it fy-yah--" at Twelfth Street"

(the Twelfth was Twalfth in her mouth) " and the engines were all

about there. Oh, such sparks and smoke! And the flames coming out

of the windows! The flames were a very dark red--almost orange and

black. They're pretty when they're that way--don't you think so? "

Cowperwood was charmed. " Indeed, I do, " he said, genially, using

a kind of superior and yet sympathetic air which he could easily

assume on occasion. He felt as though Mrs. Sohlberg might be a

charming daughter to him--she was so cuddling and shy--and yet

he could see that she was definite and individual. Her arms and

face, he told himself, were lovely. Mrs. Sohlberg only saw before

her a smart, cold, exact man--capable, very, she presumed--with

brilliant, incisive eyes. How different from Harold, she thought,

who would never be anything much--not even famous.

" I'm so glad you brought your violin, " Aileen was saying to Harold,

who was in another corner. " I've been looking forward to your

coming to play for us. "

" Very nize ov you, I'm sure, " Sohlberg replied, with his sweety

drawl. " Such a nize plaze you have here--all these loafly books,

and jade, and glass. "

He had an unctuous, yielding way which was charming, Aileen thought.

He should have a strong, rich woman to take care of him. He was

like a stormy, erratic boy.

After refreshments were served Sohlberg played. Cowperwood was

interested by his standing figure--his eyes, his hair--but he was

much more interested in Mrs. Sohlberg, to whom his look constantly

strayed. He watched her hands on the keys, her fingers, the dimples

at her elbows. What an adorable mouth, he thought, and what light,

fluffy hair! But, more than that, there was a mood that invested

it all--a bit of tinted color of the mind that reached him and

made him sympathetic and even passionate toward her. She was the

kind of woman he would like. She was somewhat like Aileen when

she was six years younger (Aileen was now thirty-three, and Mrs.

Sohlberg twenty-seven), only Aileen had always been more robust,

more vigorous, less nebulous. Mrs. Sohlberg (he finally thought

it out for himself) was like the rich tinted interior of a South

Sea oyster-shell--warm, colorful, delicate. But there was something

firm there, too. Nowhere in society had he seen any one like her.

She was rapt, sensuous, beautiful. He kept his eyes on her until

finally she became aware that he was gazing at her, and then she

looked back at him in an arch, smiling way, fixing her mouth in a

potent line. Cowperwood was captivated. Was she vulnerable? was

his one thought. Did that faint smile mean anything more than

mere social complaisance? Probably not, but could not a temperament

so rich and full be awakened to feeling by his own? When she was

through playing he took occasion to say: " Wouldn't you like to

stroll into the gallery? Are you fond of pictures? " He gave her

his arm.

" Now, you know, " said Mrs. Sohlberg, quaintly--very captivatingly,

he thought, because she was so pretty--" at one time I thought I

was going to be a great artist. Isn't that funny! I sent my father

one of my drawings inscribed 'to whom I owe it all. ' You would

have to see the drawing to see how funny that is. "

She laughed softly.

Cowperwood responded with a refreshed interest in life. Her laugh

was as grateful to him as a summer wind. " See, " he said, gently,

as they entered the room aglow with the soft light produced by

guttered jets, " here is a Luini bought last winter. " It was " The

Mystic Marriage of St. Catharine. " He paused while she surveyed

the rapt expression of the attenuated saint. " And here, " he went

on, " is my greatest find so far. " They were before the crafty

countenance of Caesar Borgia painted by Pinturrichio.

" What a strange face! " commented Mrs. Sohlberg, naively. " I didn't

know any one had ever painted him. He looks somewhat like an

artist himself, doesn't he? " She had never read the involved and

quite Satanic history of this man, and only knew the rumor of his

crimes and machinations.

" He was, in his way, " smiled Cowperwood, who had had an outline

of his life, and that of his father, Pope Alexander VI., furnished

him at the time of the purchase. Only so recently had his interest

in Caesar Borgia begun. Mrs. Sohlberg scarcely gathered the sly

humor of it.

" Oh yes, and here is Mrs. Cowperwood, " she commented, turning to

the painting by Van Beers. " It's high in key, isn't it? " she

said, loftily, but with an innocent loftiness that appealed to

him. He liked spirit and some presumption in a woman. " What

brilliant colors! I like the idea of the garden and the clouds. "

She stepped back, and Cowperwood, interested only in her, surveyed

the line of her back and the profile of her face. Such co-ordinated

perfection of line and color!

" Where every motion weaves and sings, " he might have commented.

Instead he said: " That was in Brussels. The clouds were an

afterthought, and that vase on the wall, too. "

" It's very good, I think, " commented Mrs. Sohlberg, and moved away.

" How do you like this Israels? " he asked. It was the painting

called " The Frugal Meal. "

" I like it, " she said, " and also your Bastien Le-Page, " referring

to " The Forge. " " But I think your old masters are much more

interesting. If you get many more you ought to put them together

in a room. Don't you think so? I don't care for your Gerome very

much. " She had a cute drawl which he considered infinitely alluring.

" Why not? " asked Cowperwood.

" Oh, it's rather artificial; don't you think so? I like the color,

but the women's bodies are too perfect, I should say. It's very

pretty, though. "

He had little faith in the ability of women aside from their value

as objects of art; and yet now and then, as in this instance, they

revealed a sweet insight which sharpened his own. Aileen, he

reflected, would not be capable of making a remark such as this.

She was not as beautiful now as this woman--not as alluringly

simple, naive, delicious, nor yet as wise. Mrs. Sohlberg, he

reflected shrewdly, had a kind of fool for a husband. Would she

take an interest in him, Frank Cowperwood? Would a woman like this

surrender on any basis outside of divorce and marriage? He wondered.

On her part, Mrs. Sohlberg was thinking what a forceful man

Cowperwood was, and how close he had stayed by her. She felt his

interest, for she had often seen these symptoms in other men and

knew what they meant. She knew the pull of her own beauty, and,

while she heightened it as artfully as she dared, yet she kept

aloof, too, feeling that she had never met any one as yet for whom

it was worth while to be different. But Cowperwood--he needed

someone more soulful than Aileen, she thought.

Chapter XV

A New Affection

The growth of a relationship between Cowperwood and Rita Sohlberg

was fostered quite accidentally by Aileen, who took a foolishly

sentimental interest in Harold which yet was not based on anything

of real meaning. She liked him because he was a superlatively

gracious, flattering, emotional man where women--pretty women--were

concerned. She had some idea she could send him pupils, and,

anyhow, it was nice to call at the Sohlberg studio. Her social

life was dull enough as it was. So she went, and Cowperwood,

mindful of Mrs. Sohlberg, came also. Shrewd to the point of

destruction, he encouraged Aileen in her interest in them. He

suggested that she invite them to dinner, that they give a musical

at which Sohlberg could play and be paid. There were boxes at the

theaters, tickets for concerts sent, invitations to drive Sundays

or other days.

The very chemistry of life seems to play into the hands of a

situation of this kind. Once Cowperwood was thinking vividly,

forcefully, of her, Rita began to think in like manner of him.

Hourly he grew more attractive, a strange, gripping man. Beset

by his mood, she was having the devil's own time with her conscience.

Not that anything had been said as yet, but he was investing her,

gradually beleaguering her, sealing up, apparently, one avenue

after another of escape. One Thursday afternoon, when neither

Aileen nor he could attend the Sohlberg tea, Mrs. Sohlberg received

a magnificent bunch of Jacqueminot roses. " For your nooks and

corners, " said a card. She knew well enough from whom it came and

what it was worth. There were all of fifty dollars worth of roses.

It gave her breath of a world of money that she had never known.

Daily she saw the name of his banking and brokerage firm advertised

in the papers. Once she met him in Merrill's store at noon, and

he invited her to lunch; but she felt obliged to decline. Always

he looked at her with such straight, vigorous eyes. To think that

her beauty had done or was doing this! Her mind, quite beyond

herself, ran forward to an hour when perhaps this eager, magnetic

man would take charge of her in a way never dreamed of by Harold.

But she went on practising, shopping, calling, reading, brooding

over Harold's inefficiency, and stopping oddly sometimes to think

--the etherealized grip of Cowperwood upon her. Those strong

hands of his--how fine they were--and those large, soft-hard,

incisive eyes. The puritanism of Wichita (modified sometime since

by the art life of Chicago, such as it was) was having a severe

struggle with the manipulative subtlety of the ages--represented

in this man.

" You know you are very elusive, " he said to her one evening at the

theater when he sat behind her during the entr'acte, and Harold

and Aileen had gone to walk in the foyer. The hubbub of conversation

drowned the sound of anything that might be said. Mrs. Sohlberg

was particularly pleasing in a lacy evening gown.

" No, " she replied, amusedly, flattered by his attention and acutely

conscious of his physical nearness. By degrees she had been

yielding herself to his mood, thrilling at his every word. " It

seems to me I am very stable, " she went on. " I'm certainly

substantial enough. "

She looked at her full, smooth arm lying on her lap.

Cowperwood, who was feeling all the drag of her substantiality,

but in addition the wonder of her temperament, which was so much

richer than Aileen's, was deeply moved. Those little blood moods

that no words ever (or rarely) indicate were coming to him from

her--faint zephyr-like emanations of emotions, moods, and fancies

in her mind which allured him. She was like Aileen in animality,

but better, still sweeter, more delicate, much richer spiritually.

Or was he just tired of Aileen for the present, he asked himself

at times. No, no, he told himself that could not be. Rita Sohlberg

was by far the most pleasing woman he had ever known.

" Yes, but elusive, just the same, " he went on, leaning toward her.

" You remind me of something that I can find no word for--a bit of

color or a perfume or tone--a flash of something. I follow you

in my thoughts all the time now. Your knowledge of art interests

me. I like your playing--it is like you. You make me think of

delightful things that have nothing to do with the ordinary run

of my life. Do you understand? "

" It is very nice, " she said, " if I do. " She took a breath, softly,

dramatically. " You make me think vain things, you know. " (Her

mouth was a delicious O. ) " You paint a pretty picture. " She was

warm, flushed, suffused with a burst of her own temperament.

" You are like that, " he went on, insistently. " You make me feel

like that all the time. You know, " he added, leaning over her

chair, " I sometimes think you have never lived. There is so much

that would complete your perfectness. I should like to send you

abroad or take you--anyhow, you should go. You are very wonderful

to me. Do you find me at all interesting to you? "

" Yes, but" --she paused--" you know I am afraid of all this and of

you. " Her mouth had that same delicious formation which had first

attracted him. " I don't think we had better talk like this, do

you? Harold is very jealous, or would be. What do you suppose

Mrs. Cowperwood would think? "

" I know very well, but we needn't stop to consider that now, need

we? It will do her no harm to let me talk to you. Life is between

individuals, Rita. You and I have very much in common. Don't you

see that? You are infinitely the most interesting woman I have

ever known. You are bringing me something I have never known.

Don't you see that? I want you to tell me something truly. Look

at me. You are not happy as you are, are you? Not perfectly happy? "

" No. " She smoothed her fan with her fingers.

" Are you happy at all? "

" I thought I was once. I'm not any more, I think. "

" It is so plain why, " he commented. " You are so much more wonderful

than your place gives you scope for. You are an individual, not

an acolyte to swing a censer for another. Mr. Sohlberg is very

interesting, but you can't be happy that way. It surprises me you

haven't seen it. "

" Oh, " she exclaimed, with a touch of weariness, " but perhaps I

have. "

He looked at her keenly, and she thrilled. " I don't think we'd

better talk so here, " she replied. " You'd better be--"

He laid his hand on the back of her chair, almost touching her

shoulder.

" Rita, " he said, using her given name again, " you wonderful woman! "

" Oh! " she breathed.

Cowperwood did not see Mrs. Sohlberg again for over a week--ten

days exactly--when one afternoon Aileen came for him in a new kind

of trap, having stopped first to pick up the Sohlbergs. Harold

was up in front with her and she had left a place behind for

Cowperwood with Rita. She did not in the vaguest way suspect how

interested he was--his manner was so deceptive. Aileen imagined

that she was the superior woman of the two, the better-looking,

the better-dressed, hence the more ensnaring. She could not guess

what a lure this woman's temperament had for Cowperwood, who was

so brisk, dynamic, seemingly unromantic, but who, just the same,

in his nature concealed (under a very forceful exterior) a deep

underlying element of romance and fire.

" This is charming, " he said, sinking down beside Rita. " What a

fine evening! And the nice straw hat with the roses, and the nice

linen dress. My, my! " The roses were red; the dress white, with

thin, green ribbon run through it here and there. She was keenly

aware of the reason for his enthusiasm. He was so different from

Harold, so healthy and out-of-doorish, so able. To-day Harold had

been in tantrums over fate, life, his lack of success.

" Oh, I shouldn't complain so much if I were you, " she had said to

him, bitterly. " You might work harder and storm less. "

This had produced a scene which she had escaped by going for a

walk. Almost at the very moment when she had returned Aileen had

appeared. It was a way out.

She had cheered up, and accepted, dressed. So had Sohlberg.

Apparently smiling and happy, they had set out on the drive. Now,

as Cowperwood spoke, she glanced about her contentedly. " I'm

lovely, " she thought, " and he loves me. How wonderful it would

be if we dared. " But she said aloud: " I'm not so very nice. It's

just the day--don't you think so? It's a simple dress. I'm not

very happy, though, to-night, either. "

" What's the matter? " he asked, cheeringly, the rumble of the traffic

destroying the carrying-power of their voices. He leaned toward

her, very anxious to solve any difficulty which might confront

her, perfectly willing to ensnare her by kindness. " Isn't there

something I can do? We're going now for a long ride to the pavilion

in Jackson Park, and then, after dinner, we'll come back by

moonlight. Won't that be nice? You must be smiling now and like

yourself--happy. You have no reason to be otherwise that I know

of. I will do anything for you that you want done--that can be

done. You can have anything you want that I can give you. What

is it? You know how much I think of you. If you leave your affairs

to me you would never have any troubles of any kind. "

" Oh, it isn't anything you can do--not now, anyhow. My affairs!

Oh yes. What are they? Very simple, all. "

She had that delicious atmosphere of remoteness even from herself.

He was enchanted.

" But you are not simple to me, Rita, " he said, softly, " nor are

your affairs. They concern me very much. You are so important

to me. I have told you that. Don't you see how true it is? You

are a strange complexity to me--wonderful. I'm mad over you.

Ever since I saw you last I have been thinking, thinking. If you

have troubles let me share them. You are so much to me--my only

trouble. I can fix your life. Join it with mine. I need you,

and you need me. "

" Yes, " she said, " I know. " Then she paused. " It's nothing much, "

she went on--" just a quarrel. "

" What over? "

" Over me, really. " The mouth was delicious. " I can't swing the

censer always, as you say. " That thought of his had stuck. " It's

all right now, though. Isn't the day lovely, be-yoot-i-ful! "

Cowperwood looked at her and shook his head. She was such a

treasure--so inconsequential. Aileen, busy driving and talking,

could not see or hear. She was interested in Sohlberg, and the

southward crush of vehicles on Michigan Avenue was distracting her

attention. As they drove swiftly past budding trees, kempt lawns,

fresh-made flower-beds, open windows--the whole seductive world

of spring--Cowperwood felt as though life had once more taken a

fresh start. His magnetism, if it had been visible, would have

enveloped him like a glittering aura. Mrs. Sohlberg felt that

this was going to be a wonderful evening.

The dinner was at the Park--an open-air chicken a la Maryland

affair, with waffles and champagne to help out. Aileen, flattered

by Sohlberg's gaiety under her spell, was having a delightful time,

jesting, toasting, laughing, walking on the grass. Sohlberg was

making love to her in a foolish, inconsequential way, as many men

were inclined to do; but she was putting him off gaily with " silly

boy" and " hush. " She was so sure of herself that she was free to

tell Cowperwood afterward how emotional he was and how she had to

laugh at him. Cowperwood, quite certain that she was faithful,

took it all in good part. Sohlberg was such a dunce and such a

happy convenience ready to his hand. " He's not a bad sort, " he

commented. " I rather like him, though I don't think he's so much

of a violinist. "

After dinner they drove along the lake-shore and out through an

open bit of tree-blocked prairie land, the moon shining in a clear

sky, filling the fields and topping the lake with a silvery

effulgence. Mrs. Sohlberg was being inoculated with the virus

Cowperwood, and it was taking deadly effect. The tendency of her

own disposition, however lethargic it might seem, once it was

stirred emotionally, was to act. She was essentially dynamic and

passionate. Cowperwood was beginning to stand out in her mind as

the force that he was. It would be wonderful to be loved by such

a man. There would be an eager, vivid life between them. It

frightened and drew her like a blazing lamp in the dark. To get

control of herself she talked of art, people, of Paris, Italy, and

he responded in like strain, but all the while he smoothed her hand,

and once, under the shadow of some trees, he put his hand to her

hair, turned her face, and put his mouth softly to her cheek. She

flushed, trembled, turned pale, in the grip of this strange storm,

but drew herself together. It was wonderful--heaven. Her old

life was obviously going to pieces.

" Listen, " he said, guardedly. " Will you meet me to-morrow at three

just beyond the Rush Street bridge? I will pick you up promptly.

You won't have to wait a moment. "

She paused, meditating, dreaming, almost hypnotized by his strange

world of fancy.

" Will you? " he asked, eagerly.

" Wait, " she said, softly. " Let me think. Can I? "

She paused.

" Yes, " she said, after a time, drawing in a deep breath. " Yes" --as

if she had arranged something in her mind.

" My sweet, " he whispered, pressing her arm, while he looked at her

profile in the moonlight.

" But I'm doing a great deal, " she replied, softly, a little

breathless and a little pale.

Chapter XVI

A Fateful Interlude

Cowperwood was enchanted. He kept the proposed tryst with eagerness

and found her all that he had hoped. She was sweeter, more colorful,

more elusive than anybody he had ever known. In their charming

apartment on the North Side which he at once engaged, and where

he sometimes spent mornings, evenings, afternoons, as opportunity

afforded, he studied her with the most critical eye and found her

almost flawless. She had that boundless value which youth and a

certain insouciance of manner contribute. There was, delicious

to relate, no melancholy in her nature, but a kind of innate

sufficiency which neither looked forward to nor back upon troublesome

ills. She loved beautiful things, but was not extravagant; and

what interested him and commanded his respect was that no urgings

of his toward prodigality, however subtly advanced, could affect

her. She knew what she wanted, spent carefully, bought tastefully,

arrayed herself in ways which appealed to him as the flowers did.

His feeling for her became at times so great that he wished, one

might almost have said, to destroy it--to appease the urge and

allay the pull in himself, but it was useless. The charm of her

endured. His transports would leave her refreshed apparently,

prettier, more graceful than ever, it seemed to him, putting back

her ruffled hair with her hand, mouthing at herself prettily in

the glass, thinking of many remote delicious things at once.

" Do you remember that picture we saw in the art store the other

day, Algernon? " she would drawl, calling him by his second name,

which she had adopted for herself as being more suited to his moods

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