Again the even smiling teeth and dark, wrinkling, malicious eyes.
“Really! How you go on! You would think I was a perfect stranger. Don’t you remember what you said to me at lunch? You didn’t keep your promise. You practically gave me to understand that you would come. Why didn’t you? Are you afraid of me, or don’t you like me, or both? I think you’re delicious, splendid, and I want to know.”
He shifted his position, putting one arm about her waist, pulling her close to him, looking into her eyes. With the other he held her free arm. Suddenly he covered her mouth with his and then kissed her cheeks. “You care for me, don’t you? What did you mean by saying you might come, if you didn’t?”
He held her quite firm, while Aileen struggled. It was a new sensation this—that of the other man, and this was Polk Lynde, the first individual outside of Cowperwood to whom she had ever felt drawn. But now, here, in her own room—and it was within the range of possibilities that Cowperwood might return or the servants enter.
“Oh, but think what you are doing,” she protested, not really disturbed as yet as to the outcome of the contest with him, and feeling as though he were merely trying to make her be sweet to him without intending anything more at present—“here in my own room! Really, you’re not the man I thought you were at all, if you don’t instantly let me go. Mr. Lynde! Mr. Lynde!” (He had bent over and was kissing her). “Oh, you shouldn’t do this! Really! I—I said I might come, but that was far from doing it. And to have you come here and take advantage of me in this way! I think you’re horrid. If I ever had any interest in you, it is quite dead now, I can assure you. Unless you let me go at once, I give you my word I will never see you any more. I won’t! Really, I won’t! I mean it! Oh, please let me go! I’ll scream, I tell you! I’ll never see you again after this day! Oh—” It was an intense but useless struggle.
Coming home one evening about a week later, Cowperwood found Aileen humming cheerfully, and yet also in a seemingly deep and reflective mood. She was just completing an evening toilet, and looked young and colorful—quite her avid, seeking self of earlier days.
“Well,” he asked, cheerfully, “how have things gone to-day?” Aileen, feeling somehow, as one will on occasions, that if she had done wrong she was justified and that sometime because of this she might even win Cowperwood back, felt somewhat kindlier toward him. “Oh, very well,” she replied. “I stopped in at the Hoecksemas’ this afternoon for a little while. They’re going to Mexico in November. She has the darlingest new basket-carriage—if she only looked like anything when she rode in it. Etta is getting ready to enter Bryn Mawr. She is all fussed up about leaving her dog and cat. Then I went down to one of Lane Cross’s receptions, and over to Merrill’s”—she was referring to the great store—“and home. I saw Taylor Lord and Polk Lynde together in Wabash Avenue.”
“Polk Lynde?” commented Cowperwood. “Is he interesting?”
“Yes, he is,” replied Aileen. “I never met a man with such perfect manners. He’s so fascinating. He’s just like a boy, and yet, Heaven knows, he seems to have had enough worldly experience.”
“So I’ve heard,” commented Cowperwood. “Wasn’t he the one that was mixed up in that Carmen Torriba case here a few years ago?” Cowperwood was referring to the matter of a Spanish dancer traveling in America with whom Lynde had been apparently desperately in love.
“Oh yes,” replied Aileen, maliciously; “but that oughtn’t to make any difference to you. He’s charming, anyhow. I like him.”
“I didn’t say it did, did I? You don’t object to my mentioning a mere incident?”
“Oh, I know about the incident,” replied Aileen, jestingly. “I know you.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, studying her face.
“Oh, I know you,” she replied, sweetly and yet defensively. “You think I’ll stay here and be content while you run about with other women—play the sweet and loving wife? Well, I won’t. I know why you say this about Lynde. It’s to keep me from being interested in him, possibly. Well, I will be if I want to. I told you I would be, and I will. You can do what you please about that. You don’t want me, so why should you be disturbed as to whether other men are interested in me or not?”
The truth was that Cowperwood was not clearly thinking of any probable relation between Lynde and Aileen any more than he was in connection with her and any other man, and yet in a remote way he was sensing some one. It was this that Aileen felt in him, and that brought forth her seemingly uncalled-for comment. Cowperwood, under the circumstances, attempted to be as suave as possible, having caught the implication clearly.
“Aileen,” he cooed, “how you talk! Why do you say that? You know I care for you. I can’t prevent anything you want to do, and I’m sure you know I don’t want to. It’s you that I want to see satisfied. You know that I care.”
“Yes, I know how you care,” replied Aileen, her mood changing for the moment. “Don’t start that old stuff, please. I’m sick of it. I know how you’re running around. I know about Mrs. Hand. Even the newspapers make that plain. You’ve been home just one evening in the last eight days, long enough for me to get more than a glimpse of you. Don’t talk to me. Don’t try to bill and coo. I’ve always known. Don’t think I don’t know who your latest flame is. But don’t begin to whine, and don’t quarrel with me if I go about and get interested in other men, as I certainly will. It will be all your fault if I do, and you know it. Don’t begin and complain. It won’t do you any good. I’m not going to sit here and be made a fool of. I’ve told you that over and over. You don’t believe it, but I’m not. I told you that I’d find some one one of these days, and I will. As a matter of fact, I have already.”
At this remark Cowperwood surveyed her coolly, critically, and yet not unsympathetically; but she swung out of the room with a defiant air before anything could be said, and went down to the music-room, from whence a few moments later there rolled up to him from the hall below the strains of the second Hungarian Rhapsodie, feelingly and for once movingly played. Into it Aileen put some of her own wild woe and misery. Cowperwood hated the thought for the moment that some one as smug as Lynde—so good-looking, so suave a society rake—should interest Aileen; but if it must be, it must be. He could have no honest reason for complaint. At the same time a breath of real sorrow for the days that had gone swept over him. He remembered her in Philadelphia in her red cape as a school-girl—in his father’s house—out horseback-riding, driving. What a splendid, loving girl she had been—such a sweet fool of love. Could she really have decided not to worry about him any more? Could it be possible that she might find some one else who would be interested in her, and in whom she would take a keen interest? It was an odd thought for him.
He watched her as she came into the dining-room later, arrayed in green silk of the shade of copper patina, her hair done in a high coil—and in spite of himself he could not help admiring her. She looked very young in her soul, and yet moody—loving (for some one), eager, and defiant. He reflected for a moment what terrible things passion and love are—how they make fools of us all. “All of us are in the grip of a great creative impulse,” he said to himself. He talked of other things for a while—the approaching election, a poster-wagon he had seen bearing the question, “Shall Cowperwood own the city?” “Pretty cheap politics, I call that,” he commented. And then he told of stopping in a so-called Republican wigwam at State and Sixteenth streets—a great, cheaply erected, unpainted wooden shack with seats, and of hearing himself bitterly denounced by the reigning orator. “I was tempted once to ask that donkey a few questions,” he added, “but I decided I wouldn’t.”
Aileen had to smile. In spite of all his faults he was such a wonderful man—to set a city thus by the ears. “Yet, what care I how fair he be, if he be not fair to me.”
“Did you meet any one else besides Lynde you liked?” he finally asked, archly, seeking to gather further data without stirring up too much feeling.
> Aileen, who had been studying him, feeling sure the subject would come up again, replied: “No, I haven’t; but I don’t need to. One is enough.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, gently.
“Oh, just what I say. One will do.”
“You mean you are in love with Lynde?”
“I mean—oh!” She stopped and surveyed him defiantly. “What difference does it make to you what I mean? Yes, I am. But what do you care? Why do you sit there and question me? It doesn’t make any difference to you what I do. You don’t want me. Why should you sit there and try to find out, or watch? It hasn’t been any consideration for you that has restrained me so far. Suppose I am in love? What difference would it make to you?”
“Oh, I care. You know I care. Why do you say that?”
“Yes, you care,” she flared. “I know how you care. Well, I’ll just tell you one thing”—rage at his indifference was driving her on—“I am in love with Lynde, and what’s more, I’m his mistress. And I’ll continue to be. But what do you care? Pshaw!”
Her eyes blazed hotly, her color rose high and strong. She breathed heavily.
At this announcement, made in the heat of spite and rage generated by long indifference, Cowperwood sat up for a moment, and his eyes hardened with quite that implacable glare with which he sometimes confronted an enemy. He felt at once there were many things he could do to make her life miserable, and to take revenge on Lynde, but he decided after a moment he would not. It was not weakness, but a sense of superior power that was moving him. Why should he be jealous? Had he not been unkind enough? In a moment his mood changed to one of sorrow for Aileen, for himself, for life, indeed—its tangles of desire and necessity. He could not blame Aileen. Lynde was surely attractive. He had no desire to part with her or to quarrel with him—merely to temporarily cease all intimate relations with her and allow her mood to clear itself up. Perhaps she would want to leave him of her own accord. Perhaps, if he ever found the right woman, this might prove good grounds for his leaving her. The right woman—where was she? He had never found her yet.
“Aileen,” he said, quite softly, “I wish you wouldn’t feel so bitterly about this. Why should you? When did you do this? Will you tell me that?”
“No, I’ll not tell you that,” she replied, bitterly. “It’s none of your affair, and I’ll not tell you. Why should you ask? You don’t care.”
“But I do care, I tell you,” he returned, irritably, almost roughly. “When did you? You can tell me that, at least.” His eyes had a hard, cold look for the moment, dying away, though, into kindly inquiry.
“Oh, not long ago. About a week,” Aileen answered, as though she were compelled.
“How long have you known him?” he asked, curiously.
“Oh, four or five months, now. I met him last winter.”
“And did you do this deliberately—because you were in love with him, or because you wanted to hurt me?”
He could not believe from past scenes between them that she had ceased to love him.
Aileen stirred irritably. “I like that,” she flared. “I did it because I wanted to, and not because of any love for you—I can tell you that. I like your nerve sitting here presuming to question me after the way you have neglected me.” She pushed back her plate, and made as if to get up.
“Wait a minute, Aileen,” he said, simply, putting down his knife and fork and looking across the handsome table where Sevres, silver, fruit, and dainty dishes were spread, and where under silk-shaded lights they sat opposite each other. “I wish you wouldn’t talk that way to me. You know that I am not a petty, fourth-rate fool. You know that, whatever you do, I am not going to quarrel with you. I know what the trouble is with you. I know why you are acting this way, and how you will feel afterward if you go on. It isn’t anything I will do—” He paused, caught by a wave of feeling.
“Oh, isn’t it?” she blazed, trying to overcome the emotion that was rising in herself. The calmness of him stirred up memories of the past. “Well, you keep your sympathy for yourself. I don’t need it. I will get along. I wish you wouldn’t talk to me.”
She shoved her plate away with such force that she upset a glass in which was champagne, the wine making a frayed, yellowish splotch on the white linen, and, rising, hurried toward the door. She was choking with anger, pain, shame, regret.
“Aileen! Aileen!” he called, hurrying after her, regardless of the butler, who, hearing the sound of stirring chairs, had entered. These family woes were an old story to him. “It’s love you want—not revenge. I know—I can tell. You want to be loved by some one completely. I’m sorry. You mustn’t be too hard on me. I sha’n’t be on you.” He seized her by the arm and detained her as they entered the next room. By this time Aileen was too ablaze with emotion to talk sensibly or understand what he was doing.
“Let me go!” she exclaimed, angrily, hot tears in her eyes. “Let me go! I tell you I don’t love you any more. I tell you I hate you!” She flung herself loose and stood erect before him. “I don’t want you to talk to me! I don’t want you to speak to me! You’re the cause of all my troubles. You’re the cause of whatever I do, when I do it, and don’t you dare to deny it! You’ll see! You’ll see! I’ll show you what I’ll do!”
She twisted and turned, but he held her firmly until, in his strong grasp, as usual, she collapsed and began to cry. “Oh, I cry,” she declared, even in her tears, “but it will be just the same. It’s too late! too late!”
Chapter XXXVIII.
An Hour of Defeat
The stoic Cowperwood, listening to the blare and excitement that went with the fall campaign, was much more pained to learn of Aileen’s desertion than to know that he had arrayed a whole social element against himself in Chicago. He could not forget the wonder of those first days when Aileen was young, and love and hope had been the substance of her being. The thought ran through all his efforts and cogitations like a distantly orchestrated undertone. In the main, in spite of his activity, he was an introspective man, and art, drama, and the pathos of broken ideals were not beyond him. He harbored in no way any grudge against Aileen—only a kind of sorrow over the inevitable consequences of his own ungovernable disposition, the will to freedom within himself. Change! Change! the inevitable passing of things! Who parts with a perfect thing, even if no more than an unreasoning love, without a touch of self-pity?
But there followed swiftly the sixth of November, with its election, noisy and irrational, and the latter resulted in a resounding defeat. Out of the thirty-two Democratic aldermen nominated only ten were elected, giving the opposition a full two-thirds majority in council, Messrs. Tiernan and Kerrigan, of course, being safely in their places. With them came a Republican mayor and all his Republican associates on the ticket, who were now supposed to carry out the theories of the respectable and the virtuous. Cowperwood knew what it meant and prepared at once to make overtures to the enemy. From McKenty and others he learned by degrees the full story of Tiernan’s and Kerrigan’s treachery, but he did not store it up bitterly against them. Such was life. They must be looked after more carefully in future, or caught in some trap and utterly undone. According to their own accounts, they had barely managed to scrape through.
“Look at meself! I only won by three hundred votes,” archly declared Mr. Kerrigan, on divers and sundry occasions. “By God, I almost lost me own ward!”
Mr. Tiernan was equally emphatic. “The police was no good to me,” he declared, firmly. “They let the other fellows beat up me men. I only polled six thousand when I should have had nine.”
But no one believed them.
While McKenty meditated as to how in two years he should be able to undo this temporary victory, and Cowperwood was deciding that conciliation was the best policy for him, Schryhart, Hand, and Arneel, joining hands with young MacDonald, were wondering how they could make sure that this party victory would cripple Cowperwood and permanently prevent him from returning to power. It was a long, int
ricate fight that followed, but it involved (before Cowperwood could possibly reach the new aldermen) a proposed reintroduction and passage of the much-opposed General Electric franchise, the granting of rights and privileges in outlying districts to various minor companies, and last and worst—a thing which had not previously dawned on Cowperwood as in any way probable—the projection of an ordinance granting to a certain South Side corporation the privilege of erecting and operating an elevated road. This was as severe a blow as any that had yet been dealt Cowperwood, for it introduced a new factor and complication into the Chicago street-railway situation which had hitherto, for all its troubles, been comparatively simple.
In order to make this plain it should be said that some eighteen or twenty years before in New York there had been devised and erected a series of elevated roads calculated to relieve the congestion of traffic on the lower portion of that long and narrow island, and they had proved an immense success. Cowperwood had been interested in them, along with everything else which pertained to public street traffic, from the very beginning. In his various trips to New York he had made a careful physical inspection of them. He knew all about their incorporation, backers, the expense connected with them, their returns, and so forth. Personally, in so far as New York was concerned, he considered them an ideal solution of traffic on that crowded island. Here in Chicago, where the population was as yet comparatively small—verging now toward a million, and widely scattered over a great area—he did not feel that they would be profitable—certainly not for some years to come. What traffic they gained would be taken from the surface lines, and if he built them he would be merely doubling his expenses to halve his profits. From time to time he had contemplated the possibility of their being built by other men—providing they could secure a franchise, which previous to the late election had not seemed probable—and in this connection he had once said to Addison: “Let them sink their money, and about the time the population is sufficient to support the lines they will have been driven into the hands of receivers. That will simply chase the game into my bag, and I can buy them for a mere song.” With this conclusion Addison had agreed. But since this conversation circumstances made the construction of these elevated roads far less problematic.
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