The Titan tod-2

by Theodore Dreiser

  One of the amusing features of the campaign was that the McKenty orators had been instructed to shout as loudly for reforms as the Republicans, only instead of assailing Cowperwood and McKenty they were to point out that Schryhart’s Chicago City Railway was far more rapacious, and that this was a scheme to give it a blanket franchise of all streets not yet covered by either the Cowperwood or the Schryhart-Hand-Arneel lines. It was a pretty argument. The Democrats could point with pride to a uniformly liberal interpretation of some trying Sunday laws, whereby under Republican and reform administrations it had been occasionally difficult for the honest working-man to get his glass or pail of beer on Sunday. On the other hand it was possible for the Republican orators to show how “the low dives and gin-mills” were everywhere being operated in favor of McKenty, and that under the highly respectable administration of the Republican candidate for mayor this partnership between the city government and vice and crime would be nullified.

  “If I am elected,” declared the Honorable Chaffee Thayer Sluss, the Republican candidate, “neither Frank Cowperwood nor John McKenty will dare to show his face in the City Hall unless he comes with clean hands and an honest purpose.

  “Hooray!” yelled the crowd.

  “I know that ass,” commented Addison, when he read this in the Transcript. “He used to be a clerk in the Douglas Trust Company. He’s made a little money recently in the paper business. He’s a mere tool for the Arneel-Schryhart interests. He hasn’t the courage of a two-inch fish-worm.”

  When McKenty read it he simply observed: “There are other ways of going to City Hall than by going yourself.” He was depending upon a councilmanic majority at least.

  However, in the midst of this uproar the goings to and fro of Gilgan, Edstrom, Kerrigan, and Tiernan were nor fully grasped. A more urbanely shifty pair than these latter were never seen. While fraternizing secretly with both Gilgan and Edstrom, laying out their political programme most neatly, they were at the same time conferring with Dowling, Duvanicki, even McKenty himself. Seeing that the outcome was, for some reason—he could scarcely see why—looking very uncertain, McKenty one day asked the two of them to come to see him. On getting the letter Mr. Tiernan strolled over to Mr. Kerrigan’s place to see whether he also had received a message.

  “Sure, sure! I did!” replied Mr. Kerrigan, gaily. “Here it is now in me outside coat pocket. ‘Dear Mr. Kerrigan,’” he read, “‘won’t you do me the favor to come over to-morrow evening at seven and dine with me? Mr. Ungerich, Mr. Duvanicki, and several others will very likely drop in afterward. I have asked Mr. Tiernan to come at the same time. Sincerely, John J. McKenty.’ That’s the way he does it,” added Mr. Kerrigan; “just like that.”

  He kissed the letter mockingly and put it back into his pocket.

  “Sure I got one, jist the same way. The very same langwidge, nearly,” commented Mr. Tiernan, sweetly. “He’s beginning to wake up, eh? What! The little old first and second are beginning to look purty big just now, eh? What!”

  “Tush!” observed Mr. Kerrigan to Mr. Tiernan, with a marked sardonic emphasis, “that combination won’t last forever. They’ve been getting too big for their pants, I’m thinking. Well, it’s a long road, eh? It’s pretty near time, what?”

  “You’re right,” responded Mr. Tiernan, feelingly. “It is a long road. These are the two big wards of the city, and everybody knows it. If we turn on them at the last moment where will they be, eh?”

  He put a fat finger alongside of his heavy reddish nose and looked at Mr. Kerrigan out of squinted eyes.

  “You’re damned right,” replied the little politician, cheerfully.

  They went to the dinner separately, so as not to appear to have conferred before, and greeted each other on arriving as though they had not seen each other for days.

  “How’s business, Mike?”

  “Oh, fair, Pat. How’s things with you?”

  “So so.”

  “Things lookin’ all right in your ward for November?”

  Mr. Tiernan wrinkled a fat forehead. “Can’t tell yet.” All this was for the benefit of Mr. McKenty, who did not suspect rank party disloyalty.

  Nothing much came of this conference, except that they sat about discussing in a general way wards, pluralities, what Zeigler was likely to do with the twelfth, whether Pinski could make it in the sixth, Schlumbohm in the twentieth, and so on. New Republican contestants in old, safe Democratic wards were making things look dubious.

  “And how about the first, Kerrigan?” inquired Ungerich, a thin, reflective German-American of shrewd presence. Ungerich was one who had hitherto wormed himself higher in McKenty’s favor than either Kerrigan or Tiernan.

  “Oh, the first’s all right,” replied Kerrigan, archly. “Of course you never can tell. This fellow Scully may do something, but I don’t think it will be much. If we have the same police protection—”

  Ungerich was gratified. He was having a struggle in his own ward, where a rival by the name of Glover appeared to be pouring out money like water. He would require considerably more money than usual to win. It was the same with Duvanicki.

  McKenty finally parted with his lieutenants—more feelingly with Kerrigan and Tiernan than he had ever done before. He did not wholly trust these two, and he could not exactly admire them and their methods, which were the roughest of all, but they were useful.

  “I’m glad to learn,” he said, at parting, “that things are looking all right with you, Pat, and you, Mike,” nodding to each in turn. “We’re going to need the most we can get out of everybody. I depend on you two to make a fine showing—the best of any. The rest of us will not forget it when the plums are being handed around afterward.”

  “Oh, you can depend on me to do the best I can always,” commented Mr. Kerrigan, sympathetically. “It’s a tough year, but we haven’t failed yet.”

  “And me, Chief! That goes for me,” observed Mr. Tiernan, raucously. “I guess I can do as well as I have.”

  “Good for you, Mike!” soothed McKenty, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And you, too, Kerrigan. Yours are the key wards, and we understand that. I’ve always been sorry that the leaders couldn’t agree on you two for something better than councilmen; but next time there won’t be any doubt of it, if I have any influence then.” He went in and closed the door. Outside a cool October wind was whipping dead leaves and weed stalks along the pavements. Neither Tiernan nor Kerrigan spoke, though they had come away together, until they were two hundred feet down the avenue toward Van Buren.

  “Some talk, that, eh?” commented Mr. Tiernan, eying Mr. Kerrigan in the flare of a passing gas-lamp.

  “Sure. That’s the stuff they always hand out when they’re up against it. Pretty kind words, eh?”

  “And after ten years of about the roughest work that’s done, eh? It’s about time, what? Say, it’s a wonder he didn’t think of that last June when the convention was in session.

  “Tush! Mikey,” smiled Mr. Kerrigan, grimly. “You’re a bad little boy. You want your pie too soon. Wait another two or four or six years, like Paddy Kerrigan and the others.”

  “Yes, I will—not,” growled Mr. Tiernan. “Wait’ll the sixth.”

  “No more, will I,” replied Mr. Kerrigan. “Say, we know a trick that beats that next-year business to a pulp. What?”

  “You’re dead right,” commented Mr. Tiernan.

  And so they went peacefully home.

  Chapter XXXVII.

  Aileen’s Revenge

  The interesting Polk Lynde, rising one morning, decided that his affair with Aileen, sympathetic as it was, must culminate in the one fashion satisfactory to him here and now—this day, if possible, or the next. Since the luncheon some considerable time had elapsed, and although he had tried to seek her out in various ways, Aileen, owing to a certain feeling that she must think and not jeopardize her future, had evaded him. She realized well enough that she was at the turning of the balance, now that opportunity was knocking so l
oudly at her door, and she was exceedingly coy and distrait. In spite of herself the old grip of Cowperwood was over her—the conviction that he was such a tremendous figure in the world—and this made her strangely disturbed, nebulous, and meditative. Another type of woman, having troubled as much as she had done, would have made short work of it, particularly since the details in regard to Mrs. Hand had been added. Not so Aileen. She could not quite forget the early vows and promises exchanged between them, nor conquer the often-fractured illusions that he might still behave himself.

  On the other hand, Polk Lynde, marauder, social adventurer, a bucaneer of the affections, was not so easily to be put aside, delayed, and gainsaid. Not unlike Cowperwood, he was a man of real force, and his methods, in so far as women were concerned, were even more daring. Long trifling with the sex had taught him that they were coy, uncertain, foolishly inconsistent in their moods, even with regard to what they most desired. If one contemplated victory, it had frequently to be taken with an iron hand.

  From this attitude on his part had sprung his rather dark fame. Aileen felt it on the day that she took lunch with him. His solemn, dark eyes were treacherously sweet. She felt as if she might be paving the way for some situation in which she would find herself helpless before his sudden mood—and yet she had come.

  But Lynde, meditating Aileen’s delay, had this day decided that he should get a definite decision, and that it should be favorable. He called her up at ten in the morning and chafed her concerning her indecision and changeable moods. He wanted to know whether she would not come and see the paintings at his friend’s studio—whether she could not make up her mind to come to a barn-dance which some bachelor friends of his had arranged. When she pleaded being out of sorts he urged her to pull herself together. “You’re making things very difficult for your admirers,” he suggested, sweetly.

  Aileen fancied she had postponed the struggle diplomatically for some little time without ending it, when at two o’clock in the afternoon her door-bell was rung and the name of Lynde brought up. “He said he was sure you were in,” commented the footman, on whom had been pressed a dollar, “and would you see him for just a moment? He would not keep you more than a moment.”

  Aileen, taken off her guard by this effrontery, uncertain as to whether there might not be something of some slight import concerning which he wished to speak to her, quarreling with herself because of her indecision, really fascinated by Lynde as a rival for her affections, and remembering his jesting, coaxing voice of the morning, decided to go down. She was lonely, and, clad in a lavender housegown with an ermine collar and sleeve cuffs, was reading a book.

  “Show him into the music-room,” she said to the lackey. When she entered she was breathing with some slight difficulty, for so Lynde affected her. She knew she had displayed fear by not going to him before, and previous cowardice plainly manifested does not add to one’s power of resistance.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, with an assumption of bravado which she did not feel. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon after your telephone message. You have never been in our house before, have you? Won’t you put up your coat and hat and come into the gallery? It’s brighter there, and you might be interested in some of the pictures.”

  Lynde, who was seeking for any pretext whereby he might prolong his stay and overcome her nervous mood, accepted, pretending, however, that he was merely passing and with a moment to spare.

  “Thought I’d get just one glimpse of you again. Couldn’t resist the temptation to look in. Stunning room, isn’t it? Spacious—and there you are! Who did that? Oh, I see—Van Beers. And a jolly fine piece of work it is, too, charming.”

  He surveyed her and then turned back to the picture where, ten years younger, buoyant, hopeful, carrying her blue-and-white striped parasol, she sat on a stone bench against the Dutch background of sky and clouds. Charmed by the picture she presented in both cases, he was genially complimentary. To-day she was stouter, ruddier—the fiber of her had hardened, as it does with so many as the years come on; but she was still in full bloom—a little late in the summer, but in full bloom.

  “Oh yes; and this Rembrandt—I’m surprised! I did not know your husband’s collection was so representative. Israels, I see, and Gerome, and Meissonier! Gad! It is a representative collection, isn’t it?”

  “Some of the things are excellent,” she commented, with an air, aping Cowperwood and others, “but a number will be weeded out eventually—that Paul Potter and this Goy—as better examples come into the market.”

  She had heard Cowperwood say as much, over and over.

  Finding that conversation was possible between them in this easy, impersonal way, Aileen became quite natural and interested, pleased and entertained by his discreet and charming presence. Evidently he did not intend to pay much more than a passing social call. On the other hand, Lynde was studying her, wondering what effect his light, distant air was having. As he finished a very casual survey of the gallery he remarked:

  “I have always wondered about this house. I knew Lord did it, of course, and I always heard it was well done. That is the dining-room, I suppose?”

  Aileen, who had always been inordinately vain of the house in spite of the fact that it had proved of small use socially, was delighted to show him the remainder of the rooms. Lynde, who was used, of course, to houses of all degrees of material splendor—that of his own family being one of the best—pretended an interest he did not feel. He commented as he went on the taste of the decorations and wood-carving, the charm of the arrangement that permitted neat brief vistas, and the like.

  “Just wait a moment,” said Aileen, as they neared the door of her own boudoir. “I’ve forgotten whether mine is in order. I want you to see that.”

  She opened it and stepped in.

  “Yes, you may come,” she called.

  He followed. “Oh yes, indeed. Very charming. Very graceful—those little lacy dancing figures—aren’t they? A delightful color scheme. It harmonizes with you exactly. It is quite like you.”

  He paused, looking at the spacious rug, which was of warm blues and creams, and at the gilt ormolu bed. “Well done,” he said, and then, suddenly changing his mood and dropping his talk of decoration (Aileen was to his right, and he was between her and the door), he added: “Tell me now why won’t you come to the barn-dance to-night? It would be charming. You will enjoy it.”

  Aileen saw the sudden change in his mood. She recognized that by showing him the rooms she had led herself into an easily made disturbing position. His dark engaging eyes told their own story.

  “Oh, I don’t feel in the mood to. I haven’t for a number of things for some time. I—”

  She began to move unconcernedly about him toward the door, but he detained her with his hand. “Don’t go just yet,” he said. “Let me talk to you. You always evade me in such a nervous way. Don’t you like me at all?”

  “Oh yes, I like you; but can’t we talk just as well down in the music-room as here? Can’t I tell you why I evade you down there just as well as I can here?” She smiled a winning and now fearless smile.

  Lynde showed his even white teeth in two gleaming rows. His eyes filled with a gay maliciousness. “Surely, surely,” he replied; “but you’re so nice in your own room here. I hate to leave it.”

  “Just the same,” replied Aileen, still gay, but now slightly disturbed also, “I think we might as well. You will find me just as entertaining downstairs.”

  She moved, but his strength, quite as Cowperwood’s, was much too great for her. He was a strong man.

  “Really, you know,” she said, “you mustn’t act this way here. Some one might come in. What cause have I given you to make you think you could do like this with me?”

  “What cause?” he asked, bending over her and smoothing her plump arms with his brown hands. “Oh, no definite cause, perhaps. You are a cause in yourself. I told you how sweet I thought you were, the night we were at the Alcott. Didn’t you understand
then? I thought you did.”

  “Oh, I understood that you liked me, and all that, perhaps. Any one might do that. But as for anything like—well—taking such liberties with me—I never dreamed of it. But listen. I think I hear some one coming.” Aileen, making a sudden vigorous effort to free herself and failing, added: “Please let me go, Mr. Lynde. It isn’t very gallant of you, I must say, restraining a woman against her will. If I had given you any real cause—I shall be angry in a moment.”