The Titan 41 страница

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going? With a horrible retch of envy she noted upon Cowperwood's

face a smile the like and import of which she well knew. How often

she had seen it years and years before! Having escaped detection,

she ordered her chauffeur to follow the car, which soon started,

at a safe distance. She saw Cowperwood and the two ladies put

down at one of the great hotels, and followed them into the

dining-room, where, from behind a screen, after the most careful

manoeuvering, she had an opportunity of studying them at her

leisure. She drank in every detail of Berenice's face--the

delicately pointed chin, the clear, fixed blue eyes, the straight,

sensitive nose and tawny hair. Calling the head waiter, she

inquired the names of the two women, and in return for a liberal

tip was informed at once. " Mrs. Ira Carter, I believe, and her

daughter, Miss Fleming, Miss Berenice Fleming. Mrs. Carter was

Mrs. Fleming once. " Aileen followed them out eventually, and in

her own car pursued them to their door, into which Cowperwood also

disappeared. The next day, by telephoning the apartment to make

inquiry, she learned that they actually lived there. After a few

days of brooding she employed a detective, and learned that

Cowperwood was a constant visitor at the Carters', that the machine

in which they rode was his maintained at a separate garage, and

that they were of society truly. Aileen would never have followed

the clue so vigorously had it not been for the look she had seen

Cowperwood fix on the girl in the Park and in the restaurant--an

air of soul-hunger which could not be gainsaid.

Let no one ridicule the terrors of unrequited love. Its tentacles

are cancerous, its grip is of icy death. Sitting in her boudoir

immediately after these events, driving, walking, shopping, calling

on the few with whom she had managed to scrape an acquaintance,

Aileen thought morning, noon, and night of this new woman. The

pale, delicate face haunted her. What were those eyes, so remote

in their gaze, surveying? Love? Cowperwood? Yes! Yes! Gone in a

flash, and permanently, as it seemed to Aileen, was the value of

this house, her dream of a new social entrance. And she had already

suffered so much; endured so much. Cowperwood being absent for a

fortnight, she moped in her room, sighed, raged, and then began

to drink. Finally she sent for an actor who had once paid attention

to her in Chicago, and whom she had later met here in the circle

of the theaters. She was not so much burning with lust as determined

in her drunken gloom that she would have revenge. For days there

followed an orgy, in which wine, bestiality, mutual recrimination,

hatred, and despair were involved. Sobering eventually, she

wondered what Cowperwood would think of her now if he knew this?

Could he ever love her any more? Could he even tolerate her? But

what did he care? It served him right, the dog! She would show

him, she would wreck his dream, she would make her own life a

scandal, and his too! She would shame him before all the world.

He should never have a divorce! He should never be able to marry

a girl like that and leave her alone--never, never, never! When

Cowperwood returned she snarled at him without vouchsafing an

explanation.

He suspected at once that she had been spying upon his manoeuvers.

Moreover, he did not fail to notice her heavy eyes, superheated

cheeks, and sickly breath. Obviously she had abandoned her dream

of a social victory of some kind, and was entering on a career of

what--debauchery? Since coming to New York she had failed utterly,

he thought, to make any single intelligent move toward her social

rehabilitation. The banal realms of art and the stage, with which

in his absence or neglect she had trifled with here, as she had

done in Chicago, were worse than useless; they were destructive.

He must have a long talk with her one of these days, must confess

frankly to his passion for Berenice, and appeal to her sympathy

and good sense. What scenes would follow! Yet she might succumb,

at that. Despair, pride, disgust might move her. Besides, he

could now bestow upon her a very large fortune. She could go to

Europe or remain here and live in luxury. He would always remain

friendly with her--helpful, advisory--if she would permit it.

The conversation which eventually followed on this topic was of

such stuff as dreams are made of. It sounded hollow and unnatural

within the walls where it took place. Consider the great house

in upper Fifth Avenue, its magnificent chambers aglow, of a stormy

Sunday night. Cowperwood was lingering in the city at this time,

busy with a group of Eastern financiers who were influencing his

contest in the state legislature of Illinois. Aileen was momentarily

consoled by the thought that for him perhaps love might, after

all, be a thing apart--a thing no longer vital and soul-controlling.

To-night he was sitting in the court of orchids, reading a book

--the diary of Cellini, which some one had recommended to him

--stopping to think now and then of things in Chicago or Springfield,

or to make a note. Outside the rain was splashing in torrents on

the electric-lighted asphalt of Fifth Avenue--the Park opposite a

Corot-like shadow. Aileen was in the music-room strumming

indifferently. She was thinking of times past--Lynde, from whom

she had not heard in half a year; Watson Skeet, the sculptor, who

was also out of her ken at present. When Cowperwood was in the

city and in the house she was accustomed from habit to remain

indoors or near. So great is the influence of past customs of

devotion that they linger long past the hour when the act ceases

to become valid.

" What an awful night! " she observed once, strolling to a window

to peer out from behind a brocaded valance.

" It is bad, isn't it? " replied Cowperwood, as she returned. " Hadn't

you thought of going anywhere this evening? "

" No--oh no, " replied Aileen, indifferently. She rose restlessly

from the piano, and strolled on into the great picture-gallery.

Stopping before one of Raphael Sanzio's Holy Families, only recently

hung, she paused to contemplate the serene face--medieval,

Madonnaesque, Italian.

The lady seemed fragile, colorless, spineless--without life. Were

there such women? Why did artists paint them? Yet the little Christ

was sweet. Art bored Aileen unless others were enthusiastic. She

craved only the fanfare of the living--not painted resemblances.

She returned to the music-room, to the court of orchids, and was

just about to go up-stairs to prepare herself a drink and read a

novel when Cowperwood observed:

" You're bored, aren't you? "

" Oh no; I'm used to lonely evenings, " she replied, quietly and

without any attempt at sarcasm.

Relentless as he was in hewing life to his theory--hammering

substance to the form of his thought--yet he was tender, too, in

the manner of a rainbow dancing over an abyss. For the moment he

wanted to say, " Poor girlie, you do have a hard time, don't you,

with me? " but he reflected instantly how such a remark would be

received. He meditated, holding his book in his hand above his

knee, looking at the purling water that flowed and flowed in

sprinkling showers over the sportive marble figures of mermaids,

a Triton, and nymphs astride of fishes.

" You're really not happy in this state, any more, are you? " he

inquired. " Would you feel any more comfortable if I stayed away

entirely? "

His mind had turned of a sudden to the one problem that was fretting

him and to the opportunities of this hour.

" You would, " she replied, for her boredom merely concealed her

unhappiness in no longer being able to command in the least his

interest or his sentiment.

" Why do you say that in just that way? " he asked.

" Because I know you would. I know why you ask. You know well

enough that it isn't anything I want to do that is concerned.

It's what you want to do. You'd like to turn me off like an old

horse now that you are tired of me, and so you ask whether I would

feel any more comfortable. What a liar you are, Frank! How really

shifty you are! I don't wonder you're a multimillionaire. If you

could live long enough you would eat up the whole world. Don't

you think for one moment that I don't know of Berenice Fleming

here in New York, and how you're dancing attendance on her--because

I do. I know how you have been hanging about her for months and

months--ever since we have been here, and for long before. You

think she's wonderful now because she's young and in society.

I've seen you in the Waldorf and in the Park hanging on her every

word, looking at her with adoring eyes. What a fool you are, to

be so big a man! Every little snip, if she has pink cheeks and a

doll's face, can wind you right around her finger. Rita Sohlberg

did it; Stephanie Platow did it; Florence Cochrane did it; Cecily

Haguenin--and Heaven knows how many more that I never heard of.

I suppose Mrs. Hand still lives with you in Chicago--the cheap

strumpet! Now it's Berenice Fleming and her frump of a mother.

From all I can learn you haven't been able to get her yet--because

her mother's too shrewd, perhaps--but you probably will in the

end. It isn't you so much as your money that they're after. Pah!

Well, I'm unhappy enough, but it isn't anything you can remedy any

more. Whatever you could do to make me unhappy you have done, and

now you talk of my being happier away from you. Clever boy, you!

I know you the way I know my ten fingers. You don't deceive me at

any time in any way any more. I can't do anything about it. I

can't stop you from making a fool of yourself with every woman you

meet, and having people talk from one end of the country to the

other. Why, for a woman to be seen with you is enough to fix her

reputation forever. Right now all Broadway knows you're running

after Berenice Fleming. Her name will soon be as sweet as those

of the others you've had. She might as well give herself to you.

If she ever had a decent reputation it's gone by now, you can

depend upon that.

These remarks irritated Cowperwood greatly--enraged him--particularly

her references to Berenice. What were you to do with such a woman?

he thought. Her tongue was becoming unbearable; her speech in its

persistence and force was that of a termagant. Surely, surely,

he had made a great mistake in marrying her. At the same time the

control of her was largely in his own hands even yet.

" Aileen, " he said, coolly, at the end of her speech, " you talk too

much. You rave. You're growing vulgar, I believe. Now let me

tell you something. " And he fixed her with a hard, quieting eye.

" I have no apologies to make. Think what you please. I know why

you say what you do. But here is the point. I want you to get

it straight and clear. It may make some difference eventually if

you're any kind of a woman at all. I don't care for you any more.

If you want to put it another way--I'm tired of you. I have been

for a long while. That's why I've run with other women. If I

hadn't been tired of you I wouldn't have done it. What's more,

I'm in love with somebody else--Berenice Fleming, and I expect to

stay in love. I wish I were free so I could rearrange my life on

a different basis and find a little comfort before I die. You

don't really care for me any more. You can't. I'll admit I have

treated you badly; but if I had really loved you I wouldn't have

done it, would I? It isn't my fault that love died in me, is it?

It isn't your fault. I'm not blaming you. Love isn't a bunch of

coals that can be blown by an artificial bellows into a flame at

any time. It's out, and that's an end of it. Since I don't love

you and can't, why should you want me to stay near you? Why shouldn't

you let me go and give me a divorce? You'll be just as happy or

unhappy away from me as with me. Why not? I want to be free again.

I'm miserable here, and have been for a long time. I'll make any

arrangement that seems fair and right to you. I'll give you this

house--these pictures, though I really don't see what you'd want

with them. " (Cowperwood had no intention of giving up the gallery

if he could help it. ) " I'll settle on you for life any income you

desire, or I'll give you a fixed sum outright. I want to be free,

and I want you to let me be. Now why won't you be sensible and

let me do this? "

During this harangue Cowperwood had first sat and then stood. At

the statement that his love was really dead--the first time he

had ever baldly and squarely announced it--Aileen had paled a

little and put her hand to her forehead over her eyes. It was

then he had arisen. He was cold, determined, a little revengeful

for the moment. She realized now that he meant this--that in his

heart was no least feeling for all that had gone before--no sweet

memories, no binding thoughts of happy hours, days, weeks, years,

that were so glittering and wonderful to her in retrospect. Great

Heavens, it was really true! His love was dead; he had said it!

But for the nonce she could not believe it; she would not. It

really couldn't be true.

" Frank, " she began, coming toward him, the while he moved away to

evade her. Her eyes were wide, her hands trembling, her lips

moving in an emotional, wavy, rhythmic way. " You really don't

mean that, do you? Love isn't wholly dead, is it? All the love you

used to feel for me? Oh, Frank, I have raged, I have hated, I have

said terrible, ugly things, but it has been because I have been

in love with you! All the time I have. You know that. I have

felt so bad--O God, how bad I have felt! Frank, you don't know

it--but my pillow has been wet many and many a night. I have cried

and cried. I have got up and walked the floor. I have drunk

whisky--plain, raw whisky--because something hurt me and I wanted

to kill the pain. I have gone with other men, one after another

--you know that--but, oh! Frank, Frank, you know that I didn't

want to, that I didn't mean to! I have always despised the thought

of them afterward. It was only because I was lonely and because

you wouldn't pay any attention to me or be nice to me. Oh, how I

have longed and longed for just one loving hour with you--one

night, one day! There are women who could suffer in silence, but

I can't. My mind won't let me alone, Frank--my thoughts won't.

I can't help thinking how I used to run to you in Philadelphia,

when you would meet me on your way home, or when I used to come

to you in Ninth Street or on Eleventh. Oh, Frank, I probably did

wrong to your first wife. I see it now--how she must have suffered!

But I was just a silly girl then, and I didn't know. Don't you

remember how I used to come to you in Ninth Street and how I saw

you day after day in the penitentiary in Philadelphia? You said

then you would love me always and that you would never forget.

Can't you love me any more--just a little? Is it really true that

your love is dead? Am I so old, so changed? Oh, Frank, please don't

say that--please don't--please, please please! I beg of you! "

She tried to reach him and put a hand on his arm, but he stepped

aside. To him, as he looked at her now, she was the antithesis

of anything he could brook, let alone desire artistically or

physically. The charm was gone, the spell broken. It was another

type, another point of view he required, but, above all and

principally, youth, youth--the spirit, for instance, that was in

Berenice Fleming. He was sorry--in his way. He felt sympathy,

but it was like the tinkling of a far-off sheep-bell--the moaning

of a whistling buoy heard over the thrash of night-black waves on

a stormy sea.

" You don't understand how it is, Aileen, " he said. " I can't help

myself. My love is dead. It is gone. I can't recall it. I can't

feel it. I wish I could, but I can't; you must understand that.

Some things are possible and some are not. "

He looked at her, but with no relenting. Aileen, for her part,

saw in his eyes nothing, as she believed, save cold philosophic

logic--the man of business, the thinker, the bargainer, the plotter.

At the thought of the adamantine character of his soul, which

could thus definitely close its gates on her for ever and ever,

she became wild, angry, feverish--not quite sane.

" Oh, don't say that! " she pleaded, foolishly. " Please don't.

Please don't say that. It might come back a little if--if--you

would only believe in it. Don't you see how I feel? Don't you see

how it is? "

She dropped to her knees and clasped him about the waist. " Oh,

Frank! Oh, Frank! Oh, Frank! " she began to call, crying. " I can't

stand it! I can't! I can't! I can't! I shall die. "

" Don't give way like that, Aileen, " he pleaded. " It doesn't do

any good. I can't lie to myself. I don't want to lie to you.

Life is too short. Facts are facts. If I could say and believe

that I loved you I would say so now, but I can't. I don't love

you. Why should I say that I do? "

In the content of Aileen's nature was a portion that was purely

histrionic, a portion that was childish--petted and spoiled--a

portion that was sheer unreason, and a portion that was splendid

emotion--deep, dark, involved. At this statement of Cowperwood's

which seemed to throw her back on herself for ever and ever to be

alone, she first pleaded willingness to compromise--to share. She

had not fought Stephanie Platow, she had not fought Florence

Cochrane, nor Cecily Haguenin, nor Mrs. Hand, nor, indeed, anybody

after Rita, and she would fight no more. She had not spied on him

in connection with Berenice--she had accidentally met them. True,

she had gone with other men, but? Berenice was beautiful, she

admitted it, but so was she in her way still--a little, still.

Couldn't he find a place for her yet in his life? Wasn't there

room for both?

At this expression of humiliation and defeat Cowperwood was sad,

sick, almost nauseated. How could one argue? How make her understand?

" I wish it were possible, Aileen, " he concluded, finally and

heavily, " but it isn't. "

All at once she arose, her eyes red but dry.

" You don't love me, then, at all, do you? Not a bit? "

" No, Aileen, I don't. I don't mean by that that I dislike you.

I don't mean to say that you aren't interesting in your way as a

woman and that I don't sympathize with you. I do. But I don't

love you any more. I can't. The thing I used to feel I can't

feel any more. "

She paused for a moment, uncertain how to take this, the while she

whitened, grew more tense, more spiritual than she had been in

many a day. Now she felt desperate, angry, sick, but like the

scorpion that ringed by fire can turn only on itself. What a hell

life was, she told herself. How it slipped away and left one

aging, horribly alone! Love was nothing, faith nothing--nothing,

nothing!

A fine light of conviction, intensity, intention lit her eye for

the moment. " Very well, then, " she said, coolly, tensely. " I

know what I'll do. I'll not live this way. I'll not live beyond

to-night. I want to die, anyhow, and I will. "

It was by no means a cry, this last, but a calm statement. It

should prove her love. To Cowperwood it seemed unreal, bravado,

a momentary rage intended to frighten him. She turned and walked

up the grand staircase, which was near--a splendid piece of marble

and bronze fifteen feet wide, with marble nereids for newel-posts,

and dancing figures worked into the stone. She went into her room

quite calmly and took up a steel paper-cutter of dagger design--a

knife with a handle of bronze and a point of great sharpness.

Coming out and going along the balcony over the court of orchids,

where Cowperwood still was seated, she entered the sunrise room

with its pool of water, its birds, its benches, its vines. Locking

the door, she sat down and then, suddenly baring an arm, jabbed a

vein--ripped it for inches--and sat there to bleed. Now she would

see whether she could die, whether he would let her.

Uncertain, astonished, not able to believe that she could be so

rash, not believing that her feeling could be so great, Cowperwood

still remained where she had left him wondering. He had not been

so greatly moved--the tantrums of women were common--and yet--

Could she really be contemplating death? How could she? How

ridiculous! Life was so strange, so mad. But this was Aileen who

had just made this threat, and she had gone up the stairs to carry

it out, perhaps. Impossible! How could it be? Yet back of all his

doubts there was a kind of sickening feeling, a dread. He recalled

how she had assaulted Rita Sohlberg.

He hurried up the steps now and into her room. She was not there.

He went quickly along the balcony, looking here and there, until

he came to the sunrise room. She must be there, for the door was

shut. He tried it--it was locked.

" Aileen, " he called. " Aileen! Are you in there? " No answer. He

listened. Still no answer. " Aileen! " he repeated. " Are you in

there? What damned nonsense is this, anyhow? "

" George! " he thought to himself, stepping back; " she might do it,

too--perhaps she has. " He could not hear anything save the odd

chattering of a toucan aroused by the light she had switched on.

Perspiration stood out on his brow. He shook the knob, pushed a

bell for a servant, called for keys which had been made for every

door, called for a chisel and hammer.

" Aileen, " he said, " if you don't open the door this instant I will

see that it is opened. It can be opened quick enough. "

Still no sound.

" Damn it! " he exclaimed, becoming wretched, horrified. A servant

brought the keys. The right one would not enter. A second was

on the other side. " There is a bigger hammer somewhere, " Cowperwood

said. " Get it! Get me a chair! " Meantime, with terrific energy,

using a large chisel, he forced the door.

There on one of the stone benches of the lovely room sat Aileen,

the level pool of water before her, the sunrise glow over every

thing, tropic birds in their branches, and she, her hair disheveled,

her face pale, one arm--her left--hanging down, ripped and bleeding,

trickling a thick stream of rich, red blood. On the floor was a

pool of blood, fierce, scarlet, like some rich cloth, already

turning darker in places.

Cowperwood paused--amazed. He hurried forward, seized her arm,

made a bandage of a torn handkerchief above the wound, sent for a

surgeon, saying the while: " How could you, Aileen? How impossible!

To try to take your life! This isn't love. It isn't even madness.

It's foolish acting. "

" Don't you really care? " she asked.

" How can you ask? How could you really do this? "

He was angry, hurt, glad that she was alive, shamed--many things.

" Don't you really care? " she repeated, wearily.

" Aileen, this is nonsense. I will not talk to you about it now.

Have you cut yourself anywhere else? " he asked, feeling about her

bosom and sides.

" Then why not let me die? " she replied, in the same manner. " I

will some day. I want to. "

" Well, you may, some day, " he replied, " but not to-night. I

scarcely think you want to now. This is too much, Aileen--really

impossible. "

He drew himself up and looked at her--cool, unbelieving, the light

of control, even of victory, in his eyes. As he had suspected,

it was not truly real. She would not have killed herself. She

had expected him to come--to make the old effort. Very good. He

would see her safely in bed and in a nurse's hands, and would then

avoid her as much as possible in the future. If her intention was

genuine she would carry it out in his absence, but he did not

believe she would.

Chapter LVIII

A Marauder Upon the Commonwealth

The spring and summer months of 1897 and the late fall of 1898

witnessed the final closing battle between Frank Algernon Cowperwood

and the forces inimical to him in so far as the city of Chicago,

the state of Illinois, and indeed the United States of America,

were concerned. When in 1896 a new governor and a new group of

state representatives were installed Cowperwood decided that it

would be advisable to continue the struggle at once. By the time

this new legislature should convene for its labors a year would

have passed since Governor Swanson had vetoed the original

public-service-commission bill. By that time public sentiment as

aroused by the newspapers would have had time to cool. Already

through various favorable financial interests--particularly

Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb & Co. and all the subsurface forces they

represented--he had attempted to influence the incoming governor,

and had in part succeeded.

The new governor in this instance--one Corporal A. E. Archer--or

ex-Congressman Archer, as he was sometimes called--was, unlike

Swanson, a curious mixture of the commonplace and the ideal--one

of those shiftily loyal and loyally shifty who make their upward

way by devious, if not too reprehensible methods. He was a little

man, stocky, brown-haired, brown-eyed, vigorous, witty, with the

ordinary politician's estimate of public morality--namely, that

there is no such thing. A drummer-boy at fourteen in the War of

the Rebellion, a private at sixteen and eighteen, he had subsequently

been breveted for conspicuous military service. At this later

time he was head of the Grand Army of the Republic, and conspicuous

in various stirring eleemosynary efforts on behalf of the old

soldiers, their widows and orphans. A fine American, flag-waving,

tobacco-chewing, foul-swearing little man was this--and one with

noteworthy political ambitions. Other Grand Army men had been

conspicuous in the lists for Presidential nominations. Why not

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