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<pre>
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Title: The Titan

Author: Theodore Dreiser

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</pre>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /><br/><br/>
</div>

<h1>The Titan</h1>

<h2>by Theodore Dreiser</h2>

<hr />

<h2>Contents</h2>

<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. The New City</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. A Reconnoiter</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. A Chicago Evening</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. Peter Laughlin &amp; Co.</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. Concerning A Wife And Family</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. The New Queen of the Home</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. Chicago Gas</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. Now This is Fighting</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. In Search of Victory</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. A Test</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. The Fruits of Daring</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. A New Retainer</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. The Die is Cast</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. Undercurrents</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. A New Affection</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. A Fateful Interlude</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. An Overture to Conflict</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. The Clash</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. &ldquo;Hell Hath No Fury&mdash;&rdquo;</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. &ldquo;Man and Superman&rdquo;</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. A Matter of Tunnels</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. Street-railways at Last</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. The Power of the Press</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. The Coming of Stephanie Platow</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. Airs from the Orient</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. Love and War</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. A Financier Bewitched</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. The Exposure of Stephanie</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. A Family Quarrel</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. Obstacles</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. Untoward Disclosures</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. A Supper Party</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. Mr. Lynde to the Rescue</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. Enter Hosmer Hand</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. A Political Agreement</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. An Election Draws Near</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII. Aileen&rsquo;s Revenge</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII. An Hour of Defeat</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX. The New Administration</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL. A Trip to Louisville</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER XLI. The Daughter of Mrs. Fleming</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER XLII. F. A. Cowperwood, Guardian</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap43">CHAPTER XLIII. The Planet Mars</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap44">CHAPTER XLIV. A Franchise Obtained</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap45">CHAPTER XLV. Changing Horizons</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap46">CHAPTER XLVI. Depths and Heights</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap47">CHAPTER XLVII. American Match</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap48">CHAPTER XLVIII. Panic</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap49">CHAPTER XLIX. Mount Olympus</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap50">CHAPTER L. A New York Mansion</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap51">CHAPTER LI. The Revival of Hattie Starr</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap52">CHAPTER LII. Behind the Arras</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap53">CHAPTER LIII. A Declaration of Love</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap54">CHAPTER LIV. Wanted&mdash;Fifty-year Franchises</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap55">CHAPTER LV. Cowperwood and the Governor</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap56">CHAPTER LVI. The Ordeal of Berenice</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap57">CHAPTER LVII. Aileen&rsquo;s Last Card</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap58">CHAPTER LVIII. A Marauder Upon the Commonwealth</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap59">CHAPTER LIX. Capital and Public Rights</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap60">CHAPTER LX. The Net</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap61">CHAPTER LXI. The Cataclysm</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap62">CHAPTER LXII. The Recompense</a></td>
</tr>


</table>

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/>
The New City</h2>

<p>
When Frank Algernon Cowperwood emerged from the Eastern District Penitentiary
in Philadelphia he realized that the old life he had lived in that city since
boyhood was ended. His youth was gone, and with it had been lost the great
business prospects of his earlier manhood. He must begin again.
</p>

<p>
It would be useless to repeat how a second panic following upon a tremendous
failure&mdash;that of Jay Cooke &amp; Co.&mdash;had placed a second fortune in
his hands. This restored wealth softened him in some degree. Fate seemed to
have his personal welfare in charge. He was sick of the stock-exchange, anyhow,
as a means of livelihood, and now decided that he would leave it once and for
all. He would get in something else&mdash;street-railways, land deals, some of
the boundless opportunities of the far West. Philadelphia was no longer
pleasing to him. Though now free and rich, he was still a scandal to the
pretenders, and the financial and social world was not prepared to accept him.
He must go his way alone, unaided, or only secretly so, while his quondam
friends watched his career from afar. So, thinking of this, he took the train
one day, his charming mistress, now only twenty-six, coming to the station to
see him off. He looked at her quite tenderly, for she was the quintessence of a
certain type of feminine beauty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By-by, dearie,&rdquo; he smiled, as the train-bell signaled the
approaching departure. &ldquo;You and I will get out of this shortly.
Don&rsquo;t grieve. I&rsquo;ll be back in two or three weeks, or I&rsquo;ll
send for you. I&rsquo;d take you now, only I don&rsquo;t know how that country
is out there. We&rsquo;ll fix on some place, and then you watch me settle this
fortune question. We&rsquo;ll not live under a cloud always. I&rsquo;ll get a
divorce, and we&rsquo;ll marry, and things will come right with a bang. Money
will do that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked at her with his large, cool, penetrating eyes, and she clasped his
cheeks between her hands.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Frank,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll miss you so!
You&rsquo;re all I have.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In two weeks,&rdquo; he smiled, as the train began to move,
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll wire or be back. Be good, sweet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She followed him with adoring eyes&mdash;a fool of love, a spoiled child, a
family pet, amorous, eager, affectionate, the type so strong a man would
naturally like&mdash;she tossed her pretty red gold head and waved him a kiss.
Then she walked away with rich, sinuous, healthy strides&mdash;the type that
men turn to look after.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s her&mdash;that&rsquo;s that Butler girl,&rdquo; observed
one railroad clerk to another. &ldquo;Gee! a man wouldn&rsquo;t want anything
better than that, would he?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was the spontaneous tribute that passion and envy invariably pay to health
and beauty. On that pivot swings the world.
</p>

<p>
Never in all his life until this trip had Cowperwood been farther west than
Pittsburg. His amazing commercial adventures, brilliant as they were, had been
almost exclusively confined to the dull, staid world of Philadelphia, with its
sweet refinement in sections, its pretensions to American social supremacy, its
cool arrogation of traditional leadership in commercial life, its history,
conservative wealth, unctuous respectability, and all the tastes and avocations
which these imply. He had, as he recalled, almost mastered that pretty world
and made its sacred precincts his own when the crash came. Practically he had
been admitted. Now he was an Ishmael, an ex-convict, albeit a millionaire. But
wait! The race is to the swift, he said to himself over and over. Yes, and the
battle is to the strong. He would test whether the world would trample him
under foot or no.
</p>

<p>
Chicago, when it finally dawned on him, came with a rush on the second morning.
He had spent two nights in the gaudy Pullman then provided&mdash;a car intended
to make up for some of the inconveniences of its arrangements by an
over-elaboration of plush and tortured glass&mdash;when the first lone outposts
of the prairie metropolis began to appear. The side-tracks along the road-bed
over which he was speeding became more and more numerous, the telegraph-poles
more and more hung with arms and strung smoky-thick with wires. In the far
distance, cityward, was, here and there, a lone working-man&rsquo;s cottage,
the home of some adventurous soul who had planted his bare hut thus far out in
order to reap the small but certain advantage which the growth of the city
would bring.
</p>

<p>
The land was flat&mdash;as flat as a table&mdash;with a waning growth of brown
grass left over from the previous year, and stirring faintly in the morning
breeze. Underneath were signs of the new green&mdash;the New Year&rsquo;s flag
of its disposition. For some reason a crystalline atmosphere enfolded the
distant hazy outlines of the city, holding the latter like a fly in amber and
giving it an artistic subtlety which touched him. Already a devotee of art,
ambitious for connoisseurship, who had had his joy, training, and sorrow out of
the collection he had made and lost in Philadelphia, he appreciated almost
every suggestion of a delightful picture in nature.
</p>

<p>
The tracks, side by side, were becoming more and more numerous. Freight-cars
were assembled here by thousands from all parts of the country&mdash;yellow,
red, blue, green, white. (Chicago, he recalled, already had thirty railroads
terminating here, as though it were the end of the world.) The little low one
and two story houses, quite new as to wood, were frequently unpainted and
already smoky&mdash;in places grimy. At grade-crossings, where ambling
street-cars and wagons and muddy-wheeled buggies waited, he noted how flat the
streets were, how unpaved, how sidewalks went up and down
rhythmically&mdash;here a flight of steps, a veritable platform before a house,
there a long stretch of boards laid flat on the mud of the prairie itself. What
a city! Presently a branch of the filthy, arrogant, self-sufficient little
Chicago River came into view, with its mass of sputtering tugs, its black, oily
water, its tall, red, brown, and green grain-elevators, its immense black
coal-pockets and yellowish-brown lumber-yards.
</p>

<p>
Here was life; he saw it at a flash. Here was a seething city in the making.
There was something dynamic in the very air which appealed to his fancy. How
different, for some reason, from Philadelphia! That was a stirring city, too.
He had thought it wonderful at one time, quite a world; but this thing, while
obviously infinitely worse, was better. It was more youthful, more hopeful. In
a flare of morning sunlight pouring between two coal-pockets, and because the
train had stopped to let a bridge swing and half a dozen great grain and lumber
boats go by&mdash;a half-dozen in either direction&mdash;he saw a group of
Irish stevedores idling on the bank of a lumber-yard whose wall skirted the
water. Healthy men they were, in blue or red shirt-sleeves, stout straps about
their waists, short pipes in their mouths, fine, hardy, nutty-brown specimens
of humanity. Why were they so appealing, he asked himself. This raw, dirty town
seemed naturally to compose itself into stirring artistic pictures. Why, it
fairly sang! The world was young here. Life was doing something new. Perhaps he
had better not go on to the Northwest at all; he would decide that question
later.
</p>

<p>
In the mean time he had letters of introduction to distinguished Chicagoans,
and these he would present. He wanted to talk to some bankers and grain and
commission men. The stock-exchange of Chicago interested him, for the
intricacies of that business he knew backward and forward, and some great grain
transactions had been made here.
</p>

<p>
The train finally rolled past the shabby backs of houses into a long, shabbily
covered series of platforms&mdash;sheds having only roofs&mdash;and amidst a
clatter of trucks hauling trunks, and engines belching steam, and passengers
hurrying to and fro he made his way out into Canal Street and hailed a waiting
cab&mdash;one of a long line of vehicles that bespoke a metropolitan spirit. He
had fixed on the Grand Pacific as the most important hotel&mdash;the one with
the most social significance&mdash;and thither he asked to be driven. On the
way he studied these streets as in the matter of art he would have studied a
picture. The little yellow, blue, green, white, and brown street-cars which he
saw trundling here and there, the tired, bony horses, jingling bells at their
throats, touched him. They were flimsy affairs, these cars, merely highly
varnished kindling-wood with bits of polished brass and glass stuck about them,
but he realized what fortunes they portended if the city grew. Street-cars, he
knew, were his natural vocation. Even more than stock-brokerage, even more than
banking, even more than stock-organization he loved the thought of street-cars
and the vast manipulative life it suggested.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/>
A Reconnoiter</h2>

<p>
The city of Chicago, with whose development the personality of Frank Algernon
Cowperwood was soon to be definitely linked! To whom may the laurels as
laureate of this Florence of the West yet fall? This singing flame of a city,
this all America, this poet in chaps and buckskin, this rude, raw Titan, this
Burns of a city! By its shimmering lake it lay, a king of shreds and patches, a
maundering yokel with an epic in its mouth, a tramp, a hobo among cities, with
the grip of Caesar in its mind, the dramatic force of Euripides in its soul. A
very bard of a city this, singing of high deeds and high hopes, its heavy
brogans buried deep in the mire of circumstance. Take Athens, oh, Greece!
Italy, do you keep Rome! This was the Babylon, the Troy, the Nineveh of a
younger day. Here came the gaping West and the hopeful East to see. Here hungry
men, raw from the shops and fields, idyls and romances in their minds, builded
them an empire crying glory in the mud.
</p>

<p>
From New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine had come a strange company,
earnest, patient, determined, unschooled in even the primer of refinement,
hungry for something the significance of which, when they had it, they could
not even guess, anxious to be called great, determined so to be without ever
knowing how. Here came the dreamy gentleman of the South, robbed of his
patrimony; the hopeful student of Yale and Harvard and Princeton; the
enfranchised miner of California and the Rockies, his bags of gold and silver
in his hands. Here was already the bewildered foreigner, an alien speech
confounding him&mdash;the Hun, the Pole, the Swede, the German, the
Russian&mdash;seeking his homely colonies, fearing his neighbor of another
race.
</p>

<p>
Here was the negro, the prostitute, the blackleg, the gambler, the romantic
adventurer <i>par excellence</i>. A city with but a handful of the native-born;
a city packed to the doors with all the riffraff of a thousand towns. Flaring
were the lights of the bagnio; tinkling the banjos, zithers, mandolins of the
so-called gin-mill; all the dreams and the brutality of the day seemed gathered
to rejoice (and rejoice they did) in this new-found wonder of a metropolitan
life in the West.
</p>

<p>
The first prominent Chicagoan whom Cowperwood sought out was the president of
the Lake City National Bank, the largest financial organization in the city,
with deposits of over fourteen million dollars. It was located in Dearborn
Street, at Munroe, but a block or two from his hotel.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Find out who that man is,&rdquo; ordered Mr. Judah Addison, the
president of the bank, on seeing him enter the president&rsquo;s private
waiting-room.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Addison&rsquo;s office was so arranged with glass windows that he could, by
craning his neck, see all who entered his reception-room before they saw him,
and he had been struck by Cowperwood&rsquo;s face and force. Long familiarity
with the banking world and with great affairs generally had given a rich finish
to the ease and force which the latter naturally possessed. He looked strangely
replete for a man of thirty-six&mdash;suave, steady, incisive, with eyes as
fine as those of a Newfoundland or a Collie and as innocent and winsome. They
were wonderful eyes, soft and spring-like at times, glowing with a rich, human
understanding which on the instant could harden and flash lightning. Deceptive
eyes, unreadable, but alluring alike to men and to women in all walks and
conditions of life.
</p>

<p>
The secretary addressed came back with Cowperwood&rsquo;s letter of
introduction, and immediately Cowperwood followed.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Addison instinctively arose&mdash;a thing he did not always do.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m pleased to meet you, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he said, politely.
&ldquo;I saw you come in just now. You see how I keep my windows here, so as to
spy out the country. Sit down. You wouldn&rsquo;t like an apple, would
you?&rdquo; He opened a left-hand drawer, producing several polished red
winesaps, one of which he held out. &ldquo;I always eat one about this time in
the morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thank you, no,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, pleasantly, estimating as he
did so his host&rsquo;s temperament and mental caliber. &ldquo;I never eat
between meals, but I appreciate your kindness. I am just passing through
Chicago, and I thought I would present this letter now rather than later. I
thought you might tell me a little about the city from an investment point of
view.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As Cowperwood talked, Addison, a short, heavy, rubicund man with grayish-brown
sideburns extending to his ear-lobes and hard, bright, twinkling gray
eyes&mdash;a proud, happy, self-sufficient man&mdash;munched his apple and
contemplated Cowperwood. As is so often the case in life, he frequently liked
or disliked people on sight, and he prided himself on his judgment of men.
Almost foolishly, for one so conservative, he was taken with Cowperwood&mdash;a
man immensely his superior&mdash;not because of the Drexel letter, which spoke
of the latter&rsquo;s &ldquo;undoubted financial genius&rdquo; and the
advantage it would be to Chicago to have him settle there, but because of the
swimming wonder of his eyes. Cowperwood&rsquo;s personality, while maintaining
an unbroken outward reserve, breathed a tremendous humanness which touched his
fellow-banker. Both men were in their way walking enigmas, the Philadelphian
far the subtler of the two. Addison was ostensibly a church-member, a model
citizen; he represented a point of view to which Cowperwood would never have
stooped. Both men were ruthless after their fashion, avid of a physical life;
but Addison was the weaker in that he was still afraid&mdash;very much
afraid&mdash;of what life might do to him. The man before him had no sense of
fear. Addison contributed judiciously to charity, subscribed outwardly to a
dull social routine, pretended to love his wife, of whom he was weary, and took
his human pleasure secretly. The man before him subscribed to nothing, refused
to talk save to intimates, whom he controlled spiritually, and did as he
pleased.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, I&rsquo;ll tell you, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; Addison replied.
&ldquo;We people out here in Chicago think so well of ourselves that sometimes
we&rsquo;re afraid to say all we think for fear of appearing a little
extravagant. We&rsquo;re like the youngest son in the family that knows he can
lick all the others, but doesn&rsquo;t want to do it&mdash;not just yet.
We&rsquo;re not as handsome as we might be&mdash;did you ever see a growing boy
that was?&mdash;but we&rsquo;re absolutely sure that we&rsquo;re going to be.
Our pants and shoes and coat and hat get too small for us every six months, and
so we don&rsquo;t look very fashionable, but there are big, strong, hard
muscles and bones underneath, Mr. Cowperwood, as you&rsquo;ll discover when you
get to looking around. Then you won&rsquo;t mind the clothes so much.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Addison&rsquo;s round, frank eyes narrowed and hardened for a moment. A
kind of metallic hardness came into his voice. Cowperwood could see that he was
honestly enamoured of his adopted city. Chicago was his most beloved mistress.
A moment later the flesh about his eyes crinkled, his mouth softened, and he
smiled. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be glad to tell you anything I can,&rdquo; he went
on. &ldquo;There are a lot of interesting things to tell.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood beamed back on him encouragingly. He inquired after the condition of
one industry and another, one trade or profession and another. This was
somewhat different from the atmosphere which prevailed in
Philadelphia&mdash;more breezy and generous. The tendency to expatiate and make
much of local advantages was Western. He liked it, however, as one aspect of
life, whether he chose to share in it or not. It was favorable to his own
future. He had a prison record to live down; a wife and two children to get rid
of&mdash;in the legal sense, at least (he had no desire to rid himself of
financial obligation toward them). It would take some such loose, enthusiastic
Western attitude to forgive in him the strength and freedom with which he
ignored and refused to accept for himself current convention. <i>I satisfy
myself</i> was his private law, but so to do he must assuage and control the
prejudices of other men. He felt that this banker, while not putty in his
hands, was inclined to a strong and useful friendship.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My impressions of the city are entirely favorable, Mr. Addison,&rdquo;
he said, after a time, though he inwardly admitted to himself that this was not
entirely true; he was not sure whether he could bring himself ultimately to
live in so excavated and scaffolded a world as this or not. &ldquo;I only saw a
portion of it coming in on the train. I like the snap of things. I believe
Chicago has a future.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You came over the Fort Wayne, I presume,&rdquo; replied Addison,
loftily. &ldquo;You saw the worst section. You must let me show you some of the
best parts. By the way, where are you staying?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At the Grand Pacific.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How long will you be here?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not more than a day or two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me see,&rdquo; and Mr. Addison drew out his watch. &ldquo;I suppose
you wouldn&rsquo;t mind meeting a few of our leading men&mdash;and we have a
little luncheon-room over at the Union League Club where we drop in now and
then. If you&rsquo;d care to do so, I&rsquo;d like to have you come along with
me at one. We&rsquo;re sure to find a few of them&mdash;some of our lawyers,
business men, and judges.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That will be fine,&rdquo; said the Philadelphian, simply.
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re more than generous. There are one or two other people I
want to meet in between, and&rdquo;&mdash;he arose and looked at his own
watch&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll find the Union Club. Where is the office of
Arneel &amp; Co.?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the mention of the great beef-packer, who was one of the bank&rsquo;s
heaviest depositors, Addison stirred slightly with approval. This young man, at
least eight years his junior, looked to him like a future grand seigneur of
finance.
</p>

<p>
At the Union Club, at this noontime luncheon, after talking with the portly,
conservative, aggressive Arneel and the shrewd director of the stock-exchange,
Cowperwood met a varied company of men ranging in age from thirty-five to
sixty-five gathered about the board in a private dining-room of heavily carved
black walnut, with pictures of elder citizens of Chicago on the walls and an
attempt at artistry in stained glass in the windows. There were short and long
men, lean and stout, dark and blond men, with eyes and jaws which varied from
those of the tiger, lynx, and bear to those of the fox, the tolerant mastiff,
and the surly bulldog. There were no weaklings in this selected company.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel and Mr. Addison Cowperwood approved of highly as shrewd,
concentrated men. Another who interested him was Anson Merrill, a small,
polite, recherche soul, suggesting mansions and footmen and remote luxury
generally, who was pointed out by Addison as the famous dry-goods prince of
that name, quite the leading merchant, in the retail and wholesale sense, in
Chicago.
</p>

<p>
Still another was a Mr. Rambaud, pioneer railroad man, to whom Addison, smiling
jocosely, observed: &ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood is on from Philadelphia, Mr. Rambaud,
trying to find out whether he wants to lose any money out here. Can&rsquo;t you
sell him some of that bad land you have up in the Northwest?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Rambaud&mdash;a spare, pale, black-bearded man of much force and exactness,
dressed, as Cowperwood observed, in much better taste than some of the
others&mdash;looked at Cowperwood shrewdly but in a gentlemanly, retiring way,
with a gracious, enigmatic smile. He caught a glance in return which he could
not possibly forget. The eyes of Cowperwood said more than any words ever
could. Instead of jesting faintly Mr. Rambaud decided to explain some things
about the Northwest. Perhaps this Philadelphian might be interested.
</p>

<p>
To a man who has gone through a great life struggle in one metropolis and
tested all the phases of human duplicity, decency, sympathy, and chicanery in
the controlling group of men that one invariably finds in every American city
at least, the temperament and significance of another group in another city is
not so much, and yet it is. Long since Cowperwood had parted company with the
idea that humanity at any angle or under any circumstances, climatic or
otherwise, is in any way different. To him the most noteworthy characteristic
of the human race was that it was strangely chemic, being anything or nothing,
as the hour and the condition afforded. In his leisure moments&mdash;those free
from practical calculation, which were not many&mdash;he often speculated as to
what life really was. If he had not been a great financier and, above all, a
marvelous organizer he might have become a highly individualistic
philosopher&mdash;a calling which, if he had thought anything about it at all
at this time, would have seemed rather trivial. His business as he saw it was
with the material facts of life, or, rather, with those third and fourth degree
theorems and syllogisms which control material things and so represent wealth.
He was here to deal with the great general needs of the Middle West&mdash;to
seize upon, if he might, certain well-springs of wealth and power and rise to
recognized authority. In his morning talks he had learned of the extent and
character of the stock-yards&rsquo; enterprises, of the great railroad and ship
interests, of the tremendous rising importance of real estate, grain
speculation, the hotel business, the hardware business. He had learned of
universal manufacturing companies&mdash;one that made cars, another elevators,
another binders, another windmills, another engines. Apparently, any new
industry seemed to do well in Chicago. In his talk with the one director of the
Board of Trade to whom he had a letter he had learned that few, if any, local
stocks were dealt in on &rsquo;change. Wheat, corn, and grains of all kinds
were principally speculated in. The big stocks of the East were gambled in by
way of leased wires on the New York Stock Exchange&mdash;not otherwise.
</p>

<p>
As he looked at these men, all pleasantly civil, all general in their remarks,
each safely keeping his vast plans under his vest, Cowperwood wondered how he
would fare in this community. There were such difficult things ahead of him to
do. No one of these men, all of whom were in their commercial-social way
agreeable, knew that he had only recently been in the penitentiary. How much
difference would that make in their attitude? No one of them knew that,
although he was married and had two children, he was planning to divorce his
wife and marry the girl who had appropriated to herself the role which his wife
had once played.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Are you seriously contemplating looking into the Northwest?&rdquo; asked
Mr. Rambaud, interestedly, toward the close of the luncheon.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is my present plan after I finish here. I thought I&rsquo;d take a
short run up there.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me put you in touch with an interesting party that is going as far
as Fargo and Duluth. There is a private car leaving Thursday, most of them
citizens of Chicago, but some Easterners. I would be glad to have you join us.
I am going as far as Minneapolis.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood thanked him and accepted. A long conversation followed about the
Northwest, its timber, wheat, land sales, cattle, and possible manufacturing
plants.
</p>

<p>
What Fargo, Minneapolis, and Duluth were to be civically and financially were
the chief topics of conversation. Naturally, Mr. Rambaud, having under his
direction vast railroad lines which penetrated this region, was confident of
the future of it. Cowperwood gathered it all, almost by instinct. Gas,
street-railways, land speculations, banks, wherever located, were his chief
thoughts.
</p>

<p>
Finally he left the club to keep his other appointments, but something of his
personality remained behind him. Mr. Addison and Mr. Rambaud, among others,
were sincerely convinced that he was one of the most interesting men they had
met in years. And he scarcely had said anything at all&mdash;just listened.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/>
A Chicago Evening</h2>

<p>
After his first visit to the bank over which Addison presided, and an informal
dinner at the latter&rsquo;s home, Cowperwood had decided that he did not care
to sail under any false colors so far as Addison was concerned. He was too
influential and well connected. Besides, Cowperwood liked him too much. Seeing
that the man&rsquo;s leaning toward him was strong, in reality a fascination,
he made an early morning call a day or two after he had returned from Fargo,
whither he had gone at Mr. Rambaud&rsquo;s suggestion, on his way back to
Philadelphia, determined to volunteer a smooth presentation of his earlier
misfortunes, and trust to Addison&rsquo;s interest to make him view the matter
in a kindly light. He told him the whole story of how he had been convicted of
technical embezzlement in Philadelphia and had served out his term in the
Eastern Penitentiary. He also mentioned his divorce and his intention of
marrying again.
</p>

<p>
Addison, who was the weaker man of the two and yet forceful in his own way,
admired this courageous stand on Cowperwood&rsquo;s part. It was a braver thing
than he himself could or would have achieved. It appealed to his sense of the
dramatic. Here was a man who apparently had been dragged down to the very
bottom of things, his face forced in the mire, and now he was coming up again
strong, hopeful, urgent. The banker knew many highly respected men in Chicago
whose early careers, as he was well aware, would not bear too close an
inspection, but nothing was thought of that. Some of them were in society, some
not, but all of them were powerful. Why should not Cowperwood be allowed to
begin all over? He looked at him steadily, at his eyes, at his stocky body, at
his smooth, handsome, mustached face. Then he held out his hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he said, finally, trying to shape his words
appropriately, &ldquo;I needn&rsquo;t say that I am pleased with this
interesting confession. It appeals to me. I&rsquo;m glad you have made it to
me. You needn&rsquo;t say any more at any time. I decided the day I saw you
walking into that vestibule that you were an exceptional man; now I know it.
You needn&rsquo;t apologize to me. I haven&rsquo;t lived in this world fifty
years and more without having my eye-teeth cut. You&rsquo;re welcome to the
courtesies of this bank and of my house as long as you care to avail yourself
of them. We&rsquo;ll cut our cloth as circumstances dictate in the future.
I&rsquo;d like to see you come to Chicago, solely because I like you
personally. If you decide to settle here I&rsquo;m sure I can be of service to
you and you to me. Don&rsquo;t think anything more about it; I
sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t ever say anything one way or another. You have your own
battle to fight, and I wish you luck. You&rsquo;ll get all the aid from me I
can honestly give you. Just forget that you told me, and when you get your
matrimonial affairs straightened out bring your wife out to see us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With these things completed Cowperwood took the train back to Philadelphia.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, when these two met again&mdash;she had come to
the train to meet him&mdash;&ldquo;I think the West is the answer for us. I
went up to Fargo and looked around up there, but I don&rsquo;t believe we want
to go that far. There&rsquo;s nothing but prairie-grass and Indians out in that
country. How&rsquo;d you like to live in a board shanty, Aileen,&rdquo; he
asked, banteringly, &ldquo;with nothing but fried rattlesnakes and prairie-dogs
for breakfast? Do you think you could stand that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, gaily, hugging his arm, for they had entered a
closed carriage; &ldquo;I could stand it if you could. I&rsquo;d go anywhere
with you, Frank. I&rsquo;d get me a nice Indian dress with leather and beads
all over it and a feather hat like they wear, and&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There you go! Certainly! Pretty clothes first of all in a miner&rsquo;s
shack. That&rsquo;s the way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t love me long if I didn&rsquo;t put pretty clothes
first,&rdquo; she replied, spiritedly. &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m so glad to get you
back!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The trouble is,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;that that country up there
isn&rsquo;t as promising as Chicago. I think we&rsquo;re destined to live in
Chicago. I made an investment in Fargo, and we&rsquo;ll have to go up there
from time to time, but we&rsquo;ll eventually locate in Chicago. I don&rsquo;t
want to go out there alone again. It isn&rsquo;t pleasant for me.&rdquo; He
squeezed her hand. &ldquo;If we can&rsquo;t arrange this thing at once
I&rsquo;ll just have to introduce you as my wife for the present.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t heard anything more from Mr. Steger?&rdquo; she put
in. She was thinking of Steger&rsquo;s efforts to get Mrs. Cowperwood to grant
him a divorce.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a word.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it too bad?&rdquo; she sighed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, don&rsquo;t grieve. Things might be worse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was thinking of his days in the penitentiary, and so was she. After
commenting on the character of Chicago he decided with her that so soon as
conditions permitted they would remove themselves to the Western city.
</p>

<p>
It would be pointless to do more than roughly sketch the period of three years
during which the various changes which saw the complete elimination of
Cowperwood from Philadelphia and his introduction into Chicago took place. For
a time there were merely journeys to and fro, at first more especially to
Chicago, then to Fargo, where his transported secretary, Walter Whelpley, was
managing under his direction the construction of Fargo business blocks, a short
street-car line, and a fair-ground. This interesting venture bore the title of
the Fargo Construction and Transportation Company, of which Frank A. Cowperwood
was president. His Philadelphia lawyer, Mr. Harper Steger, was for the time
being general master of contracts.
</p>

<p>
For another short period he might have been found living at the Tremont in
Chicago, avoiding for the time being, because of Aileen&rsquo;s company,
anything more than a nodding contact with the important men he had first met,
while he looked quietly into the matter of a Chicago brokerage
arrangement&mdash;a partnership with some established broker who, without too
much personal ambition, would bring him a knowledge of Chicago Stock Exchange
affairs, personages, and Chicago ventures. On one occasion he took Aileen with
him to Fargo, where with a haughty, bored insouciance she surveyed the state of
the growing city.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Frank!&rdquo; she exclaimed, when she saw the plain, wooden,
four-story hotel, the long, unpleasing business street, with its motley
collection of frame and brick stores, the gaping stretches of houses, facing in
most directions unpaved streets. Aileen in her tailored spick-and-spanness, her
self-conscious vigor, vanity, and tendency to over-ornament, was a strange
contrast to the rugged self-effacement and indifference to personal charm which
characterized most of the men and women of this new metropolis. &ldquo;You
didn&rsquo;t seriously think of coming out here to live, did you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She was wondering where her chance for social exchange would come in&mdash;her
opportunity to shine. Suppose her Frank were to be very rich; suppose he did
make very much money&mdash;much more than he had ever had even in the
past&mdash;what good would it do her here? In Philadelphia, before his failure,
before she had been suspected of the secret liaison with him, he had been
beginning (at least) to entertain in a very pretentious way. If she had been
his wife then she might have stepped smartly into Philadelphia society. Out
here, good gracious! She turned up her pretty nose in disgust. &ldquo;What an
awful place!&rdquo; was her one comment at this most stirring of Western boom
towns.
</p>

<p>
When it came to Chicago, however, and its swirling, increasing life, Aileen was
much interested. Between attending to many financial matters Cowperwood saw to
it that she was not left alone. He asked her to shop in the local stores and
tell him about them; and this she did, driving around in an open carriage,
attractively arrayed, a great brown hat emphasizing her pink-and-white
complexion and red-gold hair. On different afternoons of their stay he took her
to drive over the principal streets. When Aileen was permitted for the first
time to see the spacious beauty and richness of Prairie Avenue, the North Shore
Drive, Michigan Avenue, and the new mansions on Ashland Boulevard, set in their
grassy spaces, the spirit, aspirations, hope, tang of the future Chicago began
to work in her blood as it had in Cowperwood&rsquo;s. All of these rich homes
were so very new. The great people of Chicago were all newly rich like
themselves. She forgot that as yet she was not Cowperwood&rsquo;s wife; she
felt herself truly to be so. The streets, set in most instances with a pleasing
creamish-brown flagging, lined with young, newly planted trees, the lawns sown
to smooth green grass, the windows of the houses trimmed with bright awnings
and hung with intricate lace, blowing in a June breeze, the roadways a gray,
gritty macadam&mdash;all these things touched her fancy. On one drive they
skirted the lake on the North Shore, and Aileen, contemplating the chalky,
bluish-green waters, the distant sails, the gulls, and then the new bright
homes, reflected that in all certitude she would some day be the mistress of
one of these splendid mansions. How haughtily she would carry herself; how she
would dress! They would have a splendid house, much finer, no doubt, than
Frank&rsquo;s old one in Philadelphia, with a great ball-room and dining-room
where she could give dances and dinners, and where Frank and she would receive
as the peers of these Chicago rich people.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you suppose we will ever have a house as fine as one of these,
Frank?&rdquo; she asked him, longingly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what my plan is,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;If you like
this Michigan Avenue section we&rsquo;ll buy a piece of property out here now
and hold it. Just as soon as I make the right connections here and see what I
am going to do we&rsquo;ll build a house&mdash;something really
nice&mdash;don&rsquo;t worry. I want to get this divorce matter settled, and
then we&rsquo;ll begin. Meanwhile, if we have to come here, we&rsquo;d better
live rather quietly. Don&rsquo;t you think so?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was now between five and six, that richest portion of a summer day. It had
been very warm, but was now cooling, the shade of the western building-line
shadowing the roadway, a moted, wine-like air filling the street. As far as the
eye could see were carriages, the one great social diversion of Chicago,
because there was otherwise so little opportunity for many to show that they
had means. The social forces were not as yet clear or harmonious. Jingling
harnesses of nickel, silver, and even plated gold were the sign manual of
social hope, if not of achievement. Here sped homeward from the city&mdash;from
office and manufactory&mdash;along this one exceptional southern highway, the
Via Appia of the South Side, all the urgent aspirants to notable fortunes. Men
of wealth who had met only casually in trade here nodded to each other. Smart
daughters, society-bred sons, handsome wives came down-town in traps,
Victorias, carriages, and vehicles of the latest design to drive home their
trade-weary fathers or brothers, relatives or friends. The air was gay with a
social hope, a promise of youth and affection, and that fine flush of material
life that recreates itself in delight. Lithe, handsome, well-bred animals,
singly and in jingling pairs, paced each other down the long, wide, grass-lined
street, its fine homes agleam with a rich, complaisant materiality.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; exclaimed Aileen, all at once, seeing the vigorous, forceful
men, the handsome matrons, and young women and boys, the nodding and the
bowing, feeling a touch of the romance and wonder of it all. &ldquo;I should
like to live in Chicago. I believe it&rsquo;s nicer than Philadelphia.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, who had fallen so low there, despite his immense capacity, set his
teeth in two even rows. His handsome mustache seemed at this moment to have an
especially defiant curl. The pair he was driving was physically perfect, lean
and nervous, with spoiled, petted faces. He could not endure poor horse-flesh.
He drove as only a horse-lover can, his body bolt upright, his own energy and
temperament animating his animals. Aileen sat beside him, very proud,
consciously erect.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t she beautiful?&rdquo; some of the women observed, as they
passed, going north. &ldquo;What a stunning young woman!&rdquo; thought or said
the men.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you see her?&rdquo; asked a young brother of his sister.
&ldquo;Never mind, Aileen,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood, with that iron
determination that brooks no defeat. &ldquo;We will be a part of this.
Don&rsquo;t fret. You will have everything you want in Chicago, and more
besides.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was tingling over his fingers, into the reins, into the horses, a
mysterious vibrating current that was his chemical product, the off-giving of
his spirit battery that made his hired horses prance like children. They chafed
and tossed their heads and snorted. Aileen was fairly bursting with hope and
vanity and longing. Oh, to be Mrs. Frank Algernon Cowperwood here in Chicago,
to have a splendid mansion, to have her cards of invitation practically
commands which might not be ignored!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, dear!&rdquo; she sighed to herself, mentally. &ldquo;If only it were
all true&mdash;now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is thus that life at its topmost toss irks and pains. Beyond is ever the
unattainable, the lure of the infinite with its infinite ache.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Oh, life! oh, youth! oh, hope! oh, years!<br/>
Oh pain-winged fancy, beating forth with fears.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/>
Peter Laughlin &amp; Co.</h2>

<p>
The partnership which Cowperwood eventually made with an old-time Board of
Trade operator, Peter Laughlin, was eminently to his satisfaction. Laughlin was
a tall, gaunt speculator who had spent most of his living days in Chicago,
having come there as a boy from western Missouri. He was a typical Chicago
Board of Trade operator of the old school, having an Andrew Jacksonish
countenance, and a Henry Clay&mdash;Davy Crockett&mdash;&ldquo;Long John&rdquo;
Wentworth build of body.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood from his youth up had had a curious interest in quaint characters,
and he was interesting to them; they &ldquo;took&rdquo; to him. He could, if he
chose to take the trouble, fit himself in with the odd psychology of almost any
individual. In his early peregrinations in La Salle Street he inquired after
clever traders on &rsquo;change, and then gave them one small commission after
another in order to get acquainted. Thus he stumbled one morning on old Peter
Laughlin, wheat and corn trader, who had an office in La Salle Street near
Madison, and who did a modest business gambling for himself and others in grain
and Eastern railway shares. Laughlin was a shrewd, canny American, originally,
perhaps, of Scotch extraction, who had all the traditional American blemishes
of uncouthness, tobacco-chewing, profanity, and other small vices. Cowperwood
could tell from looking at him that he must have a fund of information
concerning every current Chicagoan of importance, and this fact alone was
certain to be of value. Then the old man was direct, plain-spoken,
simple-appearing, and wholly unpretentious&mdash;qualities which Cowperwood
deemed invaluable.
</p>

<p>
Once or twice in the last three years Laughlin had lost heavily on private
&ldquo;corners&rdquo; that he had attempted to engineer, and the general
feeling was that he was now becoming cautious, or, in other words, afraid.
&ldquo;Just the man,&rdquo; Cowperwood thought. So one morning he called upon
Laughlin, intending to open a small account with him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Henry,&rdquo; he heard the old man say, as he entered Laughlin&rsquo;s
fair-sized but rather dusty office, to a young, preternaturally solemn-looking
clerk, a fit assistant for Peter Laughlin, &ldquo;git me them there Pittsburg
and Lake Erie sheers, will you?&rdquo; Seeing Cowperwood waiting, he added,
&ldquo;What kin I do for ye?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled. &ldquo;So he calls them &lsquo;sheers,&rsquo; does
he?&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Good! I think I&rsquo;ll like him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He introduced himself as coming from Philadelphia, and went on to say that he
was interested in various Chicago ventures, inclined to invest in any good
stock which would rise, and particularly desirous to buy into some
corporation&mdash;public utility preferred&mdash;which would be certain to grow
with the expansion of the city.
</p>

<p>
Old Laughlin, who was now all of sixty years of age, owned a seat on the Board,
and was worth in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars, looked at
Cowperwood quizzically.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, now, if you&rsquo;d &rsquo;a&rsquo; come along here ten or fifteen
years ago you might &rsquo;a&rsquo; got in on the ground floor of a lot of
things,&rdquo; he observed. &ldquo;There was these here gas companies, now,
that them Otway and Apperson boys got in on, and then all these here
street-railways. Why, I&rsquo;m the feller that told Eddie Parkinson what a
fine thing he could make out of it if he would go and organize that North State
Street line. He promised me a bunch of sheers if he ever worked it out, but he
never give &rsquo;em to me. I didn&rsquo;t expect him to, though,&rdquo; he
added, wisely, and with a glint. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m too old a trader for that.
He&rsquo;s out of it now, anyway. That Michaels-Kennelly crowd skinned him.
Yep, if you&rsquo;d &rsquo;a&rsquo; been here ten or fifteen years ago you
might &rsquo;a&rsquo; got in on that. &rsquo;Tain&rsquo;t no use
a-thinkin&rsquo; about that, though, any more. Them sheers is sellin&rsquo; fer
clost onto a hundred and sixty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled. &ldquo;Well, Mr. Laughlin,&rdquo; he observed, &ldquo;you
must have been on &rsquo;change a long time here. You seem to know a good deal
of what has gone on in the past.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yep, ever since 1852,&rdquo; replied the old man. He had a thick growth
of upstanding hair looking not unlike a rooster&rsquo;s comb, a long and what
threatened eventually to become a Punch-and-Judy chin, a slightly aquiline
nose, high cheek-bones, and hollow, brown-skinned cheeks. His eyes were as
clear and sharp as those of a lynx.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To tell you the truth, Mr. Laughlin,&rdquo; went on Cowperwood,
&ldquo;what I&rsquo;m really out here in Chicago for is to find a man with whom
I can go into partnership in the brokerage business. Now I&rsquo;m in the
banking and brokerage business myself in the East. I have a firm in
Philadelphia and a seat on both the New York and Philadelphia exchanges. I have
some affairs in Fargo also. Any trade agency can tell you about me. You have a
Board of Trade seat here, and no doubt you do some New York and Philadelphia
exchange business. The new firm, if you would go in with me, could handle it
all direct. I&rsquo;m a rather strong outside man myself. I&rsquo;m thinking of
locating permanently in Chicago. What would you say now to going into business
with me? Do you think we could get along in the same office space?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood had a way, when he wanted to be pleasant, of beating the fingers of
his two hands together, finger for finger, tip for tip. He also smiled at the
same time&mdash;or, rather, beamed&mdash;his eyes glowing with a warm,
magnetic, seemingly affectionate light.
</p>

<p>
As it happened, old Peter Laughlin had arrived at that psychological moment
when he was wishing that some such opportunity as this might appear and be
available. He was a lonely man, never having been able to bring himself to
trust his peculiar temperament in the hands of any woman. As a matter of fact,
he had never understood women at all, his relations being confined to those sad
immoralities of the cheapest character which only money&mdash;grudgingly given,
at that&mdash;could buy. He lived in three small rooms in West Harrison Street,
near Throup, where he cooked his own meals at times. His one companion was a
small spaniel, simple and affectionate, a she dog, Jennie by name, with whom he
slept. Jennie was a docile, loving companion, waiting for him patiently by day
in his office until he was ready to go home at night. He talked to this spaniel
quite as he would to a human being (even more intimately, perhaps), taking the
dog&rsquo;s glances, tail-waggings, and general movements for answer. In the
morning when he arose, which was often as early as half past four, or even
four&mdash;he was a brief sleeper&mdash;he would begin by pulling on his
trousers (he seldom bathed any more except at a down-town barber shop) and
talking to Jennie.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Git up, now, Jinnie,&rdquo; he would say. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s time to git
up. We&rsquo;ve got to make our coffee now and git some breakfast. I can see
yuh, lyin&rsquo; there, pertendin&rsquo; to be asleep. Come on, now!
You&rsquo;ve had sleep enough. You&rsquo;ve been sleepin&rsquo; as long as I
have.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Jennie would be watching him out of the corner of one loving eye, her tail
tap-tapping on the bed, her free ear going up and down.
</p>

<p>
When he was fully dressed, his face and hands washed, his old string tie pulled
around into a loose and convenient knot, his hair brushed upward, Jennie would
get up and jump demonstratively about, as much as to say, &ldquo;You see how
prompt I am.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way,&rdquo; old Laughlin would comment. &ldquo;Allers
last. Yuh never git up first, do yuh, Jinnie? Allers let yer old man do that,
don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
On bitter days, when the car-wheels squeaked and one&rsquo;s ears and fingers
seemed to be in danger of freezing, old Laughlin, arrayed in a heavy, dusty
greatcoat of ancient vintage and a square hat, would carry Jennie down-town in
a greenish-black bag along with some of his beloved &ldquo;sheers&rdquo; which
he was meditating on. Only then could he take Jennie in the cars. On other days
they would walk, for he liked exercise. He would get to his office as early as
seven-thirty or eight, though business did not usually begin until after nine,
and remain until four-thirty or five, reading the papers or calculating during
the hours when there were no customers. Then he would take Jennie and go for a
walk or to call on some business acquaintance. His home room, the newspapers,
the floor of the exchange, his offices, and the streets were his only
resources. He cared nothing for plays, books, pictures, music&mdash;and for
women only in his one-angled, mentally impoverished way. His limitations were
so marked that to a lover of character like Cowperwood he was
fascinating&mdash;but Cowperwood only used character. He never idled over it
long artistically.
</p>

<p>
As Cowperwood suspected, what old Laughlin did not know about Chicago financial
conditions, deals, opportunities, and individuals was scarcely worth knowing.
Being only a trader by instinct, neither an organizer nor an executive, he had
never been able to make any great constructive use of his knowledge. His gains
and his losses he took with reasonable equanimity, exclaiming over and over,
when he lost: &ldquo;Shucks! I hadn&rsquo;t orter have done that,&rdquo; and
snapping his fingers. When he won heavily or was winning he munched tobacco
with a seraphic smile and occasionally in the midst of trading would exclaim:
&ldquo;You fellers better come in. It&rsquo;s a-gonta rain some more.&rdquo; He
was not easy to trap in any small gambling game, and only lost or won when
there was a free, open struggle in the market, or when he was engineering some
little scheme of his own.
</p>

<p>
The matter of this partnership was not arranged at once, although it did not
take long. Old Peter Laughlin wanted to think it over, although he had
immediately developed a personal fancy for Cowperwood. In a way he was the
latter&rsquo;s victim and servant from the start. They met day after day to
discuss various details and terms; finally, true to his instincts, old Peter
demanded a full half interest.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, you don&rsquo;t want that much, Laughlin,&rdquo; Cowperwood
suggested, quite blandly. They were sitting in Laughlin&rsquo;s private office
between four and five in the afternoon, and Laughlin was chewing tobacco with
the sense of having a fine, interesting problem before him. &ldquo;I have a
seat on the New York Stock Exchange,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;and that&rsquo;s
worth forty thousand dollars. My seat on the Philadelphia exchange is worth
more than yours here. They will naturally figure as the principal assets of the
firm. It&rsquo;s to be in your name. I&rsquo;ll be liberal with you, though.
Instead of a third, which would be fair, I&rsquo;ll make it forty-nine per
cent., and we&rsquo;ll call the firm Peter Laughlin &amp; Co. I like you, and I
think you can be of a lot of use to me. I know you will make more money through
me than you have alone. I could go in with a lot of these silk-stocking fellows
around here, but I don&rsquo;t want to. You&rsquo;d better decide right now,
and let&rsquo;s get to work.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Old Laughlin was pleased beyond measure that young Cowperwood should want to go
in with him. He had become aware of late that all of the young, smug newcomers
on &rsquo;change considered him an old fogy. Here was a strong, brave young
Easterner, twenty years his junior, evidently as shrewd as himself&mdash;more
so, he feared&mdash;who actually proposed a business alliance. Besides,
Cowperwood, in his young, healthy, aggressive way, was like a breath of spring.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I ain&rsquo;t keerin&rsquo; so much about the name,&rdquo; rejoined
Laughlin. &ldquo;You can fix it that-a-way if you want to. Givin&rsquo; you
fifty-one per cent. gives you charge of this here shebang. All right, though; I
ain&rsquo;t a-kickin&rsquo;. I guess I can manage allus to git what&rsquo;s
a-comin&rsquo; to me.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a bargain, then,&rdquo; said Cowperwood. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll
want new offices, Laughlin, don&rsquo;t you think? This one&rsquo;s a little
dark.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fix it up any way you like, Mr. Cowperwood. It&rsquo;s all the same to
me. I&rsquo;ll be glad to see how yer do it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In a week the details were completed, and two weeks later the sign of Peter
Laughlin &amp; Co., grain and commission merchants, appeared over the door of a
handsome suite of rooms on the ground floor of a corner at La Salle and
Madison, in the heart of the Chicago financial district.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Get onto old Laughlin, will you?&rdquo; one broker observed to another,
as they passed the new, pretentious commission-house with its splendid
plate-glass windows, and observed the heavy, ornate bronze sign placed on
either side of the door, which was located exactly on the corner.
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s struck him? I thought he was almost all through.
Who&rsquo;s the Company?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. Some fellow from the East, I think.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, he&rsquo;s certainly moving up. Look at the plate glass, will
you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was thus that Frank Algernon Cowperwood&rsquo;s Chicago financial career was
definitely launched.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/>
Concerning A Wife And Family</h2>

<p>
If any one fancies for a moment that this commercial move on the part of
Cowperwood was either hasty or ill-considered they but little appreciate the
incisive, apprehensive psychology of the man. His thoughts as to life and
control (tempered and hardened by thirteen months of reflection in the Eastern
District Penitentiary) had given him a fixed policy. He could, should, and
would rule alone. No man must ever again have the least claim on him save that
of a suppliant. He wanted no more dangerous combinations such as he had had
with Stener, the man through whom he had lost so much in Philadelphia, and
others. By right of financial intellect and courage he was first, and would so
prove it. Men must swing around him as planets around the sun.
</p>

<p>
Moreover, since his fall from grace in Philadelphia he had come to think that
never again, perhaps, could he hope to become socially acceptable in the sense
in which the so-called best society of a city interprets the phrase; and
pondering over this at odd moments, he realized that his future allies in all
probability would not be among the rich and socially important&mdash;the
clannish, snobbish elements of society&mdash;but among the beginners and
financially strong men who had come or were coming up from the bottom, and who
had no social hopes whatsoever. There were many such. If through luck and
effort he became sufficiently powerful financially he might then hope to
dictate to society. Individualistic and even anarchistic in character, and
without a shred of true democracy, yet temperamentally he was in sympathy with
the mass more than he was with the class, and he understood the mass better.
Perhaps this, in a way, will explain his desire to connect himself with a
personality so naive and strange as Peter Laughlin. He had annexed him as a
surgeon selects a special knife or instrument for an operation, and, shrewd as
old Laughlin was, he was destined to be no more than a tool in
Cowperwood&rsquo;s strong hands, a mere hustling messenger, content to take
orders from this swiftest of moving brains. For the present Cowperwood was
satisfied to do business under the firm name of Peter Laughlin &amp;
Co.&mdash;as a matter of fact, he preferred it; for he could thus keep himself
sufficiently inconspicuous to avoid undue attention, and gradually work out one
or two coups by which he hoped to firmly fix himself in the financial future of
Chicago.
</p>

<p>
As the most essential preliminary to the social as well as the financial
establishment of himself and Aileen in Chicago, Harper Steger,
Cowperwood&rsquo;s lawyer, was doing his best all this while to ingratiate
himself in the confidence of Mrs. Cowperwood, who had no faith in lawyers any
more than she had in her recalcitrant husband. She was now a tall, severe, and
rather plain woman, but still bearing the marks of the former passive charm
that had once interested Cowperwood. Notable crows&rsquo;-feet had come about
the corners of her nose, mouth, and eyes. She had a remote, censorious,
subdued, self-righteous, and even injured air.
</p>

<p>
The cat-like Steger, who had all the graceful contemplative air of a prowling
Tom, was just the person to deal with her. A more suavely cunning and
opportunistic soul never was. His motto might well have been, speak softly and
step lightly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he argued, seated in her modest West
Philadelphia parlor one spring afternoon, &ldquo;I need not tell you what a
remarkable man your husband is, nor how useless it is to combat him. Admitting
all his faults&mdash;and we can agree, if you please, that they are
many&rdquo;&mdash;Mrs. Cowperwood stirred with irritation&mdash;&ldquo;still it
is not worth while to attempt to hold him to a strict account. You
know&rdquo;&mdash;and Mr. Steger opened his thin, artistic hands in a
deprecatory way&mdash;&ldquo;what sort of a man Mr. Cowperwood is, and whether
he can be coerced or not. He is not an ordinary man, Mrs. Cowperwood. No man
could have gone through what he has and be where he is to-day, and be an
average man. If you take my advice you will let him go his way. Grant him a
divorce. He is willing, even anxious to make a definite provision for you and
your children. He will, I am sure, look liberally after their future. But he is
becoming very irritable over your unwillingness to give him a legal separation,
and unless you do I am very much afraid that the whole matter will be thrown
into the courts. If, before it comes to that, I could effect an arrangement
agreeable to you, I would be much pleased. As you know, I have been greatly
grieved by the whole course of your recent affairs. I am intensely sorry that
things are as they are.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Steger lifted his eyes in a very pained, deprecatory way. He regretted
deeply the shifty currents of this troubled world.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Cowperwood for perhaps the fifteenth or twentieth time heard him to the
end in patience. Cowperwood would not return. Steger was as much her friend as
any other lawyer would be. Besides, he was socially agreeable to her. Despite
his Machiavellian profession, she half believed him. He went over, tactfully, a
score of additional points. Finally, on the twenty-first visit, and with
seemingly great distress, he told her that her husband had decided to break
with her financially, to pay no more bills, and do nothing until his
responsibility had been fixed by the courts, and that he, Steger, was about to
retire from the case. Mrs. Cowperwood felt that she must yield; she named her
ultimatum. If he would fix two hundred thousand dollars on her and the children
(this was Cowperwood&rsquo;s own suggestion) and later on do something
commercially for their only son, Frank, junior, she would let him go. She
disliked to do it. She knew that it meant the triumph of Aileen Butler, such as
it was. But, after all, that wretched creature had been properly disgraced in
Philadelphia. It was not likely she could ever raise her head socially anywhere
any more. She agreed to file a plea which Steger would draw up for her, and by
that oily gentleman&rsquo;s machinations it was finally wormed through the
local court in the most secret manner imaginable. The merest item in three of
the Philadelphia papers some six weeks later reported that a divorce had been
granted. When Mrs. Cowperwood read it she wondered greatly that so little
attention had been attracted by it. She had feared a much more extended
comment. She little knew the cat-like prowlings, legal and journalistic, of her
husband&rsquo;s interesting counsel. When Cowperwood read it on one of his
visits to Chicago he heaved a sigh of relief. At last it was really true. Now
he could make Aileen his wife. He telegraphed her an enigmatic message of
congratulation. When Aileen read it she thrilled from head to foot. Now,
shortly, she would become the legal bride of Frank Algernon Cowperwood, the
newly enfranchised Chicago financier, and then&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she said, in her Philadelphia home, when she read it,
&ldquo;isn&rsquo;t that splendid! Now I&rsquo;ll be Mrs. Cowperwood. Oh,
dear!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Frank Algernon Cowperwood number one, thinking over her husband&rsquo;s
liaison, failure, imprisonment, pyrotechnic operations at the time of the Jay
Cooke failure, and his present financial ascendancy, wondered at the mystery of
life. There must be a God. The Bible said so. Her husband, evil though he was,
could not be utterly bad, for he had made ample provision for her, and the
children liked him. Certainly, at the time of the criminal prosecution he was
no worse than some others who had gone free. Yet he had been convicted, and she
was sorry for that and had always been. He was an able and ruthless man. She
hardly knew what to think. The one person she really did blame was the
wretched, vain, empty-headed, ungodly Aileen Butler, who had been his
seductress and was probably now to be his wife. God would punish her, no doubt.
He must. So she went to church on Sundays and tried to believe, come what
might, that all was for the best.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/>
The New Queen of the Home</h2>
<p>
The day Cowperwood and Aileen were married&mdash;it was in an obscure village
called Dalston, near Pittsburg, in western Pennsylvania, where they had stopped
off to manage this matter&mdash;he had said to her: &ldquo;I want to tell you,
dear, that you and I are really beginning life all over. Now it depends on how
well we play this game as to how well we succeed. If you will listen to me we
won&rsquo;t try to do anything much socially in Chicago for the present. Of
course we&rsquo;ll have to meet a few people. That can&rsquo;t be avoided. Mr.
and Mrs. Addison are anxious to meet you, and I&rsquo;ve delayed too long in
that matter as it is. But what I mean is that I don&rsquo;t believe it&rsquo;s
advisable to push this social exchange too far. People are sure to begin to
make inquiries if we do. My plan is to wait a little while and then build a
really fine house so that we won&rsquo;t need to rebuild. We&rsquo;re going to
go to Europe next spring, if things go right, and we may get some ideas over
there. I&rsquo;m going to put in a good big gallery,&rdquo; he concluded.
&ldquo;While we&rsquo;re traveling we might as well see what we can find in the
way of pictures and so on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen was thrilling with anticipation. &ldquo;Oh, Frank,&rdquo; she said to
him, quite ecstatically, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re so wonderful! You do everything
you want, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not quite,&rdquo; he said, deprecatingly; &ldquo;but it isn&rsquo;t for
not wanting to. Chance has a little to say about some of these chings,
Aileen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She stood in front of him, as she often did, her plump, ringed hands on his
shoulders, and looked into those steady, lucid pools&mdash;his eyes. Another
man, less leonine, and with all his shifting thoughts, might have had to
contend with the handicap of a shifty gaze; he fronted the queries and
suspicions of the world with a seeming candor that was as disarming as that of
a child. The truth was he believed in himself, and himself only, and thence
sprang his courage to think as he pleased. Aileen wondered, but could get no
answer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, you big tiger!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You great, big lion!
Boo!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He pinched her cheek and smiled. &ldquo;Poor Aileen!&rdquo; he thought. She
little knew the unsolvable mystery that he was even to himself&mdash;to himself
most of all.
</p>

<p>
Immediately after their marriage Cowperwood and Aileen journeyed to Chicago
direct, and took the best rooms that the Tremont provided, for the time being.
A little later they heard of a comparatively small furnished house at
Twenty-third and Michigan Avenue, which, with horses and carriages thrown in,
was to be had for a season or two on lease. They contracted for it at once,
installing a butler, servants, and the general service of a well-appointed
home. Here, because he thought it was only courteous, and not because he
thought it was essential or wise at this time to attempt a social onslaught, he
invited the Addisons and one or two others whom he felt sure would
come&mdash;Alexander Rambaud, president of the Chicago &amp; Northwestern, and
his wife, and Taylor Lord, an architect whom he had recently called into
consultation and whom he found socially acceptable. Lord, like the Addisons,
was in society, but only as a minor figure.
</p>

<p>
Trust Cowperwood to do the thing as it should be done. The place they had
leased was a charming little gray-stone house, with a neat flight of granite,
balustraded steps leading up to its wide-arched door, and a judicious use of
stained glass to give its interior an artistically subdued atmosphere.
Fortunately, it was furnished in good taste. Cowperwood turned over the matter
of the dinner to a caterer and decorator. Aileen had nothing to do but dress,
and wait, and look her best.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I needn&rsquo;t tell you,&rdquo; he said, in the morning, on leaving,
&ldquo;that I want you to look nice to-night, pet. I want the Addisons and Mr.
Rambaud to like you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A hint was more than sufficient for Aileen, though really it was not needed. On
arriving at Chicago she had sought and discovered a French maid. Although she
had brought plenty of dresses from Philadelphia, she had been having additional
winter costumes prepared by the best and most expensive mistress of the art in
Chicago&mdash;Theresa Donovan. Only the day before she had welcomed home a
golden-yellow silk under heavy green lace, which, with her reddish-gold hair
and her white arms and neck, seemed to constitute an unusual harmony. Her
boudoir on the night of the dinner presented a veritable riot of silks, satins,
laces, lingerie, hair ornaments, perfumes, jewels&mdash;anything and everything
which might contribute to the feminine art of being beautiful. Once in the
throes of a toilet composition, Aileen invariably became restless and
energetic, almost fidgety, and her maid, Fadette, was compelled to move
quickly. Fresh from her bath, a smooth, ivory Venus, she worked quickly through
silken lingerie, stockings and shoes, to her hair. Fadette had an idea to
suggest for the hair. Would Madame let her try a new swirl she had seen? Madame
would&mdash;yes. So there were movings of her mass of rich glinting tresses
this way and that. Somehow it would not do. A braided effect was then tried,
and instantly discarded; finally a double looping, without braids, low over the
forehead, caught back with two dark-green bands, crossing like an X above the
center of her forehead and fastened with a diamond sunburst, served admirably.
In her filmy, lacy boudoir costume of pink silk Aileen stood up and surveyed
herself in the full-length mirror.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, turning her head this way and that.
</p>

<p>
Then came the dress from Donovan&rsquo;s, rustling and crisping. She slipped
into it wonderingly, critically, while Fadette worked at the back, the arms,
about her knees, doing one little essential thing after another.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Madame!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;Oh, charmant! Ze hair, it go
weeth it perfect. It ees so full, so beyutiful here&rdquo;&mdash;she pointed to
the hips, where the lace formed a clinging basque. &ldquo;Oh, tees varee, varee
nize.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen glowed, but with scarcely a smile. She was concerned. It wasn&rsquo;t so
much her toilet, which must be everything that it should be&mdash;but this Mr.
Addison, who was so rich and in society, and Mr. Rambaud, who was very
powerful, Frank said, must like her. It was the necessity to put her best foot
forward now that was really troubling her. She must interest these men
mentally, perhaps, as well as physically, and with social graces, and that was
not so easy. For all her money and comfort in Philadelphia she had never been
in society in its best aspects, had never done social entertaining of any real
importance. Frank was the most important man who had ever crossed her path. No
doubt Mr. Rambaud had a severe, old-fashioned wife. How would she talk to her?
And Mrs. Addison! She would know and see everything. Aileen almost talked out
loud to herself in a consoling way as she dressed, so strenuous were her
thoughts; but she went on, adding the last touches to her physical graces.
</p>

<p>
When she finally went down-stairs to see how the dining and reception rooms
looked, and Fadette began putting away the welter of discarded
garments&mdash;she was a radiant vision&mdash;a splendid greenish-gold figure,
with gorgeous hair, smooth, soft, shapely ivory arms, a splendid neck and bust,
and a swelling form. She felt beautiful, and yet she was a little
nervous&mdash;truly. Frank himself would be critical. She went about looking
into the dining-room, which, by the caterer&rsquo;s art, had been transformed
into a kind of jewel-box glowing with flowers, silver, gold, tinted glass, and
the snowy whiteness of linen. It reminded her of an opal flashing all its soft
fires. She went into the general reception-room, where was a grand piano
finished in pink and gold, upon which, with due thought to her one
accomplishment&mdash;her playing&mdash;she had arranged the songs and
instrumental pieces she did best. Aileen was really not a brilliant musician.
For the first time in her life she felt matronly&mdash;as if now she were not a
girl any more, but a woman grown, with some serious responsibilities, and yet
she was not really suited to the role. As a matter of fact, her thoughts were
always fixed on the artistic, social, and dramatic aspects of life, with
unfortunately a kind of nebulosity of conception which permitted no
condensation into anything definite or concrete. She could only be wildly and
feverishly interested. Just then the door clicked to Frank&rsquo;s key&mdash;it
was nearing six&mdash;and in he came, smiling, confident, a perfect atmosphere
of assurance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well!&rdquo; he observed, surveying her in the soft glow of the
reception-room lighted by wall candles judiciously arranged. &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s
the vision floating around here? I&rsquo;m almost afraid to touch you. Much
powder on those arms?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He drew her into his arms, and she put up her mouth with a sense of relief.
Obviously, he must think that she looked charming.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am chalky, I guess. You&rsquo;ll just have to stand it, though.
You&rsquo;re going to dress, anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She put her smooth, plump arms about his neck, and he felt pleased. This was
the kind of a woman to have&mdash;a beauty. Her neck was resplendent with a
string of turquoise, her fingers too heavily jeweled, but still beautiful. She
was faintly redolent of hyacinth or lavender. Her hair appealed to him, and,
above all, the rich yellow silk of her dress, flashing fulgurously through the
closely netted green.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Charming, girlie. You&rsquo;ve outdone yourself. I haven&rsquo;t seen
this dress before. Where did you get it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here in Chicago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He lifted her warm fingers, surveying her train, and turned her about.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t need any advice. You ought to start a school.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Am I all right?&rdquo; she queried, smartly, but with a sense of
self-distrust for the moment, and all because of him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re perfect. Couldn&rsquo;t be nicer. Splendid!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She took heart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish your friends would think so. You&rsquo;d better hurry.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He went up-stairs, and she followed, looking first into the dining-room again.
At least that was right. Surely Frank was a master.
</p>

<p>
At seven the plop of the feet of carriage-horses was heard, and a moment later
Louis, the butler, was opening the door. Aileen went down, a little nervous, a
little frigid, trying to think of many pleasant things, and wondering whether
she would really succeed in being entertaining. Cowperwood accompanied her, a
very different person in so far as mood and self-poise were concerned. To
himself his own future was always secure, and that of Aileen&rsquo;s if he
wished to make it so. The arduous, upward-ascending rungs of the social ladder
that were troubling her had no such significance to him.
</p>

<p>
The dinner, as such simple things go, was a success from what might be called a
managerial and pictorial point of view. Cowperwood, because of his varied
tastes and interests, could discuss railroading with Mr. Rambaud in a very
definite and illuminating way; could talk architecture with Mr. Lord as a
student, for instance, of rare promise would talk with a master; and with a
woman like Mrs. Addison or Mrs. Rambaud he could suggest or follow appropriate
leads. Aileen, unfortunately, was not so much at home, for her natural state
and mood were remote not so much from a serious as from an accurate conception
of life. So many things, except in a very nebulous and suggestive way, were
sealed books to Aileen&mdash;merely faint, distant tinklings. She knew nothing
of literature except certain authors who to the truly cultured might seem
banal. As for art, it was merely a jingle of names gathered from
Cowperwood&rsquo;s private comments. Her one redeeming feature was that she was
truly beautiful herself&mdash;a radiant, vibrating <i>objet d&rsquo;art</i>. A
man like Rambaud, remote, conservative, constructive, saw the place of a woman
like Aileen in the life of a man like Cowperwood on the instant. She was such a
woman as he would have prized himself in a certain capacity.
</p>

<p>
Sex interest in all strong men usually endures unto the end, governed sometimes
by a stoic resignation. The experiment of such attraction can, as they well
know, be made over and over, but to what end? For many it becomes too
troublesome. Yet the presence of so glittering a spectacle as Aileen on this
night touched Mr. Rambaud with an ancient ambition. He looked at her almost
sadly. Once he was much younger. But alas, he had never attracted the flaming
interest of any such woman. As he studied her now he wished that he might have
enjoyed such good fortune.
</p>

<p>
In contrast with Aileen&rsquo;s orchid glow and tinted richness Mrs.
Rambaud&rsquo;s simple gray silk, the collar of which came almost to her ears,
was disturbing&mdash;almost reproving&mdash;but Mrs. Rambaud&rsquo;s ladylike
courtesy and generosity made everything all right. She came out of intellectual
New England&mdash;the Emerson-Thoreau-Channing Phillips school of
philosophy&mdash;and was broadly tolerant. As a matter of fact, she liked
Aileen and all the Orient richness she represented. &ldquo;Such a sweet little
house this is,&rdquo; she said, smilingly. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve noticed it often.
We&rsquo;re not so far removed from you but what we might be called
neighbors.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen&rsquo;s eyes spoke appreciation. Although she could not fully grasp Mrs.
Rambaud, she understood her, in a way, and liked her. She was probably
something like her own mother would have been if the latter had been highly
educated. While they were moving into the reception-room Taylor Lord was
announced. Cowperwood took his hand and brought him forward to the others.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; said Lord, admiringly&mdash;a tall, rugged,
thoughtful person&mdash;&ldquo;let me be one of many to welcome you to Chicago.
After Philadelphia you will find some things to desire at first, but we all
come to like it eventually.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m sure I shall,&rdquo; smiled Aileen.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I lived in Philadelphia years ago, but only for a little while,&rdquo;
added Lord. &ldquo;I left there to come here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The observation gave Aileen the least pause, but she passed it over lightly.
This sort of accidental reference she must learn to expect; there might be much
worse bridges to cross.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I find Chicago all right,&rdquo; she replied, briskly.
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing the matter with it. It has more snap than
Philadelphia ever had.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad to hear you say that. I like it so much. Perhaps
it&rsquo;s because I find such interesting things to do here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was admiring the splendor of her arms and hair. What need had beautiful
woman to be intellectual, anyhow, he was saying to himself, sensing that Aileen
might be deficient in ultimate refinement.
</p>

<p>
Once more an announcement from the butler, and now Mr. and Mrs. Addison
entered. Addison was not at all concerned over coming here&mdash;liked the idea
of it; his own position and that of his wife in Chicago was secure. &ldquo;How
are you, Cowperwood?&rdquo; he beamed, laying one hand on the latter&rsquo;s
shoulder. &ldquo;This is fine of you to have us in to-night. Mrs. Cowperwood,
I&rsquo;ve been telling your husband for nearly a year now that he should bring
you out here. Did he tell you?&rdquo; (Addison had not as yet confided to his
wife the true history of Cowperwood and Aileen.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, indeed,&rdquo; replied Aileen, gaily, feeling that Addison was
charmed by her beauty. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been wanting to come, too. It&rsquo;s
his fault that I wasn&rsquo;t here sooner.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Addison, looking circumspectly at Aileen, said to himself that she was
certainly a stunning-looking woman. So she was the cause of the first
wife&rsquo;s suit. No wonder. What a splendid creature! He contrasted her with
Mrs. Addison, and to his wife&rsquo;s disadvantage. She had never been as
striking, as stand-upish as Aileen, though possibly she might have more sense.
Jove! if he could find a woman like Aileen to-day. Life would take on a new
luster. And yet he had women&mdash;very carefully, very subterraneously. But he
had them.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s such a pleasure to meet you,&rdquo; Mrs. Addison, a
corpulent, bejeweled lady, was saying to Aileen. &ldquo;My husband and yours
have become the best of friends, apparently. We must see more of each
other.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She babbled on in a puffy social way, and Aileen felt as though she were
getting along swiftly. The butler brought in a great tray of appetizers and
cordials, and put them softly on a remote table. Dinner was served, and the
talk flowed on; they discussed the growth of the city, a new church that Lord
was building ten blocks farther out; Rambaud told about some humorous land
swindles. It was quite gay. Meanwhile Aileen did her best to become interested
in Mrs. Rambaud and Mrs. Addison. She liked the latter somewhat better, solely
because it was a little easier to talk to her. Mrs. Rambaud Aileen knew to be
the wiser and more charitable woman, but she frightened her a little; presently
she had to fall back on Mr. Lord&rsquo;s help. He came to her rescue gallantly,
talking of everything that came into his mind. All the men outside of
Cowperwood were thinking how splendid Aileen was physically, how white were her
arms, how rounded her neck and shoulders, how rich her hair.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/>
Chicago Gas</h2>

<p>
Old Peter Laughlin, rejuvenated by Cowperwood&rsquo;s electric ideas, was
making money for the house. He brought many bits of interesting gossip from the
floor, and such shrewd guesses as to what certain groups and individuals were
up to, that Cowperwood was able to make some very brilliant deductions.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By Gosh! Frank, I think I know exactly what them fellers are trying to
do,&rdquo; Laughlin would frequently remark of a morning, after he had lain in
his lonely Harrison Street bed meditating the major portion of the night.
&ldquo;That there Stock Yards gang&rdquo; (and by gang he meant most of the
great manipulators, like Arneel, Hand, Schryhart and others) &ldquo;are after
corn again. We want to git long o&rsquo; that now, or I miss my guess. What do
you think, huh?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, schooled by now in many Western subtleties which he had not
previously known, and daily becoming wiser, would as a rule give an
instantaneous decision.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re right. Risk a hundred thousand bushels. I think New York
Central is going to drop a point or two in a few days. We&rsquo;d better go
short a point.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Laughlin could never figure out quite how it was that Cowperwood always seemed
to know and was ready to act quite as quickly in local matters as he was
himself. He understood his wisdom concerning Eastern shares and things dealt in
on the Eastern exchange, but these Chicago matters?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Whut makes you think that?&rdquo; he asked Cowperwood, one day, quite
curiously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Peter,&rdquo; Cowperwood replied, quite simply, &ldquo;Anton
Videra&rdquo; (one of the directors of the Wheat and Corn Bank) &ldquo;was in
here yesterday while you were on &rsquo;change, and he was telling me.&rdquo;
He described a situation which Videra had outlined.
</p>

<p>
Laughlin knew Videra as a strong, wealthy Pole who had come up in the last few
years. It was strange how Cowperwood naturally got in with these wealthy men
and won their confidence so quickly. Videra would never have become so
confidential with him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Huh!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Well, if he says it it&rsquo;s
more&rsquo;n likely so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
So Laughlin bought, and Peter Laughlin &amp; Co. won.
</p>

<p>
But this grain and commission business, while it was yielding a profit which
would average about twenty thousand a year to each partner, was nothing more to
Cowperwood than a source of information.
</p>

<p>
He wanted to &ldquo;get in&rdquo; on something that was sure to bring very
great returns within a reasonable time and that would not leave him in any such
desperate situation as he was at the time of the Chicago fire&mdash;spread out
very thin, as he put it. He had interested in his ventures a small group of
Chicago men who were watching him&mdash;Judah Addison, Alexander Rambaud,
Millard Bailey, Anton Videra&mdash;men who, although not supreme figures by any
means, had free capital. He knew that he could go to them with any truly sound
proposition. The one thing that most attracted his attention was the Chicago
gas situation, because there was a chance to step in almost unheralded in an as
yet unoccupied territory; with franchises once secured&mdash;the reader can
quite imagine how&mdash;he could present himself, like a Hamilcar Barca in the
heart of Spain or a Hannibal at the gates of Rome, with a demand for surrender
and a division of spoils.
</p>

<p>
There were at this time three gas companies operating in the three different
divisions of the city&mdash;the three sections, or &ldquo;sides,&rdquo; as they
were called&mdash;South, West, and North, and of these the Chicago Gas, Light,
and Coke Company, organized in 1848 to do business on the South Side, was the
most flourishing and important. The People&rsquo;s Gas, Light, and Coke
Company, doing business on the West Side, was a few years younger than the
South Chicago company, and had been allowed to spring into existence through
the foolish self-confidence of the organizer and directors of the South Side
company, who had fancied that neither the West Side nor the North Side was
going to develop very rapidly for a number of years to come, and had counted on
the city council&rsquo;s allowing them to extend their mains at any time to
these other portions of the city. A third company, the North Chicago Gas
Illuminating Company, had been organized almost simultaneously with the West
Side company by the same process through which the other companies had been
brought into life&mdash;their avowed intention, like that of the West Side
company, being to confine their activities to the sections from which the
organizers presumably came.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood&rsquo;s first project was to buy out and combine the three old city
companies. With this in view he looked up the holders in all three
corporations&mdash;their financial and social status. It was his idea that by
offering them three for one, or even four for one, for every dollar represented
by the market value of their stock he might buy in and capitalize the three
companies as one. Then, by issuing sufficient stock to cover all his
obligations, he would reap a rich harvest and at the same time leave himself in
charge. He approached Judah Addison first as the most available man to help
float a scheme of this kind. He did not want him as a partner so much as he
wanted him as an investor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you how I feel about this,&rdquo; said Addison,
finally. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve hit on a great idea here. It&rsquo;s a wonder it
hasn&rsquo;t occurred to some one else before. And you&rsquo;ll want to keep
rather quiet about it, or some one else will rush in and do it. We have a lot
of venturesome men out here. But I like you, and I&rsquo;m with you. Now it
wouldn&rsquo;t be advisable for me to go in on this personally&mdash;not
openly, anyhow&mdash;but I&rsquo;ll promise to see that you get some of the
money you want. I like your idea of a central holding company, or pool, with
you in charge as trustee, and I&rsquo;m perfectly willing that you should
manage it, for I think you can do it. Anyhow, that leaves me out, apparently,
except as an Investor. But you will have to get two or three others to help
carry this guarantee with me. Have you any one in mind?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood. &ldquo;Certainly. I merely came to
you first.&rdquo; He mentioned Rambaud, Videra, Bailey, and others.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They&rsquo;re all right,&rdquo; said Addison, &ldquo;if you can get
them. But I&rsquo;m not sure, even then, that you can induce these other
fellows to sell out. They&rsquo;re not investors in the ordinary sense.
They&rsquo;re people who look on this gas business as their private business.
They started it. They like it. They built the gas-tanks and laid the mains. It
won&rsquo;t be easy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood found, as Addison predicted, that it was not such an easy matter to
induce the various stock-holders and directors in the old companies to come in
on any such scheme of reorganization. A closer, more unresponsive set of men he
was satisfied he had never met. His offer to buy outright at three or four for
one they refused absolutely. The stock in each case was selling from one
hundred and seventy to two hundred and ten, and intrinsically was worth more
every year, as the city was growing larger and its need of gas greater. At the
same time they were suspicious&mdash;one and all&mdash;of any combination
scheme by an outsider. Who was he? Whom did he represent? He could make it
clear that he had ample capital, but not who his backers were. The old officers
and directors fancied that it was a scheme on the part of some of the officers
and directors of one of the other companies to get control and oust them. Why
should they sell? Why be tempted by greater profits from their stock when they
were doing very well as it was? Because of his newness to Chicago and his lack
of connection as yet with large affairs Cowperwood was eventually compelled to
turn to another scheme&mdash;that of organizing new companies in the suburbs as
an entering-wedge of attack upon the city proper. Suburbs such as Lake View and
Hyde Park, having town or village councils of their own, were permitted to
grant franchises to water, gas, and street-railway companies duly incorporated
under the laws of the state. Cowperwood calculated that if he could form
separate and seemingly distinct companies for each of the villages and towns,
and one general company for the city later, he would be in a position to
dictate terms to the older organizations. It was simply a question of obtaining
his charters and franchises before his rivals had awakened to the situation.
</p>

<p>
The one difficulty was that he knew absolutely nothing of the business of
gas&mdash;its practical manufacture and distribution&mdash;and had never been
particularly interested init. Street-railroading, his favorite form of
municipal profit-seeking, and one upon which he had acquired an almost endless
fund of specialized information, offered no present practical opportunity for
him here in Chicago. He meditated on the situation, did some reading on the
manufacture of gas, and then suddenly, as was his luck, found an implement
ready to his hand.
</p>

<p>
It appeared that in the course of the life and growth of the South Side company
there had once been a smaller organization founded by a man by the name of
Sippens&mdash;Henry De Soto Sippens&mdash;who had entered and actually secured,
by some hocus-pocus, a franchise to manufacture and sell gas in the down-town
districts, but who had been annoyed by all sorts of legal processes until he
had finally been driven out or persuaded to get out. He was now in the
real-estate business in Lake View. Old Peter Laughlin knew him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a smart little cuss,&rdquo; Laughlin told Cowperwood.
&ldquo;I thort onct he&rsquo;d make a go of it, but they ketched him where his
hair was short, and he had to let go. There was an explosion in his tank over
here near the river onct, an I think he thort them fellers blew him up. Anyhow,
he got out. I ain&rsquo;t seen ner heard sight of him fer years.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood sent old Peter to look up Mr. Sippens and find out what he was
really doing, and whether he would be interested to get back in the gas
business. Enter, then, a few days later into the office of Peter Laughlin &amp;
Co. Henry De Soto Sippens. He was a very little man, about fifty years of age;
he wore a high, four-cornered, stiff felt hat, with a short brown business coat
(which in summer became seersucker) and square-toed shoes; he looked for all
the world like a country drug or book store owner, with perhaps the air of a
country doctor or lawyer superadded. His cuffs protruded too far from his
coat-sleeves, his necktie bulged too far out of his vest, and his high hat was
set a little too far back on his forehead; otherwise he was acceptable,
pleasant, and interesting. He had short side-burns&mdash;reddish
brown&mdash;which stuck out quite defiantly, and his eyebrows were heavy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Sippens,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, blandly, &ldquo;you were once in
the gas manufacturing and distributing business here in Chicago, weren&rsquo;t
you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think I know as much about the manufacture of gas as any one,&rdquo;
replied Sippens, almost contentiously. &ldquo;I worked at it for a number of
years.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, now, Mr. Sippens, I was thinking that it might be interesting to
start a little gas company in one of these outlying villages that are growing
so fast and see if we couldn&rsquo;t make some money out of it. I&rsquo;m not a
practical gas man myself, but I thought I might interest some one who
was.&rdquo; He looked at Sippens in a friendly, estimating way. &ldquo;I have
heard of you as some one who has had considerable experience in this field here
in Chicago. If I should get up a company of this kind, with considerable
backing, do you think you might be willing to take the management of it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I know all about this gas field,&rdquo; Mr. Sippens was about to
say. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be done.&rdquo; But he changed his mind before
opening his lips. &ldquo;If I were paid enough,&rdquo; he said, cautiously.
&ldquo;I suppose you know what you have to contend with?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; Cowperwood replied, smiling. &ldquo;What would you
consider &lsquo;paid enough&rsquo; to mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, if I were given six thousand a year and a sufficient interest in the
company&mdash;say, a half, or something like that&mdash;I might consider
it,&rdquo; replied Sippens, determined, as he thought, to frighten Cowperwood
off by his exorbitant demands. He was making almost six thousand dollars a year
out of his present business.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t think that four thousand in several
companies&mdash;say up to fifteen thousand dollars&mdash;and an interest of
about a tenth in each would be better?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sippens meditated carefully on this. Plainly, the man before him was no
trifling beginner. He looked at Cowperwood shrewdly and saw at once, without
any additional explanation of any kind, that the latter was preparing a big
fight of some sort. Ten years before Sippens had sensed the immense
possibilities of the gas business. He had tried to &ldquo;get in on it,&rdquo;
but had been sued, waylaid, enjoined, financially blockaded, and finally blown
up. He had always resented the treatment he had received, and he had bitterly
regretted his inability to retaliate. He had thought his days of financial
effort were over, but here was a man who was subtly suggesting a stirring
fight, and who was calling him, like a hunter with horn, to the chase.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he replied, with less defiance and more
camaraderie, &ldquo;if you could show me that you have a legitimate proposition
in hand I am a practical gas man. I know all about mains, franchise contracts,
and gas-machinery. I organized and installed the plant at Dayton, Ohio, and
Rochester, New York. I would have been rich if I had got here a little
earlier.&rdquo; The echo of regret was in his voice.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, now, here&rsquo;s your chance, Mr. Sippens,&rdquo; urged
Cowperwood, subtly. &ldquo;Between you and me there&rsquo;s going to be a big
new gas company in the field. We&rsquo;ll make these old fellows step up and
see us quickly. Doesn&rsquo;t that interest you? There&rsquo;ll be plenty of
money. It isn&rsquo;t that that&rsquo;s wanting&mdash;it&rsquo;s an organizer,
a fighter, a practical gas man to build the plant, lay the mains, and so
on.&rdquo; Cowperwood rose suddenly, straight and determined&mdash;a trick with
him when he wanted to really impress any one. He seemed to radiate force,
conquest, victory. &ldquo;Do you want to come in?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I do, Mr. Cowperwood!&rdquo; exclaimed Sippens, jumping to his
feet, putting on his hat and shoving it far back on his head. He looked like a
chest-swollen bantam rooster.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood took his extended hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Get your real-estate affairs in order. I&rsquo;ll want you to get me a
franchise in Lake View shortly and build me a plant. I&rsquo;ll give you all
the help you need. I&rsquo;ll arrange everything to your satisfaction within a
week or so. We will want a good lawyer or two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sippens smiled ecstatically as he left the office. Oh, the wonder of this, and
after ten years! Now he would show those crooks. Now he had a real fighter
behind him&mdash;a man like himself. Now, by George, the fur would begin to
fly! Who was this man, anyhow? What a wonder! He would look him up. He knew
that from now on he would do almost anything Cowperwood wanted him to do.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br/>
Now This is Fighting</h2>

<p>
When Cowperwood, after failing in his overtures to the three city gas
companies, confided to Addison his plan of organizing rival companies in the
suburbs, the banker glared at him appreciatively. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a smart
one!&rdquo; he finally exclaimed. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll do! I back you to
win!&rdquo; He went on to advise Cowperwood that he would need the assistance
of some of the strong men on the various village councils. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re
all as crooked as eels&rsquo; teeth,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;But there are
one or two that are more crooked than others and safer&mdash;bell-wethers. Have
you got your lawyer?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t picked one yet, but I will. I&rsquo;m looking around for
the right man now.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, of course, I needn&rsquo;t tell you how important that is. There
is one man, old General Van Sickle, who has had considerable training in these
matters. He&rsquo;s fairly reliable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The entrance of Gen. Judson P. Van Sickle threw at the very outset a suggestive
light on the whole situation. The old soldier, over fifty, had been a general
of division during the Civil War, and had got his real start in life by filing
false titles to property in southern Illinois, and then bringing suits to
substantiate his fraudulent claims before friendly associates. He was now a
prosperous go-between, requiring heavy retainers, and yet not over-prosperous.
There was only one kind of business that came to the General&mdash;this kind;
and one instinctively compared him to that decoy sheep at the stock-yards that
had been trained to go forth into nervous, frightened flocks of its
fellow-sheep, balking at being driven into the slaughtering-pens, and lead them
peacefully into the shambles, knowing enough always to make his own way quietly
to the rear during the onward progress and thus escape. A dusty old lawyer,
this, with Heaven knows what welter of altered wills, broken promises, suborned
juries, influenced judges, bribed councilmen and legislators,
double-intentioned agreements and contracts, and a whole world of shifty legal
calculations and false pretenses floating around in his brain. Among the
politicians, judges, and lawyers generally, by reason of past useful services,
he was supposed to have some powerful connections. He liked to be called into
any case largely because it meant something to do and kept him from being
bored. When compelled to keep an appointment in winter, he would slip on an old
greatcoat of gray twill that he had worn until it was shabby, then, taking down
a soft felt hat, twisted and pulled out of shape by use, he would pull it low
over his dull gray eyes and amble forth. In summer his clothes looked as
crinkled as though he had slept in them for weeks. He smoked. In cast of
countenance he was not wholly unlike General Grant, with a short gray beard and
mustache which always seemed more or less unkempt and hair that hung down over
his forehead in a gray mass. The poor General! He was neither very happy nor
very unhappy&mdash;a doubting Thomas without faith or hope in humanity and
without any particular affection for anybody.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you how it is with these small councils, Mr.
Cowperwood,&rdquo; observed Van Sickle, sagely, after the preliminaries of the
first interview had been dispensed with.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They&rsquo;re worse than the city council almost, and that&rsquo;s about
as bad as it can be. You can&rsquo;t do anything without money where these
little fellows are concerned. I don&rsquo;t like to be too hard on men, but
these fellows&mdash;&rdquo; He shook his head.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re not very
pleasing, even after you make all allowances.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Most of them,&rdquo; went on the General, &ldquo;won&rsquo;t stay put
when you think you have them. They sell out. They&rsquo;re just as apt as not
to run to this North Side Gas Company and tell them all about the whole thing
before you get well under way. Then you have to pay them more money, rival
bills will be introduced, and all that.&rdquo; The old General pulled a long
face. &ldquo;Still, there are one or two of them that are all right,&rdquo; he
added, &ldquo;if you can once get them interested&mdash;Mr. Duniway and Mr.
Gerecht.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so much concerned with how it has to be done,
General,&rdquo; suggested Cowperwood, amiably, &ldquo;but I want to be sure
that it will be done quickly and quietly. I don&rsquo;t want to be bothered
with details. Can it be done without too much publicity, and about what do you
think it is going to cost?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s pretty hard to say until I look into the
matter,&rdquo; said the General, thoughtfully. &ldquo;It might cost only four
and it might cost all of forty thousand dollars&mdash;even more. I can&rsquo;t
tell. I&rsquo;d like to take a little time and look into it.&rdquo; The old
gentleman was wondering how much Cowperwood was prepared to spend.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, we won&rsquo;t bother about that now. I&rsquo;m willing to be as
liberal as necessary. I&rsquo;ve sent for Mr. Sippens, the president of the
Lake View Gas and Fuel Company, and he&rsquo;ll be here in a little while. You
will want to work with him as closely as you can.&rdquo; The energetic Sippens
came after a few moments, and he and Van Sickle, after being instructed to be
mutually helpful and to keep Cowperwood&rsquo;s name out of all matters
relating to this work, departed together. They were an odd pair&mdash;the dusty
old General phlegmatic, disillusioned, useful, but not inclined to feel so; and
the smart, chipper Sippens, determined to wreak a kind of poetic vengeance on
his old-time enemy, the South Side Gas Company, via this seemingly remote
Northside conspiracy. In ten minutes they were hand in glove, the General
describing to Sippens the penurious and unscrupulous brand of Councilman
Duniway&rsquo;s politics and the friendly but expensive character of Jacob
Gerecht. Such is life.
</p>

<p>
In the organization of the Hyde Park company Cowperwood, because he never cared
to put all his eggs in one basket, decided to secure a second lawyer and a
second dummy president, although he proposed to keep De Soto Sippens as general
practical adviser for all three or four companies. He was thinking this matter
over when there appeared on the scene a very much younger man than the old
General, one Kent Barrows McKibben, the only son of ex-Judge Marshall Scammon
McKibben, of the State Supreme Court. Kent McKibben was thirty-three years old,
tall, athletic, and, after a fashion, handsome. He was not at all vague
intellectually&mdash;that is, in the matter of the conduct of his
business&mdash;but dandified and at times remote. He had an office in one of
the best blocks in Dearborn Street, which he reached in a reserved, speculative
mood every morning at nine, unless something important called him down-town
earlier. It so happened that he had drawn up the deeds and agreements for the
real-estate company that sold Cowperwood his lots at Thirty-seventh Street and
Michigan Avenue, and when they were ready he journeyed to the latter&rsquo;s
office to ask if there were any additional details which Cowperwood might want
to have taken into consideration. When he was ushered in, Cowperwood turned to
him his keen, analytical eyes and saw at once a personality he liked. McKibben
was just remote and artistic enough to suit him. He liked his clothes, his
agnostic unreadableness, his social air. McKibben, on his part, caught the
significance of the superior financial atmosphere at once. He noted
Cowperwood&rsquo;s light-brown suit picked out with strands of red, his maroon
tie, and small cameo cuff-links. His desk, glass-covered, looked clean and
official. The woodwork of the rooms was all cherry, hand-rubbed and oiled, the
pictures interesting steel-engravings of American life, appropriately framed.
The typewriter&mdash;at that time just introduced&mdash;was in evidence, and
the stock-ticker&mdash;also new&mdash;was ticking volubly the prices current.
The secretary who waited on Cowperwood was a young Polish girl named Antoinette
Nowak, reserved, seemingly astute, dark, and very attractive.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What sort of business is it you handle, Mr. McKibben?&rdquo; asked
Cowperwood, quite casually, in the course of the conversation. And after
listening to McKibben&rsquo;s explanation he added, idly: &ldquo;You might come
and see me some time next week. It is just possible that I may have something
in your line.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In another man McKibben would have resented this remote suggestion of future
aid. Now, instead, he was intensely pleased. The man before him gripped his
imagination. His remote intellectuality relaxed. When he came again and
Cowperwood indicated the nature of the work he might wish to have done McKibben
rose to the bait like a fish to a fly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish you would let me undertake that, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he said,
quite eagerly. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s something I&rsquo;ve never done, but I&rsquo;m
satisfied I can do it. I live out in Hyde Park and know most of the councilmen.
I can bring considerable influence to bear for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled pleasantly.
</p>

<p>
So a second company, officered by dummies of McKibben&rsquo;s selection, was
organized. De Soto Sippens, without old General Van Sickle&rsquo;s knowledge,
was taken in as practical adviser. An application for a franchise was drawn up,
and Kent Barrows McKibben began silent, polite work on the South Side, coming
into the confidence, by degrees, of the various councilmen.
</p>

<p>
There was still a third lawyer, Burton Stimson, the youngest but assuredly not
the least able of the three, a pale, dark-haired Romeoish youth with burning
eyes, whom Cowperwood had encountered doing some little work for Laughlin, and
who was engaged to work on the West Side with old Laughlin as ostensible
organizer and the sprightly De Soto Sippens as practical adviser. Stimson was
no mooning Romeo, however, but an eager, incisive soul, born very poor, eager
to advance himself. Cowperwood detected that pliability of intellect which,
while it might spell disaster to some, spelled success for him. He wanted the
intellectual servants. He was willing to pay them handsomely, to keep them
busy, to treat them with almost princely courtesy, but he must have the utmost
loyalty. Stimson, while maintaining his calm and reserve, could have kissed the
arch-episcopal hand. Such is the subtlety of contact.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Behold then at once on the North Side, the South Side, the West Side&mdash;dark
goings to and fro and walkings up and down in the earth. In Lake View old
General Van Sickle and De Soto Sippens, conferring with shrewd Councilman
Duniway, druggist, and with Jacob Gerecht, ward boss and wholesale butcher,
both of whom were agreeable but exacting, holding pleasant back-room and
drug-store confabs with almost tabulated details of rewards and benefits. In
Hyde Park, Mr. Kent Barrows McKibben, smug and well dressed, a Chesterfield
among lawyers, and with him one J. J. Bergdoll, a noble hireling, long-haired
and dusty, ostensibly president of the Hyde Park Gas and Fuel Company,
conferring with Councilman Alfred B. Davis, manufacturer of willow and rattan
ware, and Mr. Patrick Gilgan, saloon-keeper, arranging a prospective
distribution of shares, offering certain cash consideration, lots, favors, and
the like. Observe also in the village of Douglas and West Park on the West
Side, just over the city line, the angular, humorous Peter Laughlin and Burton
Stimson arranging a similar deal or deals.
</p>

<p>
The enemy, the city gas companies, being divided into three factions, were in
no way prepared for what was now coming. When the news finally leaked out that
applications for franchises had been made to the several corporate village
bodies each old company suspected the other of invasion, treachery, robbery.
Pettifogging lawyers were sent, one by each company, to the village council in
each particular territory involved, but no one of the companies had as yet the
slightest idea who was back of it all or of the general plan of operations.
Before any one of them could reasonably protest, before it could decide that it
was willing to pay a very great deal to have the suburb adjacent to its
particular territory left free, before it could organize a legal fight,
councilmanic ordinances were introduced giving the applying company what it
sought; and after a single reading in each case and one open hearing, as the
law compelled, they were almost unanimously passed. There were loud cries of
dismay from minor suburban papers which had almost been forgotten in the
arrangement of rewards. The large city newspapers cared little at first, seeing
these were outlying districts; they merely made the comment that the villages
were beginning well, following in the steps of the city council in its
distinguished career of crime.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled as he saw in the morning papers the announcement of the
passage of each ordinance granting him a franchise. He listened with comfort
thereafter on many a day to accounts by Laughlin, Sippens, McKibben, and Van
Sickle of overtures made to buy them out, or to take over their franchises. He
worked on plans with Sippens looking to the actual introduction of gas-plants.
There were bond issues now to float, stock to be marketed, contracts for
supplies to be awarded, actual reservoirs and tanks to be built, and pipes to
be laid. A pumped-up public opposition had to be smoothed over. In all this De
Soto Sippens proved a trump. With Van Sickle, McKibben, and Stimson as his
advisers in different sections of the city he would present tabloid
propositions to Cowperwood, to which the latter had merely to bow his head in
assent or say no. Then De Soto would buy, build, and excavate. Cowperwood was
so pleased that he was determined to keep De Soto with him permanently. De Soto
was pleased to think that he was being given a chance to pay up old scores and
to do large things; he was really grateful.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We&rsquo;re not through with those sharpers,&rdquo; he declared to
Cowperwood, triumphantly, one day. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll fight us with suits.
They may join hands later. They blew up my gas-plant. They may blow up
ours.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let them blow,&rdquo; said Cowperwood. &ldquo;We can blow, too, and sue
also. I like lawsuits. We&rsquo;ll tie them up so that they&rsquo;ll beg for
quarter.&rdquo; His eyes twinkled cheerfully.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br/>
In Search of Victory</h2>

<p>
In the mean time the social affairs of Aileen had been prospering in a small
way, for while it was plain that they were not to be taken up at
once&mdash;that was not to be expected&mdash;it was also plain that they were
not to be ignored entirely. One thing that helped in providing a nice
harmonious working atmosphere was the obvious warm affection of Cowperwood for
his wife. While many might consider Aileen a little brash or crude, still in
the hands of so strong and capable a man as Cowperwood she might prove
available. So thought Mrs. Addison, for instance, and Mrs. Rambaud. McKibben
and Lord felt the same way. If Cowperwood loved her, as he seemed to do, he
would probably &ldquo;put her through&rdquo; successfully. And he really did
love her, after his fashion. He could never forget how splendid she had been to
him in those old days when, knowing full well the circumstances of his home,
his wife, his children, the probable opposition of her own family, she had
thrown over convention and sought his love. How freely she had given of hers!
No petty, squeamish bickering and dickering here. He had been &ldquo;her
Frank&rdquo; from the start, and he still felt keenly that longing in her to be
with him, to be his, which had produced those first wonderful, almost terrible
days. She might quarrel, fret, fuss, argue, suspect, and accuse him of
flirtation with other women; but slight variations from the norm in his case
did not trouble her&mdash;at least she argued that they wouldn&rsquo;t. She had
never had any evidence. She was ready to forgive him anything, she said, and
she was, too, if only he would love her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You devil,&rdquo; she used to say to him, playfully. &ldquo;I know you.
I can see you looking around. That&rsquo;s a nice stenographer you have in the
office. I suppose it&rsquo;s her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be silly, Aileen,&rdquo; he would reply. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
be coarse. You know I wouldn&rsquo;t take up with a stenographer. An office
isn&rsquo;t the place for that sort of thing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, isn&rsquo;t it? Don&rsquo;t silly me. I know you. Any old place is
good enough for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He laughed, and so did she. She could not help it. She loved him so. There was
no particular bitterness in her assaults. She loved him, and very often he
would take her in his arms, kiss her tenderly, and coo: &ldquo;Are you my fine
big baby? Are you my red-headed doll? Do you really love me so much? Kiss me,
then.&rdquo; Frankly, pagan passion in these two ran high. So long as they were
not alienated by extraneous things he could never hope for more delicious human
contact. There was no reaction either, to speak of, no gloomy disgust. She was
physically acceptable to him. He could always talk to her in a genial, teasing
way, even tender, for she did not offend his intellectuality with prudish or
conventional notions. Loving and foolish as she was in some ways, she would
stand blunt reproof or correction. She could suggest in a nebulous, blundering
way things that would be good for them to do. Most of all at present their
thoughts centered upon Chicago society, the new house, which by now had been
contracted for, and what it would do to facilitate their introduction and
standing. Never did a woman&rsquo;s life look more rosy, Aileen thought. It was
almost too good to be true. Her Frank was so handsome, so loving, so generous.
There was not a small idea about him. What if he did stray from her at times?
He remained faithful to her spiritually, and she knew as yet of no single
instance in which he had failed her. She little knew, as much as she knew, how
blandly he could lie and protest in these matters. But he was fond of her just
the same, and he really had not strayed to any extent.
</p>

<p>
By now also, Cowperwood had invested about one hundred thousand dollars in his
gas-company speculations, and he was jubilant over his prospects; the
franchises were good for twenty years. By that time he would be nearly sixty,
and he would probably have bought, combined with, or sold out to the older
companies at a great profit. The future of Chicago was all in his favor. He
decided to invest as much as thirty thousand dollars in pictures, if he could
find the right ones, and to have Aileen&rsquo;s portrait painted while she was
still so beautiful. This matter of art was again beginning to interest him
immensely. Addison had four or five good pictures&mdash;a Rousseau, a Greuze, a
Wouverman, and one Lawrence&mdash;picked up Heaven knows where. A hotel-man by
the name of Collard, a dry-goods and real-estate merchant, was said to have a
very striking collection. Addison had told him of one Davis Trask, a hardware
prince, who was now collecting. There were many homes, he knew where art was
beginning to be assembled. He must begin, too.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, once the franchises had been secured, had installed Sippens in his
own office, giving him charge for the time being. Small rented offices and
clerks were maintained in the region where practical plant-building was going
on. All sorts of suits to enjoin, annul, and restrain had been begun by the
various old companies, but McKibben, Stimson, and old General Van Sickle were
fighting these with Trojan vigor and complacency. It was a pleasant scene.
Still no one knew very much of Cowperwood&rsquo;s entrance into Chicago as yet.
He was a very minor figure. His name had not even appeared in connection with
this work. Other men were being celebrated daily, a little to his envy. When
would he begin to shine? Soon, now, surely. So off they went in June,
comfortable, rich, gay, in the best of health and spirits, intent upon enjoying
to the full their first holiday abroad.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was a wonderful trip. Addison was good enough to telegraph flowers to New
York for Mrs. Cowperwood to be delivered on shipboard. McKibben sent books of
travel. Cowperwood, uncertain whether anybody would send flowers, ordered them
himself&mdash;two amazing baskets, which with Addison&rsquo;s made
three&mdash;and these, with attached cards, awaited them in the lobby of the
main deck. Several at the captain&rsquo;s table took pains to seek out the
Cowperwoods. They were invited to join several card-parties and to attend
informal concerts. It was a rough passage, however, and Aileen was sick. It was
hard to make herself look just nice enough, and so she kept to her room. She
was very haughty, distant to all but a few, and to these careful of her
conversation. She felt herself coming to be a very important person.
</p>

<p>
Before leaving she had almost exhausted the resources of the Donovan
establishment in Chicago. Lingerie, boudoir costumes, walking-costumes,
riding-costumes, evening-costumes she possessed in plenty. She had a jewel-bag
hidden away about her person containing all of thirty thousand dollars&rsquo;
worth of jewels. Her shoes, stockings, hats, and accessories in general were
innumerable. Because of all this Cowperwood was rather proud of her. She had
such a capacity for life. His first wife had been pale and rather anemic, while
Aileen was fairly bursting with sheer physical vitality. She hummed and jested
and primped and posed. There are some souls that just are, without previous
revision or introspection. The earth with all its long past was a mere
suggestion to Aileen, dimly visualized if at all. She may have heard that there
were once dinosaurs and flying reptiles, but if so it made no deep impression
on her. Somebody had said, or was saying, that we were descended from monkeys,
which was quite absurd, though it might be true enough. On the sea the
thrashing hills of green water suggested a kind of immensity and terror, but
not the immensity of the poet&rsquo;s heart. The ship was safe, the captain at
table in brass buttons and blue uniform, eager to be nice to her&mdash;told her
so. Her faith really, was in the captain. And there with her, always, was
Cowperwood, looking at this whole, moving spectacle of life with a suspicious,
not apprehensive, but wary eye, and saying nothing about it.
</p>

<p>
In London letters given them by Addison brought several invitations to the
opera, to dinner, to Goodwood for a weekend, and so on. Carriages, tallyhoes,
cabs for riding were invoked. A week-end invitation to a houseboat on the
Thames was secured. Their English hosts, looking on all this as a financial
adventure, good financial wisdom, were courteous and civil, nothing more.
Aileen was intensely curious. She noted servants, manners, forms. Immediately
she began to think that America was not good enough, perhaps; it wanted so many
things.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, Aileen, you and I have to live in Chicago for years and
years,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t get wild. These people
don&rsquo;t care for Americans, can&rsquo;t you see that? They wouldn&rsquo;t
accept us if we were over here&mdash;not yet, anyhow. We&rsquo;re merely
passing strangers, being courteously entertained.&rdquo; Cowperwood saw it all.
</p>

<p>
Aileen was being spoiled in a way, but there was no help. She dressed and
dressed. The Englishmen used to look at her in Hyde Park, where she rode and
drove; at Claridges&rsquo; where they stayed; in Bond Street, where she
shopped. The Englishwomen, the majority of them remote, ultra-conservative,
simple in their tastes, lifted their eyes. Cowperwood sensed the situation, but
said nothing. He loved Aileen, and she was satisfactory to him, at least for
the present, anyhow, beautiful. If he could adjust her station in Chicago, that
would be sufficient for a beginning. After three weeks of very active life,
during which Aileen patronized the ancient and honorable glories of England,
they went on to Paris.
</p>

<p>
Here she was quickened to a child-like enthusiasm. &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; she
said to Cowperwood, quite solemnly, the second morning, &ldquo;the English
don&rsquo;t know how to dress. I thought they did, but the smartest of them
copy the French. Take those men we saw last night in the Cafe d&rsquo;Anglais.
There wasn&rsquo;t an Englishman I saw that compared with them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear, your tastes are exotic,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, who was
watching her with pleased interest while he adjusted his tie. &ldquo;The French
smart crowd are almost too smart, dandified. I think some of those young
fellows had on corsets.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What of it?&rdquo; replied Aileen. &ldquo;I like it. If you&rsquo;re
going to be smart, why not be very smart?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know that&rsquo;s your theory, my dear,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but it
can be overdone. There is such a thing as going too far. You have to compromise
even if you don&rsquo;t look as well as you might. You can&rsquo;t be too very
conspicuously different from your neighbors, even in the right
direction.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; she said, stopping and looking at him, &ldquo;I believe
you&rsquo;re going to get very conservative some day&mdash;like my
brothers.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She came over and touched his tie and smoothed his hair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, one of us ought to be, for the good of the family,&rdquo; he
commented, half smiling.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so sure, though, that it will be you, either.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a charming day. See how nice those white-marble statues look.
Shall we go to the Cluny or Versailles or Fontainbleau? To-night we ought to
see Bernhardt at the Francaise.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen was so gay. It was so splendid to be traveling with her true husband at
last.
</p>

<p>
It was on this trip that Cowperwood&rsquo;s taste for art and life and his
determination to possess them revived to the fullest. He made the acquaintance
in London, Paris, and Brussels of the important art dealers. His conception of
great masters and the older schools of art shaped themselves. By one of the
dealers in London, who at once recognized in him a possible future patron, he
was invited with Aileen to view certain private collections, and here and there
was an artist, such as Lord Leighton, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, or Whistler, to
whom he was introduced casually, an interested stranger. These men only saw a
strong, polite, remote, conservative man. He realized the emotional, egotistic,
and artistic soul. He felt on the instant that there could be little in common
between such men and himself in so far as personal contact was concerned, yet
there was mutual ground on which they could meet. He could not be a slavish
admirer of anything, only a princely patron. So he walked and saw, wondering
how soon his dreams of grandeur were to be realized.
</p>

<p>
In London he bought a portrait by Raeburn; in Paris a plowing scene by Millet,
a small Jan Steen, a battle piece by Meissonier, and a romantic courtyard scene
by Isabey. Thus began the revival of his former interest in art; the nucleus of
that future collection which was to mean so much to him in later years.
</p>

<p>
On their return, the building of the new Chicago mansion created the next
interesting diversion in the lives of Aileen and Cowperwood. Because of some
chateaux they saw in France that form, or rather a modification of it as
suggested by Taylor Lord, was adopted. Mr. Lord figured that it would take all
of a year, perhaps a year and a half, to deliver it in perfect order, but time
was of no great importance in this connection. In the mean while they could
strengthen their social connections and prepare for that interesting day when
they should be of the Chicago elite.
</p>

<p>
There were, at this time, several elements in Chicago&mdash;those who, having
grown suddenly rich from dull poverty, could not so easily forget the village
church and the village social standards; those who, having inherited wealth, or
migrated from the East where wealth was old, understood more of the <i>savoir
faire</i> of the game; and those who, being newly born into wealth and seeing
the drift toward a smarter American life, were beginning to wish they might
shine in it&mdash;these last the very young people. The latter were just
beginning to dream of dances at Kinsley&rsquo;s, a stated Kirmess, and summer
diversions of the European kind, but they had not arrived as yet. The first
class, although by far the dullest and most bovine, was still the most powerful
because they were the richest, money as yet providing the highest standard. The
functions which these people provided were stupid to the verge of distraction;
really they were only the week-day receptions and Sunday-afternoon calls of
Squeedunk and Hohokus raised to the Nth power. The purpose of the whole matter
was to see and be seen. Novelty in either thought or action was decidedly
eschewed. It was, as a matter of fact, customariness of thought and action and
the quintessence of convention that was desired. The idea of introducing a
&ldquo;play actress,&rdquo; for instance, as was done occasionally in the East
or in London&mdash;never; even a singer or an artist was eyed askance. One
could easily go too far! But if a European prince should have strayed to
Chicago (which he never did) or if an Eastern social magnate chanced to stay
over a train or two, then the topmost circle of local wealth was prepared to
strain itself to the breaking-point. Cowperwood had sensed all this on his
arrival, but he fancied that if he became rich and powerful enough he and
Aileen, with their fine house to help them, might well be the leaven which
would lighten the whole lump. Unfortunately, Aileen was too obviously on the
qui vive for those opportunities which might lead to social recognition and
equality, if not supremacy. Like the savage, unorganized for protection and at
the mercy of the horrific caprice of nature, she was almost tremulous at times
with thoughts of possible failure. Almost at once she had recognized herself as
unsuited temperamentally for association with certain types of society women.
The wife of Anson Merrill, the great dry-goods prince, whom she saw in one of
the down-town stores one day, impressed her as much too cold and remote. Mrs.
Merrill was a woman of superior mood and education who found herself, in her
own estimation, hard put to it for suitable companionship in Chicago. She was
Eastern-bred-Boston&mdash;and familiar in an offhand way with the superior
world of London, which she had visited several times. Chicago at its best was
to her a sordid commercial mess. She preferred New York or Washington, but she
had to live here. Thus she patronized nearly all of those with whom she
condescended to associate, using an upward tilt of the head, a tired droop of
the eyelids, and a fine upward arching of the brows to indicate how trite it
all was.
</p>

<p>
It was a Mrs. Henry Huddlestone who had pointed out Mrs. Merrill to Aileen.
Mrs. Huddlestone was the wife of a soap manufacturer living very close to the
Cowperwoods&rsquo; temporary home, and she and her husband were on the outer
fringe of society. She had heard that the Cowperwoods were people of wealth,
that they were friendly with the Addisons, and that they were going to build a
two-hundred-thousand-dollar mansion. (The value of houses always grows in the
telling.) That was enough. She had called, being three doors away, to leave her
card; and Aileen, willing to curry favor here and there, had responded. Mrs.
Huddlestone was a little woman, not very attractive in appearance, clever in a
social way, and eminently practical.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Speaking of Mrs. Merrill,&rdquo; commented Mrs. Huddlestone, on this
particular day, &ldquo;there she is&mdash;near the dress-goods counter. She
always carries that lorgnette in just that way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen turned and examined critically a tall, dark, slender woman of the high
world of the West, very remote, disdainful, superior.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know her?&rdquo; questioned Aileen, curiously, surveying
her at leisure.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Huddlestone, defensively. &ldquo;They live on
the North Side, and the different sets don&rsquo;t mingle so much.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As a matter of fact, it was just the glory of the principal families that they
were above this arbitrary division of &ldquo;sides,&rdquo; and could pick their
associates from all three divisions.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; observed Aileen, nonchalantly. She was secretly irritated to
think that Mrs. Huddlestone should find it necessary to point out Mrs. Merrill
to her as a superior person.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know, she darkens her eyebrows a little, I think,&rdquo; suggested
Mrs. Huddlestone, studying her enviously. &ldquo;Her husband, they say,
isn&rsquo;t the most faithful person in the world. There&rsquo;s another woman,
a Mrs. Gladdens, that lives very close to them that he&rsquo;s very much
interested in.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Aileen, cautiously. After her own Philadelphia
experience she had decided to be on her guard and not indulge in too much
gossip. Arrows of this particular kind could so readily fly in her direction.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But her set is really much the smartest,&rdquo; complimented
Aileen&rsquo;s companion.
</p>

<p>
Thereafter it was Aileen&rsquo;s ambition to associate with Mrs. Anson Merrill,
to be fully and freely accepted by her. She did not know, although she might
have feared, that that ambition was never to be realized.
</p>

<p>
But there were others who had called at the first Cowperwood home, or with whom
the Cowperwoods managed to form an acquaintance. There were the Sunderland
Sledds, Mr. Sledd being general traffic manager of one of the southwestern
railways entering the city, and a gentleman of taste and culture and some
wealth; his wife an ambitious nobody. There were the Walter Rysam Cottons,
Cotton being a wholesale coffee-broker, but more especially a local social
litterateur; his wife a graduate of Vassar. There were the Norrie Simmses,
Simms being secretary and treasurer of the Douglas Trust and Savings Company,
and a power in another group of financial people, a group entirely distinct
from that represented by Addison and Rambaud.
</p>

<p>
Others included the Stanislau Hoecksemas, wealthy furriers; the Duane
Kingslands, wholesale flour; the Webster Israelses, packers; the Bradford
Candas, jewelers. All these people amounted to something socially. They all had
substantial homes and substantial incomes, so that they were worthy of
consideration. The difference between Aileen and most of the women involved a
difference between naturalism and illusion. But this calls for some
explanation.
</p>

<p>
To really know the state of the feminine mind at this time, one would have to
go back to that period in the Middle Ages when the Church flourished and the
industrious poet, half schooled in the facts of life, surrounded women with a
mystical halo. Since that day the maiden and the matron as well has been
schooled to believe that she is of a finer clay than man, that she was born to
uplift him, and that her favors are priceless. This rose-tinted mist of
romance, having nothing to do with personal morality, has brought about,
nevertheless, a holier-than-thou attitude of women toward men, and even of
women toward women. Now the Chicago atmosphere in which Aileen found herself
was composed in part of this very illusion. The ladies to whom she had been
introduced were of this high world of fancy. They conceived themselves to be
perfect, even as they were represented in religious art and in fiction. Their
husbands must be models, worthy of their high ideals, and other women must have
no blemish of any kind. Aileen, urgent, elemental, would have laughed at all
this if she could have understood. Not understanding, she felt diffident and
uncertain of herself in certain presences.
</p>

<p>
Instance in this connection Mrs. Norrie Simms, who was a satellite of Mrs.
Anson Merrill. To be invited to the Anson Merrills&rsquo; for tea, dinner,
luncheon, or to be driven down-town by Mrs. Merrill, was paradise to Mrs.
Simms. She loved to recite the bon mots of her idol, to discourse upon her
astonishing degree of culture, to narrate how people refused on occasion to
believe that she was the wife of Anson Merrill, even though she herself
declared it&mdash;those old chestnuts of the social world which must have had
their origin in Egypt and Chaldea. Mrs. Simms herself was of a nondescript
type, not a real personage, clever, good-looking, tasteful, a social climber.
The two Simms children (little girls) had been taught all the social graces of
the day&mdash;to pose, smirk, genuflect, and the like, to the immense delight
of their elders. The nurse in charge was in uniform, the governess was a much
put-upon person. Mrs. Simms had a high manner, eyes for those above her only, a
serene contempt for the commonplace world in which she had to dwell.
</p>

<p>
During the first dinner at which she entertained the Cowperwoods Mrs. Simms
attempted to dig into Aileen&rsquo;s Philadelphia history, asking if she knew
the Arthur Leighs, the Trevor Drakes, Roberta Willing, or the Martyn Walkers.
Mrs. Simms did not know them herself, but she had heard Mrs. Merrill speak of
them, and that was enough of a handle whereby to swing them. Aileen, quick on
the defense, ready to lie manfully on her own behalf, assured her that she had
known them, as indeed she had&mdash;very casually&mdash;and before the rumor
which connected her with Cowperwood had been voiced abroad. This pleased Mrs.
Simms.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I must tell Nellie,&rdquo; she said, referring thus familiarly to Mrs.
Merrill.
</p>

<p>
Aileen feared that if this sort of thing continued it would soon be all over
town that she had been a mistress before she had been a wife, that she had been
the unmentioned corespondent in the divorce suit, and that Cowperwood had been
in prison. Only his wealth and her beauty could save her; and would they?
</p>

<p>
One night they had been to dinner at the Duane Kingslands&rsquo;, and Mrs.
Bradford Canda had asked her, in what seemed a very significant way, whether
she had ever met her friend Mrs. Schuyler Evans, of Philadelphia. This
frightened Aileen.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you suppose they must know, some of them, about us?&rdquo;
she asked Cowperwood, on the way home.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose so,&rdquo; he replied, thoughtfully. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I
don&rsquo;t know. I wouldn&rsquo;t worry about that if I were you. If you worry
about it you&rsquo;ll suggest it to them. I haven&rsquo;t made any secret of my
term in prison in Philadelphia, and I don&rsquo;t intend to. It wasn&rsquo;t a
square deal, and they had no right to put me there.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know, dear,&rdquo; replied Aileen, &ldquo;it might not make so much
difference if they did know. I don&rsquo;t see why it should. We are not the
only ones that have had marriage troubles, I&rsquo;m sure.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s just one thing about this; either they accept us or they
don&rsquo;t. If they don&rsquo;t, well and good; we can&rsquo;t help it.
We&rsquo;ll go on and finish the house, and give them a chance to be decent. If
they won&rsquo;t be, there are other cities. Money will arrange matters in New
York&mdash;that I know. We can build a real place there, and go in on equal
terms if we have money enough&mdash;and I will have money enough,&rdquo; he
added, after a moment&rsquo;s pondering. &ldquo;Never fear. I&rsquo;ll make
millions here, whether they want me to or not, and after that&mdash;well, after
that, we&rsquo;ll see what we&rsquo;ll see. Don&rsquo;t worry. I haven&rsquo;t
seen many troubles in this world that money wouldn&rsquo;t cure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
His teeth had that even set that they always assumed when he was dangerously in
earnest. He took Aileen&rsquo;s hand, however, and pressed it gently.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;Chicago isn&rsquo;t the
only city, and we won&rsquo;t be the poorest people in America, either, in ten
years. Just keep up your courage. It will all come out right. It&rsquo;s
certain to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen looked out on the lamp-lit length of Michigan Avenue, down which they
were rolling past many silent mansions. The tops of all the lamps were white,
and gleamed through the shadows, receding to a thin point. It was dark, but
fresh and pleasant. Oh, if only Frank&rsquo;s money could buy them position and
friendship in this interesting world; if it only would! She did not quite
realize how much on her own personality, or the lack of it, this struggle
depended.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br/>
A Test</h2>

<p>
The opening of the house in Michigan Avenue occurred late in November in the
fall of eighteen seventy-eight. When Aileen and Cowperwood had been in Chicago
about two years. Altogether, between people whom they had met at the races, at
various dinners and teas, and at receptions of the Union and Calumet Clubs (to
which Cowperwood, through Addison&rsquo;s backing, had been admitted) and those
whom McKibben and Lord influenced, they were able to send invitations to about
three hundred, of whom some two hundred and fifty responded. Up to this time,
owing to Cowperwood&rsquo;s quiet manipulation of his affairs, there had been
no comment on his past&mdash;no particular interest in it. He had money,
affable ways, a magnetic personality. The business men of the city&mdash;those
whom he met socially&mdash;were inclined to consider him fascinating and very
clever. Aileen being beautiful and graceful for attention, was accepted at more
or less her own value, though the kingly high world knew them not.
</p>

<p>
It is amazing what a showing the socially unplaced can make on occasion where
tact and discrimination are used. There was a weekly social paper published in
Chicago at this time, a rather able publication as such things go, which
Cowperwood, with McKibben&rsquo;s assistance, had pressed into service. Not
much can be done under any circumstances where the cause is not essentially
strong; but where, as in this case, there is a semblance of respectability,
considerable wealth, and great force and magnetism, all things are possible.
Kent McKibben knew Horton Biggers, the editor, who was a rather desolate and
disillusioned person of forty-five, gray, and depressed-looking&mdash;a sort of
human sponge or barnacle who was only galvanized into seeming interest and
cheerfulness by sheer necessity. Those were the days when the society editor
was accepted as a member of society&mdash;de facto&mdash;and treated more as a
guest than a reporter, though even then the tendency was toward elimination.
Working for Cowperwood, and liking him, McKibben said to Biggers one evening:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know the Cowperwoods, don&rsquo;t you, Biggers?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied the latter, who devoted himself barnacle-wise to the
more exclusive circles. &ldquo;Who are they?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, he&rsquo;s a banker over here in La Salle Street. They&rsquo;re
from Philadelphia. Mrs. Cowperwood&rsquo;s a beautiful woman&mdash;young and
all that. They&rsquo;re building a house out here on Michigan Avenue. You ought
to know them. They&rsquo;re going to get in, I think. The Addisons like them.
If you were to be nice to them now I think they&rsquo;d appreciate it later.
He&rsquo;s rather liberal, and a good fellow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Biggers pricked up his ears. This social journalism was thin picking at best,
and he had very few ways of turning an honest penny. The would be&rsquo;s and
half-in&rsquo;s who expected nice things said of them had to subscribe, and
rather liberally, to his paper. Not long after this brief talk Cowperwood
received a subscription blank from the business office of the <i>Saturday
Review</i>, and immediately sent a check for one hundred dollars to Mr. Horton
Biggers direct. Subsequently certain not very significant personages noticed
that when the Cowperwoods dined at their boards the function received comment
by the <i>Saturday Review</i>, not otherwise. It looked as though the
Cowperwoods must be favored; but who were they, anyhow?
</p>

<p>
The danger of publicity, and even moderate social success, is that scandal
loves a shining mark. When you begin to stand out the least way in life, as
separate from the mass, the cognoscenti wish to know who, what, and why. The
enthusiasm of Aileen, combined with the genius of Cowperwood, was for making
their opening entertainment a very exceptional affair, which, under the
circumstances, and all things considered, was a dangerous thing to do. As yet
Chicago was exceedingly slow socially. Its movements were, as has been said,
more or less bovine and phlegmatic. To rush in with something utterly brilliant
and pyrotechnic was to take notable chances. The more cautious members of
Chicago society, even if they did not attend, would hear, and then would come
ultimate comment and decision.
</p>

<p>
The function began with a reception at four, which lasted until six-thirty, and
this was followed by a dance at nine, with music by a famous stringed orchestra
of Chicago, a musical programme by artists of considerable importance, and a
gorgeous supper from eleven until one in a Chinese fairyland of lights, at
small tables filling three of the ground-floor rooms. As an added fillip to the
occasion Cowperwood had hung, not only the important pictures which he had
purchased abroad, but a new one&mdash;a particularly brilliant Gerome, then in
the heyday of his exotic popularity&mdash;a picture of nude odalisques of the
harem, idling beside the highly colored stone marquetry of an oriental bath. It
was more or less &ldquo;loose&rdquo; art for Chicago, shocking to the
uninitiated, though harmless enough to the illuminati; but it gave a touch of
color to the art-gallery which the latter needed. There was also, newly arrived
and newly hung, a portrait of Aileen by a Dutch artist, Jan van Beers, whom
they had encountered the previous summer at Brussels. He had painted Aileen in
nine sittings, a rather brilliant canvas, high in key, with a summery,
out-of-door world behind her&mdash;a low stone-curbed pool, the red corner of a
Dutch brick palace, a tulip-bed, and a blue sky with fleecy clouds. Aileen was
seated on the curved arm of a stone bench, green grass at her feet, a
pink-and-white parasol with a lacy edge held idly to one side; her rounded,
vigorous figure clad in the latest mode of Paris, a white and blue striped-silk
walking-suit, with a blue-and-white-banded straw hat, wide-brimmed, airy,
shading her lusty, animal eyes. The artist had caught her spirit quite
accurately, the dash, the assumption, the bravado based on the courage of
inexperience, or lack of true subtlety. A refreshing thing in its way, a little
showy, as everything that related to her was, and inclined to arouse jealousy
in those not so liberally endowed by life, but fine as a character piece. In
the warm glow of the guttered gas-jets she looked particularly brilliant here,
pampered, idle, jaunty&mdash;the well-kept, stall-fed pet of the world. Many
stopped to see, and many were the comments, private and otherwise.
</p>

<p>
This day began with a flurry of uncertainty and worried anticipation on the
part of Aileen. At Cowperwood&rsquo;s suggestion she had employed a social
secretary, a poor hack of a girl, who had sent out all the letters, tabulated
the replies, run errands, and advised on one detail and another. Fadette, her
French maid, was in the throes of preparing for two toilets which would have to
be made this day, one by two o&rsquo;clock at least, another between six and
eight. Her &ldquo;<i>mon dieus</i>&rdquo; and &ldquo;<i>par bleus</i>&rdquo;
could be heard continuously as she hunted for some article of dress or polished
an ornament, buckle, or pin. The struggle of Aileen to be perfect was, as
usual, severe. Her meditations, as to the most becoming gown to wear were
trying. Her portrait was on the east wall in the art-gallery, a spur to
emulation; she felt as though all society were about to judge her. Theresa
Donovan, the local dressmaker, had given some advice; but Aileen decided on a
heavy brown velvet constructed by Worth, of Paris&mdash;a thing of varying
aspects, showing her neck and arms to perfection, and composing charmingly with
her flesh and hair. She tried amethyst ear-rings and changed to topaz; she
stockinged her legs in brown silk, and her feet were shod in brown slippers
with red enamel buttons.
</p>

<p>
The trouble with Aileen was that she never did these things with that ease
which is a sure sign of the socially efficient. She never quite so much
dominated a situation as she permitted it to dominate her. Only the superior
ease and graciousness of Cowperwood carried her through at times; but that
always did. When he was near she felt quite the great lady, suited to any
realm. When she was alone her courage, great as it was, often trembled in the
balance. Her dangerous past was never quite out of her mind.
</p>

<p>
At four Kent McKibben, smug in his afternoon frock, his quick, receptive eyes
approving only partially of all this show and effort, took his place in the
general reception-room, talking to Taylor Lord, who had completed his last
observation and was leaving to return later in the evening. If these two had
been closer friends, quite intimate, they would have discussed the
Cowperwoods&rsquo; social prospects; but as it was, they confined themselves to
dull conventionalities. At this moment Aileen came down-stairs for a moment,
radiant. Kent McKibben thought he had never seen her look more beautiful. After
all, contrasted with some of the stuffy creatures who moved about in society,
shrewd, hard, bony, calculating, trading on their assured position, she was
admirable. It was a pity she did not have more poise; she ought to be a little
harder&mdash;not quite so genial. Still, with Cowperwood at her side, she might
go far.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really, Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it is all most charming.
I was just telling Mr. Lord here that I consider the house a triumph.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
From McKibben, who was in society, and with Lord, another &ldquo;in&rdquo;
standing by, this was like wine to Aileen. She beamed joyously.
</p>

<p>
Among the first arrivals were Mrs. Webster Israels, Mrs. Bradford Canda, and
Mrs. Walter Rysam Cotton, who were to assist in receiving. These ladies did not
know that they were taking their future reputations for sagacity and
discrimination in their hands; they had been carried away by the show of luxury
of Aileen, the growing financial repute of Cowperwood, and the artistic
qualities of the new house. Mrs. Webster Israels&rsquo;s mouth was of such a
peculiar shape that Aileen was always reminded of a fish; but she was not
utterly homely, and to-day she looked brisk and attractive. Mrs. Bradford
Canda, whose old rose and silver-gray dress made up in part for an amazing
angularity, but who was charming withal, was the soul of interest, for she
believed this to be a very significant affair. Mrs. Walter Rysam Cotton, a
younger woman than either of the others, had the polish of Vassar life about
her, and was &ldquo;above&rdquo; many things. Somehow she half suspected the
Cowperwoods might not do, but they were making strides, and might possibly
surpass all other aspirants. It behooved her to be pleasant.
</p>

<p>
Life passes from individuality and separateness at times to a sort of
Monticelliesque mood of color, where individuality is nothing, the glittering
totality all. The new house, with its charming French windows on the ground
floor, its heavy bands of stone flowers and deep-sunk florated door, was soon
crowded with a moving, colorful flow of people.
</p>

<p>
Many whom Aileen and Cowperwood did not know at all had been invited by
McKibben and Lord; they came, and were now introduced. The adjacent side
streets and the open space in front of the house were crowded with champing
horses and smartly veneered carriages. All with whom the Cowperwoods had been
the least intimate came early, and, finding the scene colorful and interesting,
they remained for some time. The caterer, Kinsley, had supplied a small army of
trained servants who were posted like soldiers, and carefully supervised by the
Cowperwood butler. The new dining-room, rich with a Pompeian scheme of color,
was aglow with a wealth of glass and an artistic arrangement of delicacies. The
afternoon costumes of the women, ranging through autumnal grays, purples,
browns, and greens, blended effectively with the brown-tinted walls of the
entry-hall, the deep gray and gold of the general living-room, the old-Roman
red of the dining-room, the white-and-gold of the music-room, and the neutral
sepia of the art-gallery.
</p>

<p>
Aileen, backed by the courageous presence of Cowperwood, who, in the
dining-room, the library, and the art-gallery, was holding a private levee of
men, stood up in her vain beauty, a thing to see&mdash;almost to weep over,
embodying the vanity of all seeming things, the mockery of having and yet not
having. This parading throng that was more curious than interested, more
jealous than sympathetic, more critical than kind, was coming almost solely to
observe.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know, Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; Mrs. Simms remarked, lightly,
&ldquo;your house reminds me of an art exhibit to-day. I hardly know
why.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen, who caught the implied slur, had no clever words wherewith to reply.
She was not gifted in that way, but she flared with resentment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo; she replied, caustically.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Simms, not all dissatisfied with the effect she had produced, passed on
with a gay air, attended by a young artist who followed amorously in her train.
</p>

<p>
Aileen saw from this and other things like it how little she was really
&ldquo;in.&rdquo; The exclusive set did not take either her or Cowperwood
seriously as yet. She almost hated the comparatively dull Mrs. Israels, who had
been standing beside her at the time, and who had heard the remark; and yet
Mrs. Israels was much better than nothing. Mrs. Simms had condescended a mild
&ldquo;how&rsquo;d do&rdquo; to the latter.
</p>

<p>
It was in vain that the Addisons, Sledds, Kingslands, Hoecksemas, and others
made their appearance; Aileen was not reassured. However, after dinner the
younger set, influenced by McKibben, came to dance, and Aileen was at her best
in spite of her doubts. She was gay, bold, attractive. Kent McKibben, a past
master in the mazes and mysteries of the grand march, had the pleasure of
leading her in that airy, fairy procession, followed by Cowperwood, who gave
his arm to Mrs. Simms. Aileen, in white satin with a touch of silver here and
there and necklet, bracelet, ear-rings, and hair-ornament of diamonds,
glittered in almost an exotic way. She was positively radiant. McKibben, almost
smitten, was most attentive.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is such a pleasure,&rdquo; he whispered, intimately. &ldquo;You are
very beautiful&mdash;a dream!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You would find me a very substantial one,&rdquo; returned Aileen.
&ldquo;Would that I might find,&rdquo; he laughed, gaily; and Aileen, gathering
the hidden significance, showed her teeth teasingly. Mrs. Simms, engrossed by
Cowperwood, could not hear as she would have liked.
</p>

<p>
After the march Aileen, surrounded by a half-dozen of gay, rudely thoughtless
young bloods, escorted them all to see her portrait. The conservative commented
on the flow of wine, the intensely nude Gerome at one end of the gallery, and
the sparkling portrait of Aileen at the other, the enthusiasm of some of the
young men for her company. Mrs. Rambaud, pleasant and kindly, remarked to her
husband that Aileen was &ldquo;very eager for life,&rdquo; she thought. Mrs.
Addison, astonished at the material flare of the Cowperwoods, quite
transcending in glitter if not in size and solidity anything she and Addison
had ever achieved, remarked to her husband that &ldquo;he must be making money
very fast.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The man&rsquo;s a born financier, Ella,&rdquo; Addison explained,
sententiously. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a manipulator, and he&rsquo;s sure to make
money. Whether they can get into society I don&rsquo;t know. He could if he
were alone, that&rsquo;s sure. She&rsquo;s beautiful, but he needs another kind
of woman, I&rsquo;m afraid. She&rsquo;s almost too good-looking.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I think, too. I like her, but I&rsquo;m afraid
she&rsquo;s not going to play her cards right. It&rsquo;s too bad, too.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Just then Aileen came by, a smiling youth on either side, her own face glowing
with a warmth of joy engendered by much flattery. The ball-room, which was
composed of the music and drawing rooms thrown into one, was now the objective.
It glittered before her with a moving throng; the air was full of the odor of
flowers, and the sound of music and voices.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; observed Bradford Canda to Horton Biggers, the
society editor, &ldquo;is one of the prettiest women I have seen in a long
time. She&rsquo;s almost too pretty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How do you think she&rsquo;s taking?&rdquo; queried the cautious
Biggers. &ldquo;Charming, but she&rsquo;s hardly cold enough, I&rsquo;m afraid;
hardly clever enough. It takes a more serious type. She&rsquo;s a little too
high-spirited. These old women would never want to get near her; she makes them
look too old. She&rsquo;d do better if she were not so young and so
pretty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I think exactly,&rdquo; said Biggers. As a matter of
fact, he did not think so at all; he had no power of drawing any such accurate
conclusions. But he believed it now, because Bradford Canda had said it.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br/>
The Fruits of Daring</h2>

<p>
Next morning, over the breakfast cups at the Norrie Simmses&rsquo; and
elsewhere, the import of the Cowperwoods&rsquo; social efforts was discussed
and the problem of their eventual acceptance or non-acceptance carefully
weighed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The trouble with Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Simms, &ldquo;is
that she is too gauche. The whole thing was much too showy. The idea of her
portrait at one end of the gallery and that Gerome at the other! And then this
item in the <i>Press</i> this morning! Why, you&rsquo;d really think they were in
society.&rdquo; Mrs. Simms was already a little angry at having let herself be
used, as she now fancied she had been, by Taylor Lord and Kent McKibben, both
friends of hers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What did you think of the crowd?&rdquo; asked Norrie, buttering a roll.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, it wasn&rsquo;t representative at all, of course. We were the most
important people they had there, and I&rsquo;m sorry now that we went. Who are
the Israelses and the Hoecksemas, anyhow? That dreadful woman!&rdquo; (She was
referring to Mrs. Hoecksema.) &ldquo;I never listened to duller remarks in my
life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was talking to Haguenin of the <i>Press</i> in the afternoon,&rdquo; observed
Norrie. &ldquo;He says that Cowperwood failed in Philadelphia before he came
here, and that there were a lot of lawsuits. Did you ever hear that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. But she says she knows the Drakes and the Walkers there. I&rsquo;ve
been intending to ask Nellie about that. I have often wondered why he should
leave Philadelphia if he was getting along so well. People don&rsquo;t usually
do that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Simms was envious already of the financial showing Cowperwood was making in
Chicago. Besides, Cowperwood&rsquo;s manner bespoke supreme intelligence and
courage, and that is always resented by all save the suppliants or the
triumphant masters of other walks in life. Simms was really interested at last
to know something more about Cowperwood, something definite.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Before this social situation had time to adjust itself one way or the other,
however, a matter arose which in its way was far more vital, though Aileen
might not have thought so. The feeling between the new and old gas companies
was becoming strained; the stockholders of the older organization were getting
uneasy. They were eager to find out who was back of these new gas companies
which were threatening to poach on their exclusive preserves. Finally one of
the lawyers who had been employed by the North Chicago Gas Illuminating Company
to fight the machinations of De Soto Sippens and old General Van Sickle,
finding that the Lake View Council had finally granted the franchise to the new
company and that the Appellate Court was about to sustain it, hit upon the idea
of charging conspiracy and wholesale bribery of councilmen. Considerable
evidence had accumulated that Duniway, Jacob Gerecht, and others on the North
Side had been influenced by cash, and to bring legal action would delay final
approval of the franchises and give the old company time to think what else to
do. This North Side company lawyer, a man by the name of Parsons, had been
following up the movements of Sippens and old General Van Sickle, and had
finally concluded that they were mere dummies and pawns, and that the real
instigator in all this excitement was Cowperwood, or, if not he, then men whom
he represented. Parsons visited Cowperwood&rsquo;s office one day in order to
see him; getting no satisfaction, he proceeded to look up his record and
connections. These various investigations and counter-schemings came to a head
in a court proceeding filed in the United States Circuit Court late in
November, charging Frank Algernon Cowperwood, Henry De Soto Sippens, Judson P.
Van Sickle, and others with conspiracy; this again was followed almost
immediately by suits begun by the West and South Side companies charging the
same thing. In each case Cowperwood&rsquo;s name was mentioned as the secret
power behind the new companies, conspiring to force the old companies to buy
him out. His Philadelphia history was published, but only in part&mdash;a
highly modified account he had furnished the newspapers some time before.
Though conspiracy and bribery are ugly words, still lawyers&rsquo; charges
prove nothing. But a penitentiary record, for whatever reason served, coupled
with previous failure, divorce, and scandal (though the newspapers made only
the most guarded reference to all this), served to whet public interest and to
fix Cowperwood and his wife in the public eye.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood himself was solicited for an interview, but his answer was that he
was merely a financial agent for the three new companies, not an investor; and
that the charges, in so far as he was concerned, were untrue, mere legal
fol-de-rol trumped up to make the situation as annoying as possible. He
threatened to sue for libel. Nevertheless, although these suits eventually did
come to nothing (for he had fixed it so that he could not be traced save as a
financial agent in each case), yet the charges had been made, and he was now
revealed as a shrewd, manipulative factor, with a record that was certainly
spectacular.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see,&rdquo; said Anson Merrill to his wife, one morning at breakfast,
&ldquo;that this man Cowperwood is beginning to get his name in the
papers.&rdquo; He had the Times on the table before him, and was looking at a
headline which, after the old-fashioned pyramids then in vogue, read:
&ldquo;Conspiracy charged against various Chicago citizens. Frank Algernon
Cowperwood, Judson P. Van Sickle, Henry De Soto Sippens, and others named in
Circuit Court complaint.&rdquo; It went on to specify other facts. &ldquo;I
supposed he was just a broker.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know much about them,&rdquo; replied his wife,
&ldquo;except what Bella Simms tells me. What does it say?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He handed her the paper.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have always thought they were merely climbers,&rdquo; continued Mrs.
Merrill. &ldquo;From what I hear she is impossible. I never saw her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He begins well for a Philadelphian,&rdquo; smiled Merrill.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen him at the Calumet. He looks like a very shrewd man to
me. He&rsquo;s going about his work in a brisk spirit, anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Similarly Mr. Norman Schryhart, a man who up to this time had taken no thought
of Cowperwood, although he had noted his appearance about the halls of the
Calumet and Union League Clubs, began to ask seriously who he was. Schryhart, a
man of great physical and mental vigor, six feet tall, hale and stolid as an
ox, a very different type of man from Anson Merrill, met Addison one day at the
Calumet Club shortly after the newspaper talk began. Sinking into a great
leather divan beside him, he observed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who is this man Cowperwood whose name is in the papers these days,
Addison? You know: all these people. Didn&rsquo;t you introduce him to me
once?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I surely did,&rdquo; replied Addison, cheerfully, who, in spite of the
attacks on Cowperwood, was rather pleased than otherwise. It was quite plain
from the concurrent excitement that attended all this struggle, that Cowperwood
must be managing things rather adroitly, and, best of all, he was keeping his
backers&rsquo; names from view. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a Philadelphian by birth. He
came out here several years ago, and went into the grain and commission
business. He&rsquo;s a banker now. A rather shrewd man, I should say. He has a
lot of money.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is it true, as the papers say, that he failed for a million in
Philadelphia in 1871?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In so far as I know, it is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, was he in the penitentiary down there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think so&mdash;yes. I believe it was for nothing really criminal,
though. There appears to have been some political-financial mix-up, from all I
can learn.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And is he only forty, as the papers say?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;About that, I should judge. Why?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, this scheme of his looks rather pretentious to me&mdash;holding up
the old gas companies here. Do you suppose he&rsquo;ll manage to do it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that. All I know is what I have read in the
papers,&rdquo; replied Addison, cautiously. As a matter of fact, he did not
care to talk about this business at all. Cowperwood was busy at this very time,
through an agent, attempting to effect a compromise and union of all interests
concerned. It was not going very well.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Humph!&rdquo; commented Schryhart. He was wondering why men like
himself, Merrill, Arneel, and others had not worked into this field long ago or
bought out the old companies. He went away interested, and a day or two
later&mdash;even the next morning&mdash;had formulated a scheme. Not unlike
Cowperwood, he was a shrewd, hard, cold man. He believed in Chicago implicitly
and in all that related to its future. This gas situation, now that Cowperwood
had seen the point, was very clear to him. Even yet it might not be impossible
for a third party to step in and by intricate manipulation secure the much
coveted rewards. Perhaps Cowperwood himself could be taken over&mdash;who could
tell?
</p>

<p>
Mr. Schryhart, being a very dominating type of person, did not believe in minor
partnerships or investments. If he went into a thing of this kind it was his
preference to rule. He decided to invite Cowperwood to visit the Schryhart
office and talk matters over. Accordingly, he had his secretary pen a note,
which in rather lofty phrases invited Cowperwood to call &ldquo;on a matter of
importance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Now just at this time, it so chanced, Cowperwood was feeling rather secure as
to his place in the Chicago financial world, although he was still smarting
from the bitterness of the aspersions recently cast upon him from various
quarters. Under such circumstances it was his temperament to evince a rugged
contempt for humanity, rich and poor alike. He was well aware that Schryhart,
although introduced, had never previously troubled to notice him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood begs me to say,&rdquo; wrote Miss Antoinette Nowak, at
his dictation, &ldquo;that he finds himself very much pressed for time at
present, but he would be glad to see Mr. Schryhart at his office at any
time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This irritated the dominating, self-sufficient Schryhart a little, but
nevertheless he was satisfied that a conference could do no harm in this
instance&mdash;was advisable, in fact. So one Wednesday afternoon he journeyed
to the office of Cowperwood, and was most hospitably received.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How do you do, Mr. Schryhart,&rdquo; observed Cowperwood, cordially,
extending his hand. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m glad to see you again. I believe we met
once before several years ago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think so myself,&rdquo; replied Mr. Schryhart, who was
broad-shouldered, square-headed, black-eyed, and with a short black mustache
gracing a firm upper lip. He had hard, dark, piercing eyes. &ldquo;I see by the
papers, if they can be trusted,&rdquo; he said, coming direct to the point,
&ldquo;that you are interesting yourself in local gas. Is that true?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid the papers cannot be generally relied on,&rdquo;
replied Cowperwood, quite blandly. &ldquo;Would you mind telling me what makes
you interested to know whether I am or not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, to tell the truth,&rdquo; replied Schryhart, staring at the
financier, &ldquo;I am interested in this local gas situation myself. It offers
a rather profitable field for investment, and several members of the old
companies have come to me recently to ask me to help them combine.&rdquo; (This
was not true at all.) &ldquo;I have been wondering what chance you thought you
had of winning along the lines you are now taking.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled. &ldquo;I hardly care to discuss that,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;unless I know much more of your motives and connections than I do at
present. Do I understand that you have really been appealed to by stockholders
of the old companies to come in and help adjust this matter?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; said Schryhart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you think you can get them to combine? On what basis?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I should say it would be a simple matter to give each of them two or
three shares of a new company for one in each of the old. We could then elect
one set of officers, have one set of offices, stop all these suits, and leave
everybody happy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He said this in an easy, patronizing way, as though Cowperwood had not really
thought it all out years before. It amazed the latter no little to see his own
scheme patronizingly brought back to him, and that, too, by a very powerful man
locally&mdash;one who thus far had chosen to overlook him utterly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;On what basis,&rdquo; asked Cowperwood, cautiously, &ldquo;would you
expect these new companies to come in?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;On the same basis as the others, if they are not too heavily
capitalized. I haven&rsquo;t thought out all the details. Two or three for one,
according to investment. Of course, the prejudices of these old companies have
to be considered.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood meditated. Should or should he not entertain this offer? Here was a
chance to realize quickly by selling out to the old companies. Only Schryhart,
not himself, would be taking the big end in this manipulative deal. Whereas if
he waited&mdash;even if Schryhart managed to combine the three old companies
into one&mdash;he might be able to force better terms. He was not sure. Finally
he asked, &ldquo;How much stock of the new company would be left in your
hands&mdash;or in the hands of the organizing group&mdash;after each of the old
and new companies had been provided for on this basis?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, possibly thirty-five or forty per cent. of the whole,&rdquo; replied
Schryhart, ingratiatingly. &ldquo;The laborer is worthy of his hire.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, smiling, &ldquo;but, seeing that I
am the man who has been cutting the pole to knock this persimmon it seems to me
that a pretty good share of that should come to me; don&rsquo;t you think
so?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just what do you mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just what I have said. I personally have organized the new companies
which have made this proposed combination possible. The plan you propose is
nothing more than what I have been proposing for some time. The officers and
directors of the old companies are angry at me merely because I am supposed to
have invaded the fields that belong to them. Now, if on account of that they
are willing to operate through you rather than through me, it seems to me that
I should have a much larger share in the surplus. My personal interest in these
new companies is not very large. I am really more of a fiscal agent than
anything else.&rdquo; (This was not true, but Cowperwood preferred to have his
guest think so.)
</p>

<p>
Schryhart smiled. &ldquo;But, my dear sir,&rdquo; he explained, &ldquo;you
forget that I will be supplying nearly all the capital to do this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You forget,&rdquo; retorted Cowperwood, &ldquo;that I am not a novice. I
will guarantee to supply all the capital myself, and give you a good bonus for
your services, if you want that. The plants and franchises of the old and new
companies are worth something. You must remember that Chicago is
growing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; replied Schryhart, evasively, &ldquo;but I also know
that you have a long, expensive fight ahead of you. As things are now you
cannot, of yourself, expect to bring these old companies to terms. They
won&rsquo;t work with you, as I understand it. It will require an outsider like
myself&mdash;some one of influence, or perhaps, I had better say, of old
standing in Chicago, some one who knows these people&mdash;to bring about this
combination. Have you any one, do you think, who can do it better than
I?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is not at all impossible that I will find some one,&rdquo; replied
Cowperwood, quite easily.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hardly think so; certainly not as things are now. The old companies
are not disposed to work through you, and they are through me. Don&rsquo;t you
think you had better accept my terms and allow me to go ahead and close this
matter up?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not at all on that basis,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, quite simply.
&ldquo;We have invaded the enemies&rsquo; country too far and done too much.
Three for one or four for one&mdash;whatever terms are given the stockholders
of the old companies&mdash;is the best I will do about the new shares, and I
must have one-half of whatever is left for myself. At that I will have to
divide with others.&rdquo; (This was not true either.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Schryhart, evasively and opposingly, shaking his
square head. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be done. The risks are too great. I might
allow you one-fourth, possibly&mdash;I can&rsquo;t tell yet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One-half or nothing,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, definitely.
</p>

<p>
Schryhart got up. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the best you will do, is it?&rdquo; he
inquired.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The very best.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid then,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;we can&rsquo;t come to
terms. I&rsquo;m sorry. You may find this a rather long and expensive
fight.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have fully anticipated that,&rdquo; replied the financier.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br/>
A New Retainer</h2>

<p>
Cowperwood, who had rebuffed Schryhart so courteously but firmly, was to learn
that he who takes the sword may well perish by the sword. His own watchful
attorney, on guard at the state capitol, where certificates of incorporation
were issued in the city and village councils, in the courts and so forth, was
not long in learning that a counter-movement of significance was under way. Old
General Van Sickle was the first to report that something was in the wind in
connection with the North Side company. He came in late one afternoon, his
dusty greatcoat thrown loosely about his shoulders, his small, soft hat low
over his shaggy eyes, and in response to Cowperwood&rsquo;s &ldquo;Evening,
General, what can I do for you?&rdquo; seated himself portentously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think you&rsquo;ll have to prepare for real rough weather in the
future, Captain,&rdquo; he remarked, addressing the financier with a courtesy
title that he had fallen in the habit of using.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the trouble now?&rdquo; asked Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No real trouble as yet, but there may be. Some one&mdash;I don&rsquo;t
know who&mdash;is getting these three old companies together in one.
There&rsquo;s a certificate of incorporation been applied for at Springfield
for the United Gas and Fuel Company of Chicago, and there are some
directors&rsquo; meetings now going on at the Douglas Trust Company. I got this
from Duniway, who seems to have friends somewhere that know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood put the ends of his fingers together in his customary way and began
to tap them lightly and rhythmically.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me see&mdash;the Douglas Trust Company. Mr. Simms is president of
that. He isn&rsquo;t shrewd enough to organize a thing of that kind. Who are
the incorporators?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The General produced a list of four names, none of them officers or directors
of the old companies.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dummies, every one,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, succinctly. &ldquo;I think I
know,&rdquo; he said, after a few moments&rsquo; reflection, &ldquo;who is
behind it, General; but don&rsquo;t let that worry you. They can&rsquo;t harm
us if they do unite. They&rsquo;re bound to sell out to us or buy us out
eventually.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Still it irritated him to think that Schryhart had succeeded in persuading the
old companies to combine on any basis; he had meant to have Addison go shortly,
posing as an outside party, and propose this very thing. Schryhart, he was
sure, had acted swiftly following their interview. He hurried to
Addison&rsquo;s office in the Lake National.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you heard the news?&rdquo; exclaimed that individual, the moment
Cowperwood appeared. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re planning to combine. It&rsquo;s
Schryhart. I was afraid of that. Simms of the Douglas Trust is going to act as
the fiscal agent. I had the information not ten minutes ago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So did I,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, calmly. &ldquo;We should have acted
a little sooner. Still, it isn&rsquo;t our fault exactly. Do you know the terms
of agreement?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They&rsquo;re going to pool their stock on a basis of three to one, with
about thirty per cent. of the holding company left for Schryhart to sell or
keep, as he wants to. He guarantees the interest. We did that for
him&mdash;drove the game right into his bag.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nevertheless,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, &ldquo;he still has us to deal
with. I propose now that we go into the city council and ask for a blanket
franchise. It can be had. If we should get it, it will bring them to their
knees. We will really be in a better position than they are with these smaller
companies as feeders. We can unite with ourselves.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That will take considerable money, won&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not so much. We may never need to lay a pipe or build a plant. They will
offer to sell out, buy, or combine before that. We can fix the terms. Leave it
to me. You don&rsquo;t happen to know by any chance this Mr. McKenty, who has
so much say in local affairs here&mdash;John J. McKenty?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was referring to a man who was at once gambler, rumored owner or
controller of a series of houses of prostitution, rumored maker of mayors and
aldermen, rumored financial backer of many saloons and contracting
companies&mdash;in short, the patron saint of the political and social
underworld of Chicago, and who was naturally to be reckoned with in matters
which related to the city and state legislative programme.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Addison; &ldquo;but I can get you a letter.
Why?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t trouble to ask me that now. Get me as strong an introduction
as you can.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have one for you to-day some time,&rdquo; replied Addison,
efficiently. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll send it over to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood went out while Addison speculated as to this newest move. Trust
Cowperwood to dig a pit into which the enemy might fall. He marveled sometimes
at the man&rsquo;s resourcefulness. He never quarreled with the directness and
incisiveness of Cowperwood&rsquo;s action.
</p>

<p>
The man, McKenty, whom Cowperwood had in mind in this rather disturbing hour,
was as interesting and forceful an individual as one would care to meet
anywhere, a typical figure of Chicago and the West at the time. He was a
pleasant, smiling, bland, affable person, not unlike Cowperwood in magnetism
and subtlety, but different by a degree of animal coarseness (not visible on
the surface) which Cowperwood would scarcely have understood, and in a kind of
temperamental pull drawing to him that vast pathetic life of the underworld in
which his soul found its solution. There is a kind of nature, not artistic, not
spiritual, in no way emotional, nor yet unduly philosophical, that is
nevertheless a sphered content of life; not crystalline, perhaps, and yet not
utterly dark&mdash;an agate temperament, cloudy and strange. As a
three-year-old child McKenty had been brought from Ireland by his emigrant
parents during a period of famine. He had been raised on the far South Side in
a shanty which stood near a maze of railroad-tracks, and as a naked baby he had
crawled on its earthen floor. His father had been promoted to a section boss
after working for years as a day-laborer on the adjoining railroad, and John,
junior, one of eight other children, had been sent out early to do many
things&mdash;to be an errand-boy in a store, a messenger-boy for a telegraph
company, an emergency sweep about a saloon, and finally a bartender. This last
was his true beginning, for he was discovered by a keen-minded politician and
encouraged to run for the state legislature and to study law. Even as a
stripling what things had he not learned&mdash;robbery, ballot-box stuffing,
the sale of votes, the appointive power of leaders, graft, nepotism, vice
exploitation&mdash;all the things that go to make up (or did) the American
world of politics and financial and social strife. There is a strong assumption
in the upper walks of life that there is nothing to be learned at the bottom.
If you could have looked into the capacious but balanced temperament of John J.
McKenty you would have seen a strange wisdom there and stranger
memories&mdash;whole worlds of brutalities, tendernesses, errors, immoralities
suffered, endured, even rejoiced in&mdash;the hardy, eager life of the animal
that has nothing but its perceptions, instincts, appetites to guide it. Yet the
man had the air and the poise of a gentleman.
</p>

<p>
To-day, at forty-eight, McKenty was an exceedingly important personage. His
roomy house on the West Side, at Harrison Street and Ashland Avenue, was
visited at sundry times by financiers, business men, office-holders, priests,
saloon-keepers&mdash;in short, the whole range and gamut of active, subtle,
political life. From McKenty they could obtain that counsel, wisdom, surety,
solution which all of them on occasion were anxious to have, and which in one
deft way and another&mdash;often by no more than gratitude and an
acknowledgment of his leadership&mdash;they were willing to pay for. To police
captains and officers whose places he occasionally saved, when they should
justly have been discharged; to mothers whose erring boys or girls he took out
of prison and sent home again; to keepers of bawdy houses whom he protected
from a too harsh invasion of the grafting propensities of the local police; to
politicians and saloon-keepers who were in danger of being destroyed by public
upheavals of one kind and another, he seemed, in hours of stress, when his
smooth, genial, almost artistic face beamed on them, like a heaven-sent son of
light, a kind of Western god, all-powerful, all-merciful, perfect. On the other
hand, there were ingrates, uncompromising or pharasaical religionists and
reformers, plotting, scheming rivals, who found him deadly to contend with.
There were many henchmen&mdash;runners from an almost imperial throne&mdash;to
do his bidding. He was simple in dress and taste, married and (apparently) very
happy, a professing though virtually non-practising Catholic, a suave, genial
Buddha-like man, powerful and enigmatic.
</p>

<p>
When Cowperwood and McKenty first met, it was on a spring evening at the
latter&rsquo;s home. The windows of the large house were pleasantly open,
though screened, and the curtains were blowing faintly in a light air. Along
with a sense of the new green life everywhere came a breath of stock-yards.
</p>

<p>
On the presentation of Addison&rsquo;s letter and of another, secured through
Van Sickle from a well-known political judge, Cowperwood had been invited to
call. On his arrival he was offered a drink, a cigar, introduced to Mrs.
McKenty&mdash;who, lacking an organized social life of any kind, was always
pleased to meet these celebrities of the upper world, if only for a
moment&mdash;and shown eventually into the library. Mrs. McKenty, as he might
have observed if he had had the eye for it, was plump and fifty, a sort of
superannuated Aileen, but still showing traces of a former hardy beauty, and
concealing pretty well the evidences that she had once been a prostitute. It so
happened that on this particular evening McKenty was in a most genial frame of
mind. There were no immediate political troubles bothering him just now. It was
early in May. Outside the trees were budding, the sparrows and robins were
voicing their several moods. A delicious haze was in the air, and some early
mosquitoes were reconnoitering the screens which protected the windows and
doors. Cowperwood, in spite of his various troubles, was in a complacent state
of mind himself. He liked life&mdash;even its very difficult
complications&mdash;perhaps its complications best of all. Nature was
beautiful, tender at times, but difficulties, plans, plots, schemes to unravel
and make smooth&mdash;these things were what made existence worth while.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well now, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; McKenty began, when they finally
entered the cool, pleasant library, &ldquo;what can I do for you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Mr. McKenty,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, choosing his words and
bringing the finest resources of his temperament into play, &ldquo;it
isn&rsquo;t so much, and yet it is. I want a franchise from the Chicago city
council, and I want you to help me get it if you will. I know you may say to me
why not go to the councilmen direct. I would do that, except that there are
certain other elements&mdash;individuals&mdash;who might come to you. It
won&rsquo;t offend you, I know, when I say that I have always understood that
you are a sort of clearing-house for political troubles in Chicago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. McKenty smiled. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s flattering,&rdquo; he replied, dryly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, I am rather new myself to Chicago,&rdquo; went on Cowperwood,
softly. &ldquo;I have been here only a year or two. I come from Philadelphia. I
have been interested as a fiscal agent and an investor in several gas companies
that have been organized in Lake View, Hyde Park, and elsewhere outside the
city limits, as you may possibly have seen by the papers lately. I am not their
owner, in the sense that I have provided all or even a good part of the money
invested in them. I am not even their manager, except in a very general way. I
might better be called their promoter and guardian; but I am that for other
people and myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. McKenty nodded.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, Mr. McKenty, it was not very long after I started out to get
franchises to do business in Lake View and Hyde Park before I found myself
confronted by the interests which control the three old city gas companies.
They were very much opposed to our entering the field in Cook County anywhere,
as you may imagine, although we were not really crowding in on their field.
Since then they have fought me with lawsuits, injunctions, and charges of
bribery and conspiracy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; put in Mr. McKenty. &ldquo;I have heard something of
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood. &ldquo;Because of their opposition
I made them an offer to combine these three companies and the three new ones
into one, take out a new charter, and give the city a uniform gas service. They
would not do that&mdash;largely because I was an outsider, I think. Since then
another person, Mr. Schryhart&rdquo;&mdash;McKenty nodded&mdash;&ldquo;who has
never had anything to do with the gas business here, has stepped in and offered
to combine them. His plan is to do exactly what I wanted to do; only his
further proposition is, once he has the three old companies united, to invade
this new gas field of ours and hold us up, or force us to sell by obtaining
rival franchises in these outlying places. There is talk of combining these
suburbs with Chicago, as you know, which would allow these three down-town
franchises to become mutually operative with our own. This makes it essential
for us to do one of several things, as you may see&mdash;either to sell out on
the best terms we can now, or to continue the fight at a rather heavy expense
without making any attempt to strike back, or to get into the city council and
ask for a franchise to do business in the down-town section&mdash;a general
blanket franchise to sell gas in Chicago alongside of the old
companies&mdash;with the sole intention of protecting ourselves, as one of my
officers is fond of saying,&rdquo; added Cowperwood, humorously.
</p>

<p>
McKenty smiled again. &ldquo;I see,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t that a
rather large order, though, Mr. Cowperwood, seeking a new franchise? Do you
suppose the general public would agree that the city needs an extra gas
company? It&rsquo;s true the old companies haven&rsquo;t been any too generous.
My own gas isn&rsquo;t of the best.&rdquo; He smiled vaguely, prepared to
listen further.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, Mr. McKenty, I know that you are a practical man,&rdquo; went on
Cowperwood, ignoring this interruption, &ldquo;and so am I. I am not coming to
you with any vague story concerning my troubles and expecting you to be
interested as a matter of sympathy. I realize that to go into the city council
of Chicago with a legitimate proposition is one thing. To get it passed and
approved by the city authorities is another. I need advice and assistance, and
I am not begging it. If I could get a general franchise, such as I have
described, it would be worth a very great deal of money to me. It would help me
to close up and realize on these new companies which are entirely sound and
needed. It would help me to prevent the old companies from eating me up. As a
matter of fact, I must have such a franchise to protect my interests and give
me a running fighting chance. Now, I know that none of us are in politics or
finance for our health. If I could get such a franchise it would be worth from
one-fourth to one-half of all I personally would make out of it, providing my
plan of combining these new companies with the old ones should go
through&mdash;say, from three to four hundred thousand dollars.&rdquo; (Here
again Cowperwood was not quite frank, but safe.) &ldquo;It is needless to say
to you that I can command ample capital. This franchise would do that. Briefly,
I want to know if you won&rsquo;t give me your political support in this matter
and join in with me on the basis that I propose? I will make it perfectly clear
to you beforehand who my associates are. I will put all the data and details on
the table before you so that you can see for yourself how things are. If you
should find at any time that I have misrepresented anything you are at full
liberty, of course, to withdraw. As I said before,&rdquo; he concluded,
&ldquo;I am not a beggar. I am not coming here to conceal any facts or to hide
anything which might deceive you as to the worth of all this to us. I want you
to know the facts. I want you to give me your aid on such terms as you think
are fair and equitable. Really the only trouble with me in this situation is
that I am not a silk stocking. If I were this gas war would have been adjusted
long ago. These gentlemen who are so willing to reorganize through Mr.
Schryhart are largely opposed to me because I am&mdash;comparatively&mdash;a
stranger in Chicago and not in their set. If I were&rdquo;&mdash;he moved his
hand slightly&mdash;&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose I would be here this evening
asking for your favor, although that does not say that I am not glad to be
here, or that I would not be glad to work with you in any way that I might.
Circumstances simply have not thrown me across your path before.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As he talked his eye fixed McKenty steadily, almost innocently; and the latter,
following him clearly, felt all the while that he was listening to a strange,
able, dark, and very forceful man. There was no beating about the bush here, no
squeamishness of spirit, and yet there was subtlety&mdash;the kind McKenty
liked. While he was amused by Cowperwood&rsquo;s casual reference to the silk
stockings who were keeping him out, it appealed to him. He caught the point of
view as well as the intention of it. Cowperwood represented a new and rather
pleasing type of financier to him. Evidently, he was traveling in able company
if one could believe the men who had introduced him so warmly. McKenty, as
Cowperwood was well aware, had personally no interest in the old companies and
also&mdash;though this he did not say&mdash;no particular sympathy with them.
They were just remote financial corporations to him, paying political tribute
on demand, expecting political favors in return. Every few weeks now they were
in council, asking for one gas-main franchise after another (special privileges
in certain streets), asking for better (more profitable) light-contracts,
asking for dock privileges in the river, a lower tax rate, and so forth and so
on. McKenty did not pay much attention to these things personally. He had a
subordinate in council, a very powerful henchman by the name of Patrick
Dowling, a meaty, vigorous Irishman and a true watch-dog of graft for the
machine, who worked with the mayor, the city treasurer, the city tax
receiver&mdash;in fact, all the officers of the current
administration&mdash;and saw that such minor matters were properly equalized.
Mr. McKenty had only met two or three of the officers of the South Side Gas
Company, and that quite casually. He did not like them very well. The truth was
that the old companies were officered by men who considered politicians of the
McKenty and Dowling stripe as very evil men; if they paid them and did other
such wicked things it was because they were forced to do so.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; McKenty replied, lingering his thin gold watch-chain in a
thoughtful manner, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s an interesting scheme you have. Of
course the old companies wouldn&rsquo;t like your asking for a rival franchise,
but once you had it they couldn&rsquo;t object very well, could they?&rdquo; He
smiled. Mr. McKenty spoke with no suggestion of a brogue. &ldquo;From one point
of view it might be looked upon as bad business, but not entirely. They would
be sure to make a great cry, though they haven&rsquo;t been any too kind to the
public themselves. But if you offered to combine with them I see no objection.
It&rsquo;s certain to be as good for them in the long run as it is for you.
This merely permits you to make a better bargain.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; said Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you have the means, you tell me, to lay mains in every part of the
city, and fight with them for business if they won&rsquo;t give in?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have the means,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, &ldquo;or if I haven&rsquo;t I
can get them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. McKenty looked at Mr. Cowperwood very solemnly. There was a kind of mutual
sympathy, understanding, and admiration between the two men, but it was still
heavily veiled by self-interest. To Mr. McKenty Cowperwood was interesting
because he was one of the few business men he had met who were not ponderous,
pharasaical, even hypocritical when they were dealing with him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you what I&rsquo;ll do, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he
said, finally. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take it all under consideration. Let me think
it over until Monday, anyhow. There is more of an excuse now for the
introduction of a general gas ordinance than there would be a little
later&mdash;I can see that. Why don&rsquo;t you draw up your proposed franchise
and let me see it? Then we might find out what some of the other gentlemen of
the city council think.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood almost smiled at the word &ldquo;gentlemen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have already done that,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Here it is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
McKenty took it, surprised and yet pleased at this evidence of business
proficiency. He liked a strong manipulator of this kind&mdash;the more since he
was not one himself, and most of those that he did know were thin-blooded and
squeamish.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me take this,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll see you next Monday
again if you wish. Come Monday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood got up. &ldquo;I thought I&rsquo;d come and talk to you direct, Mr.
McKenty,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and now I&rsquo;m glad that I did. You will
find, if you will take the trouble to look into this matter, that it is just as
I represent it. There is a very great deal of money here in one way and
another, though it will take some little time to work it out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. McKenty saw the point. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, sweetly, &ldquo;to be
sure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They looked into each other&rsquo;s eyes as they shook hands.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not sure but you haven&rsquo;t hit upon a very good idea
here,&rdquo; concluded McKenty, sympathetically. &ldquo;A very good idea,
indeed. Come and see me again next Monday, or about that time, and I&rsquo;ll
let you know what I think. Come any time you have anything else you want of me.
I&rsquo;ll always be glad to see you. It&rsquo;s a fine night, isn&rsquo;t
it?&rdquo; he added, looking out as they neared the door. &ldquo;A nice moon
that!&rdquo; he added. A sickle moon was in the sky. &ldquo;Good night.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br/>
The Die is Cast</h2>

<p>
The significance of this visit was not long in manifesting itself. At the top,
in large affairs, life goes off into almost inexplicable tangles of
personalities. Mr. McKenty, now that the matter had been called to his
attention, was interested to learn about this gas situation from all
sides&mdash;whether it might not be more profitable to deal with the Schryhart
end of the argument, and so on. But his eventual conclusion was that
Cowperwood&rsquo;s plan, as he had outlined it, was the most feasible for
political purposes, largely because the Schryhart faction, not being in a
position where they needed to ask the city council for anything at present,
were so obtuse as to forget to make overtures of any kind to the bucaneering
forces at the City Hall.
</p>

<p>
When Cowperwood next came to McKenty&rsquo;s house the latter was in a
receptive frame of mind. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, after a few genial
preliminary remarks, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been learning what&rsquo;s going on.
Your proposition is fair enough. Organize your company, and arrange your plan
conditionally. Then introduce your ordinance, and we&rsquo;ll see what can be
done.&rdquo; They went into a long, intimate discussion as to how the
forthcoming stock should be divided, how it was to be held in escrow by a
favorite bank of Mr. McKenty&rsquo;s until the terms of the agreement under the
eventual affiliation with the old companies or the new union company should be
fulfilled, and details of that sort. It was rather a complicated arrangement,
not as satisfactory to Cowperwood as it might have been, but satisfactory in
that it permitted him to win. It required the undivided services of General Van
Sickle, Henry De Soto Sippens, Kent Barrows McKibben, and Alderman Dowling for
some little time. But finally all was in readiness for the coup.
</p>

<p>
On a certain Monday night, therefore, following the Thursday on which,
according to the rules of the city council, an ordinance of this character
would have to be introduced, the plan, after being publicly broached but this
very little while, was quickly considered by the city council and passed. There
had been really no time for public discussion. This was just the thing, of
course, that Cowperwood and McKenty were trying to avoid. On the day following
the particular Thursday on which the ordinance had been broached in council as
certain to be brought up for passage, Schryhart, through his lawyers and the
officers of the old individual gas companies, had run to the newspapers and
denounced the whole thing as plain robbery; but what were they to do? There was
so little time for agitation. True the newspapers, obedient to this larger
financial influence, began to talk of &ldquo;fair play to the old
companies,&rdquo; and the uselessness of two large rival companies in the field
when one would serve as well. Still the public, instructed or urged by the
McKenty agents to the contrary, were not prepared to believe it. They had not
been so well treated by the old companies as to make any outcry on their
behalf.
</p>

<p>
Standing outside the city council door, on the Monday evening when the bill was
finally passed, Mr. Samuel Blackman, president of the South Side Gas Company, a
little, wispy man with shoe-brush whiskers, declared emphatically:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is a scoundrelly piece of business. If the mayor signs that he
should be impeached. There is not a vote in there to-night that has not been
purchased&mdash;not one. This is a fine element of brigandage to introduce into
Chicago; why, people who have worked years and years to build up a business are
not safe!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s true, every word of it,&rdquo; complained Mr. Jordan Jules,
president of the North Side company, a short, stout man with a head like an egg
lying lengthwise, a mere fringe of hair, and hard, blue eyes. He was with Mr.
Hudson Baker, tall and ambling, who was president of the West Chicago company.
All of these had come to protest.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s that scoundrel from Philadelphia. He&rsquo;s the cause of all
our troubles. It&rsquo;s high time the respectable business element of Chicago
realized just what sort of a man they have to deal with in him. He ought to be
driven out of here. Look at his Philadelphia record. They sent him to the
penitentiary down there, and they ought to do it here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Baker, very recently the guest of Schryhart, and his henchman, too, was
also properly chagrined. &ldquo;The man is a charlatan,&rdquo; he protested to
Blackman. &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t play fair. It is plain that he doesn&rsquo;t
belong in respectable society.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless, and in spite of this, the ordinance was passed. It was a bitter
lesson for Mr. Norman Schryhart, Mr. Norrie Simms, and all those who had
unfortunately become involved. A committee composed of all three of the old
companies visited the mayor; but the latter, a tool of McKenty, giving his
future into the hands of the enemy, signed it just the same. Cowperwood had his
franchise, and, groan as they might, it was now necessary, in the language of a
later day, &ldquo;to step up and see the captain.&rdquo; Only Schryhart felt
personally that his score with Cowperwood was not settled. He would meet him on
some other ground later. The next time he would try to fight fire with fire.
But for the present, shrewd man that he was, he was prepared to compromise.
</p>

<p>
Thereafter, dissembling his chagrin as best he could, he kept on the lookout
for Cowperwood at both of the clubs of which he was a member; but Cowperwood
had avoided them during this period of excitement, and Mahomet would have to go
to the mountain. So one drowsy June afternoon Mr. Schryhart called at
Cowperwood&rsquo;s office. He had on a bright, new, steel-gray suit and a straw
hat. From his pocket, according to the fashion of the time, protruded a neat,
blue-bordered silk handkerchief, and his feet were immaculate in new, shining
Oxford ties.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sailing for Europe in a few days, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he
remarked, genially, &ldquo;and I thought I&rsquo;d drop round to see if you and
I could reach some agreement in regard to this gas situation. The officers of
the old companies naturally feel that they do not care to have a rival in the
field, and I&rsquo;m sure that you are not interested in carrying on a useless
rate war that won&rsquo;t leave anybody any profit. I recall that you were
willing to compromise on a half-and-half basis with me before, and I was
wondering whether you were still of that mind.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sit down, sit down, Mr. Schryhart,&rdquo; remarked Cowperwood,
cheerfully, waving the new-comer to a chair. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m pleased to see
you again. No, I&rsquo;m no more anxious for a rate war than you are. As a
matter of fact, I hope to avoid it; but, as you see, things have changed
somewhat since I saw you. The gentlemen who have organized and invested their
money in this new city gas company are perfectly willing&mdash;rather anxious,
in fact&mdash;to go on and establish a legitimate business. They feel all the
confidence in the world that they can do this, and I agree with them. A
compromise might be effected between the old and the new companies, but not on
the basis on which I was willing to settle some time ago. A new company has
been organized since then, stock issued, and a great deal of money
expended.&rdquo; (This was not true.) &ldquo;That stock will have to figure in
any new agreement. I think a general union of all the companies is desirable,
but it will have to be on a basis of one, two, three, or four
shares&mdash;whatever is decided&mdash;at par for all stock involved.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Schryhart pulled a long face. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think that&rsquo;s
rather steep?&rdquo; he said, solemnly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not at all, not at all!&rdquo; replied Cowperwood. &ldquo;You know these
new expenditures were not undertaken voluntarily.&rdquo; (The irony of this did
not escape Mr. Schryhart, but he said nothing.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I admit all that, but don&rsquo;t you think, since your shares are worth
practically nothing at present, that you ought to be satisfied if they were
accepted at par?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t see why,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood. &ldquo;Our future
prospects are splendid. There must be an even adjustment here or nothing. What
I want to know is how much treasury stock you would expect to have in the safe
for the promotion of this new organization after all the old stockholders have
been satisfied?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, as I thought before, from thirty to forty per cent. of the total
issue,&rdquo; replied Schryhart, still hopeful of a profitable adjustment.
&ldquo;I should think it could be worked on that basis.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And who gets that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, the organizer,&rdquo; said Schryhart, evasively. &ldquo;Yourself,
perhaps, and myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And how would you divide it? Half and half, as before?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should think that would be fair.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t enough,&rdquo; returned Cowperwood, incisively.
&ldquo;Since I talked to you last I have been compelled to shoulder obligations
and make agreements which I did not anticipate then. The best I can do now is
to accept three-fourths.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Schryhart straightened up determinedly and offensively. This was outrageous, he
thought, impossible! The effrontery of it!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It can never be done, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he replied, forcefully.
&ldquo;You are trying to unload too much worthless stock on the company as it
is. The old companies&rsquo; stock is selling right now, as you know, for from
one-fifty to two-ten. Your stock is worth nothing. If you are to be given two
or three for one for that, and three-fourths of the remainder in the treasury,
I for one want nothing to do with the deal. You would be in control of the
company, and it will be water-logged, at that. Talk about getting something for
nothing! The best I would suggest to the stockholders of the old companies
would be half and half. And I may say to you frankly, although you may not
believe it, that the old companies will not join in with you in any scheme that
gives you control. They are too much incensed. Feeling is running too high. It
will mean a long, expensive fight, and they will never compromise. Now, if you
have anything really reasonable to offer I would be glad to hear it. Otherwise
I am afraid these negotiations are not going to come to anything.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Share and share alike, and three-fourths of the remainder,&rdquo;
repeated Cowperwood, grimly. &ldquo;I do not want to control. If they want to
raise the money and buy me out on that basis I am willing to sell. I want a
decent return for investments I have made, and I am going to have it. I cannot
speak for the others behind me, but as long as they deal through me that is
what they will expect.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Schryhart went angrily away. He was exceedingly wroth. This proposition as
Cowperwood now outlined it was bucaneering at its best. He proposed for himself
to withdraw from the old companies if necessary, to close out his holdings and
let the old companies deal with Cowperwood as best they could. So long as he
had anything to do with it, Cowperwood should never gain control of the gas
situation. Better to take him at his suggestion, raise the money and buy him
out, even at an exorbitant figure. Then the old gas companies could go along
and do business in their old-fashioned way without being disturbed. This
bucaneer! This upstart! What a shrewd, quick, forceful move he had made! It
irritated Mr. Schryhart greatly.
</p>

<p>
The end of all this was a compromise in which Cowperwood accepted one-half of
the surplus stock of the new general issue, and two for one of every share of
stock for which his new companies had been organized, at the same time selling
out to the old companies&mdash;clearing out completely. It was a most
profitable deal, and he was enabled to provide handsomely not only for Mr.
McKenty and Addison, but for all the others connected with him. It was a
splendid coup, as McKenty and Addison assured him. Having now done so much, he
began to turn his eyes elsewhere for other fields to conquer.
</p>

<p>
But this victory in one direction brought with it corresponding reverses in
another: the social future of Cowperwood and Aileen was now in great jeopardy.
Schryhart, who was a force socially, having met with defeat at the hands of
Cowperwood, was now bitterly opposed to him. Norrie Simms naturally sided with
his old associates. But the worst blow came through Mrs. Anson Merrill. Shortly
after the housewarming, and when the gas argument and the conspiracy charges
were rising to their heights, she had been to New York and had there chanced to
encounter an old acquaintance of hers, Mrs. Martyn Walker, of Philadelphia, one
of the circle which Cowperwood once upon a time had been vainly ambitious to
enter. Mrs. Merrill, aware of the interest the Cowperwoods had aroused in Mrs.
Simms and others, welcomed the opportunity to find out something definite.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By the way, did you ever chance to hear of a Frank Algernon Cowperwood
or his wife in Philadelphia?&rdquo; she inquired of Mrs. Walker.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, my dear Nellie,&rdquo; replied her friend, nonplussed that a woman
so smart as Mrs. Merrill should even refer to them, &ldquo;have those people
established themselves in Chicago? His career in Philadelphia was, to say the
least, spectacular. He was connected with a city treasurer there who stole five
hundred thousand dollars, and they both went to the penitentiary. That
wasn&rsquo;t the worst of it! He became intimate with some young girl&mdash;a
Miss Butler, the sister of Owen Butler, by the way, who is now such a power
down there, and&mdash;&rdquo; She merely lifted her eyes. &ldquo;While he was
in the penitentiary her father died and the family broke up. I even heard it
rumored that the old gentleman killed himself.&rdquo; (She was referring to
Aileen&rsquo;s father, Edward Malia Butler.) &ldquo;When he came out of the
penitentiary Cowperwood disappeared, and I did hear some one say that he had
gone West, and divorced his wife and married again. His first wife is still
living in Philadelphia somewhere with his two children.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Merrill was properly astonished, but she did not show it. &ldquo;Quite an
interesting story, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; she commented, distantly, thinking
how easy it would be to adjust the Cowperwood situation, and how pleased she
was that she had never shown any interest in them. &ldquo;Did you ever see
her&mdash;his new wife?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think so, but I forget where. I believe she used to ride and drive a
great deal in Philadelphia.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did she have red hair?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes. She was a very striking blonde.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I fancy it must be the same person. They have been in the papers
recently in Chicago. I wanted to be sure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Merrill was meditating some fine comments to be made in the future.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose now they&rsquo;re trying to get into Chicago society?&rdquo;
Mrs. Walker smiled condescendingly and contemptuously&mdash;as much at Chicago
society as at the Cowperwoods.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s possible that they might attempt something like that in the
East and succeed&mdash;I&rsquo;m sure I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; replied Mrs.
Merrill, caustically, resenting the slur, &ldquo;but attempting and achieving
are quite different things in Chicago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The answer was sufficient. It ended the discussion. When next Mrs. Simms was
rash enough to mention the Cowperwoods, or, rather, the peculiar publicity in
connection with him, her future viewpoint was definitely fixed for her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If you take my advice,&rdquo; commented Mrs. Merrill, finally,
&ldquo;the less you have to do with these friends of yours the better. I know
all about them. You might have seen that from the first. They can never be
accepted.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Merrill did not trouble to explain why, but Mrs. Simms through her husband
soon learned the whole truth, and she was righteously indignant and even
terrified. Who was to blame for this sort of thing, anyhow? she thought. Who
had introduced them? The Addisons, of course. But the Addisons were socially
unassailable, if not all-powerful, and so the best had to be made of that. But
the Cowperwoods could be dropped from the lists of herself and her friends
instantly, and that was now done. A sudden slump in their social significance
began to manifest itself, though not so swiftly but what for the time being it
was slightly deceptive.
</p>

<p>
The first evidence of change which Aileen observed was when the customary cards
and invitations for receptions and the like, which had come to them quite
freely of late, began to decline sharply in number, and when the guests to her
own Wednesday afternoons, which rather prematurely she had ventured to
establish, became a mere negligible handful. At first she could not understand
this, not being willing to believe that, following so soon upon her apparent
triumph as a hostess in her own home, there could be so marked a decline in her
local importance. Of a possible seventy-five or fifty who might have called or
left cards, within three weeks after the housewarming only twenty responded. A
week later it had declined to ten, and within five weeks, all told, there was
scarcely a caller. It is true that a very few of the unimportant&mdash;those
who had looked to her for influence and the self-protecting Taylor Lord and
Kent McKibben, who were commercially obligated to Cowperwood&mdash;were still
faithful, but they were really worse than nothing. Aileen was beside herself
with disappointment, opposition, chagrin, shame. There are many natures,
rhinoceros-bided and iron-souled, who can endure almost any rebuff in the hope
of eventual victory, who are almost too thick-skinned to suffer, but hers was
not one of these. Already, in spite of her original daring in regard to the
opinion of society and the rights of the former Mrs. Cowperwood, she was
sensitive on the score of her future and what her past might mean to her.
Really her original actions could be attributed to her youthful passion and the
powerful sex magnetism of Cowperwood. Under more fortunate circumstances she
would have married safely enough and without the scandal which followed. As it
was now, her social future here needed to end satisfactorily in order to
justify herself to herself, and, she thought, to him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You may put the sandwiches in the ice-box,&rdquo; she said to Louis, the
butler, after one of the earliest of the &ldquo;at home&rdquo; failures,
referring to the undue supply of pink-and-blue-ribboned titbits which, uneaten,
honored some fine Sevres with their presence. &ldquo;Send the flowers to the
hospital. The servants may drink the claret cup and lemonade. Keep some of the
cakes fresh for dinner.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The butler nodded his head. &ldquo;Yes, Madame,&rdquo; he said. Then, by way of
pouring oil on what appeared to him to be a troubled situation, he added:
&ldquo;Eet&rsquo;s a rough day. I suppose zat has somepsing to do weeth
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen was aflame in a moment. She was about to exclaim: &ldquo;Mind your
business!&rdquo; but changed her mind. &ldquo;Yes, I presume so,&rdquo; was her
answer, as she ascended to her room. If a single poor &ldquo;at home&rdquo; was
to be commented on by servants, things were coming to a pretty pass. She waited
until the next week to see whether this was the weather or a real change in
public sentiment. It was worse than the one before. The singers she had engaged
had to be dismissed without performing the service for which they had come.
Kent McKibben and Taylor Lord, very well aware of the rumors now flying about,
called, but in a remote and troubled spirit. Aileen saw that, too. An affair of
this kind, with only these two and Mrs. Webster Israels and Mrs. Henry
Huddlestone calling, was a sad indication of something wrong. She had to plead
illness and excuse herself. The third week, fearing a worse defeat than before,
Aileen pretended to be ill. She would see how many cards were left. There were
just three. That was the end. She realized that her &ldquo;at homes&rdquo; were
a notable failure.
</p>

<p>
At the same time Cowperwood was not to be spared his share in the distrust and
social opposition which was now rampant.
</p>

<p>
His first inkling of the true state of affairs came in connection with a dinner
which, on the strength of an old invitation, they unfortunately attended at a
time when Aileen was still uncertain. It had been originally arranged by the
Sunderland Sledds, who were not so much socially, and who at the time it
occurred were as yet unaware of the ugly gossip going about, or at least of
society&rsquo;s new attitude toward the Cowperwoods. At this time it was
understood by nearly all&mdash;the Simms, Candas, Cottons, and
Kingslands&mdash;that a great mistake had been made, and that the Cowperwoods
were by no means admissible.
</p>

<p>
To this particular dinner a number of people, whom the latter knew, had been
invited. Uniformly all, when they learned or recalled that the Cowperwoods were
expected, sent eleventh-hour regrets&mdash;&ldquo;so sorry.&rdquo; Outside the
Sledds there was only one other couple&mdash;the Stanislau Hoecksemas, for whom
the Cowperwoods did not particularly care. It was a dull evening. Aileen
complained of a headache, and they went home.
</p>

<p>
Very shortly afterward, at a reception given by their neighbors, the
Haatstaedts, to which they had long since been invited, there was an evident
shyness in regard to them, quite new in its aspect, although the hosts
themselves were still friendly enough. Previous to this, when strangers of
prominence had been present at an affair of this kind they were glad to be
brought over to the Cowperwoods, who were always conspicuous because of
Aileen&rsquo;s beauty. On this day, for no reason obvious to Aileen or
Cowperwood (although both suspected), introductions were almost uniformly
refused. There were a number who knew them, and who talked casually, but the
general tendency on the part of all was to steer clear of them. Cowperwood
sensed the difficulty at once. &ldquo;I think we&rsquo;d better leave
early,&rdquo; he remarked to Aileen, after a little while. &ldquo;This
isn&rsquo;t very interesting.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They returned to their own home, and Cowperwood to avoid discussion went
down-town. He did not care to say what he thought of this as yet.
</p>

<p>
It was previous to a reception given by the Union League that the first real
blow was struck at him personally, and that in a roundabout way. Addison,
talking to him at the Lake National Bank one morning, had said quite
confidentially, and out of a clear sky:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I want to tell you something, Cowperwood. You know by now something
about Chicago society. You also know where I stand in regard to some things you
told me about your past when I first met you. Well, there&rsquo;s a lot of talk
going around about you now in regard to all that, and these two clubs to which
you and I belong are filled with a lot of two-faced, double-breasted hypocrites
who&rsquo;ve been stirred up by this talk of conspiracy in the papers. There
are four or five stockholders of the old companies who are members, and they
are trying to drive you out. They&rsquo;ve looked up that story you told me,
and they&rsquo;re talking about filing charges with the house committees at
both places. Now, nothing can come of it in either case&mdash;they&rsquo;ve
been talking to me; but when this next reception comes along you&rsquo;ll know
what to do. They&rsquo;ll have to extend you an invitation; but they
won&rsquo;t mean it.&rdquo; (Cowperwood understood.) &ldquo;This whole thing is
certain to blow over, in my judgment; it will if I have anything to do with it;
but for the present&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He stared at Cowperwood in a friendly way.
</p>

<p>
The latter smiled. &ldquo;I expected something like this, Judah, to tell you
the truth,&rdquo; he said, easily. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve expected it all along. You
needn&rsquo;t worry about me. I know all about this. I&rsquo;ve seen which way
the wind is blowing, and I know how to trim my sails.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Addison reached out and took his hand. &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t resign, whatever
you do,&rdquo; he said, cautiously. &ldquo;That would be a confession of
weakness, and they don&rsquo;t expect you to. I wouldn&rsquo;t want you to.
Stand your ground. This whole thing will blow over. They&rsquo;re jealous, I
think.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never intended to,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no
legitimate charge against me. I know it will all blow over if I&rsquo;m given
time enough.&rdquo; Nevertheless he was chagrined to think that he should be
subjected to such a conversation as this with any one.
</p>

<p>
Similarly in other ways &ldquo;society&rdquo;&mdash;so called&mdash;was quite
able to enforce its mandates and conclusions.
</p>

<p>
The one thing that Cowperwood most resented, when he learned of it much later,
was a snub direct given to Aileen at the door of the Norrie Simmses&rsquo;; she
called there only to be told that Mrs. Simms was not at home, although the
carriages of others were in the street. A few days afterward Aileen, much to
his regret and astonishment&mdash;for he did not then know the
cause&mdash;actually became ill.
</p>

<p>
If it had not been for Cowperwood&rsquo;s eventual financial triumph over all
opposition&mdash;the complete routing of the enemy&mdash;in the struggle for
control in the gas situation&mdash;the situation would have been hard, indeed.
As it was, Aileen suffered bitterly; she felt that the slight was principally
directed at her, and would remain in force. In the privacy of their own home
they were compelled eventually to admit, the one to the other, that their house
of cards, resplendent and forceful looking as it was, had fallen to the ground.
Personal confidences between people so closely united are really the most
trying of all. Human souls are constantly trying to find each other, and rarely
succeeding.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; he finally said to her once, when he came in rather
unexpectedly and found her sick in bed, her eyes wet, and her maid dismissed
for the day, &ldquo;I understand what this is all about. To tell you the truth,
Aileen, I rather expected it. We have been going too fast, you and I. We have
been pushing this matter too hard. Now, I don&rsquo;t like to see you taking it
this way, dear. This battle isn&rsquo;t lost. Why, I thought you had more
courage than this. Let me tell you something which you don&rsquo;t seem to
remember. Money will solve all this sometime. I&rsquo;m winning in this fight
right now, and I&rsquo;ll win in others. They are coming to me. Why, dearie,
you oughtn&rsquo;t to despair. You&rsquo;re too young. I never do. You&rsquo;ll
win yet. We can adjust this matter right here in Chicago, and when we do we
will pay up a lot of scores at the same time. We&rsquo;re rich, and we&rsquo;re
going to be richer. That will settle it. Now put on a good face and look
pleased; there are plenty of things to live for in this world besides society.
Get up now and dress, and we&rsquo;ll go for a drive and dinner down-town. You
have me yet. Isn&rsquo;t that something?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; sighed Aileen, heavily; but she sank back again. She put
her arms about his neck and cried, as much out of joy over the consolation he
offered as over the loss she had endured. &ldquo;It was as much for you as for
me,&rdquo; she sighed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; he soothed; &ldquo;but don&rsquo;t worry about it
now. You will come out all right. We both will. Come, get up.&rdquo;
Nevertheless, he was sorry to see her yield so weakly. It did not please him.
He resolved some day to have a grim adjustment with society on this score.
Meanwhile Aileen was recovering her spirits. She was ashamed of her weakness
when she saw how forcefully he faced it all.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Frank,&rdquo; she exclaimed, finally, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re always so
wonderful. You&rsquo;re such a darling.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; he said, cheerfully. &ldquo;If we don&rsquo;t win
this game here in Chicago, we will somewhere.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was thinking of the brilliant manner in which he had adjusted his affairs
with the old gas companies and Mr. Schryhart, and how thoroughly he would
handle some other matters when the time came.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br/>
Undercurrents</h2>

<p>
It was during the year that followed their social repudiation, and the next and
the next, that Cowperwood achieved a keen realization of what it would mean to
spend the rest of his days in social isolation, or at least confined in his
sources of entertainment to a circle or element which constantly reminded him
of the fact that he was not identified with the best, or, at least, not the
most significant, however dull that might be. When he had first attempted to
introduce Aileen into society it was his idea that, however tame they might
chance to find it to begin with, they themselves, once admitted, could make it
into something very interesting and even brilliant. Since the time the
Cowperwoods had been repudiated, however, they had found it necessary, if they
wished any social diversion at all, to fall back upon such various minor
elements as they could scrape an acquaintance with&mdash;passing actors and
actresses, to whom occasionally they could give a dinner; artists and singers
whom they could invite to the house upon gaining an introduction; and, of
course, a number of the socially unimportant, such as the Haatstaedts,
Hoecksemas, Videras, Baileys, and others still friendly and willing to come in
a casual way. Cowperwood found it interesting from time to time to invite a
business friend, a lover of pictures, or some young artist to the house to
dinner or for the evening, and on these occasions Aileen was always present.
The Addisons called or invited them occasionally. But it was a dull game, the
more so since their complete defeat was thus all the more plainly indicated.
</p>

<p>
This defeat, as Cowperwood kept reflecting, was really not his fault at all. He
had been getting along well enough personally. If Aileen had only been a
somewhat different type of woman! Nevertheless, he was in no way prepared to
desert or reproach her. She had clung to him through his stormy prison days.
She had encouraged him when he needed encouragement. He would stand by her and
see what could be done a little later; but this ostracism was a rather dreary
thing to endure. Besides, personally, he appeared to be becoming more and more
interesting to men and to women. The men friends he had made he
retained&mdash;Addison, Bailey, Videra, McKibben, Rambaud, and others. There
were women in society, a number of them, who regretted his disappearance if not
that of Aileen. Occasionally the experiment would be tried of inviting him
without his wife. At first he refused invariably; later he went alone
occasionally to a dinner-party without her knowledge.
</p>

<p>
It was during this interregnum that Cowperwood for the first time clearly began
to get the idea that there was a marked difference between him and Aileen
intellectually and spiritually; and that while he might be in accord with her
in many ways&mdash;emotionally, physically, idyllicly&mdash;there were,
nevertheless, many things which he could do alone which she could not
do&mdash;heights to which he could rise where she could not possibly follow.
Chicago society might be a negligible quantity, but he was now to contrast her
sharply with the best of what the Old World had to offer in the matter of
femininity, for following their social expulsion in Chicago and his financial
victory, he once more decided to go abroad. In Rome, at the Japanese and
Brazilian embassies (where, because of his wealth, he gained introduction), and
at the newly established Italian Court, he encountered at a distance charming
social figures of considerable significance&mdash;Italian countesses, English
ladies of high degree, talented American women of strong artistic and social
proclivities. As a rule they were quick to recognize the charm of his manner,
the incisiveness and grip of his mind, and to estimate at all its worth the
high individuality of his soul; but he could also always see that Aileen was
not so acceptable. She was too rich in her entourage, too showy. Her glowing
health and beauty was a species of affront to the paler, more sublimated souls
of many who were not in themselves unattractive.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t that the typical American for you,&rdquo; he heard a woman
remark, at one of those large, very general court receptions to which so many
are freely admitted, and to which Aileen had been determined to go. He was
standing aside talking to an acquaintance he had made&mdash;an English-speaking
Greek banker stopping at the Grand Hotel&mdash;while Aileen promenaded with the
banker&rsquo;s wife. The speaker was an Englishwoman. &ldquo;So gaudy, so
self-conscious, and so naive!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood turned to look. It was Aileen, and the lady speaking was undoubtedly
well bred, thoughtful, good-looking. He had to admit that much that she said
was true, but how were you to gage a woman like Aileen, anyhow? She was not
reprehensible in any way&mdash;just a full-blooded animal glowing with a love
of life. She was attractive to him. It was too bad that people of obviously
more conservative tendencies were so opposed to her. Why could they not see
what he saw&mdash;a kind of childish enthusiasm for luxury and show which
sprang, perhaps, from the fact that in her youth she had not enjoyed the social
opportunities which she needed and longed for. He felt sorry for her. At the
same time he was inclined to feel that perhaps now another type of woman would
be better for him socially. If he had a harder type, one with keener artistic
perceptions and a penchant for just the right social touch or note, how much
better he would do! He came home bringing a Perugino, brilliant examples of
Luini, Previtali, and Pinturrichio (this last a portrait of Caesar Borgia),
which he picked up in Italy, to say nothing of two red African vases of great
size that he found in Cairo, a tall gilt Louis Fifteenth standard of carved
wood that he discovered in Rome, two ornate candelabra from Venice for his
walls, and a pair of Italian torcheras from Naples to decorate the corners of
his library. It was thus by degrees that his art collection was growing.
</p>

<p>
At the same time it should be said, in the matter of women and the sex
question, his judgment and views had begun to change tremendously. When he had
first met Aileen he had many keen intuitions regarding life and sex, and above
all clear faith that he had a right to do as he pleased. Since he had been out
of prison and once more on his upward way there had been many a stray glance
cast in his direction; he had so often had it clearly forced upon him that he
was fascinating to women. Although he had only so recently acquired Aileen
legally, yet she was years old to him as a mistress, and the first
engrossing&mdash;it had been almost all-engrossing&mdash;enthusiasm was over.
He loved her not only for her beauty, but for her faithful enthusiasm; but the
power of others to provoke in him a momentary interest, and passion even, was
something which he did not pretend to understand, explain, or moralize about.
So it was and so he was. He did not want to hurt Aileen&rsquo;s feelings by
letting her know that his impulses thus wantonly strayed to others, but so it
was.
</p>

<p>
Not long after he had returned from the European trip he stopped one afternoon
in the one exclusive drygoods store in State Street to purchase a tie. As he
was entering a woman crossed the aisle before him, from one counter to
another&mdash;a type of woman which he was coming to admire, but only from a
rather distant point of view, seeing them going here and there in the world.
She was a dashing type, essentially smart and trig, with a neat figure, dark
hair and eyes, an olive skin, small mouth, quaint nose&mdash;all in all quite a
figure for Chicago at the time. She had, furthermore, a curious look of current
wisdom in her eyes, an air of saucy insolence which aroused Cowperwood&rsquo;s
sense of mastery, his desire to dominate. To the look of provocation and
defiance which she flung him for the fraction of a second he returned a
curiously leonine glare which went over her like a dash of cold water. It was
not a hard look, however, merely urgent and full of meaning. She was the
vagrom-minded wife of a prosperous lawyer who was absorbed in his business and
in himself. She pretended indifference for a moment after the first glance, but
paused a little way off as if to examine some laces. Cowperwood looked after
her to catch a second fleeting, attracted look. He was on his way to several
engagements which he did not wish to break, but he took out a note-book, wrote
on a slip of paper the name of a hotel, and underneath: &ldquo;Parlor, second
floor, Tuesday, 1 P.M.&rdquo; Passing by where she stood, he put it into her
gloved hand, which was hanging by her side. The fingers closed over it
automatically. She had noted his action. On the day and hour suggested she was
there, although he had given no name. That liaison, while delightful to him,
was of no great duration. The lady was interesting, but too fanciful.
</p>

<p>
Similarly, at the Henry Huddlestones&rsquo;, one of their neighbors at the
first Michigan Avenue house they occupied, he encountered one evening at a
small dinner-party a girl of twenty-three who interested him greatly&mdash;for
the moment. Her name was not very attractive&mdash;Ella F. Hubby, as he
eventually learned&mdash;but she was not unpleasing. Her principal charm was a
laughing, hoydenish countenance and roguish eyes. She was the daughter of a
well-to-do commission merchant in South Water Street. That her interest should
have been aroused by that of Cowperwood in her was natural enough. She was
young, foolish, impressionable, easily struck by the glitter of a reputation,
and Mrs. Huddlestone had spoken highly of Cowperwood and his wife and the great
things he was doing or was going to do. When Ella saw him, and saw that he was
still young-looking, with the love of beauty in his eyes and a force of
presence which was not at all hard where she was concerned, she was charmed;
and when Aileen was not looking her glance kept constantly wandering to his
with a laughing signification of friendship and admiration. It was the most
natural thing in the world for him to say to her, when they had adjourned to
the drawing-room, that if she were in the neighborhood of his office some day
she might care to look in on him. The look he gave her was one of keen
understanding, and brought a look of its own kind, warm and flushing, in
return. She came, and there began a rather short liaison. It was interesting
but not brilliant. The girl did not have sufficient temperament to bind him
beyond a period of rather idle investigation.
</p>

<p>
There was still, for a little while, another woman, whom he had known&mdash;a
Mrs. Josephine Ledwell, a smart widow, who came primarily to gamble on the
Board of Trade, but who began to see at once, on introduction, the charm of a
flirtation with Cowperwood. She was a woman not unlike Aileen in type, a little
older, not so good-looking, and of a harder, more subtle commercial type of
mind. She rather interested Cowperwood because she was so trig,
self-sufficient, and careful. She did her best to lure him on to a liaison with
her, which finally resulted, her apartment on the North Side being the center
of this relationship. It lasted perhaps six weeks. Through it all he was quite
satisfied that he did not like her so very well. Any one who associated with
him had Aileen&rsquo;s present attractiveness to contend with, as well as the
original charm of his first wife. It was no easy matter.
</p>

<p>
It was during this period of social dullness, however, which somewhat
resembled, though it did not exactly parallel his first years with his first
wife, that Cowperwood finally met a woman who was destined to leave a marked
impression on his life. He could not soon forget her. Her name was Rita
Sohlberg. She was the wife of Harold Sohlberg, a Danish violinist who was then
living in Chicago, a very young man; but she was not a Dane, and he was by no
means a remarkable violinist, though he had unquestionably the musical
temperament.
</p>

<p>
You have perhaps seen the would-be&rsquo;s, the nearly&rsquo;s, the pretenders
in every field&mdash;interesting people all&mdash;devoted with a kind of mad
enthusiasm to the thing they wish to do. They manifest in some ways all the
externals or earmarks of their professional traditions, and yet are as sounding
brass and tinkling cymbals. You would have had to know Harold Sohlberg only a
little while to appreciate that he belonged to this order of artists. He had a
wild, stormy, November eye, a wealth of loose, brownish-black hair combed
upward from the temples, with one lock straggling Napoleonically down toward
the eyes; cheeks that had almost a babyish tint to them; lips much too rich,
red, and sensuous; a nose that was fine and large and full, but only faintly
aquiline; and eyebrows and mustache that somehow seemed to flare quite like his
errant and foolish soul. He had been sent away from Denmark (Copenhagen)
because he had been a never-do-well up to twenty-five and because he was
constantly falling in love with women who would not have anything to do with
him. Here in Chicago as a teacher, with his small pension of forty dollars a
month sent him by his mother, he had gained a few pupils, and by practising a
kind of erratic economy, which kept him well dressed or hungry by turns, he had
managed to make an interesting showing and pull himself through. He was only
twenty-eight at the time he met Rita Greenough, of Wichita, Kansas, and at the
time they met Cowperwood Harold was thirty-four and she twenty-seven.
</p>

<p>
She had been a student at the Chicago Fine Arts School, and at various student
affairs had encountered Harold when he seemed to play divinely, and when life
was all romance and art. Given the spring, the sunshine on the lake, white
sails of ships, a few walks and talks on pensive afternoons when the city swam
in a golden haze, and the thing was done. There was a sudden Saturday afternoon
marriage, a runaway day to Milwaukee, a return to the studio now to be fitted
out for two, and then kisses, kisses, kisses until love was satisfied or eased.
</p>

<p>
But life cannot exist on that diet alone, and so by degrees the difficulties
had begun to manifest themselves. Fortunately, the latter were not allied with
sharp financial want. Rita was not poor. Her father conducted a small but
profitable grain elevator at Wichita, and, after her sudden marriage, decided
to continue her allowance, though this whole idea of art and music in its upper
reaches was to him a strange, far-off, uncertain thing. A thin, meticulous,
genial person interested in small trade opportunities, and exactly suited to
the rather sparse social life of Wichita, he found Harold as curious as a bomb,
and preferred to handle him gingerly. Gradually, however, being a very human if
simple person, he came to be very proud of it&mdash;boasted in Wichita of Rita
and her artist husband, invited them home to astound the neighbors during the
summer-time, and the fall brought his almost farmer-like wife on to see them
and to enjoy trips, sight-seeing, studio teas. It was amusing, typically
American, naive, almost impossible from many points of view.
</p>

<p>
Rita Sohlberg was of the semi-phlegmatic type, soft, full-blooded, with a body
that was going to be fat at forty, but which at present was deliciously
alluring. Having soft, silky, light-brown hair, the color of light dust, and
moist gray-blue eyes, with a fair skin and even, white teeth, she was
flatteringly self-conscious of her charms. She pretended in a gay, childlike
way to be unconscious of the thrill she sent through many susceptible males,
and yet she knew well enough all the while what she was doing and how she was
doing it; it pleased her so to do. She was conscious of the wonder of her
smooth, soft arms and neck, the fullness and seductiveness of her body, the
grace and perfection of her clothing, or, at least, the individuality and taste
which she made them indicate. She could take an old straw-hat form, a ribbon, a
feather, or a rose, and with an innate artistry of feeling turn it into a bit
of millinery which somehow was just the effective thing for her. She chose
naive combinations of white and blues, pinks and white, browns and pale
yellows, which somehow suggested her own soul, and topped them with great
sashes of silky brown (or even red) ribbon tied about her waist, and large,
soft-brimmed, face-haloing hats. She was a graceful dancer, could sing a
little, could play feelingly&mdash;sometimes brilliantly&mdash;and could draw.
Her art was a makeshift, however; she was no artist. The most significant thing
about her was her moods and her thoughts, which were uncertain, casual,
anarchic. Rita Sohlberg, from the conventional point of view, was a dangerous
person, and yet from her own point of view at this time she was not so at
all&mdash;just dreamy and sweet.
</p>

<p>
A part of the peculiarity of her state was that Sohlberg had begun to
disappoint Rita&mdash;sorely. Truth to tell, he was suffering from that most
terrible of all maladies, uncertainty of soul and inability to truly find
himself. At times he was not sure whether he was cut out to be a great
violinist or a great composer, or merely a great teacher, which last he was
never willing really to admit. &ldquo;I am an arteest,&rdquo; he was fond of
saying. &ldquo;Ho, how I suffer from my temperament!&rdquo; And again:
&ldquo;These dogs! These cows! These pigs!&rdquo; This of other people. The
quality of his playing was exceedingly erratic, even though at times it
attained to a kind of subtlety, tenderness, awareness, and charm which brought
him some attention. As a rule, however, it reflected the chaotic state of his
own brain. He would play violently, feverishly, with a wild passionateness of
gesture which robbed him of all ability to control his own technic.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Harold!&rdquo; Rita used to exclaim at first, ecstatically. Later
she was not so sure.
</p>

<p>
Life and character must really get somewhere to be admirable, and Harold,
really and truly, did not seem to be getting anywhere. He taught, stormed,
dreamed, wept; but he ate his three meals a 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&rsquo;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&mdash;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?
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p class="p2">
On this occasion Cowperwood took one look at Sohlberg and placed him exactly.
&ldquo;An erratic, emotional temperament,&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;Probably
not able to place himself for want of consistency and application.&rdquo; But
he liked him after a fashion. Sohlberg was interesting as an artistic type or
figure&mdash;quite like a character in a Japanese print might be. He greeted
him pleasantly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And Mrs. Sohlberg, I suppose,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;petted eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; she said to him, with a peculiar rounded formation of
the mouth, which was a characteristic of her when she talked&mdash;a pretty,
pouty mouth, &ldquo;I thought we would never get heah at all. There was a
fire&rdquo;&mdash;she pronounced it fy-yah&mdash;&ldquo;at Twelfth
Street&rdquo; (the Twelfth was Twalfth in her mouth) &ldquo;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&mdash;almost orange and black.
They&rsquo;re pretty when they&rsquo;re that way&mdash;don&rsquo;t you think
so?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was charmed. &ldquo;Indeed, I do,&rdquo; 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&mdash;she was so cuddling and shy&mdash;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&mdash;capable, very, she
presumed&mdash;with brilliant, incisive eyes. How different from Harold, she
thought, who would never be anything much&mdash;not even famous.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m so glad you brought your violin,&rdquo; Aileen was saying to
Harold, who was in another corner. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been looking forward to
your coming to play for us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very nize ov you, I&rsquo;m sure,&rdquo; Sohlberg replied, with his
sweety drawl. &ldquo;Such a nize plaze you have here&mdash;all these loafly
books, and jade, and glass.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
After refreshments were served Sohlberg played. Cowperwood was interested by
his standing figure&mdash;his eyes, his hair&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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: &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t you like to
stroll into the gallery? Are you fond of pictures?&rdquo; He gave her his arm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, you know,&rdquo; said Mrs. Sohlberg, quaintly&mdash;very
captivatingly, he thought, because she was so pretty&mdash;&ldquo;at one time I
thought I was going to be a great artist. Isn&rsquo;t that funny! I sent my
father one of my drawings inscribed &lsquo;to whom I owe it all.&rsquo; You
would have to see the drawing to see how funny that is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She laughed softly.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood responded with a refreshed interest in life. Her laugh was as
grateful to him as a summer wind. &ldquo;See,&rdquo; he said, gently, as they
entered the room aglow with the soft light produced by guttered jets,
&ldquo;here is a Luini bought last winter.&rdquo; It was &ldquo;The Mystic
Marriage of St. Catharine.&rdquo; He paused while she surveyed the rapt
expression of the attenuated saint. &ldquo;And here,&rdquo; he went on,
&ldquo;is my greatest find so far.&rdquo; They were before the crafty
countenance of Caesar Borgia painted by Pinturrichio.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a strange face!&rdquo; commented Mrs. Sohlberg, naively. &ldquo;I
didn&rsquo;t know any one had ever painted him. He looks somewhat like an
artist himself, doesn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo; She had never read the involved and
quite Satanic history of this man, and only knew the rumor of his crimes and
machinations.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He was, in his way,&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, and here is Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; she commented, turning to
the painting by Van Beers. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s high in key, isn&rsquo;t
it?&rdquo; she said, loftily, but with an innocent loftiness that appealed to
him. He liked spirit and some presumption in a woman. &ldquo;What brilliant
colors! I like the idea of the garden and the clouds.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Where every motion weaves and sings,&rdquo; he might have commented.
Instead he said: &ldquo;That was in Brussels. The clouds were an afterthought,
and that vase on the wall, too.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s very good, I think,&rdquo; commented Mrs. Sohlberg, and moved
away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How do you like this Israels?&rdquo; he asked. It was the painting
called &ldquo;The Frugal Meal.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I like it,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and also your Bastien Le-Page,&rdquo;
referring to &ldquo;The Forge.&rdquo; &ldquo;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&rsquo;t you think so? I don&rsquo;t care for your Gerome very
much.&rdquo; She had a cute drawl which he considered infinitely alluring.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; asked Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s rather artificial; don&rsquo;t you think so? I like the
color, but the women&rsquo;s bodies are too perfect, I should say. It&rsquo;s
very pretty, though.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&mdash;he needed someone more soulful than Aileen, she
thought.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br/>
A New Affection</h2>

<p>
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&mdash;pretty women&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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. &ldquo;For your nooks and corners,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s inefficiency, and stopping oddly sometimes to
think&mdash;the etherealized grip of Cowperwood upon her. Those strong hands of
his&mdash;how fine they were&mdash;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&mdash;represented in this man.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know you are very elusive,&rdquo; he said to her one evening at the
theater when he sat behind her during the entr&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;It seems to me I am very
stable,&rdquo; she went on. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m certainly substantial
enough.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She looked at her full, smooth arm lying on her lap.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s,
was deeply moved. Those little blood moods that no words ever (or rarely)
indicate were coming to him from her&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, but elusive, just the same,&rdquo; he went on, leaning toward her.
&ldquo;You remind me of something that I can find no word for&mdash;a bit of
color or a perfume or tone&mdash;a flash of something. I follow you in my
thoughts all the time now. Your knowledge of art interests me. I like your
playing&mdash;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is very nice,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;if I do.&rdquo; She took a
breath, softly, dramatically. &ldquo;You make me think vain things, you
know.&rdquo; (Her mouth was a delicious O.) &ldquo;You paint a pretty
picture.&rdquo; She was warm, flushed, suffused with a burst of her own
temperament.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are like that,&rdquo; he went on, insistently. &ldquo;You make me
feel like that all the time. You know,&rdquo; he added, leaning over her chair,
&ldquo;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&mdash;anyhow, you should go. You are very wonderful to me. Do you find me
at all interesting to you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, but&rdquo;&mdash;she paused&mdash;&ldquo;you know I am afraid of
all this and of you.&rdquo; Her mouth had that same delicious formation which
had first attracted him. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know very well, but we needn&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No.&rdquo; She smoothed her fan with her fingers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Are you happy at all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought I was once. I&rsquo;m not any more, I think.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is so plain why,&rdquo; he commented. &ldquo;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&rsquo;t be happy that way. It surprises me you haven&rsquo;t seen
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she exclaimed, with a touch of weariness, &ldquo;but perhaps
I have.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked at her keenly, and she thrilled. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think
we&rsquo;d better talk so here,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better
be&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He laid his hand on the back of her chair, almost touching her shoulder.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Rita,&rdquo; he said, using her given name again, &ldquo;you wonderful
woman!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she breathed.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Cowperwood did not see Mrs. Sohlberg again for over a week&mdash;ten days
exactly&mdash;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&mdash;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is charming,&rdquo; he said, sinking down beside Rita. &ldquo;What
a fine evening! And the nice straw hat with the roses, and the nice linen
dress. My, my!&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I shouldn&rsquo;t complain so much if I were you,&rdquo; she had
said to him, bitterly. &ldquo;You might work harder and storm less.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m lovely,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;and
he loves me. How wonderful it would be if we dared.&rdquo; But she said aloud:
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so very nice. It&rsquo;s just the day&mdash;don&rsquo;t
you think so? It&rsquo;s a simple dress. I&rsquo;m not very happy, though,
to-night, either.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t there something I can
do? We&rsquo;re going now for a long ride to the pavilion in Jackson Park, and
then, after dinner, we&rsquo;ll come back by moonlight. Won&rsquo;t that be
nice? You must be smiling now and like yourself&mdash;happy. You have no reason
to be otherwise that I know of. I will do anything for you that you want
done&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, it isn&rsquo;t anything you can do&mdash;not now, anyhow. My
affairs! Oh yes. What are they? Very simple, all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She had that delicious atmosphere of remoteness even from herself. He was
enchanted.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you are not simple to me, Rita,&rdquo; he said, softly, &ldquo;nor
are your affairs. They concern me very much. You are so important to me. I have
told you that. Don&rsquo;t you see how true it is? You are a strange complexity
to me&mdash;wonderful. I&rsquo;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&mdash;my only trouble. I can fix your life. Join it with mine. I
need you, and you need me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I know.&rdquo; Then she paused.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing much,&rdquo; she went on&mdash;&ldquo;just a
quarrel.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What over?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Over me, really.&rdquo; The mouth was delicious. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t
swing the censer always, as you say.&rdquo; That thought of his had stuck.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s all right now, though. Isn&rsquo;t the day lovely,
be-yoot-i-ful!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood looked at her and shook his head. She was such a treasure&mdash;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&mdash;the whole seductive
world of spring&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
The dinner was at the Park&mdash;an open-air chicken a la Maryland affair, with
waffles and champagne to help out. Aileen, flattered by Sohlberg&rsquo;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 &ldquo;silly boy&rdquo; and &ldquo;hush.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s not a bad sort,&rdquo; he
commented. &ldquo;I rather like him, though I don&rsquo;t think he&rsquo;s so
much of a violinist.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;heaven. Her old life was obviously going to pieces.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; he said, guardedly. &ldquo;Will you meet me to-morrow at
three just beyond the Rush Street bridge? I will pick you up promptly. You
won&rsquo;t have to wait a moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused, meditating, dreaming, almost hypnotized by his strange world of
fancy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will you?&rdquo; he asked, eagerly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wait,&rdquo; she said, softly. &ldquo;Let me think. Can I?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, after a time, drawing in a deep breath.
&ldquo;Yes&rdquo;&mdash;as if she had arranged something in her mind.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My sweet,&rdquo; he whispered, pressing her arm, while he looked at her
profile in the moonlight.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I&rsquo;m doing a great deal,&rdquo; she replied, softly, a little
breathless and a little pale.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br/>
A Fateful Interlude</h2>

<p>
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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you remember that picture we saw in the art store the other day,
Algernon?&rdquo; she would drawl, calling him by his second name, which she had
adopted for herself as being more suited to his moods when with her and more
pleasing to her. Cowperwood had protested, but she held to it. &ldquo;Do you
remember that lovely blue of the old man&rsquo;s coat?&rdquo; (It was an
&ldquo;Adoration of the Magi.&rdquo;) &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t that
be-yoot-i-ful?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She drawled so sweetly and fixed her mouth in such an odd way that he was
impelled to kiss her. &ldquo;You clover blossom,&rdquo; he would say to her,
coming over and taking her by the arms. &ldquo;You sprig of cherry bloom. You
Dresden china dream.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, are you going to muss my hair, when I&rsquo;ve just managed to fix
it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The voice was the voice of careless, genial innocence&mdash;and the eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I am, minx.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, but you mustn&rsquo;t smother me, you know. Really, you know you
almost hurt me with your mouth. Aren&rsquo;t you going to be nice to me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, sweet. But I want to hurt you, too.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, if you must.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But for all his transports the lure was still there. She was like a butterfly,
he thought, yellow and white or blue and gold, fluttering over a hedge of wild
rose.
</p>

<p>
In these intimacies it was that he came quickly to understand how much she knew
of social movements and tendencies, though she was just an individual of the
outer fringe. She caught at once a clear understanding of his social point of
view, his art ambition, his dreams of something better for himself in every
way. She seemed to see clearly that he had not as yet realized himself, that
Aileen was not just the woman for him, though she might be one. She talked of
her own husband after a time in a tolerant way&mdash;his foibles, defects,
weaknesses. She was not unsympathetic, he thought, just weary of a state that
was not properly balanced either in love, ability, or insight. Cowperwood had
suggested that she could take a larger studio for herself and Harold&mdash;do
away with the petty economies that had hampered her and him&mdash;and explain
it all on the grounds of a larger generosity on the part of her family. At
first she objected; but Cowperwood was tactful and finally brought it about. He
again suggested a little while later that she should persuade Harold to go to
Europe. There would be the same ostensible reason&mdash;additional means from
her relatives. Mrs. Sohlberg, thus urged, petted, made over, assured, came
finally to accept his liberal rule&mdash;to bow to him; she became as contented
as a cat. With caution she accepted of his largess, and made the cleverest use
of it she could. For something over a year neither Sohlberg nor Aileen was
aware of the intimacy which had sprung up. Sohlberg, easily bamboozled, went
back to Denmark for a visit, then to study in Germany. Mrs. Sohlberg followed
Cowperwood to Europe the following year. At Aix-les-Bains, Biarritz, Paris,
even London, Aileen never knew that there was an additional figure in the
background. Cowperwood was trained by Rita into a really finer point of view.
He came to know better music, books, even the facts. She encouraged him in his
idea of a representative collection of the old masters, and begged him to be
cautious in his selection of moderns. He felt himself to be delightfully
situated indeed.
</p>

<p>
The difficulty with this situation, as with all such where an individual
ventures thus bucaneeringly on the sea of sex, is the possibility of those
storms which result from misplaced confidence, and from our built-up system of
ethics relating to property in women. To Cowperwood, however, who was a law
unto himself, who knew no law except such as might be imposed upon him by his
lack of ability to think, this possibility of entanglement, wrath, rage, pain,
offered no particular obstacle. It was not at all certain that any such thing
would follow. Where the average man might have found one such liaison difficult
to manage, Cowperwood, as we have seen, had previously entered on several such
affairs almost simultaneously; and now he had ventured on yet another; in the
last instance with much greater feeling and enthusiasm. The previous affairs
had been emotional makeshifts at best&mdash;more or less idle philanderings in
which his deeper moods and feelings were not concerned. In the case of Mrs.
Sohlberg all this was changed. For the present at least she was really all in
all to him. But this temperamental characteristic of his relating to his love
of women, his artistic if not emotional subjection to their beauty, and the
mystery of their personalities led him into still a further affair, and this
last was not so fortunate in its outcome.
</p>

<p>
Antoinette Nowak had come to him fresh from a West Side high school and a
Chicago business college, and had been engaged as his private stenographer and
secretary. This girl had blossomed forth into something exceptional, as
American children of foreign parents are wont to do. You would have scarcely
believed that she, with her fine, lithe body, her good taste in dress, her
skill in stenography, bookkeeping, and business details, could be the daughter
of a struggling Pole, who had first worked in the Southwest Chicago Steel
Mills, and who had later kept a fifth-rate cigar, news, and stationery store in
the Polish district, the merchandise of playing-cards and a back room for
idling and casual gaming being the principal reasons for its existence.
Antoinette, whose first name had not been Antoinette at all, but Minka (the
Antoinette having been borrowed by her from an article in one of the Chicago
Sunday papers), was a fine dark, brooding girl, ambitious and hopeful, who ten
days after she had accepted her new place was admiring Cowperwood and following
his every daring movement with almost excited interest. To be the wife of such
a man, she thought&mdash;to even command his interest, let alone his
affection&mdash;must be wonderful. After the dull world she had known&mdash;it
seemed dull compared to the upper, rarefied realms which she was beginning to
glimpse through him&mdash;and after the average men in the real-estate office
over the way where she had first worked, Cowperwood, in his good clothes, his
remote mood, his easy, commanding manner, touched the most ambitious chords of
her being. One day she saw Aileen sweep in from her carriage, wearing warm
brown furs, smart polished boots, a street-suit of corded brown wool, and a fur
toque sharpened and emphasized by a long dark-red feather which shot upward
like a dagger or a quill pen. Antoinette hated her. She conceived herself to be
better, or as good at least. Why was life divided so unfairly? What sort of a
man was Cowperwood, anyhow? One night after she had written out a discreet but
truthful history of himself which he had dictated to her, and which she had
sent to the Chicago newspapers for him soon after the opening of his brokerage
office in Chicago, she went home and dreamed of what he had told her, only
altered, of course, as in dreams. She thought that Cowperwood stood beside her
in his handsome private office in La Salle Street and asked her:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Antoinette, what do you think of me?&rdquo; Antoinette was nonplussed,
but brave. In her dream she found herself intensely interested in him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know what to think. I&rsquo;m so sorry,&rdquo; was her
answer. Then he laid his hand on hers, on her cheek, and she awoke. She began
thinking, what a pity, what a shame that such a man should ever have been in
prison. He was so handsome. He had been married twice. Perhaps his first wife
was very homely or very mean-spirited. She thought of this, and the next day
went to work meditatively. Cowperwood, engrossed in his own plans, was not
thinking of her at present. He was thinking of the next moves in his
interesting gas war. And Aileen, seeing her one day, merely considered her an
underling. The woman in business was such a novelty that as yet she was
<i>declassé</i>. Aileen really thought nothing of Antoinette at all.
</p>

<p>
Somewhat over a year after Cowperwood had become intimate with Mrs. Sohlberg
his rather practical business relations with Antoinette Nowak took on a more
intimate color. What shall we say of this&mdash;that he had already wearied of
Mrs. Sohlberg? Not in the least. He was desperately fond of her. Or that he
despised Aileen, whom he was thus grossly deceiving? Not at all. She was to him
at times as attractive as ever&mdash;perhaps more so for the reason that her
self-imagined rights were being thus roughly infringed upon. He was sorry for
her, but inclined to justify himself on the ground that these other
relations&mdash;with possibly the exception of Mrs. Sohlherg&mdash;were not
enduring. If it had been possible to marry Mrs. Sohlberg he might have done so,
and he did speculate at times as to whether anything would ever induce Aileen
to leave him; but this was more or less idle speculation. He rather fancied
they would live out their days together, seeing that he was able thus easily to
deceive her. But as for a girl like Antoinette Nowak, she figured in that
braided symphony of mere sex attraction which somehow makes up that geometric
formula of beauty which rules the world. She was charming in a dark way,
beautiful, with eyes that burned with an unsatisfied fire; and Cowperwood,
although at first only in the least moved by her, became by degrees interested
in her, wondering at the amazing, transforming power of the American
atmosphere.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Are your parents English, Antoinette?&rdquo; he asked her, one morning,
with that easy familiarity which he assumed to all underlings and minor
intellects&mdash;an air that could not be resented in him, and which was
usually accepted as a compliment.
</p>

<p>
Antoinette, clean and fresh in a white shirtwaist, a black walking-skirt, a
ribbon of black velvet about her neck, and her long, black hair laid in a heavy
braid low over her forehead and held close by a white celluloid comb, looked at
him with pleased and grateful eyes. She had been used to such different types
of men&mdash;the earnest, fiery, excitable, sometimes drunken and swearing men
of her childhood, always striking, marching, praying in the Catholic churches;
and then the men of the business world, crazy over money, and with no
understanding of anything save some few facts about Chicago and its momentary
possibilities. In Cowperwood&rsquo;s office, taking his letters and hearing him
talk in his quick, genial way with old Laughlin, Sippens, and others, she had
learned more of life than she had ever dreamed existed. He was like a vast open
window out of which she was looking upon an almost illimitable landscape.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; she replied, dropping her slim, firm, white hand,
holding a black lead-pencil restfully on her notebook. She smiled quite
innocently because she was pleased.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought not,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and yet you&rsquo;re American
enough.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how it is,&rdquo; she said, quite solemnly. &ldquo;I
have a brother who is quite as American as I am. We don&rsquo;t either of us
look like our father or mother.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What does your brother do?&rdquo; he asked, indifferently.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He&rsquo;s one of the weighers at Arneel &amp; Co. He expects to be a
manager sometime.&rdquo; She smiled.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood looked at her speculatively, and after a momentary return glance she
dropped her eyes. Slowly, in spite of herself, a telltale flush rose and
mantled her brown cheeks. It always did when he looked at her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Take this letter to General Van Sickle,&rdquo; he began, on this
occasion quite helpfully, and in a few minutes she had recovered. She could not
be near Cowperwood for long at a time, however, without being stirred by a
feeling which was not of her own willing. He fascinated and suffused her with a
dull fire. She sometimes wondered whether a man so remarkable would ever be
interested in a girl like her.
</p>

<p>
The end of this essential interest, of course, was the eventual assumption of
Antoinette. One might go through all the dissolving details of days in which
she sat taking dictation, receiving instructions, going about her office duties
in a state of apparently chill, practical, commercial single-mindedness; but it
would be to no purpose. As a matter of fact, without in any way affecting the
preciseness and accuracy of her labor, her thoughts were always upon the man in
the inner office&mdash;the strange master who was then seeing his men, and in
between, so it seemed, a whole world of individuals, solemn and commercial, who
came, presented their cards, talked at times almost interminably, and went
away. It was the rare individual, however, she observed, who had the long
conversation with Cowperwood, and that interested her the more. His
instructions to her were always of the briefest, and he depended on her native
intelligence to supply much that he scarcely more than suggested.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You understand, do you?&rdquo; was his customary phrase.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she would reply.
</p>

<p>
She felt as though she were fifty times as significant here as she had ever
been in her life before.
</p>

<p>
The office was clean, hard, bright, like Cowperwood himself. The morning sun,
streaming in through an almost solid glass east front shaded by pale-green
roller curtains, came to have an almost romantic atmosphere for her.
Cowperwood&rsquo;s private office, as in Philadelphia, was a solid cherry-wood
box in which he could shut himself completely&mdash;sight-proof, sound-proof.
When the door was closed it was sacrosanct. He made it a rule, sensibly, to
keep his door open as much as possible, even when he was dictating, sometimes
not. It was in these half-hours of dictation&mdash;the door open, as a rule,
for he did not care for too much privacy&mdash;that he and Miss Nowak came
closest. After months and months, and because he had been busy with the other
woman mentioned, of whom she knew nothing, she came to enter sometimes with a
sense of suffocation, sometimes of maidenly shame. It would never have occurred
to her to admit frankly that she wanted Cowperwood to make love to her. It
would have frightened her to have thought of herself as yielding easily, and
yet there was not a detail of his personality that was not now burned in her
brain. His light, thick, always smoothly parted hair, his wide, clear,
inscrutable eyes, his carefully manicured hands, so full and firm, his fresh
clothing of delicate, intricate patterns&mdash;how these fascinated her! He
seemed always remote except just at the moment of doing something, when,
curiously enough, he seemed intensely intimate and near.
</p>

<p>
One day, after many exchanges of glances in which her own always fell
sharply&mdash;in the midst of a letter&mdash;he arose and closed the half-open
door. She did not think so much of that, as a rule&mdash;it had happened
before&mdash;but now, to-day, because of a studied glance he had given her,
neither tender nor smiling, she felt as though something unusual were about to
happen. Her own body was going hot and cold by turns&mdash;her neck and hands.
She had a fine figure, finer than she realized, with shapely limbs and torso.
Her head had some of the sharpness of the old Greek coinage, and her hair was
plaited as in ancient cut stone. Cowperwood noted it. He came back and, without
taking his seat, bent over her and intimately took her hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Antoinette,&rdquo; he said, lifting her gently.
</p>

<p>
She looked up, then arose&mdash;for he slowly drew her&mdash;breathless, the
color gone, much of the capable practicality that was hers completely
eliminated. She felt limp, inert. She pulled at her hand faintly, and then,
lifting her eyes, was fixed by that hard, insatiable gaze of his. Her head
swam&mdash;her eyes were filled with a telltale confusion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Antoinette!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she murmured.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You love me, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She tried to pull herself together, to inject some of her native rigidity of
soul into her air&mdash;that rigidity which she always imagined would never
desert her&mdash;but it was gone. There came instead to her a picture of the
far Blue Island Avenue neighborhood from which she emanated&mdash;its low brown
cottages, and then this smart, hard office and this strong man. He came out of
such a marvelous world, apparently. A strange foaming seemed to be in her
blood. She was deliriously, deliciously numb and happy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Antoinette!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know what I think,&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;I&mdash;
Oh yes, I do, I do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I like your name,&rdquo; he said, simply. &ldquo;Antoinette.&rdquo; And
then, pulling her to him, he slipped his arm about her waist.
</p>

<p>
She was frightened, numb, and then suddenly, not so much from shame as shock,
tears rushed to her eyes. She turned and put her hand on the desk and hung her
head and sobbed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Antoinette,&rdquo; he asked, gently, bending over her, &ldquo;are
you so much unused to the world? I thought you said you loved me. Do you want
me to forget all this and go on as before? I can, of course, if you can, you
know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He knew that she loved him, wanted him.
</p>

<p>
She heard him plainly enough, shaking.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you?&rdquo; he said, after a time, giving her moments in which to
recover.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, let me cry!&rdquo; she recovered herself sufficiently to say, quite
wildly. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know why I&rsquo;m crying. It&rsquo;s just because
I&rsquo;m nervous, I suppose. Please don&rsquo;t mind me now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Antoinette,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;look at me! Will you stop?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh no, not now. My eyes are so bad.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Antoinette! Come, look!&rdquo; He put his hand under her chin.
&ldquo;See, I&rsquo;m not so terrible.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she said, when her eyes met his again, &ldquo;I&mdash;&rdquo;
And then she folded her arms against his breast while he petted her hand and
held her close.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so bad, Antoinette. It&rsquo;s you as much as it is me.
You do love me, then?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, yes&mdash;oh yes!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you don&rsquo;t mind?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. It&rsquo;s all so strange.&rdquo; Her face was hidden.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Kiss me, then.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She put up her lips and slipped her arms about him. He held her close.
</p>

<p>
He tried teasingly to make her say why she cried, thinking the while of what
Aileen or Rita would think if they knew, but she would not at
first&mdash;admitting later that it was a sense of evil. Curiously she also
thought of Aileen, and how, on occasion, she had seen her sweep in and out. Now
she was sharing with her (the dashing Mrs. Cowperwood, so vain and superior)
the wonder of his affection. Strange as it may seem, she looked on it now as
rather an honor. She had risen in her own estimation&mdash;her sense of life
and power. Now, more than ever before, she knew something of life because she
knew something of love and passion. The future seemed tremulous with promise.
She went back to her machine after a while, thinking of this. What would it all
come to? she wondered, wildly. You could not have told by her eyes that she had
been crying. Instead, a rich glow in her brown cheeks heightened her beauty. No
disturbing sense of Aileen was involved with all this. Antoinette was of the
newer order that was beginning to privately question ethics and morals. She had
a right to her life, lead where it would. And to what it would bring her. The
feel of Cowperwood&rsquo;s lips was still fresh on hers. What would the future
reveal to her now? What?
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br/>
An Overture to Conflict</h2>

<p>
The result of this understanding was not so important to Cowperwood as it was
to Antoinette. In a vagrant mood he had unlocked a spirit here which was fiery,
passionate, but in his case hopelessly worshipful. However much she might be
grieved by him, Antoinette, as he subsequently learned, would never sin against
his personal welfare. Yet she was unwittingly the means of first opening the
flood-gates of suspicion on Aileen, thereby establishing in the latter&rsquo;s
mind the fact of Cowperwood&rsquo;s persistent unfaithfulness.
</p>

<p>
The incidents which led up to this were comparatively trivial&mdash;nothing
more, indeed, at first than the sight of Miss Nowak and Cowperwood talking
intimately in his office one afternoon when the others had gone and the fact
that she appeared to be a little bit disturbed by Aileen&rsquo;s arrival. Later
came the discovery&mdash;though of this Aileen could not be absolutely
sure&mdash;of Cowperwood and Antoinette in a closed carriage one stormy
November afternoon in State Street when he was supposed to be out of the city.
She was coming out of Merrill&rsquo;s store at the time, and just happened to
glance at the passing vehicle, which was running near the curb. Aileen,
although uncertain, was greatly shocked. Could it be possible that he had not
left town? She journeyed to his office on the pretext of taking old
Laughlin&rsquo;s dog, Jennie, a pretty collar she had found; actually to find
if Antoinette were away at the same time. Could it be possible, she kept asking
herself, that Cowperwood had become interested in his own stenographer? The
fact that the office assumed that he was out of town and that Antoinette was
not there gave her pause. Laughlin quite innocently informed her that he
thought Miss Nowak had gone to one of the libraries to make up certain reports.
It left her in doubt.
</p>

<p>
What was Aileen to think? Her moods and aspirations were linked so closely with
the love and success of Cowperwood that she could not, in spite of herself, but
take fire at the least thought of losing him. He himself wondered sometimes, as
he threaded the mesh-like paths of sex, what she would do once she discovered
his variant conduct. Indeed, there had been little occasional squabbles, not
sharp, but suggestive, when he was trifling about with Mrs. Kittridge, Mrs.
Ledwell, and others. There were, as may be imagined, from time to time
absences, brief and unimportant, which he explained easily, passional
indifferences which were not explained so easily, and the like; but since his
affections were not really involved in any of those instances, he had managed
to smooth the matter over quite nicely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why do you say that?&rdquo; he would demand, when she suggested, apropos
of a trip or a day when she had not been with him, that there might have been
another. &ldquo;You know there hasn&rsquo;t. If I am going in for that sort of
thing you&rsquo;ll learn it fast enough. Even if I did, it wouldn&rsquo;t mean
that I was unfaithful to you spiritually.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, wouldn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; exclaimed Aileen, resentfully, and with
some disturbance of spirit. &ldquo;Well, you can keep your spiritual
faithfulness. I&rsquo;m not going to be content with any sweet thoughts.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood laughed even as she laughed, for he knew she was right and he felt
sorry for her. At the same time her biting humor pleased him. He knew that she
did not really suspect him of actual infidelity; he was obviously so fond of
her. But she also knew that he was innately attractive to women, and that there
were enough of the philandering type to want to lead him astray and make her
life a burden. Also that he might prove a very willing victim.
</p>

<p>
Sex desire and its fruition being such an integral factor in the marriage and
every other sex relation, the average woman is prone to study the periodic
manifestations that go with it quite as one dependent on the weather&mdash;a
sailor, or example&mdash;might study the barometer. In this Aileen was no
exception. She was so beautiful herself, and had been so much to Cowperwood
physically, that she had followed the corresponding evidences of feeling in him
with the utmost interest, accepting the recurring ebullitions of his physical
emotions as an evidence of her own enduring charm. As time went on,
however&mdash;and that was long before Mrs. Sohlberg or any one else had
appeared&mdash;the original flare of passion had undergone a form of
subsidence, though not noticeable enough to be disturbing. Aileen thought and
thought, but she did not investigate. Indeed, because of the precariousness of
her own situation as a social failure she was afraid to do so.
</p>

<p>
With the arrival of Mrs. Sohlberg and then of Antoinette Nowak as factors in
the potpourri, the situation became more difficult. Humanly fond of Aileen as
Cowperwood was, and because of his lapses and her affection, desirous of being
kind, yet for the time being he was alienated almost completely from her. He
grew remote according as his clandestine affairs were drifting or blazing,
without, however, losing his firm grip on his financial affairs, and Aileen
noticed it. It worried her. She was so vain that she could scarcely believe
that Cowperwood could long be indifferent, and for a while her sentimental
interest in Sohlberg&rsquo;s future and unhappiness of soul beclouded her
judgment; but she finally began to feel the drift of affairs. The pathos of all
this is that it so quickly descends into the realm of the unsatisfactory, the
banal, the pseudo intimate. Aileen noticed it at once. She tried protestations.
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t kiss me the way you did once,&rdquo; and then a little
later, &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t noticed me hardly for four whole days.
What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, easily; &ldquo;I
guess I want you as much as ever. I don&rsquo;t see that I am any
different.&rdquo; He took her in his arms and petted and caressed her; but
Aileen was suspicious, nervous.
</p>

<p>
The psychology of the human animal, when confronted by these tangles, these
ripping tides of the heart, has little to do with so-called reason or logic. It
is amazing how in the face of passion and the affections and the changing face
of life all plans and theories by which we guide ourselves fall to the ground.
Here was Aileen talking bravely at the time she invaded Mrs. Lillian
Cowperwood&rsquo;s domain of the necessity of &ldquo;her Frank&rdquo; finding a
woman suitable to his needs, tastes, abilities, but now that the possibility of
another woman equally or possibly better suited to him was looming in the
offing&mdash;although she had no idea who it might be&mdash;she could not
reason in the same way. Her ox, God wot, was the one that was being gored. What
if he should find some one whom he could want more than he did her? Dear
heaven, how terrible that would be! What would she do? she asked herself,
thoughtfully. She lapsed into the blues one afternoon&mdash;almost
cried&mdash;she could scarcely say why. Another time she thought of all the
terrible things she would do, how difficult she would make it for any other
woman who invaded her preserves. However, she was not sure. Would she declare
war if she discovered another? She knew she would eventually; and yet she knew,
too, that if she did, and Cowperwood were set in his passion, thoroughly
alienated, it would do no good. It would be terrible, but what could she do to
win him back? That was the issue. Once warned, however, by her suspicious
questioning, Cowperwood was more mechanically attentive than ever. He did his
best to conceal his altered mood&mdash;his enthusiasms for Mrs. Sohlberg, his
interest in Antoinette Nowak&mdash;and this helped somewhat.
</p>

<p>
But finally there was a detectable change. Aileen noticed it first after they
had been back from Europe nearly a year. At this time she was still interested
in Sohlberg, but in a harmlessly flirtatious way. She thought he might be
interesting physically, but would he be as delightful as Cowperwood? Never!
When she felt that Cowperwood himself might be changing she pulled herself up
at once, and when Antoinette appeared&mdash;the carriage
incident&mdash;Sohlberg lost his, at best, unstable charm. She began to
meditate on what a terrible thing it would be to lose Cowperwood, seeing that
she had failed to establish herself socially. Perhaps that had something to do
with his defection. No doubt it had. Yet she could not believe, after all his
protestations of affection in Philadelphia, after all her devotion to him in
those dark days of his degradation and punishment, that he would really turn on
her. No, he might stray momentarily, but if she protested enough, made a scene,
perhaps, he would not feel so free to injure her&mdash;he would remember and be
loving and devoted again. After seeing him, or imagining she had seen him, in
the carriage, she thought at first that she would question him, but later
decided that she would wait and watch more closely. Perhaps he was beginning to
run around with other women. There was safety in numbers&mdash;that she knew.
Her heart, her pride, was hurt, but not broken.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br/>
The Clash</h2>

<p>
The peculiar personality of Rita Sohlberg was such that by her very action she
ordinarily allayed suspicion, or rather distracted it. Although a novice, she
had a strange ease, courage, or balance of soul which kept her whole and
self-possessed under the most trying of circumstances. She might have been
overtaken in the most compromising of positions, but her manner would always
have indicated ease, a sense of innocence, nothing unusual, for she had no
sense of moral degradation in this matter&mdash;no troublesome emotion as to
what was to flow from a relationship of this kind, no worry as to her own soul,
sin, social opinion, or the like. She was really interested in art and
life&mdash;a pagan, in fact. Some people are thus hardily equipped. It is the
most notable attribute of the hardier type of personalities&mdash;not
necessarily the most brilliant or successful. You might have said that her soul
was naively unconscious of the agony of others in loss. She would have taken
any loss to herself with an amazing equableness&mdash;some qualms, of course,
but not many&mdash;because her vanity and sense of charm would have made her
look forward to something better or as good.
</p>

<p>
She had called on Aileen quite regularly in the past, with or without Harold,
and had frequently driven with the Cowperwoods or joined them at the theater or
elsewhere. She had decided, after becoming intimate with Cowperwood, to study
art again, which was a charming blind, for it called for attendance at
afternoon or evening classes which she frequently skipped. Besides, since
Harold had more money he was becoming gayer, more reckless and enthusiastic
over women, and Cowperwood deliberately advised her to encourage him in some
liaison which, in case exposure should subsequently come to them, would
effectually tie his hands.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let him get in some affair,&rdquo; Cowperwood told Rita.
&ldquo;We&rsquo;ll put detectives on his trail and get evidence. He won&rsquo;t
have a word to say.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We don&rsquo;t really need to do that,&rdquo; she protested sweetly,
naively. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s been in enough scrapes as it is. He&rsquo;s given me
some of the letters&mdash;&rdquo; (she pronounced it
&ldquo;lettahs&rdquo;)&mdash;&ldquo;written him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But we&rsquo;ll need actual witnesses if we ever need anything at all.
Just tell me when he&rsquo;s in love again, and I&rsquo;ll do the rest.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know I think,&rdquo; she drawled, amusingly, &ldquo;that he is now.
I saw him on the street the other day with one of his students&mdash;rather a
pretty girl, too.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was pleased. Under the circumstances he would almost have been
willing&mdash;not quite&mdash;for Aileen to succumb to Sohlberg in order to
entrap her and make his situation secure. Yet he really did not wish it in the
last analysis&mdash;would have been grieved temporarily if she had deserted
him. However, in the case of Sohlberg, detectives were employed, the new affair
with the flighty pupil was unearthed and sworn to by witnesses, and this,
combined with the &ldquo;lettahs&rdquo; held by Rita, constituted ample
material wherewith to &ldquo;hush up&rdquo; the musician if ever he became
unduly obstreperous. So Cowperwood and Rita&rsquo;s state was quite
comfortable.
</p>

<p>
But Aileen, meditating over Antoinette Nowak, was beside herself with
curiosity, doubt, worry. She did not want to injure Cowperwood in any way after
his bitter Philadelphia experience, and yet when she thought of his deserting
her in this way she fell into a great rage. Her vanity, as much as her love,
was hurt. What could she do to justify or set at rest her suspicions? Watch him
personally? She was too dignified and vain to lurk about street-corners or
offices or hotels. Never! Start a quarrel without additional
evidence&mdash;that would be silly. He was too shrewd to give her further
evidence once she spoke. He would merely deny it. She brooded irritably,
recalling after a time, and with an aching heart, that her father had put
detectives on her track once ten years before, and had actually discovered her
relations with Cowperwood and their rendezvous. Bitter as that memory
was&mdash;torturing&mdash;yet now the same means seemed not too abhorrent to
employ under the circumstances. No harm had come to Cowperwood in the former
instance, she reasoned to herself&mdash;no especial harm&mdash;from that
discovery (this was not true), and none would come to him now. (This also was
not true.) But one must forgive a fiery, passionate soul, wounded to the quick,
some errors of judgment. Her thought was that she would first be sure just what
it was her beloved was doing, and then decide what course to take. But she knew
that she was treading on dangerous ground, and mentally she recoiled from the
consequences which might follow. He might leave her if she fought him too
bitterly. He might treat her as he had treated his first wife, Lillian.
</p>

<p>
She studied her liege lord curiously these days, wondering if it were true that
he had deserted her already, as he had deserted his first wife thirteen years
before, wondering if he could really take up with a girl as common as
Antoinette Nowak&mdash;wondering, wondering, wondering&mdash;half afraid and
yet courageous. What could be done with him? If only he still loved her all
would be well yet&mdash;but oh!
</p>

<p>
The detective agency to which she finally applied, after weeks of soul-racking
suspense, was one of those disturbingly human implements which many are not
opposed to using on occasion, when it is the only means of solving a troublous
problem of wounded feelings or jeopardized interests. Aileen, being obviously
rich, was forthwith shamefully overcharged; but the services agreed upon were
well performed. To her amazement, chagrin, and distress, after a few weeks of
observation Cowperwood was reported to have affairs not only with Antoinette
Nowak, whom she did suspect, but also with Mrs. Sohlberg. And these two affairs
at one and the same time. For the moment it left Aileen actually stunned and
breathless.
</p>

<p>
The significance of Rita Sohlberg to her in this hour was greater than that of
any woman before or after. Of all living things, women dread women most of all,
and of all women the clever and beautiful. Rita Sohlberg had been growing on
Aileen as a personage, for she had obviously been prospering during this past
year, and her beauty had been amazingly enhanced thereby. Once Aileen had
encountered Rita in a light trap on the Avenue, very handsome and very new, and
she had commented on it to Cowperwood, whose reply had been: &ldquo;Her father
must be making some money. Sohlberg could never earn it for her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen sympathized with Harold because of his temperament, but she knew that
what Cowperwood said was true.
</p>

<p>
Another time, at a box-party at the theater, she had noted the rich
elaborateness of Mrs. Sohlberg&rsquo;s dainty frock, the endless pleatings of
pale silk, the startling charm of the needlework and the
ribbons&mdash;countless, rosetted, small&mdash;that meant hard work on the part
of some one.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How lovely this is,&rdquo; she had commented.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Rita had replied, airily; &ldquo;I thought, don&rsquo;t you
know, my dressmaker would never get done working on it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It had cost, all told, two hundred and twenty dollars, and Cowperwood had
gladly paid the bill.
</p>

<p>
Aileen went home at the time thinking of Rita&rsquo;s taste and of how well she
had harmonized her materials to her personality. She was truly charming.
</p>

<p>
Now, however, when it appeared that the same charm that had appealed to her had
appealed to Cowperwood, she conceived an angry, animal opposition to it all.
Rita Sohlberg! Ha! A lot of satisfaction she&rsquo;d get knowing as she would
soon, that Cowperwood was sharing his affection for her with Antoinette
Nowak&mdash;a mere stenographer. And a lot of satisfaction Antoinette would
get&mdash;the cheap upstart&mdash;when she learned, as she would, that
Cowperwood loved her so lightly that he would take an apartment for Rita
Sohlberg and let a cheap hotel or an assignation-house do for her.
</p>

<p>
But in spite of this savage exultation her thoughts kept coming back to
herself, to her own predicament, to torture and destroy her. Cowperwood, the
liar! Cowperwood, the pretender! Cowperwood, the sneak! At one moment she
conceived a kind of horror of the man because of all his protestations to her;
at the next a rage&mdash;bitter, swelling; at the next a pathetic realization
of her own altered position. Say what one will, to take the love of a man like
Cowperwood away from a woman like Aileen was to leave her high and dry on land,
as a fish out of its native element, to take all the wind out of her
sails&mdash;almost to kill her. Whatever position she had once thought to hold
through him, was now jeopardized. Whatever joy or glory she had had in being
Mrs. Frank Algernon Cowperwood, it was now tarnished. She sat in her room, this
same day after the detectives had given their report, a tired look in her eyes,
the first set lines her pretty mouth had ever known showing about it, her past
and her future whirling painfully and nebulously in her brain. Suddenly she got
up, and, seeing Cowperwood&rsquo;s picture on her dresser, his still impressive
eyes contemplating her, she seized it and threw it on the floor, stamping on
his handsome face with her pretty foot, and raging at him in her heart. The
dog! The brute! Her brain was full of the thought of Rita&rsquo;s white arms
about him, of his lips to hers. The spectacle of Rita&rsquo;s fluffy gowns, her
enticing costumes, was in her eyes. Rita should not have him; she should not
have anything connected with him, nor, for that matter, Antoinette Nowak,
either&mdash;the wretched upstart, the hireling. To think he should stoop to an
office stenographer! Once on that thought, she decided that he should not be
allowed to have a woman as an assistant any more. He owed it to her to love her
after all she had done for him, the coward, and to let other women alone. Her
brain whirled with strange thoughts. She was really not sane in her present
state. She was so wrought up by her prospective loss that she could only think
of rash, impossible, destructive things to do. She dressed swiftly, feverishly,
and, calling a closed carriage from the coach-house, ordered herself to be
driven to the New Arts Building. She would show this rosy cat of a woman, this
smiling piece of impertinence, this she-devil, whether she would lure
Cowperwood away. She meditated as she rode. She would not sit back and be
robbed as Mrs. Cowperwood had been by her. Never! He could not treat her that
way. She would die first! She would kill Rita Sohlberg and Antoinette Nowak and
Cowperwood and herself first. She would prefer to die that way rather than lose
his love. Oh yes, a thousand times! Fortunately, Rita Sohlberg was not at the
New Arts Building, or Sohlberg, either. They had gone to a reception. Nor was
she at the apartment on the North Side, where, under the name of Jacobs, as
Aileen had been informed by the detectives, she and Cowperwood kept occasional
tryst. Aileen hesitated for a moment, feeling it useless to wait, then she
ordered the coachman to drive to her husband&rsquo;s office. It was now nearly
five o&rsquo;clock. Antoinette and Cowperwood had both gone, but she did not
know it. She changed her mind, however, before she reached the office&mdash;for
it was Rita Sohlberg she wished to reach first&mdash;and ordered her coachman
to drive back to the Sohlberg studio. But still they had not returned. In a
kind of aimless rage she went home, wondering how she should reach Rita
Sohlberg first and alone. Then, to her savage delight, the game walked into her
bag. The Sohlbergs, returning home at six o&rsquo;clock from some reception
farther out Michigan Avenue, had stopped, at the wish of Harold, merely to pass
the time of day with Mrs. Cowperwood. Rita was exquisite in a pale-blue and
lavender concoction, with silver braid worked in here and there. Her gloves and
shoes were pungent bits of romance, her hat a dream of graceful lines. At the
sight of her, Aileen, who was still in the hall and had opened the door
herself, fairly burned to seize her by the throat and strike her; but she
restrained herself sufficiently to say, &ldquo;Come in.&rdquo; She still had
sense enough and self-possession enough to conceal her wrath and to close the
door. Beside his wife Harold was standing, offensively smug and inefficient in
the fashionable frock-coat and silk hat of the time, a restraining influence as
yet. He was bowing and smiling:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh.&rdquo; This sound was neither an &ldquo;oh&rdquo; nor an
&ldquo;ah,&rdquo; but a kind of Danish inflected &ldquo;awe,&rdquo; which was
usually not unpleasing to hear. &ldquo;How are you, once more, Meeses
Cowperwood? It eez sudge a pleasure to see you again&mdash;awe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you two just go in the reception-room a moment,&rdquo; said
Aileen, almost hoarsely. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be right in. I want to get
something.&rdquo; Then, as an afterthought, she called very sweetly: &ldquo;Oh,
Mrs. Sohlberg, won&rsquo;t you come up to my room for a moment? I have
something I want to show you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Rita responded promptly. She always felt it incumbent upon her to be very nice
to Aileen.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We have only a moment to stay,&rdquo; she replied, archly and sweetly,
and coming out in the hall, &ldquo;but I&rsquo;ll come up.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen stayed to see her go first, then followed up-stairs swiftly, surely,
entered after Rita, and closed the door. With a courage and rage born of a
purely animal despair, she turned and locked it; then she wheeled swiftly, her
eyes lit with a savage fire, her cheeks pale, but later aflame, her hands, her
fingers working in a strange, unconscious way.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So,&rdquo; she said, looking at Rita, and coming toward her quickly and
angrily, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ll steal my husband, will you? You&rsquo;ll live in a
secret apartment, will you? You&rsquo;ll come here smiling and lying to me,
will you? You beast! You cat! You prostitute! I&rsquo;ll show you now! You
tow-headed beast! I know you now for what you are! I&rsquo;ll teach you once
for all! Take that, and that, and that!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Suiting action to word, Aileen had descended upon her whirlwind, animal
fashion, striking, scratching, choking, tearing her visitor&rsquo;s hat from
her head, ripping the laces from her neck, beating her in the face, and
clutching violently at her hair and throat to choke and mar her beauty if she
could. For the moment she was really crazy with rage.
</p>

<p>
By the suddenness of this onslaught Rita Sohlberg was taken back completely. It
all came so swiftly, so terribly, she scarcely realized what was happening
before the storm was upon her. There was no time for arguments, pleas,
anything. Terrified, shamed, nonplussed, she went down quite limply under this
almost lightning attack. When Aileen began to strike her she attempted in vain
to defend herself, uttering at the same time piercing screams which could be
heard throughout the house. She screamed shrilly, strangely, like a wild dying
animal. On the instant all her fine, civilized poise had deserted her. From the
sweetness and delicacy of the reception atmosphere&mdash;the polite cooings,
posturings, and mouthings so charming to contemplate, so alluring in
her&mdash;she had dropped on the instant to that native animal condition that
shows itself in fear. Her eyes had a look of hunted horror, her lips and cheeks
were pale and drawn. She retreated in a staggering, ungraceful way; she writhed
and squirmed, screaming in the strong clutch of the irate and vigorous Aileen.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood entered the hall below just before the screams began. He had
followed the Sohlbergs almost immediately from his office, and, chancing to
glance in the reception-room, he had observed Sohlberg smiling, radiant, an
intangible air of self-ingratiating, social, and artistic sycophancy about him,
his long black frock-coat buttoned smoothly around his body, his silk hat still
in his hands.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Awe, how do you do, Meezter Cowperwood,&rdquo; he was beginning to say,
his curly head shaking in a friendly manner, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m soa glad to see
you again&rdquo; when&mdash;but who can imitate a scream of terror? We have no
words, no symbols even, for those essential sounds of fright and agony. They
filled the hall, the library, the reception-room, the distant kitchen even, and
basement with a kind of vibrant terror.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, always the man of action as opposed to nervous cogitation, braced
up on the instant like taut wire. What, for heaven&rsquo;s sake, could that be?
What a terrible cry! Sohlberg the artist, responding like a chameleon to the
various emotional complexions of life, began to breathe stertorously, to
blanch, to lose control of himself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My God!&rdquo; he exclaimed, throwing up his hands, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s
Rita! She&rsquo;s up-stairs in your wife&rsquo;s room! Something must have
happened. Oh&mdash;&rdquo; On the instant he was quite beside himself,
terrified, shaking, almost useless. Cowperwood, on the contrary, without a
moment&rsquo;s hesitation had thrown his coat to the floor, dashed up the
stairs, followed by Sohlberg. What could it be? Where was Aileen? As he bounded
upward a clear sense of something untoward came over him; it was sickening,
terrifying. Scream! Scream! Scream! came the sounds. &ldquo;Oh, my God!
don&rsquo;t kill me! Help! Help!&rdquo; SCREAM&mdash;this last a long,
terrified, ear-piercing wail.
</p>

<p>
Sohlberg was about to drop from heart failure, he was so frightened. His face
was an ashen gray. Cowperwood seized the door-knob vigorously and, finding the
door locked, shook, rattled, and banged at it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen!&rdquo; he called, sharply. &ldquo;Aileen! What&rsquo;s the
matter in there? Open this door, Aileen!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, my God! Oh, help! help! Oh, mercy&mdash;o-o-o-o-oh!&rdquo; It was
the moaning voice of Rita.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll show you, you she-devil!&rdquo; he heard Aileen calling.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll teach you, you beast! You cat, you prostitute! There! there!
there!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen!&rdquo; he called, hoarsely. &ldquo;Aileen!&rdquo; Then, getting
no response, and the screams continuing, he turned angrily.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stand back!&rdquo; he exclaimed to Sohlberg, who was moaning helplessly.
&ldquo;Get me a chair, get me a table&mdash;anything.&rdquo; The butler ran to
obey, but before he could return Cowperwood had found an implement.
&ldquo;Here!&rdquo; he said, seizing a long, thin, heavily carved and heavily
wrought oak chair which stood at the head of the stairs on the landing. He
whirled it vigorously over his head. Smash! The sound rose louder than the
screams inside.
</p>

<p>
Smash! The chair creaked and almost broke, but the door did not give.
</p>

<p>
Smash! The chair broke and the door flew open. He had knocked the lock loose
and had leaped in to where Aileen, kneeling over Rita on the floor, was choking
and beating her into insensibility. Like an animal he was upon her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he shouted, fiercely, in a hoarse, ugly, guttural voice,
&ldquo;you fool! You idiot&mdash;let go! What the devil&rsquo;s the matter with
you? What are you trying to do? Have you lost your mind?&mdash;you crazy
idiot!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He seized her strong hands and ripped them apart. He fairly dragged her back,
half twisting and half throwing her over his knee, loosing her clutching hold.
She was so insanely furious that she still struggled and cried, saying:
&ldquo;Let me at her! Let me at her! I&rsquo;ll teach her! Don&rsquo;t you try
to hold me, you dog! I&rsquo;ll show you, too, you brute&mdash;oh&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pick up that woman,&rdquo; called Cowperwood, firmly, to Sohlberg and
the butler, who had entered. &ldquo;Get her out of here quick! My wife has gone
crazy. Get her out of here, I tell you! This woman doesn&rsquo;t know what
she&rsquo;s doing. Take her out and get a doctor. What sort of a hell&rsquo;s
melee is this, anyway?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; moaned Rita, who was torn and fainting, almost unconscious
from sheer terror.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll kill her!&rdquo; screamed Aileen. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll murder
her! I&rsquo;ll murder you too, you dog! Oh&rdquo;&mdash;she began striking at
him&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll teach you how to run around with other women, you
dog, you brute!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood merely gripped her hands and shook her vigorously, forcefully.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What the devil has got into you, anyway, you fool?&rdquo; he said to
her, bitterly, as they carried Rita out. &ldquo;What are you trying to do,
anyway&mdash;murder her? Do you want the police to come in here? Stop your
screaming and behave yourself, or I&rsquo;ll shove a handkerchief in your
mouth! Stop, I tell you! Stop! Do you hear me? This is enough, you fool!&rdquo;
He clapped his hand over her mouth, pressing it tight and forcing her back
against him. He shook her brutally, angrily. He was very strong. &ldquo;Now
will you stop,&rdquo; he insisted, &ldquo;or do you want me to choke you quiet?
I will, if you don&rsquo;t. You&rsquo;re out of your mind. Stop, I tell you! So
this is the way you carry on when things don&rsquo;t go to suit you?&rdquo; She
was sobbing, struggling, moaning, half screaming, quite beside herself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, you crazy fool!&rdquo; he said, swinging her round, and with an
effort getting out a handkerchief, which he forced over her face and in her
mouth. &ldquo;There,&rdquo; he said, relievedly, &ldquo;now will you shut
up?&rdquo; holding her tight in an iron grip, he let her struggle and turn,
quite ready to put an end to her breathing if necessary.
</p>

<p>
Now that he had conquered her, he continued to hold her tightly, stooping
beside her on one knee, listening and meditating. Hers was surely a terrible
passion. From some points of view he could not blame her. Great was her
provocation, great her love. He knew her disposition well enough to have
anticipated something of this sort. Yet the wretchedness, shame, scandal of the
terrible affair upset his customary equilibrium. To think any one should give
way to such a storm as this! To think that Aileen should do it! To think that
Rita should have been so mistreated! It was not at all unlikely that she was
seriously injured, marred for life&mdash;possibly even killed. The horror of
that! The ensuing storm of public rage! A trial! His whole career gone up in
one terrific explosion of woe, anger, death! Great God!
</p>

<p>
He called the butler to him by a nod of his head, when the latter, who had gone
out with Rita, hurried back.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How is she?&rdquo; he asked, desperately. &ldquo;Seriously hurt?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, sir; I think not. I believe she&rsquo;s just fainted. She&rsquo;ll
be all right in a little while, sir. Can I be of any service, sir?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Ordinarily Cowperwood would have smiled at such a scene. Now he was cold,
sober.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not now,&rdquo; he replied, with a sigh of relief, still holding Aileen
firmly. &ldquo;Go out and close the door. Call a doctor. Wait in the hall. When
he comes, call me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen, conscious of things being done for Rita, of sympathy being extended to
her, tried to get up, to scream again; but she couldn&rsquo;t; her lord and
master held her in an ugly hold. When the door was closed he said again:
&ldquo;Now, Aileen, will you hush? Will you let me get up and talk to you, or
must we stay here all night? Do you want me to drop you forever after to-night?
I understand all about this, but I am in control now, and I am going to stay
so. You will come to your senses and be reasonable, or I will leave you
to-morrow as sure as I am here.&rdquo; His voice rang convincingly. &ldquo;Now,
shall we talk sensibly, or will you go on making a fool of
yourself&mdash;disgracing me, disgracing the house, making yourself and myself
the laughing-stock of the servants, the neighborhood, the city? This is a fine
showing you&rsquo;ve made to-day. Good God! A fine showing, indeed! A brawl in
this house, a fight! I thought you had better sense&mdash;more
self-respect&mdash;really I did. You have seriously jeopardized my chances here
in Chicago. You have seriously injured and possibly killed a woman. You could
even be hanged for that. Do you hear me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, let them hang me,&rdquo; groaned Aileen. &ldquo;I want to
die.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He took away his hand from her mouth, loosened his grip upon her arms, and let
her get to her feet. She was still torrential, impetuous, ready to upbraid him,
but once standing she was confronted by him, cold, commanding, fixing her with
a fishy eye. He wore a look now she had never seen on his face before&mdash;a
hard, wintry, dynamic flare, which no one but his commercial enemies, and only
those occasionally, had seen.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now stop!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Not one more word! Not one! Do you
hear me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She wavered, quailed, gave way. All the fury of her tempestuous soul fell, as
the sea falls under a lapse of wind. She had had it in heart, on her lips, to
cry again, &ldquo;You dog! you brute!&rdquo; and a hundred other terrible,
useless things, but somehow, under the pressure of his gaze, the hardness of
his heart, the words on her lips died away. She looked at him uncertainly for a
moment, then, turning, she threw herself on the bed near by, clutched her
cheeks and mouth and eyes, and, rocking back and forth in an agony of woe, she
began to sob:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, my God! my God! My heart! My life! I want to die! I want to
die!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Standing there watching her, there suddenly came to Cowperwood a keen sense of
her soul hurt, her heart hurt, and he was moved.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, after a moment or two, coming over and touching
her quite gently, &ldquo;Aileen! Don&rsquo;t cry so. I haven&rsquo;t left you
yet. Your life isn&rsquo;t utterly ruined. Don&rsquo;t cry. This is bad
business, but perhaps it is not without remedy. Come now, pull yourself
together, Aileen!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For answer she merely rocked and moaned, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.
</p>

<p>
Being anxious about conditions elsewhere, he turned and stepped out into the
hall. He must make some show for the benefit of the doctor and the servants; he
must look after Rita, and offer some sort of passing explanation to Sohlherg.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here,&rdquo; he called to a passing servant, &ldquo;shut that door and
watch it. If Mrs. Cowperwood comes out call me instantly.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br/>
&ldquo;Hell Hath No Fury&mdash;&rdquo;</h2>

<p>
Rita was not dead by any means&mdash;only seriously bruised, scratched, and
choked. Her scalp was cut in one place. Aileen had repeatedly beaten her head
on the floor, and this might have resulted seriously if Cowperwood had not
entered as quickly as he had. Sohlberg for the moment&mdash;for some little
time, in fact&mdash;was under the impression that Aileen had truly lost her
mind, had suddenly gone crazy, and that those shameless charges he had heard
her making were the emanations of a disordered brain. Nevertheless the things
she had said haunted him. He was in a bad state himself&mdash;almost a subject
for the doctor. His lips were bluish, his cheeks blanched. Rita had been
carried into an adjoining bedroom and laid upon a bed; cold water, ointments, a
bottle of arnica had been procured; and when Cowperwood appeared she was
conscious and somewhat better. But she was still very weak and smarting from
her wounds, both mental and physical. When the doctor arrived he had been told
that a lady, a guest, had fallen down-stairs; when Cowperwood came in the
physician was dressing her wounds.
</p>

<p>
As soon as he had gone Cowperwood said to the maid in attendance, &ldquo;Go get
me some hot water.&rdquo; As the latter disappeared he bent over and kissed
Rita&rsquo;s bruised lips, putting his finger to his own in warning sign.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Rita,&rdquo; he asked, softly, &ldquo;are you fully conscious?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She nodded weakly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Listen, then,&rdquo; he said, bending over and speaking slowly.
&ldquo;Listen carefully. Pay strict attention to what I&rsquo;m saying. You
must understand every word, and do as I tell you. You are not seriously
injured. You will be all right. This will blow over. I have sent for another
doctor to call on you at your studio. Your husband has gone for some fresh
clothes. He will come back in a little while. My carriage will take you home
when you are a little stronger. You mustn&rsquo;t worry. Everything will be all
right, but you must deny everything, do you hear? Everything! In so far as you
know, Mrs. Cowperwood is insane. I will talk to your husband to-morrow. I will
send you a trained nurse. Meantime you must be careful of what you say and how
you say it. Be perfectly calm. Don&rsquo;t worry. You are perfectly safe here,
and you will be there. Mrs. Cowperwood will not trouble you any more. I will
see to that. I am so sorry; but I love you. I am near you all the while. You
must not let this make any difference. You will not see her any more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Still he knew that it would make a difference.
</p>

<p>
Reassured as to Rita&rsquo;s condition, he went back to Aileen&rsquo;s room to
plead with her again&mdash;to soothe her if he could. He found her up and
dressing, a new thought and determination in her mind. Since she had thrown
herself on the bed sobbing and groaning, her mood had gradually changed; she
began to reason that if she could not dominate him, could not make him properly
sorry, she had better leave. It was evident, she thought, that he did not love
her any more, seeing that his anxiety to protect Rita had been so great; his
brutality in restraining her so marked; and yet she did not want to believe
that this was so. He had been so wonderful to her in times past. She had not
given up all hope of winning a victory over him, and these other
women&mdash;she loved him too much&mdash;but only a separation would do it.
That might bring him to his senses. She would get up, dress, and go down-town
to a hotel. He should not see her any more unless he followed her. She was
satisfied that she had broken up the liaison with Rita Sohlberg, anyway for the
present, and as for Antoinette Nowak, she would attend to her later. Her brain
and her heart ached. She was so full of woe and rage, alternating, that she
could not cry any more now. She stood before her mirror trying with trembling
fingers to do over her toilet and adjust a street-costume. Cowperwood was
disturbed, nonplussed at this unexpected sight.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, finally, coming up behind her,
&ldquo;can&rsquo;t you and I talk this thing over peacefully now? You
don&rsquo;t want to do anything that you&rsquo;ll be sorry for. I don&rsquo;t
want you to. I&rsquo;m sorry. You don&rsquo;t really believe that I&rsquo;ve
ceased to love you, do you? I haven&rsquo;t, you know. This thing isn&rsquo;t
as bad as it looks. I should think you would have a little more sympathy with
me after all we have been through together. You haven&rsquo;t any real evidence
of wrong-doing on which to base any such outburst as this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, haven&rsquo;t I?&rdquo; she exclaimed, turning from the mirror,
where, sorrowfully and bitterly, she was smoothing her red-gold hair. Her
cheeks were flushed, her eyes red. Just now she seemed as remarkable to him as
she had seemed that first day, years ago, when in a red cape he had seen her, a
girl of sixteen, running up the steps of her father&rsquo;s house in
Philadelphia. She was so wonderful then. It mellowed his mood toward her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all you know about it, you liar!&rdquo; she declared.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s little you know what I know. I haven&rsquo;t had detectives
on your trail for weeks for nothing. You sneak! You&rsquo;d like to smooth
around now and find out what I know. Well, I know enough, let me tell you that.
You won&rsquo;t fool me any longer with your Rita Sohlbergs and your Antoinette
Nowaks and your apartments and your houses of assignation. I know what you are,
you brute! And after all your protestations of love for me! Ugh!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She turned fiercely to her task while Cowperwood stared at her, touched by her
passion, moved by her force. It was fine to see what a dramatic animal she
was&mdash;really worthy of him in many ways.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, softly, hoping still to ingratiate himself by
degrees, &ldquo;please don&rsquo;t be so bitter toward me. Haven&rsquo;t you
any understanding of how life works&mdash;any sympathy with it? I thought you
were more generous, more tender. I&rsquo;m not so bad.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He eyed her thoughtfully, tenderly, hoping to move her through her love for
him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sympathy! Sympathy!&rdquo; She turned on him blazing. &ldquo;A lot you
know about sympathy! I suppose I didn&rsquo;t give you any sympathy when you
were in the penitentiary in Philadelphia, did I? A lot of good it did
me&mdash;didn&rsquo;t it? Sympathy! Bah! To have you come out here to Chicago
and take up with a lot of prostitutes&mdash;cheap stenographers and wives of
musicians! You have given me a lot of sympathy, haven&rsquo;t you?&mdash;with
that woman lying in the next room to prove it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She smoothed her lithe waist and shook her shoulders preparatory to putting on
a hat and adjusting her wrap. She proposed to go just as she was, and send
Fadette back for all her belongings.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he pleaded, determined to have his way, &ldquo;I think
you&rsquo;re very foolish. Really I do. There is no occasion for all
this&mdash;none in the world. Here you are talking at the top of your voice,
scandalizing the whole neighborhood, fighting, leaving the house. It&rsquo;s
abominable. I don&rsquo;t want you to do it. You love me yet, don&rsquo;t you?
You know you do. I know you don&rsquo;t mean all you say. You can&rsquo;t. You
really don&rsquo;t believe that I have ceased to love you, do you,
Aileen?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Love!&rdquo; fired Aileen. &ldquo;A lot you know about love! A lot you
have ever loved anybody, you brute! I know how you love. I thought you loved me
once. Humph! I see how you loved me&mdash;just as you&rsquo;ve loved fifty
other women, as you love that snippy little Rita Sohlberg in the next
room&mdash;the cat!&mdash;the dirty little beast!&mdash;the way you love
Antoinette Nowak&mdash;a cheap stenographer! Bah! You don&rsquo;t know what the
word means.&rdquo; And yet her voice trailed off into a kind of sob and her
eyes filled with tears, hot, angry, aching. Cowperwood saw them and came over,
hoping in some way to take advantage of them. He was truly sorry
now&mdash;anxious to make her feel tender toward him once more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he pleaded, &ldquo;please don&rsquo;t be so bitter. You
shouldn&rsquo;t be so hard on me. I&rsquo;m not so bad. Aren&rsquo;t you going
to be reasonable?&rdquo; He put out a smoothing hand, but she jumped away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you touch me, you brute!&rdquo; she exclaimed, angrily.
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you lay a hand on me. I don&rsquo;t want you to come near
me. I&rsquo;ll not live with you. I&rsquo;ll not stay in the same house with
you and your mistresses. Go and live with your dear, darling Rita on the North
Side if you want to. I don&rsquo;t care. I suppose you&rsquo;ve been in the
next room comforting her&mdash;the beast! I wish I had killed her&mdash;Oh,
God!&rdquo; She tore at her throat in a violent rage, trying to adjust a
button.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was literally astonished. Never had he seen such an outburst as
this. He had not believed Aileen to be capable of it. He could not help
admiring her. Nevertheless he resented the brutality of her assault on Rita and
on his own promiscuous tendency, and this feeling vented itself in one last
unfortunate remark.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t be so hard on mistresses if I were you, Aileen,&rdquo;
he ventured, pleadingly. &ldquo;I should have thought your own experience would
have&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused, for he saw on the instant that he was making a grave mistake. This
reference to her past as a mistress was crucial. On the instant she
straightened up, and her eyes filled with a great pain. &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s
the way you talk to me, is it?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;I knew it! I knew it! I
knew it would come!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She turned to a tall chest of drawers as high as her breasts, laden with
silverware, jewel-boxes, brushes and combs, and, putting her arms down, she
laid her head upon them and began to cry. This was the last straw. He was
throwing up her lawless girlhood love to her as an offense.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she sobbed, and shook in a hopeless, wretched paroxysm.
Cowperwood came over quickly. He was distressed, pained. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t
mean that, Aileen,&rdquo; he explained. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t mean it in that
way&mdash;not at all. You rather drew that out of me; but I didn&rsquo;t mean
it as a reproach. You were my mistress, but good Lord, I never loved you any
the less for that&mdash;rather more. You know I did. I want you to believe
that; it&rsquo;s true. These other matters haven&rsquo;t been so important to
me&mdash;they really haven&rsquo;t&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked at her helplessly as she moved away to avoid him; he was distressed,
nonplussed, immensely sorry. As he walked to the center of the room again she
suddenly suffered a great revulsion of feeling, but only in the direction of
more wrath. This was too much.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So this is the way you talk to me,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;after
all I have done for you! You say that to me after I waited for you and cried
over you when you were in prison for nearly two years? Your mistress!
That&rsquo;s my reward, is it? Oh!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Suddenly she observed her jewel-case, and, resenting all the gifts he had given
her in Philadelphia, in Paris, in Rome, here in Chicago, she suddenly threw
open the lid and, grabbing the contents by handfuls, began to toss them toward
him&mdash;to actually throw them in his face. Out they came, handfuls of gauds
that he had given her in real affection: a jade necklace and bracelet of pale
apple-green set in spun gold, with clasps of white ivory; a necklace of pearls,
assorted as to size and matched in color, that shone with a tinted, pearly
flame in the evening light; a handful of rings and brooches, diamonds, rubies,
opals, amethysts; a dog-collar of emeralds, and a diamond hair-ornament. She
flung them at him excitedly, strewing the floor, striking him on the neck, the
face, the hands. &ldquo;Take that! and that! and that! There they are! I
don&rsquo;t want anything more of yours. I don&rsquo;t want anything more to do
with you. I don&rsquo;t want anything that belongs to you. Thank God, I have
money enough of my own to live on! I hate you&mdash;I despise you&mdash;I never
want to see you any more. Oh&mdash;&rdquo; And, trying to think of something
more, but failing, she dashed swiftly down the hall and down the stairs, while
he stood for just one moment overwhelmed. Then he hurried after.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen!&rdquo; he called. &ldquo;Aileen, come back here! Don&rsquo;t go,
Aileen!&rdquo; But she only hurried faster; she opened and closed the door, and
actually ran out in the dark, her eyes wet, her heart bursting. So this was the
end of that youthful dream that had begun so beautifully. She was no better
than the others&mdash;just one of his mistresses. To have her past thrown up to
her as a defense for the others! To be told that she was no better than they!
This was the last straw. She choked and sobbed as she walked, vowing never to
return, never to see him any more. But as she did so Cowperwood came running
after, determined for once, as lawless as he was, that this should not be the
end of it all. She had loved him, he reflected. She had laid every gift of
passion and affection on the altar of her love. It wasn&rsquo;t fair, really.
She must be made to stay. He caught up at last, reaching her under the dark of
the November trees.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, laying hold of her and putting his arms around
her waist. &ldquo;Aileen, dearest, this is plain madness. It is insanity.
You&rsquo;re not in your right mind. Don&rsquo;t go! Don&rsquo;t leave me! I
love you! Don&rsquo;t you know I do? Can&rsquo;t you really see that?
Don&rsquo;t run away like this, and don&rsquo;t cry. I do love you, and you
know it. I always shall. Come back now. Kiss me. I&rsquo;ll do better. Really I
will. Give me another chance. Wait and see. Come now&mdash;won&rsquo;t you?
That&rsquo;s my girl, my Aileen. Do come. Please!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She pulled on, but he held her, smoothing her arms, her neck, her face.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen!&rdquo; he entreated.
</p>

<p>
She tugged so that he was finally compelled to work her about into his arms;
then, sobbing, she stood there agonized but happy once more, in a way.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t want to,&rdquo; she protested. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t
love me any more. Let me go.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But he kept hold of her, urging, and finally she said, her head upon his
shoulder as of old, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t make me come back to-night. I
don&rsquo;t want to. I can&rsquo;t. Let me go down-town. I&rsquo;ll come back
later, maybe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll go with you,&rdquo; he said, endearingly. &ldquo;It
isn&rsquo;t right. There are a lot of things I should be doing to stop this
scandal, but I&rsquo;ll go.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And together they sought a street-car.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br/>
&ldquo;Man and Superman&rdquo;</h2>

<p>
It is a sad commentary on all save the most chemic unions&mdash;those dark red
flowers of romance that bloom most often only for a tragic end&mdash;that they
cannot endure the storms of disaster that are wont to overtake them. A woman
like Rita Sohlberg, with a seemingly urgent feeling for Cowperwood, was yet not
so charmed by him but that this shock to her pride was a marked sedative. The
crushing weight of such an exposure as this, the Homeric laughter inherent, if
not indicated in the faulty planning, the failure to take into account
beforehand all the possibilities which might lead to such a disaster, was too
much for her to endure. She was stung almost to desperation, maddened, at the
thought of the gay, idle way in which she had walked into Mrs.
Cowperwood&rsquo;s clutches and been made into a spectacle and a laughing-stock
by her. What a brute she was&mdash;what a demon! Her own physical weakness
under the circumstances was no grief to her&mdash;rather a salve to her
superior disposition; but just the same she had been badly beaten, her beauty
turned into a ragamuffin show, and that was enough. This evening, in the Lake
Shore Sanitarium, where she had been taken, she had but one thought&mdash;to
get away when it should all be over and rest her wearied brain. She did not
want to see Sohlberg any more; she did not want to see Cowperwood any more.
Already Harold, suspicious and determined to get at the truth, was beginning to
question her as to the strangeness of Aileen&rsquo;s attack&mdash;her probable
reason. When Cowperwood was announced, Sohlberg&rsquo;s manner modified
somewhat, for whatever his suspicions were, he was not prepared to quarrel with
this singular man as yet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am so sorry about this unfortunate business,&rdquo; said Cowperwood,
coming in with brisk assurance. &ldquo;I never knew my wife to become so
strangely unbalanced before. It was most fortunate that I arrived when I did. I
certainly owe you both every amend that can be made. I sincerely hope, Mrs.
Sohlberg, that you are not seriously injured. If there is anything I can
possibly do&mdash;anything either of you can suggest&rdquo;&mdash;he looked
around solicitously at Sohlberg&mdash;&ldquo;I shall only be too glad to do it.
How would it do for you to take Mrs. Sohlberg away for a little while for a
rest? I shall so gladly pay all expenses in connection with her
recovery.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sohlberg, brooding and heavy, remained unresponsive, smoldering; Rita, cheered
by Cowperwood&rsquo;s presence, but not wholly relieved by any means, was
questioning and disturbed. She was afraid there was to be a terrific scene
between them. She declared she was better and would be all right&mdash;that she
did not need to go away, but that she preferred to be alone.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s very strange,&rdquo; said Sohlberg, sullenly, after a little
while. &ldquo;I daunt onderstand it! I daunt onderstand it at all. Why should
she do soach a thing? Why should she say soach things? Here we have been the
best of friends opp to now. Then suddenly she attacks my wife and sais all
these strange things.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I have assured you, my dear Mr. Sohlberg, that my wife was not in
her right mind. She has been subject to spells of this kind in the past, though
never to anything so violent as this to-night. Already she has recovered her
normal state, and she does not remember. But, perhaps, if we are going to
discuss things now we had better go out in the hall. Your wife will need all
the rest she can get.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Once outside, Cowperwood continued with brilliant assurance: &ldquo;Now, my
dear Sohlberg, what is it I can say? What is it you wish me to do? My wife has
made a lot of groundless charges, to say nothing of injuring your wife most
seriously and shamefully. I cannot tell you, as I have said, how sorry I am. I
assure you Mrs. Cowperwood is suffering from a gross illusion. There is
absolutely nothing to do, nothing to say, so far as I can see, but to let the
whole matter drop. Don&rsquo;t you agree with me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Harold was twisting mentally in the coils of a trying situation. His own
position, as he knew, was not formidable. Rita had reproached him over and over
for infidelity. He began to swell and bluster at once.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is all very well for you to say, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he
commented, defiantly, &ldquo;but how about me? Where do I come in? I daunt know
what to theenk yet. It ees very strange. Supposing what your wife sais was
true? Supposing my wife has been going around weeth some one? That ees what I
want to find out. Eef she has! Eef eet is what I theenk it ees I shall&mdash;I
shall&mdash;I daunt know what I shall do. I am a very violent man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood almost smiled, concerned as he was over avoiding publicity; he had
no fear of Sohlberg physically.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;See here,&rdquo; he exclaimed, suddenly, looking sharply at the musician
and deciding to take the bull by the horns, &ldquo;you are in quite as delicate
a situation as I am, if you only stop to think. This affair, if it gets out,
will involve not only me and Mrs. Cowperwood, but yourself and your wife, and
if I am not mistaken, I think your own affairs are not in any too good shape.
You cannot blacken your wife without blackening yourself&mdash;that is
inevitable. None of us is exactly perfect. For myself I shall be compelled to
prove insanity, and I can do this easily. If there is anything in your past
which is not precisely what it should be it could not long be kept a secret. If
you are willing to let the matter drop I will make handsome provision for you
both; if, instead, you choose to make trouble, to force this matter into the
daylight, I shall leave no stone unturned to protect myself, to put as good a
face on this matter as I can.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed Sohlberg. &ldquo;You threaten me? You try to
frighten me after your wife charges that you have been running around weeth my
wife? You talk about my past! I like that. Haw! We shall see about dis! What is
it you knaw about me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Mr. Sohlberg,&rdquo; rejoined Cowperwood, calmly, &ldquo;I know,
for instance, that for a long while your wife has not loved you, that you have
been living on her as any pensioner might, that you have been running around
with as many as six or seven women in as many years or less. For months I have
been acting as your wife&rsquo;s financial adviser, and in that time, with the
aid of detectives, I have learned of Anna Stelmak, Jessie Laska, Bertha Reese,
Georgia Du Coin&mdash;do I need to say any more? As a matter of fact, I have a
number of your letters in my possession.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Saw that ees it!&rdquo; exclaimed Sohlberg, while Cowperwood eyed him
fixedly. &ldquo;You have been running around weeth my wife? Eet ees true, then.
A fine situation! And you come here now weeth these threats, these lies to
booldoze me. Haw! We weel see about them. We weel see what I can do. Wait teel
I can consult a lawyer first. Then we weel see!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood surveyed him coldly, angrily. &ldquo;What an ass!&rdquo; he thought.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;See here,&rdquo; he said, urging Sohlberg, for privacy&rsquo;s sake, to
come down into the lower hall, and then into the street before the sanitarium,
where two gas-lamps were fluttering fitfully in the dark and wind, &ldquo;I see
very plainly that you are bent on making trouble. It is not enough that I have
assured you that there is nothing in this&mdash;that I have given you my word.
You insist on going further. Very well, then. Supposing for argument&rsquo;s
sake that Mrs. Cowperwood was not insane; that every word she said was true;
that I had been misconducting myself with your wife? What of it? What will you
do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked at Sohlberg smoothly, ironically, while the latter flared up.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Haw!&rdquo; he shouted, melodramatically. &ldquo;Why, I would keel you,
that&rsquo;s what I would do. I would keel her. I weel make a terrible scene.
Just let me knaw that this is so, and then see!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, grimly. &ldquo;I thought so. I
believe you. For that reason I have come prepared to serve you in just the way
you wish.&rdquo; He reached in his coat and took out two small revolvers, which
he had taken from a drawer at home for this very purpose. They gleamed in the
dark. &ldquo;Do you see these?&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;I am going to save
you the trouble of further investigation, Mr. Sohlberg. Every word that Mrs.
Cowperwood said to-night&mdash;and I am saying this with a full understanding
of what this means to you and to me&mdash;is true. She is no more insane than I
am. Your wife has been living in an apartment with me on the North Side for
months, though you cannot prove that. She does not love you, but me. Now if you
want to kill me here is a gun.&rdquo; He extended his hand. &ldquo;Take your
choice. If I am to die you might as well die with me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He said it so coolly, so firmly, that Sohlberg, who was an innate coward, and
who had no more desire to die than any other healthy animal, paled. The look of
cold steel was too much. The hand that pressed them on him was hard and firm.
He took hold of one, but his fingers trembled. The steely, metallic voice in
his ear was undermining the little courage that he had. Cowperwood by now had
taken on the proportions of a dangerous man&mdash;the lineaments of a demon. He
turned away mortally terrified.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My God!&rdquo; he exclaimed, shaking like a leaf. &ldquo;You want to
keel me, do you? I weel not have anything to do with you! I weel not talk to
you! I weel see my lawyer. I weel talk to my wife first.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, no you won&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, intercepting him as
he turned to go and seizing him firmly by the arm. &ldquo;I am not going to
have you do anything of the sort. I am not going to kill you if you are not
going to kill me; but I am going to make you listen to reason for once. Now
here is what else I have to say, and then I am through. I am not unfriendly to
you. I want to do you a good turn, little as I care for you. To begin with,
there is nothing in those charges my wife made, not a thing. I merely said what
I did just now to see if you were in earnest. You do not love your wife any
more. She doesn&rsquo;t love you. You are no good to her. Now, I have a very
friendly proposition to make to you. If you want to leave Chicago and stay away
three years or more, I will see that you are paid five thousand dollars every
year on January first&mdash;on the nail&mdash;five thousand dollars! Do you
hear? Or you can stay here in Chicago and hold your tongue and I will make it
three thousand&mdash;monthly or yearly, just as you please. But&mdash;and this
is what I want you to remember&mdash;if you don&rsquo;t get out of town or hold
your tongue, if you make one single rash move against me, I will kill you, and
I will kill you on sight. Now, I want you to go away from here and behave
yourself. Leave your wife alone. Come and see me in a day or two&mdash;the
money is ready for you any time.&rdquo; He paused while Sohlberg
stared&mdash;his eyes round and glassy. This was the most astonishing
experience of his life. This man was either devil or prince, or both.
&ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he thought. &ldquo;He will do that, too. He will really
kill me.&rdquo; Then the astounding alternative&mdash;five thousand dollars a
year&mdash;came to his mind. Well, why not? His silence gave consent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I were you I wouldn&rsquo;t go up-stairs again to-night,&rdquo;
continued Cowperwood, sternly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t disturb her. She needs rest.
Go on down-town and come and see me to-morrow&mdash;or if you want to go back I
will go with you. I want to say to Mrs. Sohlberg what I have said to you. But
remember what I&rsquo;ve told you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nau, thank you,&rdquo; replied Sohlberg, feebly. &ldquo;I will go
down-town. Good night.&rdquo; And he hurried away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry,&rdquo; said Cowperwood to himself, defensively.
&ldquo;It is too bad, but it was the only way.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br/>
A Matter of Tunnels</h2>

<p>
The question of Sohlberg adjusted thus simply, if brutally, Cowperwood turned
his attention to Mrs. Sohlberg. But there was nothing much to be done. He
explained that he had now completely subdued Aileen and Sohlberg, that the
latter would make no more trouble, that he was going to pension him, that
Aileen would remain permanently quiescent. He expressed the greatest solicitude
for her, but Rita was now sickened of this tangle. She had loved him, as she
thought, but through the rage of Aileen she saw him in a different light, and
she wanted to get away. His money, plentiful as it was, did not mean as much to
her as it might have meant to some women; it simply spelled luxuries, without
which she could exist if she must. His charm for her had, perhaps, consisted
mostly in the atmosphere of flawless security, which seemed to surround
him&mdash;a glittering bubble of romance. That, by one fell attack, was now
burst. He was seen to be quite as other men, subject to the same storms, the
same danger of shipwreck. Only he was a better sailor than most. She
recuperated gradually; left for home; left for Europe; details too long to be
narrated. Sohlberg, after much meditating and fuming, finally accepted the
offer of Cowperwood and returned to Denmark. Aileen, after a few days of
quarreling, in which he agreed to dispense with Antoinette Nowak, returned
home.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was in no wise pleased by this rough denouement. Aileen had not
raised her own attractions in his estimation, and yet, strange to relate, he
was not unsympathetic with her. He had no desire to desert her as yet, though
for some time he had been growing in the feeling that Rita would have been a
much better type of wife for him. But what he could not have, he could not
have. He turned his attention with renewed force to his business; but it was
with many a backward glance at those radiant hours when, with Rita in his
presence or enfolded by his arms, he had seen life from a new and poetic angle.
She was so charming, so naive&mdash;but what could he do?
</p>

<p class="p2">
For several years thereafter Cowperwood was busy following the Chicago
street-railway situation with increasing interest. He knew it was useless to
brood over Rita Sohlberg&mdash;she would not return&mdash;and yet he could not
help it; but he could work hard, and that was something. His natural aptitude
and affection for street-railway work had long since been demonstrated, and it
was now making him restless. One might have said of him quite truly that the
tinkle of car-bells and the plop of plodding horses&rsquo; feet was in his
blood. He surveyed these extending lines, with their jingling cars, as he went
about the city, with an almost hungry eye. Chicago was growing fast, and these
little horse-cars on certain streets were crowded night and
morning&mdash;fairly bulging with people at the rush-hours. If he could only
secure an octopus-grip on one or all of them; if he could combine and control
them all! What a fortune! That, if nothing else, might salve him for some of
his woes&mdash;a tremendous fortune&mdash;nothing less. He forever busied
himself with various aspects of the scene quite as a poet might have concerned
himself with rocks and rills. To own these street-railways! To own these
street-railways! So rang the song of his mind.
</p>

<p>
Like the gas situation, the Chicago street-railway situation was divided into
three parts&mdash;three companies representing and corresponding with the three
different sides or divisions of the city. The Chicago City Railway Company,
occupying the South Side and extending as far south as Thirty-ninth Street, had
been organized in 1859, and represented in itself a mine of wealth. Already it
controlled some seventy miles of track, and was annually being added to on
Indiana Avenue, on Wabash Avenue, on State Street, and on Archer Avenue. It
owned over one hundred and fifty cars of the old-fashioned, straw-strewn,
no-stove type, and over one thousand horses; it employed one hundred and
seventy conductors, one hundred and sixty drivers, a hundred stablemen, and
blacksmiths, harness-makers, and repairers in interesting numbers. Its
snow-plows were busy on the street in winter, its sprinkling-cars in summer.
Cowperwood calculated its shares, bonds, rolling-stock, and other physical
properties as totaling in the vicinity of over two million dollars. The trouble
with this company was that its outstanding stock was principally controlled by
Norman Schryhart, who was now decidedly inimical to Cowperwood, or anything he
might wish to do, and by Anson Merrill, who had never manifested any signs of
friendship. He did not see how he was to get control of this property. Its
shares were selling around two hundred and fifty dollars.
</p>

<p>
The North Chicago City Railway was a corporation which had been organized at
the same time as the South Side company, but by a different group of men. Its
management was old, indifferent, and incompetent, its equipment about the same.
The Chicago West Division Railway had originally been owned by the Chicago City
or South Side Railway, but was now a separate corporation. It was not yet so
profitable as the other divisions of the city, but all sections of the city
were growing. The horse-bell was heard everywhere tinkling gaily.
</p>

<p>
Standing on the outside of this scene, contemplating its promise, Cowperwood
much more than any one else connected financially with the future of these
railways at this time was impressed with their enormous
possibilities&mdash;their enormous future if Chicago continued to grow, and was
concerned with the various factors which might further or impede their
progress.
</p>

<p>
Not long before he had discovered that one of the chief handicaps to
street-railway development, on the North and West Sides, lay in the congestion
of traffic at the bridges spanning the Chicago River. Between the street ends
that abutted on it and connected the two sides of the city ran this amazing
stream&mdash;dirty, odorous, picturesque, compact of a heavy, delightful,
constantly crowding and moving boat traffic, which kept the various bridges
momentarily turning, and tied up the street traffic on either side of the river
until it seemed at times as though the tangle of teams and boats would never
any more be straightened out. It was lovely, human, natural,
Dickensesque&mdash;a fit subject for a Daumier, a Turner, or a Whistler. The
idlest of bridge-tenders judged for himself when the boats and when the teams
should be made to wait, and how long, while in addition to the regular
pedestrians a group of idlers stood at gaze fascinated by the crowd of masts,
the crush of wagons, and the picturesque tugs in the foreground below.
Cowperwood, as he sat in his light runabout, annoyed by a delay, or dashed
swiftly forward to get over before a bridge turned, had long since noted that
the street-car service in the North and West Sides was badly hampered. The
unbroken South Side, unthreaded by a river, had no such problem, and was
growing rapidly.
</p>

<p>
Because of this he was naturally interested to observe one day, in the course
of his peregrinations, that there existed in two places under the Chicago
River&mdash;in the first place at La Salle Street, running north and south, and
in the second at Washington Street, running east and west&mdash;two now soggy
and rat-infested tunnels which were never used by anybody&mdash;dark, dank,
dripping affairs only vaguely lighted with oil-lamp, and oozing with water.
Upon investigation he learned that they had been built years before to
accommodate this same tide of wagon traffic, which now congested at the
bridges, and which even then had been rapidly rising. Being forced to pay a
toll in time to which a slight toll in cash, exacted for the privilege of using
a tunnel, had seemed to the investors and public infinitely to be preferred,
this traffic had been offered this opportunity of avoiding the delay. However,
like many another handsome commercial scheme on paper or bubbling in the human
brain, the plan did not work exactly. These tunnels might have proved
profitable if they had been properly built with long, low-per-cent. grades,
wide roadways, and a sufficiency of light and air; but, as a matter of fact,
they had not been judiciously adapted to public convenience. Norman
Schryhart&rsquo;s father had been an investor in these tunnels, and Anson
Merrill. When they had proved unprofitable, after a long period of pointless
manipulation&mdash;cost, one million dollars&mdash;they had been sold to the
city for exactly that sum each, it being poetically deemed that a growing city
could better afford to lose so disturbing an amount than any of its humble,
ambitious, and respectable citizens. That was a little affair by which members
of council had profited years before; but that also is another story.
</p>

<p>
After discovering these tunnels Cowperwood walked through them several
times&mdash;for though they were now boarded up, there was still an
uninterrupted footpath&mdash;and wondered why they could not be utilized. It
seemed to him that if the street-car traffic were heavy enough, profitable
enough, and these tunnels, for a reasonable sum, could be made into a lower
grade, one of the problems which now hampered the growth of the North and West
Sides would be obviated. But how? He did not own the tunnels. He did not own
the street-railways. The cost of leasing and rebuilding the tunnels would be
enormous. Helpers and horses and extra drivers on any grade, however slight,
would have to be used, and that meant an extra expense. With street-car horses
as the only means of traction, and with the long, expensive grades, he was not
so sure that this venture would be a profitable one.
</p>

<p>
However, in the fall of 1880, or a little earlier (when he was still very much
entangled with the preliminary sex affairs that led eventually to Rita
Sohlberg), he became aware of a new system of traction relating to street-cars
which, together with the arrival of the arc-light, the telephone, and other
inventions, seemed destined to change the character of city life entirely.
</p>

<p>
Recently in San Francisco, where the presence of hills made the movement of
crowded street-railway cars exceedingly difficult, a new type of traction had
been introduced&mdash;that of the <i>cable</i>, which was nothing more than a
traveling rope of wire running over guttered wheels in a conduit, and driven by
immense engines, conveniently located in adjacent stations or
&ldquo;power-houses.&rdquo; The cars carried a readily manipulated
&ldquo;grip-lever,&rdquo; or steel hand, which reached down through a slot into
a conduit and &ldquo;gripped&rdquo; the moving cable. This invention solved the
problem of hauling heavily laden street-cars up and down steep grades. About
the same time he also heard, in a roundabout way, that the Chicago City
Railway, of which Schryhart and Merrill were the principal owners, was about to
introduce this mode of traction on its lines&mdash;to cable State Street, and
attach the cars of other lines running farther out into unprofitable districts
as &ldquo;trailers.&rdquo; At once the solution of the North and West Side
problems flashed upon him&mdash;cables.
</p>

<p>
Outside of the bridge crush and the tunnels above mentioned, there was one
other special condition which had been for some time past attracting
Cowperwood&rsquo;s attention. This was the waning energy of the North Chicago
City Railway Company&mdash;the lack of foresight on the part of its directors
which prevented them from perceiving the proper solution of their difficulties.
The road was in a rather unsatisfactory state financially&mdash;really open to
a coup of some sort. In the beginning it had been considered unprofitable, so
thinly populated was the territory they served, and so short the distance from
the business heart. Later, however, as the territory filled up, they did
better; only then the long waits at the bridges occurred. The management,
feeling that the lines were likely to be poorly patronized, had put down poor,
little, light-weight rails, and run slimpsy cars which were as cold as ice in
winter and as hot as stove-ovens in summer. No attempt had been made to extend
the down-town terminus of the several lines into the business center&mdash;they
stopped just over the river which bordered it at the north. (On the South Side
Mr. Schryhart had done much better for his patrons. He had already installed a
loop for his cable about Merrill&rsquo;s store.) As on the West Side, straw was
strewn in the bottom of all the cars in winter to keep the feet of the
passengers warm, and but few open cars were used in summer. The directors were
averse to introducing them because of the expense. So they had gone on and on,
adding lines only where they were sure they would make a good profit from the
start, putting down the same style of cheap rail that had been used in the
beginning, and employing the same antique type of car which rattled and
trembled as it ran, until the patrons were enraged to the point of anarchy.
Only recently, because of various suits and complaints inaugurated, the company
had been greatly annoyed, but they scarcely knew what to do, how to meet the
onslaught. Though there was here and there a man of sense&mdash;such as
Terrence Mulgannon, the general superintendent; Edwin Kaffrath, a director;
William Johnson, the constructing engineer of the company&mdash;yet such other
men as Onias C. Skinner, the president, and Walter Parker, the vice-president,
were reactionaries of an elderly character, conservative, meditative, stingy,
and, worst of all, fearful or without courage for great adventure. It is a sad
commentary that age almost invariably takes away the incentive to new
achievement and makes &ldquo;Let well enough alone&rdquo; the most appealing
motto.
</p>

<p>
Mindful of this, Cowperwood, with a now splendid scheme in his mind, one day
invited John J. McKenty over to his house to dinner on a social pretext. When
the latter, accompanied by his wife, had arrived, and Aileen had smiled on them
both sweetly, and was doing her best to be nice to Mrs. McKenty, Cowperwood
remarked:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;McKenty, do you know anything about these two tunnels that the city owns
under the river at Washington and La Salle streets?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know that the city took them over when it didn&rsquo;t need them, and
that they&rsquo;re no good for anything. That was before my time,
though,&rdquo; explained McKenty, cautiously. &ldquo;I think the city paid a
million for them. Why?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, nothing much,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, evading the matter for the
present. &ldquo;I was wondering whether they were in such condition that they
couldn&rsquo;t be used for anything. I see occasional references in the papers
to their uselessness.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They&rsquo;re in pretty bad shape, I&rsquo;m afraid,&rdquo; replied
McKenty. &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t been through either of them in years and years.
The idea was originally to let the wagons go through them and break up the
crowding at the bridges. But it didn&rsquo;t work. They made the grade too
steep and the tolls too high, and so the drivers preferred to wait for the
bridges. They were pretty hard on horses. I can testify to that myself.
I&rsquo;ve driven a wagon-load through them more than once. The city should
never have taken them over at all by rights. It was a deal. I don&rsquo;t know
who all was in it. Carmody was mayor then, and Aldrich was in charge of public
works.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He relapsed into silence, and Cowperwood allowed the matter of the tunnels to
rest until after dinner when they had adjourned to the library. There he placed
a friendly hand on McKenty&rsquo;s arm, an act of familiarity which the
politician rather liked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You felt pretty well satisfied with the way that gas business came out
last year, didn&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he inquired.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I did,&rdquo; replied McKenty, warmly. &ldquo;Never more so. I told you
that at the time.&rdquo; The Irishman liked Cowperwood, and was grateful for
the swift manner in which he had been made richer by the sum of several hundred
thousand dollars.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, now, McKenty,&rdquo; continued Cowperwood, abruptly, and with a
seeming lack of connection, &ldquo;has it ever occurred to you that things are
shaping up for a big change in the street-railway situation here? I can see it
coming. There&rsquo;s going to be a new motor power introduced on the South
Side within a year or two. You&rsquo;ve heard of it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I read something of it,&rdquo; replied McKenty, surprised and a little
questioning. He took a cigar and prepared to listen. Cowperwood, never smoking,
drew up a chair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you what that means,&rdquo; he explained.
&ldquo;It means that eventually every mile of street-railway track in this
city&mdash;to say nothing of all the additional miles that will be built before
this change takes place&mdash;will have to be done over on an entirely new
basis. I mean this cable-conduit system. These old companies that are hobbling
along now with an old equipment will have to make the change. They&rsquo;ll
have to spend millions and millions before they can bring their equipment up to
date. If you&rsquo;ve paid any attention to the matter you must have seen what
a condition these North and West Side lines are in.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s pretty bad; I know that,&rdquo; commented McKenty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just so,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, emphatically. &ldquo;Well, now, if I
know anything about these old managements from studying them, they&rsquo;re
going to have a hard time bringing themselves to do this. Two to three million
are two to three million, and it isn&rsquo;t going to be an easy matter for
them to raise the money&mdash;not as easy, perhaps, as it would be for some of
the rest of us, supposing we wanted to go into the street-railway
business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, supposing,&rdquo; replied McKenty, jovially. &ldquo;But how are you
to get in it? There&rsquo;s no stock for sale that I know of.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just the same,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, &ldquo;we can if we want to, and
I&rsquo;ll show you how. But at present there&rsquo;s just one thing in
particular I&rsquo;d like you to do for me. I want to know if there is any way
that we can get control of either of those two old tunnels that I was talking
to you about a little while ago. I&rsquo;d like both if I might. Do you suppose
that is possible?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; replied McKenty, wondering; &ldquo;but what have they
got to do with it? They&rsquo;re not worth anything. Some of the boys were
talking about filling them in some time ago&mdash;blowing them up. The police
think crooks hide in them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just the same, don&rsquo;t let any one touch them&mdash;don&rsquo;t
lease them or anything,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, forcefully.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you frankly what I want to do. I want to get control,
just as soon as possible, of all the street-railway lines I can on the North
and West Sides&mdash;new or old franchises. Then you&rsquo;ll see where the
tunnels come in.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused to see whether McKenty caught the point of all he meant, but the
latter failed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t want much, do you?&rdquo; he said, cheerfully.
&ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t see how you can use the tunnels. However, that&rsquo;s
no reason why I shouldn&rsquo;t take care of them for you, if you think
that&rsquo;s important.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s this way,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, thoughtfully.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll make you a preferred partner in all the ventures that I
control if you do as I suggest. The street-railways, as they stand now, will
have to be taken up lock, stock, and barrel, and thrown into the scrap heap
within eight or nine years at the latest. You see what the South Side company
is beginning to do now. When it comes to the West and North Side companies they
won&rsquo;t find it so easy. They aren&rsquo;t earning as much as the South
Side, and besides they have those bridges to cross. That means a severe
inconvenience to a cable line. In the first place, the bridges will have to be
rebuilt to stand the extra weight and strain. Now the question arises at
once&mdash;at whose expense? The city&rsquo;s?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That depends on who&rsquo;s asking for it,&rdquo; replied Mr. McKenty,
amiably.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; assented Cowperwood. &ldquo;In the next place, this
river traffic is becoming impossible from the point of view of a decent
street-car service. There are waits now of from eight to fifteen minutes while
these tows and vessels get through. Chicago has five hundred thousand
population to-day. How much will it have in 1890? In 1900? How will it be when
it has eight hundred thousand or a million?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re quite right,&rdquo; interpolated McKenty. &ldquo;It will be
pretty bad.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Exactly. But what is worse, the cable lines will carry trailers, or
single cars, from feeder lines. There won&rsquo;t be single cars waiting at
these draws&mdash;there will be trains, crowded trains. It won&rsquo;t be
advisable to delay a cable-train from eight to fifteen minutes while boats are
making their way through a draw. The public won&rsquo;t stand for that very
long, will it, do you think?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not without making a row, probably,&rdquo; replied McKenty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, that means what, then?&rdquo; asked Cowperwood. &ldquo;Is the
traffic going to get any lighter? Is the river going to dry up?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. McKenty stared. Suddenly his face lighted. &ldquo;Oh, I see,&rdquo; he
said, shrewdly. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s those tunnels you&rsquo;re thinking about.
Are they in any shape to be used?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They can be made over cheaper than new ones can be built.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;True for you,&rdquo; replied McKenty, &ldquo;and if they&rsquo;re in any
sort of repair they&rsquo;d be just what you&rsquo;d want.&rdquo; He was
emphatic, almost triumphant. &ldquo;They belong to the city. They cost pretty
near a million apiece, those things.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; said Cowperwood. &ldquo;Now, do you see what I&rsquo;m
driving at?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do I see!&rdquo; smiled McKenty. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a real idea you
have, Cowperwood. I take off my hat to you. Say what you want.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, in the first place,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, genially,
&ldquo;it is agreed that the city won&rsquo;t part with those two tunnels under
any circumstances until we can see what can be done about this other
matter?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It will not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In the next place, it is understood, is it, that you won&rsquo;t make it
any easier than you can possibly help for the North and West Side companies to
get ordinances extending their lines, or anything else, from now on? I shall
want to introduce some franchises for feeders and outlying lines myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Bring in your ordinances,&rdquo; replied McKenty, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll
do whatever you say. I&rsquo;ve worked with you before. I know that you keep
your word.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, warmly. &ldquo;I know the value of
keeping it. In the mean while I&rsquo;ll go ahead and see what can be done
about the other matter. I don&rsquo;t know just how many men I will need to let
in on this, or just what form the organization will take. But you may depend
upon it that your interests will be properly taken care of, and that whatever
is done will be done with your full knowledge and consent.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All very good,&rdquo; answered McKenty, thinking of the new field of
activity before them. A combination between himself and Cowperwood in a matter
like this must prove very beneficial to both. And he was satisfied, because of
their previous relations, that his own interests would not be neglected.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Shall we go and see if we can find the ladies?&rdquo; asked Cowperwood,
jauntily, laying hold of the politician&rsquo;s arm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; assented McKenty, gaily. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fine
house you have here&mdash;beautiful. And your wife is as pretty a woman as I
ever saw, if you&rsquo;ll pardon the familiarity.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have always thought she was rather attractive myself,&rdquo; replied
Cowperwood, innocently.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br/>
Street-railways at Last</h2>

<p>
Among the directors of the North Chicago City company there was one man, Edwin
L. Kaffrath, who was young and of a forward-looking temperament. His father, a
former heavy stockholder of this company, had recently died and left all his
holdings and practically his directorship to his only son. Young Kaffrath was
by no means a practical street-railway man, though he fancied he could do very
well at it if given a chance. He was the holder of nearly eight hundred of the
five thousand shares of stock; but the rest of it was so divided that he could
only exercise a minor influence. Nevertheless, from the day of his entrance
into the company&mdash;which was months before Cowperwood began seriously to
think over the situation&mdash;he had been strong for
improvements&mdash;extensions, more franchises, better cars, better horses,
stoves in the cars in winter, and the like, all of which suggestions sounded to
his fellow-directors like mere manifestations of the reckless impetuosity of
youth, and were almost uniformly opposed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter with them cars?&rdquo; asked Albert Thorsen, one
of the elder directors, at one of the meetings at which Kaffrath was present
and offering his usual protest. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see anything the matter
with &rsquo;em. I ride in em.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Thorsen was a heavy, dusty, tobacco-bestrewn individual of sixty-six, who was a
little dull but genial. He was in the paint business, and always wore a very
light steel-gray suit much crinkled in the seat and arms.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s the matter with them, Albert,&rdquo;
chirped up Solon Kaempfaert, one of his cronies on the board.
</p>

<p>
The sally drew a laugh.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know. I see the rest of you on board often
enough.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, I tell you what&rsquo;s the matter with them,&rdquo; replied
Kaffrath. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re dirty, and they&rsquo;re flimsy, and the windows
rattle so you can&rsquo;t hear yourself think. The track is no good, and the
filthy straw we keep in them in winter is enough to make a person sick. We
don&rsquo;t keep the track in good repair. I don&rsquo;t wonder people
complain. I&rsquo;d complain myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t think things are as bad as all that,&rdquo; put in
Onias C. Skinner, the president, who had a face which with its very short
side-whiskers was as bland as a Chinese god. He was sixty-eight years of age.
&ldquo;They&rsquo;re not the best cars in the world, but they&rsquo;re good
cars. They need painting and varnishing pretty badly, some of them, but outside
of that there&rsquo;s many a good year&rsquo;s wear in them yet. I&rsquo;d be
very glad if we could put in new rolling-stock, but the item of expense will be
considerable. It&rsquo;s these extensions that we have to keep building and the
long hauls for five cents which eat up the profits.&rdquo; The so-called
&ldquo;long hauls&rdquo; were only two or three miles at the outside, but they
seemed long to Mr. Skinner.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, look at the South Side,&rdquo; persisted Kaffrath. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t know what you people are thinking of. Here&rsquo;s a cable system
introduced in Philadelphia. There&rsquo;s another in San Francisco. Some one
has invented a car, as I understand it, that&rsquo;s going to run by
electricity, and here we are running cars&mdash;barns, I call them&mdash;with
straw in them. Good Lord, I should think it was about time that some of us took
a tumble to ourselves!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; commented Mr. Skinner. &ldquo;It seems to
me we have done pretty well by the North Side. We have done a good deal.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Directors Solon Kaempfaert, Albert Thorsen, Isaac White, Anthony Ewer, Arnold
C. Benjamin, and Otto Matjes, being solemn gentlemen all, merely sat and
stared.
</p>

<p>
The vigorous Kaffrath was not to be so easily repressed, however. He repeated
his complaints on other occasions. The fact that there was also considerable
complaint in the newspapers from time to time in regard to this same North Side
service pleased him in a way. Perhaps this would be the proverbial fire under
the terrapin which would cause it to move along.
</p>

<p>
By this time, owing to Cowperwood&rsquo;s understanding with McKenty, all
possibility of the North Side company&rsquo;s securing additional franchises
for unoccupied streets, or even the use of the La Salle Street tunnel, had
ended. Kaffrath did not know this. Neither did the directors or officers of the
company, but it was true. In addition, McKenty, through the aldermen, who were
at his beck and call on the North Side, was beginning to stir up additional
murmurs and complaints in order to discredit the present management. There was
a great to-do in council over a motion on the part of somebody to compel the
North Side company to throw out its old cars and lay better and heavier tracks.
Curiously, this did not apply so much to the West and South Sides, which were
in the same condition. The rank and file of the city, ignorant of the tricks
which were constantly being employed in politics to effect one end or another,
were greatly cheered by this so-called &ldquo;public uprising.&rdquo; They
little knew the pawns they were in the game, or how little sincerity
constituted the primal impulse.
</p>

<p>
Quite by accident, apparently, one day Addison, thinking of the different men
in the North Side company who might be of service to Cowperwood, and having
finally picked young Kaffrath as the ideal agent, introduced himself to the
latter at the Union League.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a pretty heavy load of expense that&rsquo;s staring you
North and West Side street-railway people in the face,&rdquo; he took occasion
to observe.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; asked Kaffrath, curiously, anxious to hear
anything which concerned the development of the business.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, unless I&rsquo;m greatly mistaken, you, all of you, are going to
be put to the expense of doing over your lines completely in a very little
while&mdash;so I hear&mdash;introducing this new motor or cable system that
they are getting on the South Side.&rdquo; Addison wanted to convey the
impression that the city council or public sentiment or something was going to
force the North Chicago company to indulge in this great and expensive series
of improvements.
</p>

<p>
Kaffrath pricked up his ears. What was the city Council going to do? He wanted
to know all about it. They discussed the whole situation&mdash;the nature of
the cable-conduits, the cost of the power-houses, the need of new rails, and
the necessity of heavier bridges, or some other means of getting over or under
the river. Addison took very good care to point out that the Chicago City or
South Side Railway was in a much more fortunate position than either of the
other two by reason of its freedom from the river-crossing problem. Then he
again commiserated the North Side company on its rather difficult position.
&ldquo;Your company will have a very great deal to do, I fancy,&rdquo; he
reiterated.
</p>

<p>
Kaffrath was duly impressed and appropriately depressed, for his eight hundred
shares would be depressed in value by the necessity of heavy expenditures for
tunnels and other improvements. Nevertheless, there was some consolation in the
thought that such betterment, as Addison now described, would in the long run
make the lines more profitable. But in the mean time there might be rough
sailing. The old directors ought to act soon now, he thought. With the South
Side company being done over, they would have to follow suit. But would they?
How could he get them to see that, even though it were necessary to mortgage
the lines for years to come, it would pay in the long run? He was sick of old,
conservative, cautious methods.
</p>

<p>
After the lapse of a few weeks Addison, still acting for Cowperwood, had a
second and private conference with Kaffrath. He said, after exacting a promise
of secrecy for the present, that since their previous conversation he had
become aware of new developments. In the interval he had been visited by
several men of long connection with street-railways in other localities. They
had been visiting various cities, looking for a convenient outlet for their
capital, and had finally picked on Chicago. They had looked over the various
lines here, and had decided that the North Chicago City Railway was as good a
field as any. He then elaborated with exceeding care the idea which Cowperwood
had outlined to him. Kaffrath, dubious at first, was finally won over. He had
too long chafed under the dusty, poky attitude of the old regime. He did not
know who these new men were, but this scheme was in line with his own ideas. It
would require, as Addison pointed out, the expenditure of several millions of
dollars, and he did not see how the money could be raised without outside
assistance, unless the lines were heavily mortgaged. If these new men were
willing to pay a high rate for fifty-one per cent. of this stock for
ninety-nine years and would guarantee a satisfactory rate of interest on all
the stock as it stood, besides inaugurating a forward policy, why not let them?
It would be just as good as mortgaging the soul out of the old property, and
the management was of no value, anyhow. Kaffrath could not see how fortunes
were to be made for these new investors out of subsidiary construction and
equipment companies, in which Cowperwood would be interested, how by issuing
watered stock on the old and new lines the latter need scarcely lay down a
dollar once he had the necessary opening capital (the &ldquo;talking
capital,&rdquo; as he was fond of calling it) guaranteed. Cowperwood and
Addison had by now agreed, if this went through, to organize the Chicago Trust
Company with millions back of it to manipulate all their deals. Kaffrath only
saw a better return on his stock, possibly a chance to get in on the
&ldquo;ground plan,&rdquo; as a new phrase expressed it, of the new company.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;ve been telling these fellows for the past
three years,&rdquo; he finally exclaimed to Addison, flattered by the
latter&rsquo;s personal attention and awed by his great influence; &ldquo;but
they never have been willing to listen to me. The way this North Side system
has been managed is a crime. Why, a child could do better than we have done.
They&rsquo;ve saved on track and rolling-stock, and lost on population. People
are what we want up there, and there is only one way that I know of to get
them, and that is to give them decent car service. I&rsquo;ll tell you frankly
we&rsquo;ve never done it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Not long after this Cowperwood had a short talk with Kaffrath, in which he
promised the latter not only six hundred dollars a share for all the stock he
possessed or would part with on lease, but a bonus of new company stock for his
influence. Kaffrath returned to the North Side jubilant for himself and for his
company. He decided after due thought that a roundabout way would best serve
Cowperwood&rsquo;s ends, a line of subtle suggestion from some seemingly
disinterested party. Consequently he caused William Johnson, the directing
engineer, to approach Albert Thorsen, one of the most vulnerable of the
directors, declaring he had heard privately that Isaac White, Arnold C.
Benjamin, and Otto Matjes, three other directors and the heaviest owners, had
been offered a very remarkable price for their stock, and that they were going
to sell, leaving the others out in the cold.
</p>

<p>
Thorsen was beside himself with grief. &ldquo;When did you hear that?&rdquo; he
asked.
</p>

<p>
Johnson told him, but for the time being kept the source of his information
secret. Thorsen at once hurried to his friend, Solon Kaempfaert, who in turn
went to Kaffrath for information.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have heard something to that effect,&rdquo; was Kaffrath&rsquo;s only
comment, &ldquo;but really I do not know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Thereupon Thorsen and Kaempfaert imagined that Kaffrath was in the conspiracy
to sell out and leave them with no particularly valuable pickings. It was very
sad.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, Cowperwood, on the advice of Kaffrath, was approaching Isaac White,
Arnold C. Benjamin, and Otto Matjes direct&mdash;talking with them as if they
were the only three he desired to deal with. A little later Thorsen and
Kaempfaert were visited in the same spirit, and agreed in secret fear to sell
out, or rather lease at the very advantageous terms Cowperwood offered,
providing he could get the others to do likewise. This gave the latter a strong
backing of sentiment on the board. Finally Isaac White stated at one of the
meetings that he had been approached with an interesting proposition, which he
then and there outlined. He was not sure what to think, he said, but the board
might like to consider it. At once Thorsen and Kaempfaert were convinced that
all Johnson had suggested was true. It was decided to have Cowperwood come and
explain to the full board just what his plan was, and this he did in a long,
bland, smiling talk. It was made plain that the road would have to be put in
shape in the near future, and that this proposed plan relieved all of them of
work, worry, and care. Moreover, they were guaranteed more interest at once
than they had expected to earn in the next twenty or thirty years. Thereupon it
was agreed that Cowperwood and his plan should be given a trial. Seeing that if
he did not succeed in paying the proposed interest promptly the property once
more became theirs, so they thought, and that he assumed all
obligations&mdash;taxes, water rents, old claims, a few pensions&mdash;it
appeared in the light of a rather idyllic scheme.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, boys, I think this is a pretty good day&rsquo;s work
myself,&rdquo; observed Anthony Ewer, laying a friendly hand on the shoulder of
Mr. Albert Thorsen. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure we can all unite in wishing Mr.
Cowperwood luck with his adventure.&rdquo; Mr. Ewer&rsquo;s seven hundred and
fifteen shares, worth seventy-one thousand five hundred dollars, having risen
to a valuation of four hundred and twenty-nine thousand dollars, he was
naturally jubilant.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re right,&rdquo; replied Thorsen, who was parting with four
hundred and eighty shares out of a total of seven hundred and ninety, and
seeing them all bounce in value from two hundred to six hundred dollars.
&ldquo;He&rsquo;s an interesting man. I hope he succeeds.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Cowperwood, waking the next morning in Aileen&rsquo;s room&mdash;he had been
out late the night before with McKenty, Addison, Videra, and
others&mdash;turned and, patting her neck where she was dozing, said:
&ldquo;Well, pet, yesterday afternoon I wound up that North Chicago Street
Railway deal. I&rsquo;m president of the new North Side company just as soon as
I get my board of directors organized. We&rsquo;re going to be of some real
consequence in this village, after all, in a year or two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was hoping that this fact, among other things, would end in mollifying
Aileen toward him. She had been so gloomy, remote, weary these many
days&mdash;ever since the terrific assault on Rita.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; she replied, with a half-hearted smile, rubbing her waking
eyes. She was clad in a foamy nightgown of white and pink. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
nice, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood brought himself up on one elbow and looked at her, smoothing her
round, bare arms, which he always admired. The luminous richness of her hair
had never lost its charm completely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That means that I can do the same thing with the Chicago West Division
Company in a year or so,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;But there&rsquo;s going to
be a lot of talk about this, I&rsquo;m afraid, and I don&rsquo;t want that just
now. It will work out all right. I can see Schryhart and Merrill and some of
these other people taking notice pretty soon. They&rsquo;ve missed out on two
of the biggest things Chicago ever had&mdash;gas and railways.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, Frank, I&rsquo;m glad for you,&rdquo; commented Aileen, rather
drearily, who, in spite of her sorrow over his defection, was still glad that
he was going on and forward. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll always do all right.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t feel so badly, Aileen,&rdquo; he said, with a
kind of affectional protest. &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you going to try and be happy
with me? This is as much for you as for me. You will be able to pay up old
scores even better than I will.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He smiled winningly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, reproachfully but tenderly at that, a little
sorrowfully, &ldquo;a lot of good money does me. It was your love I
wanted.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you have that,&rdquo; he insisted. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve told you that
over and over. I never ceased to care for you really. You know I
didn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; she replied, even as he gathered her close in his
arms. &ldquo;I know how you care.&rdquo; But that did not prevent her from
responding to him warmly, for back of all her fuming protest was heartache, the
wish to have his love intact, to restore that pristine affection which she had
once assumed would endure forever.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br/>
The Power of the Press</h2>

<p>
The morning papers, in spite of the efforts of Cowperwood and his friends to
keep this transfer secret, shortly thereafter were full of rumors of a change
in &ldquo;North Chicago.&rdquo; Frank Algernon Cowperwood, hitherto unmentioned
in connection with Chicago street-railways, was pointed to as the probable
successor to Onias C. Skinner, and Edwin L. Kaffrath, one of the old directors,
as future vice-president. The men back of the deal were referred to as
&ldquo;in all likelihood Eastern capitalists.&rdquo; Cowperwood, as he sat in
Aileen&rsquo;s room examining the various morning papers, saw that before the
day was over he would be sought out for an expression of opinion and further
details. He proposed to ask the newspaper men to wait a few days until he could
talk to the publishers of the papers themselves&mdash;win their
confidence&mdash;and then announce a general policy; it would be something that
would please the city, and the residents of the North Side in particular. At
the same time he did not care to promise anything which he could not easily and
profitably perform. He wanted fame and reputation, but he wanted money even
more; he intended to get both.
</p>

<p>
To one who had been working thus long in the minor realms of finance, as
Cowperwood considered that he had so far been doing, this sudden upward step
into the more conspicuous regions of high finance and control was an
all-inspiring thing. So long had he been stirring about in a lesser region,
paving the way by hours and hours of private thought and conference and
scheming, that now when he actually had achieved his end he could scarcely
believe for the time being that it was true. Chicago was such a splendid city.
It was growing so fast. Its opportunities were so wonderful. These men who had
thus foolishly parted with an indefinite lease of their holdings had not really
considered what they were doing. This matter of Chicago street-railways, once
he had them well in hand, could be made to yield such splendid profits! He
could incorporate and overcapitalize. Many subsidiary lines, which McKenty
would secure for him for a song, would be worth millions in the future, and
they should be his entirely; he would not be indebted to the directors of the
old North Chicago company for any interest on those. By degrees, year by year,
as the city grew, the lines which were still controlled by this old company,
but were practically his, would become a mere item, a central core, in the so
very much larger system of new lines which he would build up about it. Then the
West Side, and even the South Side sections&mdash;but why dream? He might
readily become the sole master of street-railway traffic in Chicago! He might
readily become the most princely financial figure in the city&mdash;and one of
the few great financial magnates of the nation.
</p>

<p>
In any public enterprise of any kind, as he knew, where the suffrages of the
people or the privileges in their possessions are desired, the newspapers must
always be considered. As Cowperwood even now was casting hungry eyes in the
direction of the two tunnels&mdash;one to be held in view of an eventual
assumption of the Chicago West Division Company, the other to be given to the
North Chicago Street Railway, which he had now organized, it was necessary to
make friends with the various publishers. How to go about it?
</p>

<p>
Recently, because of the influx of a heavy native and foreign-born population
(thousands and thousands of men of all sorts and conditions looking for the
work which the growth of the city seemed to promise), and because of the
dissemination of stirring ideas through radical individuals of foreign groups
concerning anarchism, socialism, communism, and the like, the civic idea in
Chicago had become most acute. This very May, in which Cowperwood had been
going about attempting to adjust matters in his favor, there had been a
tremendous national flare-up, when in a great public place on the West Side
known as the Haymarket, at one of a number of labor meetings, dubbed
anarchistic because of the principles of some of the speakers, a bomb had been
hurled by some excited fanatic, which had exploded and maimed or killed a
number of policemen, injuring slightly several others. This had brought to the
fore, once and for all, as by a flash of lightning, the whole problem of mass
against class, and had given it such an airing as in view of the cheerful,
optimistic, almost inconsequential American mind had not previously been
possible. It changed, quite as an eruption might, the whole face of the
commercial landscape. Man thought thereafter somewhat more accurately of
national and civic things. What was anarchism? What socialism? What rights had
the rank and file, anyhow, in economic and governmental development? Such were
interesting questions, and following the bomb&mdash;which acted as a great
stone cast in the water&mdash;these ripple-rings of thought were still widening
and emanating until they took in such supposedly remote and impregnable
quarters as editorial offices, banks and financial institutions generally, and
the haunts of political dignitaries and their jobs.
</p>

<p>
In the face of this, however, Cowperwood was not disturbed. He did not believe
in either the strength of the masses or their ultimate rights, though he
sympathized with the condition of individuals, and did believe that men like
himself were sent into the world to better perfect its mechanism and habitable
order. Often now, in these preliminary days, he looked at the large companies
of men with their horses gathered in and about the several carbarns of the
company, and wondered at their state. So many of them were so dull. They were
rather like animals, patient, inartistic, hopeless. He thought of their shabby
homes, their long hours, their poor pay, and then concluded that if anything at
all could be done for them it would be pay them decent living wages, which he
proposed to do&mdash;nothing more. They could not be expected to understand his
dreams or his visions, or to share in the magnificence and social dominance
which he craved. He finally decided that it would be as well for him to
personally visit the various newspaper publishers and talk the situation over
with them. Addison, when consulted as to this project, was somewhat dubious. He
had small faith in the newspapers.
</p>

<p>
He had seen them play petty politics, follow up enmities and personal grudges,
and even sell out, in certain cases, for pathetically small rewards.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I tell you how it is, Frank,&rdquo; remarked Addison, on one occasion.
&ldquo;You will have to do all this business on cotton heels, practically. You
know that old gas crowd are still down on you, in spite of the fact that you
are one of their largest stockholders. Schryhart isn&rsquo;t at all friendly,
and he practically owns the Chronicle. Ricketts will just about say what he
wants him to say. Hyssop, of the Mail and the Transcript, is an independent
man, but he&rsquo;s a Presbyterian and a cold, self-righteous moralist.
Braxton&rsquo;s paper, the Globe, practically belongs to Merrill, but
Braxton&rsquo;s a nice fellow, at that. Old General MacDonald, of the <i>Inquirer</i>,
is old General MacDonald. It&rsquo;s all according to how he feels when he gets
up in the morning. If he should chance to like your looks he might support you
forever and forever until you crossed his conscience in some way. He&rsquo;s a
fine old walrus. I like him. Neither Schryhart nor Merrill nor any one else can
get anything out of him unless he wants to give it. He may not live so many
years, however, and I don&rsquo;t trust that son of his. Haguenin, of the
<i>Press</i>, is all right and friendly to you, as I understand. Other things being
equal, I think he&rsquo;d naturally support you in anything he thought was fair
and reasonable. Well, there you have them. Get them all on your side if you
can. Don&rsquo;t ask for the LaSalle Street tunnel right away. Let it come as
an afterthought&mdash;a great public need. The main thing will be to avoid
having the other companies stirring up a real fight against you. Depend on it,
Schryhart will be thinking pretty hard about this whole business from now on.
As for Merrill&mdash;well, if you can show him where he can get something out
of it for his store, I guess he&rsquo;ll be for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
It is one of the splendid yet sinister fascinations of life that there is no
tracing to their ultimate sources all the winds of influence that play upon a
given barque&mdash;all the breaths of chance that fill or desert our bellied or
our sagging sails. We plan and plan, but who by taking thought can add a cubit
to his stature? Who can overcome or even assist the Providence that shapes our
ends, rough hew them as we may. Cowperwood was now entering upon a great public
career, and the various editors and public personalities of the city were
watching him with interest. Augustus M. Haguenin, a free agent with his organ,
the <i>Press</i>, and yet not free, either, because he was harnessed to the
necessity of making his paper pay, was most interested. Lacking the commanding
magnetism of a man like MacDonald, he was nevertheless an honest man,
well-intentioned, thoughtful, careful. Haguenin, ever since the outcome of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s gas transaction, had been intensely interested in the
latter&rsquo;s career. It seemed to him that Cowperwood was probably destined
to become a significant figure. Raw, glittering force, however, compounded of
the cruel Machiavellianism of nature, if it be but Machiavellian, seems to
exercise a profound attraction for the conventionally rooted. Your cautious
citizen of average means, looking out through the eye of his dull world of
seeming fact, is often the first to forgive or condone the grim butcheries of
theory by which the strong rise. Haguenin, observing Cowperwood, conceived of
him as a man perhaps as much sinned against as sinning, a man who would be
faithful to friends, one who could be relied upon in hours of great stress. As
it happened, the Haguenins were neighbors of the Cowperwoods, and since those
days when the latter had attempted unsuccessfully to enter Chicago society this
family had been as acceptable as any of those who had remained friendly.
</p>

<p>
And so, when Cowperwood arrived one day at the office of the <i>Press</i> in a
blowing snow-storm&mdash;it was just before the Christmas
holidays&mdash;Haguenin was glad to see him. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s certainly real
winter weather we&rsquo;re having now, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; he observed,
cheerfully. &ldquo;How goes the North Chicago Street Railway business?&rdquo;
For months he, with the other publishers, had been aware that the whole North
Side was to be made over by fine cable-tracks, power-houses, and handsome cars;
and there already was talk that some better arrangement was to be made to bring
the passengers into the down-town section.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Haguenin,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, smilingly&mdash;he was arrayed in
a heavy fur coat, with a collar of beaver and driving-gauntlets of
dogskin&mdash;&ldquo;we have reached the place in this street-railway problem
on the North Side where we are going to require the assistance of the
newspapers, or at least their friendly support. At present our principal
difficulty is that all our lines, when they come down-town, stop at Lake
Street&mdash;just this side of the bridges. That means a long walk for
everybody to all the streets south of it, and, as you probably know, there has
been considerable complaint. Besides that, this river traffic is becoming more
and more what I may say it has been for years&mdash;an intolerable nuisance. We
have all suffered from it. No effort has ever been made to regulate it, and
because it is so heavy I doubt whether it ever can be systematized in any
satisfactory way. The best thing in the long run would be to tunnel under the
river; but that is such an expensive proposition that, as things are now, we
are in no position to undertake it. The traffic on the North Side does not
warrant it. It really does not warrant the reconstruction of the three bridges
which we now use at State, Dearborn, and Clark; yet, if we introduce the cable
system, which we now propose, these bridges will have to be done over. It seems
to me, seeing that this is an enterprise in which the public is as much
interested almost as we are, that it would only be fair if the city should help
pay for this reconstruction work. All the land adjacent to these lines, and the
property served by them, will be greatly enhanced in value. The city&rsquo;s
taxing power will rise tremendously. I have talked to several financiers here
in Chicago, and they agree with me; but, as is usual in all such cases, I find
that some of the politicians are against me. Since I have taken charge of the
North Chicago company the attitude of one or two papers has not been any too
friendly.&rdquo; (In the Chronicle, controlled by Schryhart, there had already
been a number of references to the probability that now, since Cowperwood and
his friends were in charge, the sky-rocketing tactics of the old Lake View,
Hyde Park, and other gas organizations would be repeated. Braxton&rsquo;s
Globe, owned by Merrill, being semi-neutral, had merely suggested that it hoped
that no such methods would be repeated here.) &ldquo;Perhaps you may
know,&rdquo; Cowperwood continued, &ldquo;that we have a very sweeping
programme of improvement in mind, if we can obtain proper public consideration
and assistance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this point he reached down in one of his pockets and drew forth astutely
drafted maps and blue-prints, especially prepared for this occasion. They
showed main cable lines on North Clark, La Salle, and Wells streets. These
lines coming down-town converged at Illinois and La Salle streets on the North
Side&mdash;and though Cowperwood made no reference to it at the moment, they
were indicated on the map in red as running over or under the river at La Salle
Street, where was no bridge, and emerging therefrom, following a loop along La
Salle to Munroe, to Dearborn, to Randolph, and thence into the tunnel again.
Cowperwood allowed Haguenin to gather the very interesting traffic significance
of it all before he proceeded.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;On the map, Mr. Haguenin, I have indicated a plan which, if we can gain
the consent of the city, will obviate any quarrel as to the great expense of
reconstructing the bridges, and will make use of a piece of property which is
absolutely without value to the city at present, but which can be made into
something of vast convenience to the public. I am referring, as you
see&rdquo;&mdash;he laid an indicative finger on the map in Mr.
Haguenin&rsquo;s hands&mdash;&ldquo;to the old La Salle Street tunnel, which is
now boarded up and absolutely of no use to any one. It was built apparently
under a misapprehension as to the grade the average loaded wagon could
negotiate. When it was found to be unprofitable it was sold to the city and
locked up. If you have ever been through it you know what condition it is in.
My engineers tell me the walls are leaking, and that there is great danger of a
cave-in unless it is very speedily repaired. I am also told that it will
require about four hundred thousand dollars to put it in suitable condition for
use. My theory is that if the North Chicago Street Railway is willing to go to
this expense for the sake of solving this bridge-crush problem, and giving the
residents of the North Side a sensible and uninterrupted service into the
business heart, the city ought to be willing to make us a present of this
tunnel for the time being, or at least a long lease at a purely nominal
rental.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood paused to see what Haguenin would say.
</p>

<p>
The latter was looking at the map gravely, wondering whether it was fair for
Cowperwood to make this demand, wondering whether the city should grant it to
him without compensation, wondering whether the bridge-traffic problem was as
serious as he pointed out, wondering, indeed, whether this whole move was not a
clever ruse to obtain something for nothing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what is this?&rdquo; he asked, laying a finger on the aforementioned
loop.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, &ldquo;is the only method we have been
able to figure out of serving the down-town business section and the North
Side, and of solving this bridge problem. If we obtain the tunnel, as I hope we
shall, all the cars of these North Side lines will emerge here&rdquo;&mdash;he
pointed to La Salle and Randolph&mdash;&ldquo;and swing around&mdash;that is,
they will if the city council give us the right of way. I think, of course,
there can be no reasonable objection to that. There is no reason why the
citizens of the North Side shouldn&rsquo;t have as comfortable an access to the
business heart as those of the West or South Side.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;None in the world,&rdquo; Mr. Haguenin was compelled to admit.
&ldquo;Are you satisfied, however, that the council and the city should
sanction the gift of a loop of this kind without some form of
compensation?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see no reason why they shouldn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, in
a somewhat injured tone. &ldquo;There has never been any question of
compensation where other improvements have been suggested for the city in the
past. The South Side company has been allowed to turn in a loop around State
and Wabash. The Chicago City Passenger Railway has a loop in Adams and
Washington streets.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; said Mr. Haguenin, vaguely. &ldquo;That is true. But
this tunnel, now&mdash;do you think that should fall in the same category of
public beneficences?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the same time he could not help thinking, as he looked at the proposed loop
indicated on the map, that the new cable line, with its string of trailers,
would give down-town Chicago a truly metropolitan air and would provide a
splendid outlet for the North Side. The streets in question were magnificent
commercial thoroughfares, crowded even at this date with structures five, six,
seven, and even eight stories high, and brimming with heavy streams of eager
life&mdash;young, fresh, optimistic. Because of the narrow area into which the
commercial life of the city tended to congest itself, this property and these
streets were immensely valuable&mdash;among the most valuable in the whole
city. Also he observed that if this loop did come here its cars, on their
return trip along Dearborn Street, would pass by his very door&mdash;the office
of the <i>Press</i>&mdash;thereby enhancing the value of that property of which he was
the owner.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I certainly do, Mr. Haguenin,&rdquo; returned Cowperwood, emphatically,
in answer to his query. &ldquo;Personally, I should think Chicago would be glad
to pay a bonus to get its street-railway service straightened out, especially
where a corporation comes forward with a liberal, conservative programme such
as this. It means millions in growth of property values on the North Side. It
means millions to the business heart to have this loop system laid down just as
I suggest.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He put his finger firmly on the map which he had brought, and Haguenin agreed
with him that the plan was undoubtedly a sound business proposition.
&ldquo;Personally, I should be the last to complain,&rdquo; he added,
&ldquo;for the line passes my door. At the same time this tunnel, as I
understand it, cost in the neighborhood of eight hundred thousand or a million
dollars. It is a delicate problem. I should like to know what the other editors
think of it, and how the city council itself would feel toward it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood nodded. &ldquo;Certainly, certainly,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;With
pleasure. I would not come here at all if I did not feel that I had a perfectly
legitimate proposition&mdash;one that the press of the city should unite in
supporting. Where a corporation such as ours is facing large expenditures,
which have to be financed by outside capital, it is only natural that we should
wish to allay useless, groundless opposition in advance. I hope we may command
your support.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope you may,&rdquo; smiled Mr. Haguenin. They parted the best of
friends.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The other publishers, guardians of the city&rsquo;s privileges, were not quite
so genial as Haguenin in their approval of Cowperwood&rsquo;s proposition. The
use of a tunnel and several of the most important down-town streets might
readily be essential to the development of Cowperwood&rsquo;s North Side
schemes, but the gift of them was a different matter. Already, as a matter of
fact, the various publishers and editors had been consulted by Schryhart,
Merrill, and others with a view to discovering how they felt as to this new
venture, and whether Cowperwood would be cheerfully indorsed or not. Schryhart,
smarting from the wounds he had received in the gas war, viewed this new
activity on Cowperwood&rsquo;s part with a suspicious and envious eye. To him
much more than to the others it spelled a new and dangerous foe in the
street-railway field, although all the leading citizens of Chicago were
interested.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose now,&rdquo; he said one evening to the Hon. Walter Melville
Hyssop, editor and publisher of the Transcript and the Evening Mail, whom he
met at the Union League, &ldquo;that this fellow Cowperwood will attempt some
disturbing coup in connection with street-railway affairs. He is just the sort.
I think, from an editorial point of view, his political connections will bear
watching.&rdquo; Already there were rumors abroad that McKenty might have
something to do with the new company.
</p>

<p>
Hyssop, a medium-sized, ornate, conservative person, was not so sure. &ldquo;We
shall find out soon enough, no doubt, what propositions Mr. Cowperwood has in
hand,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;He is very energetic and capable, as I
understand it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Hyssop and Schryhart, as well as the latter and Merrill, had been social
friends for years and years.
</p>

<p>
After his call on Mr. Haguenin, Cowperwood&rsquo;s naturally selective and
self-protective judgment led him next to the office of the <i>Inquirer</i>, old
General MacDonald&rsquo;s paper, where he found that because of rhuematism and
the severe, inclement weather of Chicago, the old General had sailed only a few
days before for Italy. His son, an aggressive, mercantile type of youth of
thirty-two, and a managing editor by the name of Du Bois were acting in his
stead. In the son, Truman Leslie MacDonald, an intense, calm, and penetrating
young man, Cowperwood encountered some one who, like himself, saw life only
from the point of view of sharp, self-centered, personal advantage. What was
he, Truman Leslie MacDonald, to derive from any given situation, and how was he
to make the <i>Inquirer</i> an even greater property than it had been under his
father before him? He did not propose to be overwhelmed by the old
General&rsquo;s rather flowery reputation. At the same time he meant to become
imposingly rich. An active member of a young and very smart set which had been
growing up on the North Side, he rode, drove, was instrumental in organizing a
new and exclusive country club, and despised the rank and file as unsuited to
the fine atmosphere to which he aspired. Mr. Clifford Du Bois, the managing
editor, was a cool reprobate of forty, masquerading as a gentleman, and using
the <i>Inquirer</i> in subtle ways for furthering his personal ends, and that
under the old General&rsquo;s very nose. He was osseous, sandy-haired,
blue-eyed, with a keen, formidable nose and a solid chin. Clifford Du Bois was
always careful never to let his left hand know what his right hand did.
</p>

<p>
It was this sapient pair that received Cowperwood in the old General&rsquo;s
absence, first in Mr. Du Bois&rsquo;s room and then in that of Mr. MacDonald.
The latter had already heard much of Cowperwood&rsquo;s doings. Men who had
been connected with the old gas war&mdash;Jordan Jules, for instance, president
of the old North Chicago Gas Company, and Hudson Baker, president of the old
West Chicago Gas Company&mdash;had denounced him long before as a bucaneer who
had pirated them out of very comfortable sinecures. Here he was now invading
the North Chicago street-railway field and coming with startling schemes for
the reorganization of the down-town business heart. Why shouldn&rsquo;t the
city have something in return; or, better yet, those who helped to formulate
the public opinion, so influential in the success of Cowperwood&rsquo;s plans?
Truman Leslie MacDonald, as has been said, did not see life from his
father&rsquo;s point of view at all. He had in mind a sharp bargain, which he
could drive with Cowperwood during the old gentleman&rsquo;s absence. The
General need never know.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I understand your point of view, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he commented,
loftily, &ldquo;but where does the city come in? I see very clearly how
important this is to the people of the North Side, and even to the merchants
and real-estate owners in the down-town section; but that simply means that it
is ten times as important to you. Undoubtedly, it will help the city, but the
city is growing, anyhow, and that will help you. I&rsquo;ve said all along that
these public franchises were worth more than they used to be worth. Nobody
seems to see it very clearly as yet, but it&rsquo;s true just the same. That
tunnel is worth more now than the day it was built. Even if the city
can&rsquo;t use it, somebody can.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was meaning to indicate a rival car line.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood bristled internally.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all very well,&rdquo; he said, preserving his surface
composure, &ldquo;but why make fish of one and flesh of another? The South Side
company has a loop for which it never paid a dollar. So has the Chicago City
Passenger Railway. The North Side company is planning more extensive
improvements than were ever undertaken by any single company before. I hardly
think it is fair to raise the question of compensation and a franchise tax at
this time, and in connection with this one company only.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Um&mdash;well, that may be true of the other companies. The South Side
company had those streets long ago. They merely connected them up. But this
tunnel, now&mdash;that&rsquo;s a different matter, isn&rsquo;t it? The city
bought and paid for that, didn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite true&mdash;to help out men who saw that they couldn&rsquo;t make
another dollar out of it,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, acidly. &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s
of no use to the city. It will cave in pretty soon if it isn&rsquo;t repaired.
Why, the consent of property-owners alone, along the line of this loop, is
going to aggregate a considerable sum. It seems to me instead of hampering a
great work of this kind the public ought to do everything in its power to
assist it. It means giving a new metropolitan flavor to this down-town section.
It is time Chicago was getting out of its swaddling clothes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. MacDonald, the younger, shook his head. He saw clearly enough the
significance of the points made, but he was jealous of Cowperwood and of his
success. This loop franchise and tunnel gift meant millions for some one. Why
shouldn&rsquo;t there be something in it for him? He called in Mr. Du Bois and
went over the proposition with him. Quite without effort the latter sensed the
drift of the situation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s an excellent proposition,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t see but that the city should have something, though. Public
sentiment is rather against gifts to corporations just at present.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood caught the drift of what was in young MacDonald&rsquo;s mind.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, what would you suggest as a fair rate of compensation to the
city?&rdquo; he asked, cautiously, wondering whether this aggressive youth
would go so far as to commit himself in any way.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, well, as to that,&rdquo; MacDonald replied, with a deprecatory wave
of his hand, &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t say. It ought to bear a reasonable
relationship to the value of the utility as it now stands. I should want to
think that over. I shouldn&rsquo;t want to see the city demand anything
unreasonable. Certainly, though, there is a privilege here that is worth
something.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood flared inwardly. His greatest weakness, if he had one, was that he
could but ill brook opposition of any kind. This young upstart, with his thin,
cool face and sharp, hard eyes! He would have liked to tell him and his paper
to go to the devil. He went away, hoping that he could influence the
<i>Inquirer</i> in some other way upon the old General&rsquo;s return.
</p>

<p>
As he was sitting next morning in his office in North Clark Street he was
aroused by the still novel-sounding bell of the telephone&mdash;one of the
earliest in use&mdash;on the wall back of him. After a parley with his
secretary, he was informed that a gentleman connected with the <i>Inquirer</i>
wished to speak with him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is the <i>Inquirer</i>,&rdquo; said a voice which Cowperwood, his
ear to the receiver, thought he recognized as that of young Truman MacDonald,
the General&rsquo;s son. &ldquo;You wanted to know,&rdquo; continued the voice,
&ldquo;what would be considered adequate compensation so far as that tunnel
matter is concerned. Can you hear me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I should not care to influence your judgment one way or the other;
but if my opinion were asked I should say about fifty thousand dollars&rsquo;
worth of North Chicago Street Railway stock would be satisfactory.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The voice was young, clear, steely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To whom would you suggest that it might be paid?&rdquo; Cowperwood
asked, softly, quite genially.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That, also, I would suggest, might be left to your very sound
judgment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The voice ceased. The receiver was hung up.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll be damned!&rdquo; Cowperwood said, looking at the floor
reflectively. A smile spread over his face. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not going to be
held up like that. I don&rsquo;t need to be. It isn&rsquo;t worth it. Not at
present, anyhow.&rdquo; His teeth set.
</p>

<p>
He was underestimating Mr. Truman Leslie MacDonald, principally because he did
not like him. He thought his father might return and oust him. It was one of
the most vital mistakes he ever made in his life.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br/>
The Coming of Stephanie Platow</h2>

<p>
During this period of what might have been called financial and commercial
progress, the affairs of Aileen and Cowperwood had been to a certain extent
smoothed over. Each summer now, partly to take Aileen&rsquo;s mind off herself
and partly to satisfy his own desire to see the world and collect objects of
art, in which he was becoming more and more interested, it was
Cowperwood&rsquo;s custom to make with his wife a short trip abroad or to
foreign American lands, visiting in these two years Russia, Scandinavia,
Argentine, Chili, and Mexico. Their plan was to leave in May or June with the
outward rush of traffic, and return in September or early October. His idea was
to soothe Aileen as much as possible, to fill her mind with pleasing
anticipations as to her eventual social triumph somewhere&mdash;in New York or
London, if not Chicago&mdash;to make her feel that in spite of his physical
desertion he was still spiritually loyal.
</p>

<p>
By now also Cowperwood was so shrewd that he had the ability to simulate an
affection and practise a gallantry which he did not feel, or, rather, that was
not backed by real passion. He was the soul of attention; he would buy her
flowers, jewels, knickknacks, and ornaments; he would see that her comfort was
looked after to the last detail; and yet, at the very same moment, perhaps, he
would be looking cautiously about to see what life might offer in the way of
illicit entertainment. Aileen knew this, although she could not prove it to be
true. At the same time she had an affection and an admiration for the man which
gripped her in spite of herself.
</p>

<p>
You have, perhaps, pictured to yourself the mood of some general who has
perhaps suffered a great defeat; the employee who after years of faithful
service finds himself discharged. What shall life say to the loving when their
love is no longer of any value, when all that has been placed upon the altar of
affection has been found to be a vain sacrifice? Philosophy? Give that to dolls
to play with. Religion? Seek first the metaphysical-minded. Aileen was no
longer the lithe, forceful, dynamic girl of 1865, when Cowperwood first met
her. She was still beautiful, it is true, a fair, full-blown, matronly creature
not more than thirty-five, looking perhaps thirty, feeling, alas, that she was
a girl and still as attractive as ever. It is a grim thing to a woman, however
fortunately placed, to realize that age is creeping on, and that love, that
singing will-o&rsquo;-the-wisp, is fading into the ultimate dark. Aileen,
within the hour of her greatest triumph, had seen love die. It was useless to
tell herself, as she did sometimes, that it might come back, revive. Her
ultimately realistic temperament told her this could never be. Though she had
routed Rita Sohlberg, she was fully aware that Cowperwood&rsquo;s original
constancy was gone. She was no longer happy. Love was dead. That sweet
illusion, with its pearly pink for heart and borders, that laughing cherub that
lures with Cupid&rsquo;s mouth and misty eye, that young tendril of the vine of
life that whispers of eternal spring-time, that calls and calls where aching,
wearied feet by legion follow, was no longer in existence.
</p>

<p>
In vain the tears, the storms, the self-tortures; in vain the looks in the
mirror, the studied examination of plump, sweet features still fresh and
inviting. One day, at the sight of tired circles under her eyes, she ripped
from her neck a lovely ruche that she was adjusting and, throwing herself on
her bed, cried as though her heart would break. Why primp? Why ornament? Her
Frank did not love her. What to her now was a handsome residence in Michigan
Avenue, the refinements of a French boudoir, or clothing that ran the gamut of
the dressmaker&rsquo;s art, hats that were like orchids blooming in serried
rows? In vain, in vain! Like the raven that perched above the lintel of the
door, sad memory was here, grave in her widow weeds, crying &ldquo;never
more.&rdquo; Aileen knew that the sweet illusion which had bound Cowperwood to
her for a time had gone and would never come again. He was here. His step was
in the room mornings and evenings; at night for long prosaic, uninterrupted
periods she could hear him breathing by her side, his hand on her body. There
were other nights when he was not there&mdash;when he was &ldquo;out of the
city&rdquo;&mdash;and she resigned herself to accept his excuses at their face
value. Why quarrel? she asked herself. What could she do? She was waiting,
waiting, but for what?
</p>

<p>
And Cowperwood, noting the strange, unalterable changes which time works in us
all, the inward lap of the marks of age, the fluted recession of that splendor
and radiance which is youth, sighed at times perhaps, but turned his face to
that dawn which is forever breaking where youth is. Not for him that poetic
loyalty which substitutes for the perfection of young love its memories, or
takes for the glitter of passion and desire that once was the happy thoughts of
companionship&mdash;the crystal memories that like early dews congealed remain
beaded recollections to comfort or torture for the end of former joys. On the
contrary, after the vanishing of Rita Sohlberg, with all that she meant in the
way of a delicate insouciance which Aileen had never known, his temperament
ached, for he must have something like that. Truth to say, he must always have
youth, the illusion of beauty, vanity in womanhood, the novelty of a new,
untested temperament, quite as he must have pictures, old porcelain, music, a
mansion, illuminated missals, power, the applause of the great, unthinking
world.
</p>

<p>
As has been said, this promiscuous attitude on Cowperwood&rsquo;s part was the
natural flowering out of a temperament that was chronically promiscuous,
intellectually uncertain, and philosophically anarchistic. From one point of
view it might have been said of him that he was seeking the realization of an
ideal, yet to one&rsquo;s amazement our very ideals change at times and leave
us floundering in the dark. What is an ideal, anyhow? A wraith, a mist, a
perfume in the wind, a dream of fair water. The soul-yearning of a girl like
Antoinette Nowak was a little too strained for him. It was too ardent, too
clinging, and he had gradually extricated himself, not without difficulty, from
that particular entanglement. Since then he had been intimate with other women
for brief periods, but to no great satisfaction&mdash;Dorothy Ormsby, Jessie
Belle Hinsdale, Toma Lewis, Hilda Jewell; but they shall be names merely. One
was an actress, one a stenographer, one the daughter of one of his stock
patrons, one a church-worker, a solicitor for charity coming to him to seek
help for an orphan&rsquo;s home. It was a pathetic mess at times, but so are
all defiant variations from the accustomed drift of things. In the hardy
language of Napoleon, one cannot make an omelette without cracking a number of
eggs.
</p>

<p>
The coming of Stephanie Platow, Russian Jewess on one side of her family,
Southwestern American on the other, was an event in Cowperwood&rsquo;s life.
She was tall, graceful, brilliant, young, with much of the optimism of Rita
Sohlberg, and yet endowed with a strange fatalism which, once he knew her
better, touched and moved him. He met her on shipboard on the way to Goteborg.
Her father, Isadore Platow, was a wealthy furrier of Chicago. He was a large,
meaty, oily type of man&mdash;a kind of ambling, gelatinous formula of the
male, with the usual sound commercial instincts of the Jew, but with an errant
philosophy which led him to believe first one thing and then another so long as
neither interfered definitely with his business. He was an admirer of Henry
George and of so altruistic a programme as that of Robert Owen, and, also, in
his way, a social snob. And yet he had married Susetta Osborn, a Texas girl who
was once his bookkeeper. Mrs. Platow was lithe, amiable, subtle, with an eye
always to the main social chance&mdash;in other words, a climber. She was
shrewd enough to realize that a knowledge of books and art and current events
was essential, and so she &ldquo;went in&rdquo; for these things.
</p>

<p>
It is curious how the temperaments of parents blend and revivify in their
children. As Stephanie grew up she had repeated in her very differing body some
of her father&rsquo;s and mother&rsquo;s characteristics&mdash;an interesting
variability of soul. She was tall, dark, sallow, lithe, with a strange
moodiness of heart and a recessive, fulgurous gleam in her chestnut-brown,
almost brownish-black eyes. She had a full, sensuous, Cupid&rsquo;s mouth, a
dreamy and even languishing expression, a graceful neck, and a heavy, dark, and
yet pleasingly modeled face. From both her father and mother she had inherited
a penchant for art, literature, philosophy, and music. Already at eighteen she
was dreaming of painting, singing, writing poetry, writing books,
acting&mdash;anything and everything. Serene in her own judgment of what was
worth while, she was like to lay stress on any silly mood or fad, thinking it
exquisite&mdash;the last word. Finally, she was a rank voluptuary, dreaming
dreams of passionate union with first one and then another type of artist,
poet, musician&mdash;the whole gamut of the artistic and emotional world.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood first saw her on board the Centurion one June morning, as the ship
lay at dock in New York. He and Aileen were en route for Norway, she and her
father and mother for Denmark and Switzerland. She was hanging over the
starboard rail looking at a flock of wide-winged gulls which were besieging the
port of the cook&rsquo;s galley. She was musing soulfully&mdash;conscious
(fully) that she was musing soulfully. He paid very little attention to her,
except to note that she was tall, rhythmic, and that a dark-gray plaid dress,
and an immense veil of gray silk wound about her shoulders and waist and over
one arm, after the manner of a Hindu shawl, appeared to become her much. Her
face seemed very sallow, and her eyes ringed as if indicating dyspepsia. Her
black hair under a chic hat did not escape his critical eye. Later she and her
father appeared at the captain&rsquo;s table, to which the Cowperwoods had also
been invited.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood and Aileen did not know how to take this girl, though she interested
them both. They little suspected the chameleon character of her soul. She was
an artist, and as formless and unstable as water. It was a mere passing gloom
that possessed her. Cowperwood liked the semi-Jewish cast of her face, a
certain fullness of the neck, her dark, sleepy eyes. But she was much too young
and nebulous, he thought, and he let her pass. On this trip, which endured for
ten days, he saw much of her, in different moods, walking with a young Jew in
whom she seemed greatly interested, playing at shuffleboard, reading solemnly
in a corner out of the reach of the wind or spray, and usually looking naive,
preternaturally innocent, remote, dreamy. At other times she seemed possessed
of a wild animation, her eyes alight, her expression vigorous, an intense glow
in her soul. Once he saw her bent over a small wood block, cutting a book-plate
with a thin steel graving tool.
</p>

<p>
Because of Stephanie&rsquo;s youth and seeming unimportance, her lack of what
might be called compelling rosy charm, Aileen had become reasonably friendly
with the girl. Far subtler, even at her years, than Aileen, Stephanie gathered
a very good impression of the former, of her mental girth, and how to take her.
She made friends with her, made a book-plate for her, made a sketch of her. She
confided to Aileen that in her own mind she was destined for the stage, if her
parents would permit; and Aileen invited her to see her husband&rsquo;s
pictures on their return. She little knew how much of a part Stephanie would
play in Cowperwood&rsquo;s life.
</p>

<p>
The Cowperwoods, having been put down at Goteborg, saw no more of the Platows
until late October. Then Aileen, being lonely, called to see Stephanie, and
occasionally thereafter Stephanie came over to the South Side to see the
Cowperwoods. She liked to roam about their house, to dream meditatively in some
nook of the rich interior, with a book for company. She liked
Cowperwood&rsquo;s pictures, his jades, his missals, his ancient radiant glass.
From talking with Aileen she realized that the latter had no real love for
these things, that her expressions of interest and pleasure were pure
make-believe, based on their value as possessions. For Stephanie herself
certain of the illuminated books and bits of glass had a heavy, sensuous
appeal, which only the truly artistic can understand. They unlocked dark dream
moods and pageants for her. She responded to them, lingered over them,
experienced strange moods from them as from the orchestrated richness of music.
</p>

<p>
And in doing so she thought of Cowperwood often. Did he really like these
things, or was he just buying them to be buying them? She had heard much of the
pseudo artistic&mdash;the people who made a show of art. She recalled
Cowperwood as he walked the deck of the Centurion. She remembered his large,
comprehensive, embracing blue-gray eyes that seemed to blaze with intelligence.
He seemed to her quite obviously a more forceful and significant man than her
father, and yet she could not have said why. He always seemed so trigly
dressed, so well put together. There was a friendly warmth about all that he
said or did, though he said or did little. She felt that his eyes were mocking,
that back in his soul there was some kind of humor over something which she did
not understand quite.
</p>

<p>
After Stephanie had been back in Chicago six months, during which time she saw
very little of Cowperwood, who was busy with his street-railway programme, she
was swept into the net of another interest which carried her away from him and
Aileen for the time being. On the West Side, among a circle of her
mother&rsquo;s friends, had been organized an Amateur Dramatic League, with no
less object than to elevate the stage. That world-old problem never fails to
interest the new and the inexperienced. It all began in the home of one of the
new rich of the West Side&mdash;the Timberlakes. They, in their large house on
Ashland Avenue, had a stage, and Georgia Timberlake, a romantic-minded girl of
twenty with flaxen hair, imagined she could act. Mrs. Timberlake, a fat,
indulgent mother, rather agreed with her. The whole idea, after a few
discursive performances of Milton&rsquo;s &ldquo;The Masque of Comus,&rdquo;
&ldquo;Pyramus and Thisbe,&rdquo; and an improved Harlequin and Columbine,
written by one of the members, was transferred to the realm of the studios,
then quartered in the New Arts Building. An artist by the name of Lane Cross, a
portrait-painter, who was much less of an artist than he was a stage director,
and not much of either, but who made his living by hornswaggling society into
the belief that he could paint, was induced to take charge of these stage
performances.
</p>

<p>
By degrees the &ldquo;Garrick Players,&rdquo; as they chose to call themselves,
developed no little skill and craftsmanship in presenting one form and another
of classic and semi-classic play. &ldquo;Romeo and Juliet,&rdquo; with few
properties of any kind, &ldquo;The Learned Ladies&rdquo; of Moliere,
Sheridan&rsquo;s &ldquo;The Rivals,&rdquo; and the &ldquo;Elektra&rdquo; of
Sophocles were all given. Considerable ability of one kind and another was
developed, the group including two actresses of subsequent repute on the
American stage, one of whom was Stephanie Platow. There were some ten girls and
women among the active members, and almost as many men&mdash;a variety of
characters much too extended to discuss here. There was a dramatic critic by
the name of Gardner Knowles, a young man, very smug and handsome, who was
connected with the Chicago <i>Press</i>. Whipping his neatly trousered legs with his
bright little cane, he used to appear at the rooms of the players at the
Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday teas which they inaugurated, and discuss the
merits of the venture. Thus the Garrick Players were gradually introduced into
the newspapers. Lane Cross, the smooth-faced, pasty-souled artist who had
charge, was a rake at heart, a subtle seducer of women, who, however, escaped
detection by a smooth, conventional bearing. He was interested in such girls as
Georgia Timberlake, Irma Ottley, a rosy, aggressive maiden who essayed comic
roles, and Stephanie Platow. These, with another girl, Ethel Tuckerman, very
emotional and romantic, who could dance charmingly and sing, made up a group of
friends which became very close. Presently intimacies sprang up, only in this
realm, instead of ending in marriage, they merely resulted in sex liberty. Thus
Ethel Tuckerman became the mistress of Lane Cross; an illicit attachment grew
up between Irma Ottley and a young society idler by the name of Bliss Bridge;
and Gardner Knowles, ardently admiring Stephanie Platow literally seized upon
her one afternoon in her own home, when he went ostensibly to interview her,
and overpersuaded her. She was only reasonably fond of him, not in love; but,
being generous, nebulous, passionate, emotional, inexperienced, voiceless, and
vainly curious, without any sense of the meums and teums that govern society in
such matters, she allowed this rather brutal thing to happen. She was not a
coward&mdash;was too nebulous and yet forceful to be such. Her parents never
knew. And once so launched, another world&mdash;that of sex
satisfaction&mdash;began to dawn on her.
</p>

<p>
Were these young people evil? Let the social philosopher answer. One thing is
certain: They did not establish homes and raise children. On the contrary, they
led a gay, butterfly existence for nearly two years; then came a gift in the
lute. Quarrels developed over parts, respective degrees of ability, and
leadership. Ethel Tuckerman fell out with Lane Cross, because she discovered
him making love to Irma Ottley. Irma and Bliss Bridge released each other, the
latter transferring his affections to Georgia Timberlake. Stephanie Platow, by
far the most individual of them all, developed a strange inconsequence as to
her deeds. It was when she was drawing near the age of twenty that the affair
with Gardner Knowles began. After a time Lane Cross, with his somewhat earnest
attempt at artistic interpretation and his superiority in the matter of
years&mdash;he was forty, and young Knowles only twenty-four&mdash;seemed more
interesting to Stephanie, and he was quick to respond. There followed an idle,
passionate union with this man, which seemed important, but was not so at all.
And then it was that Stephanie began dimly to perceive that it was on and on
that the blessings lie, that somewhere there might be some man much more
remarkable than either of these; but this was only a dream. She thought of
Cowperwood at times; but he seemed to her to be too wrapped up in grim
tremendous things, far apart from this romantic world of amateur dramatics in
which she was involved.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br/>
Airs from the Orient</h2>

<p>
Cowperwood gained his first real impression of Stephanie at the Garrick
Players, where he went with Aileen once to witness a performance of
&ldquo;Elektra.&rdquo; He liked Stephanie particularly in this part, and
thought her beautiful. One evening not long afterward he noticed her in his own
home looking at his jades, particularly a row of bracelets and ear-rings. He
liked the rhythmic outline of her body, which reminded him of a letter S in
motion. Quite suddenly it came over him that she was a remarkable
girl&mdash;very&mdash;destined, perhaps, to some significant future. At the
same time Stephanie was thinking of him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you find them interesting?&rdquo; he asked, stopping beside her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think they&rsquo;re wonderful. Those dark-greens, and that pale, fatty
white! I can see how beautiful they would be in a Chinese setting. I have
always wished we could find a Chinese or Japanese play to produce
sometime.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, with your black hair those ear-rings would look well,&rdquo; said
Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
He had never deigned to comment on a feature of hers before. She turned her
dark, brown-black eyes on him&mdash;velvety eyes with a kind of black glow in
them&mdash;and now he noticed how truly fine they were, and how nice were her
hands&mdash;brown almost as a Malay&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
He said nothing more; but the next day an unlabeled box was delivered to
Stephanie at her home containing a pair of jade ear-rings, a bracelet, and a
brooch with Chinese characters intagliated. Stephanie was beside herself with
delight. She gathered them up in her hands and kissed them, fastening the
ear-rings in her ears and adjusting the bracelet and ring. Despite her
experience with her friends and relatives, her stage associates, and her
paramours, she was still a little unschooled in the world. Her heart was
essentially poetic and innocent. No one had ever given her much of
anything&mdash;not even her parents. Her allowance thus far in life had been a
pitiful six dollars a week outside of her clothing. As she surveyed these
pretty things in the privacy of her room she wondered oddly whether Cowperwood
was growing to like her. Would such a strong, hard business man be interested
in her? She had heard her father say he was becoming very rich. Was she a great
actress, as some said she was, and would strong, able types of men like
Cowperwood take to her&mdash;eventually? She had heard of Rachel, of Nell
Gwynne, of the divine Sarah and her loves. She took the precious gifts and
locked them in a black-iron box which was sacred to her trinkets and her
secrets.
</p>

<p>
The mere acceptance of these things in silence was sufficient indication to
Cowperwood that she was of a friendly turn of mind. He waited patiently until
one day a letter came to his office&mdash;not his house&mdash;addressed,
&ldquo;Frank Algernon Cowperwood, Personal.&rdquo; It was written in a small,
neat, careful hand, almost printed.
</p>

<br/>

<p class="letter">
I don&rsquo;t know how to thank you for your wonderful present. I didn&rsquo;t
mean you should give them to me, and I know you sent them. I shall keep them
with pleasure and wear them with delight. It was so nice of you to do this.
</p>

<p class="right">
STEPHANIE PLATOW.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood studied the handwriting, the paper, the phraseology. For a girl of
only a little over twenty this was wise and reserved and tactful. She might
have written to him at his residence. He gave her the benefit of a week&rsquo;s
time, and then found her in his own home one Sunday afternoon. Aileen had gone
calling, and Stephanie was pretending to await her return.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s nice to see you there in that window,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;You fit your background perfectly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do I?&rdquo; The black-brown eyes burned soulfully. The panneling back
of her was of dark oak, burnished by the rays of an afternoon winter sun.
</p>

<p>
Stephanie Platow had dressed for this opportunity. Her full, rich, short black
hair was caught by a childish band of blood-red ribbon, holding it low over her
temples and ears. Her lithe body, so harmonious in its graven roundness, was
clad in an apple-green bodice, and a black skirt with gussets of red about the
hem; her smooth arms, from the elbows down, were bare. On one wrist was the
jade bracelet he had given her. Her stockings were apple-green silk, and,
despite the chill of the day, her feet were shod in enticingly low slippers
with brass buckles.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood retired to the hall to hang up his overcoat and came back smiling.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t Mrs. Cowperwood about?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The butler says she&rsquo;s out calling, but I thought I&rsquo;d wait a
little while, anyhow. She may come back.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She turned up a dark, smiling face to him, with languishing, inscrutable eyes,
and he recognized the artist at last, full and clear.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see you like my bracelet, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s beautiful,&rdquo; she replied, looking down and surveying it
dreamily. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t always wear it. I carry it in my muff.
I&rsquo;ve just put it on for a little while. I carry them all with me always.
I love them so. I like to feel them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She opened a small chamois bag beside her&mdash;lying with her handkerchief and
a sketch-book which she always carried&mdash;and took out the ear-rings and
brooch.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood glowed with a strange feeling of approval and enthusiasm at this
manifestation of real interest. He liked jade himself very much, but more than
that the feeling that prompted this expression in another. Roughly speaking, it
might have been said of him that youth and hope in women&mdash;particularly
youth when combined with beauty and ambition in a girl&mdash;touched him. He
responded keenly to her impulse to do or be something in this world, whatever
it might be, and he looked on the smart, egoistic vanity of so many with a
kindly, tolerant, almost parental eye. Poor little organisms growing on the
tree of life&mdash;they would burn out and fade soon enough. He did not know
the ballad of the roses of yesteryear, but if he had it would have appealed to
him. He did not care to rifle them, willy-nilly; but should their temperaments
or tastes incline them in his direction, they would not suffer vastly in their
lives because of him. The fact was, the man was essentially generous where
women were concerned.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How nice of you!&rdquo; he commented, smiling. &ldquo;I like
that.&rdquo; And then, seeing a note-book and pencil beside her, he asked,
&ldquo;What are you doing?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just sketching.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me see?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s nothing much,&rdquo; she replied, deprecatingly. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t draw very well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Gifted girl!&rdquo; he replied, picking it up. &ldquo;Paints, draws,
carves on wood, plays, sings, acts.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All rather badly,&rdquo; she sighed, turning her head languidly and
looking away. In her sketch-book she had put all of her best drawings; there
were sketches of nude women, dancers, torsos, bits of running figures, sad,
heavy, sensuous heads and necks of sleeping girls, chins up, eyelids down,
studies of her brothers and sister, and of her father and mother.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Delightful!&rdquo; exclaimed Cowperwood, keenly alive to a new treasure.
Good heavens, where had been his eyes all this while? Here was a jewel lying at
his doorstep&mdash;innocent, untarnished&mdash;a real jewel. These drawings
suggested a fire of perception, smoldering and somber, which thrilled him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;These are beautiful to me, Stephanie,&rdquo; he said, simply, a strange,
uncertain feeling of real affection creeping over him. The man&rsquo;s greatest
love was for art. It was hypnotic to him. &ldquo;Did you ever study art?&rdquo;
he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you never studied acting?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She shook her head in a slow, sad, enticing way. The black hair concealing her
ears moved him strangely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know the art of your stage work is real, and you have a natural art
which I just seem to see. What has been the matter with me, anyhow?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh no,&rdquo; she sighed. &ldquo;It seems to me that I merely play at
everything. I could cry sometimes when I think how I go on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At twenty?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is old enough,&rdquo; she smiled, archly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stephanie,&rdquo; he asked, cautiously, &ldquo;how old are you,
exactly?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will be twenty-one in April,&rdquo; she answered.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have your parents been very strict with you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She shook her head dreamily. &ldquo;No; what makes you ask? They haven&rsquo;t
paid very much attention to me. They&rsquo;ve always liked Lucille and Gilbert
and Ormond best.&rdquo; Her voice had a plaintive, neglected ring. It was the
voice she used in her best scenes on the stage.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t they realize that you are very talented?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think perhaps my mother feels that I may have some ability. My father
doesn&rsquo;t, I&rsquo;m sure. Why?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She lifted those languorous, plaintive eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Stephanie, if you want to know, I think you&rsquo;re wonderful. I
thought so the other night when you were looking at those jades. It all came
over me. You are an artist, truly, and I have been so busy I have scarcely seen
it. Tell me one thing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She drew in a soft breath, filling her chest and expanding her bosom, while she
looked at him from under her black hair. Her hands were crossed idly in her
lap. Then she looked demurely down.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Look, Stephanie! Look up! I want to ask you something. You have known
something of me for over a year. Do you like me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think you&rsquo;re very wonderful,&rdquo; she murmured.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t that much?&rdquo; she smiled, shooting a dull, black-opal
look in his direction.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You wore my bracelet to-day. Were you very glad to get it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; she sighed, with aspirated breath, pretending a kind of
suffocation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How beautiful you really are!&rdquo; he said, rising and looking down at
her.
</p>

<p>
She shook her head.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come, Stephanie! Stand by me and look at me. You are so tall and slender
and graceful. You are like something out of Asia.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She sighed, turning in a sinuous way, as he slipped his arm her. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t think we should, should we?&rdquo; she asked, naively, after a
moment, pulling away from him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stephanie!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think I&rsquo;d better go, now, please.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br/>
Love and War</h2>

<p>
It was during the earlier phases of his connection with Chicago street-railways
that Cowperwood, ardently interesting himself in Stephanie Platow, developed as
serious a sex affair as any that had yet held him. At once, after a few secret
interviews with her, he adopted his favorite ruse in such matters and
established bachelor quarters in the down-town section as a convenient
meeting-ground. Several conversations with Stephanie were not quite as
illuminating as they might have been, for, wonderful as she was&mdash;a kind of
artistic godsend in this dull Western atmosphere&mdash;she was also enigmatic
and elusive, very. He learned speedily, in talking with her on several days
when they met for lunch, of her dramatic ambitions, and of the seeming
spiritual and artistic support she required from some one who would have faith
in her and inspire her by his or her confidence. He learned all about the
Garrick Players, her home intimacies and friends, the growing quarrels in the
dramatic organization. He asked her, as they sat in a favorite and
inconspicuous resort of his finding, during one of those moments when blood and
not intellect was ruling between them, whether she had ever&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Once,&rdquo; she naively admitted.
</p>

<p>
It was a great shock to Cowperwood. He had fancied her refreshingly innocent.
But she explained it was all so accidental, so unintentional on her part, very.
She described it all so gravely, soulfully, pathetically, with such a brooding,
contemplative backward searching of the mind, that he was astonished and in a
way touched. What a pity! It was Gardner Knowles who had done this, she
admitted. But he was not very much to blame, either. It just happened. She had
tried to protest, but&mdash; Wasn&rsquo;t she angry? Yes, but then she was
sorry to do anything to hurt Gardner Knowles. He was such a charming boy, and
he had such a lovely mother and sister, and the like.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was astonished. He had reached that point in life where the absence
of primal innocence in a woman was not very significant; but in Stephanie,
seeing that she was so utterly charming, it was almost too bad. He thought what
fools the Platows must be to tolerate this art atmosphere for Stephanie without
keeping a sharp watch over it. Nevertheless, he was inclined to believe from
observation thus far that Stephanie might be hard to watch. She was ingrainedly
irresponsible, apparently&mdash;so artistically nebulous, so
non-self-protective. To go on and be friends with this scamp! And yet she
protested that never after that had there been the least thing between them.
Cowperwood could scarcely believe it. She must be lying, and yet he liked her
so. The very romantic, inconsequential way in which she narrated all this
staggered, amused, and even fascinated him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, Stephanie,&rdquo; he argued, curiously, &ldquo;there must been some
aftermath to all this. What happened? What did you do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo; She shook her head.
</p>

<p>
He had to smile.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But oh, don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s talk about it!&rdquo; she pleaded.
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to. It hurts me. There was nothing more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She sighed, and Cowperwood meditated. The evil was now done, and the best that
he could do, if he cared for her at all&mdash;and he did&mdash;was to overlook
it. He surveyed her oddly, wonderingly. What a charming soul she was, anyhow!
How naive&mdash;how brooding! She had art&mdash;lots of it. Did he want to give
her up?
</p>

<p>
As he might have known, it was dangerous to trifle with a type of this kind,
particularly once awakened to the significance of promiscuity, and unless
mastered by some absorbing passion. Stephanie had had too much flattery and
affection heaped upon her in the past two years to be easily absorbed.
Nevertheless, for the time being, anyhow, she was fascinated by the
significance of Cowperwood. It was wonderful to have so fine, so powerful a man
care for her. She conceived of him as a very great artist in his realm rather
than as a business man, and he grasped this fact after a very little while and
appreciated it. To his delight, she was even more beautiful physically than he
had anticipated&mdash;a smoldering, passionate girl who met him with a fire
which, though somber, quite rivaled his own. She was different, too, in her
languorous acceptance of all that he bestowed from any one he had ever known.
She was as tactful as Rita Sohlberg&mdash;more so&mdash;but so preternaturally
silent at times.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stephanie,&rdquo; he would exclaim, &ldquo;do talk. What are you
thinking of? You dream like an African native.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She merely sat and smiled in a dark way or sketched or modeled him. She was
constantly penciling something, until moved by the fever of her blood, when she
would sit and look at him or brood silently, eyes down. Then, when he would
reach for her with seeking hands, she would sigh, &ldquo;Oh yes, oh yes!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Those were delightful days with Stephanie.
</p>

<p class="p2">
In the matter of young MacDonald&rsquo;s request for fifty thousand dollars in
securities, as well as the attitude of the other editors&mdash;Hyssop, Braxton,
Ricketts, and so on&mdash;who had proved subtly critical, Cowperwood conferred
with Addison and McKenty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A likely lad, that,&rdquo; commented McKenty, succintly, when he heard
it. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll do better than his father in one way, anyhow.
He&rsquo;ll probably make more money.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
McKenty had seen old General MacDonald just once in his life, and liked him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should like to know what the General would think of that if he
knew,&rdquo; commented Addison, who admired the old editor greatly.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid he wouldn&rsquo;t sleep very well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is just one thing,&rdquo; observed Cowperwood, thoughtfully.
&ldquo;This young man will certainly come into control of the <i>Inquirer</i>
sometime. He looks to me like some one who would not readily forget an
injury.&rdquo; He smiled sardonically. So did McKenty and Addison.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Be that as it may,&rdquo; suggested the latter, &ldquo;he isn&rsquo;t
editor yet.&rdquo; McKenty, who never revealed his true views to any one but
Cowperwood, waited until he had the latter alone to observe:
</p>

<p>
What can they do? Your request is a reasonable one. Why shouldn&rsquo;t the
city give you the tunnel? It&rsquo;s no good to anyone as it is. And the loop
is no more than the other roads have now. I&rsquo;m thinking it&rsquo;s the
Chicago City Railway and that silk-stocking crowd on State Street or that gas
crowd that&rsquo;s talking against you. I&rsquo;ve heard them before. Give them
what they want, and it&rsquo;s a fine moral cause. Give it to anyone else, and
there&rsquo;s something wrong with it. It&rsquo;s little attention I pay to
them. We have the council, let it pass the ordinances. It can&rsquo;t be proved
that they don&rsquo;t do it willingly. The mayor is a sensible man. He&rsquo;ll
sign them. Let young MacDonald talk if he wants to. If he says too much you can
talk to his father. As for Hyssop, he&rsquo;s an old grandmother anyhow.
I&rsquo;ve never known him to be for a public improvement yet that was really
good for Chicago unless Schryhart or Merrill or Arneel or someone else of that
crowd wanted it. I know them of old. My advice is to go ahead and never mind
them. To hell with them! Things will be sweet enough, once you are as powerful
as they are. They&rsquo;ll get nothing in the future without paying for it.
It&rsquo;s little enough they&rsquo;ve ever done to further anything that I
wanted.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, however, remained cool and thoughtful. Should he pay young
MacDonald? he asked himself. Addison knew of no influence that he could bring
to bear. Finally, after much thought, he decided to proceed as he had planned.
Consequently, the reporters around the City Hall and the council-chamber, who
were in touch with Alderman Thomas Dowling, McKenty&rsquo;s leader on the floor
of council, and those who called occasionally&mdash;quite regularly, in
fact&mdash;at the offices of the North Chicago Street Railway Company,
Cowperwood&rsquo;s comfortable new offices in the North Side, were now given to
understand that two ordinances&mdash;one granting the free use of the La Salle
Street tunnel for an unlimited period (practically a gift of it), and another
granting a right of way in La Salle, Munroe, Dearborn, and Randolph streets for
the proposed loop&mdash;would be introduced in council very shortly. Cowperwood
granted a very flowery interview, in which he explained quite enthusiastically
all that the North Chicago company was doing and proposed to do, and made clear
what a splendid development it would assure to the North Side and to the
business center.
</p>

<p>
At once Schryhart, Merrill, and some individuals connected with the Chicago
West Division Company, began to complain in the newspaper offices and at the
clubs to Ricketts, Braxton, young MacDonald, and the other editors. Envy of the
pyrotechnic progress of the man was as much a factor in this as anything else.
It did not make the slightest difference, as Cowperwood had sarcastically
pointed out, that every other corporation of any significance in Chicago had
asked and received without money and without price. Somehow his career in
connection with Chicago gas, his venturesome, if unsuccessful effort to enter
Chicago society, his self-acknowledged Philadelphia record, rendered the
sensitive cohorts of the ultra-conservative exceedingly fearful. In
Schryhart&rsquo;s Chronicle appeared a news column which was headed,
&ldquo;Plain Grab of City Tunnel Proposed.&rdquo; It was a very truculent
statement, and irritated Cowperwood greatly. The <i>Press</i> (Mr.
Haguenin&rsquo;s paper), on the other hand, was most cordial to the idea of the
loop, while appearing to be a little uncertain as to whether the tunnel should
be granted without compensation or not. Editor Hyssop felt called upon to
insist that something more than merely nominal compensation should be made for
the tunnel, and that &ldquo;riders&rdquo; should be inserted in the loop
ordinance making it incumbent upon the North Chicago company to keep those
thoroughfares in full repair and well lighted. The <i>Inquirer</i>, under Mr.
MacDonald, junior, and Mr. Du Bois, was in rumbling opposition. No free
tunnels, it cried; no free ordinances for privileges in the down-town heart. It
had nothing to say about Cowperwood personally. The <i>Globe</i>, Mr.
Braxton&rsquo;s paper, was certain that no free rights to the tunnel should be
given, and that a much better route for the loop could be found&mdash;one
larger and more serviceable to the public, one that might be made to include
State Street or Wabash Avenue, or both, where Mr. Merrill&rsquo;s store was
located. So it went, and one could see quite clearly to what extent the
interests of the public figured in the majority of these particular viewpoints.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, individual, reliant, utterly indifferent to opposition of any kind,
was somewhat angered by the manner in which his overtures had been received,
but still felt that the best way out of his troubles was to follow
McKenty&rsquo;s advice and get power first. Once he had his cable-conduit down,
his new cars running, the tunnel rebuilt, brilliantly lighted, and the bridge
crush disposed of, the public would see what a vast change for the better had
been made and would support him. Finally all things were in readiness and the
ordinance jammed through. McKenty, being a little dubious of the outcome, had a
rocking-chair brought into the council-chamber itself during the hours when the
ordinances were up for consideration. In this he sat, presumably as a curious
spectator, actually as a master dictating the course of liquidation in hand.
Neither Cowperwood nor any one else knew of McKenty&rsquo;s action until too
late to interfere with it. Addison and Videra, when they read about it as
sneeringly set forth in the news columns of the papers, lifted and then
wrinkled their eyebrows.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That looks like pretty rough work to me,&rdquo; commented Addison.
&ldquo;I thought McKenty had more tact. That&rsquo;s his early Irish
training.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alexander Rambaud, who was an admirer and follower of Cowperwood&rsquo;s,
wondered whether the papers were lying, whether it really could be true that
Cowperwood had a serious political compact with McKenty which would allow him
to walk rough-shod over public opinion. Rambaud considered Cowperwood&rsquo;s
proposition so sane and reasonable that he could not understand why there
should be serious opposition, or why Cowperwood and McKenty should have to
resort to such methods.
</p>

<p>
However, the streets requisite for the loop were granted. The tunnel was leased
for nine hundred and ninety-nine years at the nominal sum of five thousand
dollars per year. It was understood that the old bridges over State, Dearborn,
and Clark streets should be put in repair or removed; but there was &ldquo;a
joker&rdquo; inserted elsewhere which nullified this. Instantly there were
stormy outbursts in the <i>Chronicle</i>, <i>Inquirer</i>, and <i>Globe</i>;
but Cowperwood, when he read them, merely smiled. &ldquo;Let them
grumble,&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;I put a very reasonable proposition
before them. Why should they complain? I&rsquo;m doing more now than the
Chicago City Railway. It&rsquo;s jealousy, that&rsquo;s all. If Schryhart or
Merrill had asked for it, there would have been no complaint.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
McKenty called at the offices of the Chicago Trust Company to congratulate
Cowperwood. &ldquo;The boys did as I thought they would,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;I had to be there, though, for I heard some one say that about ten of
them intended to ditch us at the last moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good work, good work!&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, cheerfully. &ldquo;This
row will all blow over. It would be the same whenever we asked. The air will
clear up. We&rsquo;ll give them such a fine service that they&rsquo;ll forget
all about this, and be glad they gave us the tunnel.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Just the same, the morning after the enabling ordinances had passed, there was
much derogatory comment in influential quarters. Mr. Norman Schryhart, who,
through his publisher, had been fulminating defensively against Cowperwood,
stared solemnly at Mr. Ricketts when they met.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the magnate, who imagined he foresaw a threatened
attack on his Chicago City Street Railway preserves, &ldquo;I see our friend
Mr. Cowperwood has managed to get his own way with the council. I am morally
certain he uses money to get what he is after as freely as a fireman uses
water. He&rsquo;s as slippery as an eel. I should be glad if we could establish
that there is a community of interest between him and these politicians around
City Hall, or between him and Mr. McKenty. I believe he has set out to dominate
this city politically as well as financially, and he&rsquo;ll need constant
watching. If public opinion can be aroused against him he may be dislodged in
the course of time. Chicago may get too uncomfortable for him. I know Mr.
McKenty personally, but he is not the kind of man I care to do business
with.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Schryhart&rsquo;s method of negotiating at City Hall was through certain
reputable but somewhat slow-going lawyers who were in the employ of the South
Side company. They had never been able to reach Mr. McKenty at all. Ricketts
echoed a hearty approval. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re very right,&rdquo; he said, with
owlish smugness, adjusting a waistcoat button that had come loose, and
smoothing his cuffs. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a prince of politicians. We&rsquo;ll
have to look sharp if we ever trap him&rdquo; Mr. Ricketts would have been glad
to sell out to Mr. Cowperwood, if he had not been so heavily obligated to Mr.
Schryhart. He had no especial affection for Cowperwood, but he recognized in
him a coming man.
</p>

<p>
Young MacDonald, talking to Clifford Du Bois in the office of the <i>Inquirer</i>, and
reflecting how little his private telephone message had availed him, was in a
waspish, ironic frame of mind.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it seems our friend Cowperwood hasn&rsquo;t
taken our advice. He may make his mark, but the <i>Inquirer</i> isn&rsquo;t through
with him by a long shot. He&rsquo;ll be wanting other things from the city in
the future.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Clifford Du Bois regarded his acid young superior with a curious eye. He knew
nothing of MacDonald&rsquo;s private telephone message to Cowperwood; but he
knew how he himself would have dealt with the crafty financier had he been in
MacDonald&rsquo;s position.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, Cowperwood is shrewd,&rdquo; was his comment. &ldquo;Pritchard, our
political man, says the ways of the City Hall are greased straight up to the
mayor and McKenty, and that Cowperwood can have anything he wants at any time.
Tom Dowling eats out of his hand, and you know what that means. Old General Van
Sickle is working for him in some way. Did you ever see that old buzzard flying
around if there wasn&rsquo;t something dead in the woods?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He&rsquo;s a slick one,&rdquo; remarked MacDonald. &ldquo;But as for
Cowperwood, he can&rsquo;t get away with this sort of thing very long.
He&rsquo;s going too fast. He wants too much.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Du Bois smiled quite secretly. It amused him to see how Cowperwood had
brushed MacDonald and his objections aside&mdash;dispensed for the time being
with the services of the <i>Inquirer</i>. Du Bois confidently believed that if the old
General had been at home he would have supported the financier.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Within eight months after seizing the La Salle Street tunnel and gobbling four
of the principal down-town streets for his loop, Cowperwood turned his eyes
toward the completion of the second part of the programme&mdash;that of taking
over the Washington Street tunnel and the Chicago West Division Company, which
was still drifting along under its old horse-car regime. It was the story of
the North Side company all over again. Stockholders of a certain type&mdash;the
average&mdash;are extremely nervous, sensitive, fearsome. They are like that
peculiar bivalve, the clam, which at the slightest sense of untoward pressure
withdraws into its shell and ceases all activity. The city tax department began
by instituting proceedings against the West Division company, compelling them
to disgorge various unpaid street-car taxes which had hitherto been
conveniently neglected. The city highway department was constantly jumping on
them for neglect of street repairs. The city water department, by some
hocus-pocus, made it its business to discover that they had been stealing
water. On the other hand were the smiling representatives of Cowperwood,
Kaifrath, Addison, Videra, and others, approaching one director or stockholder
after another with glistening accounts of what a splendid day would set in for
the Chicago West Division Company if only it would lease fifty-one per cent. of
its holdings&mdash;fifty-one per cent. of twelve hundred and fifty shares, par
value two hundred dollars&mdash;for the fascinating sum of six hundred dollars
per share, and thirty per cent. interest on all stock not assumed.
</p>

<p>
Who could resist? Starve and beat a dog on the one hand; wheedle, pet, and hold
meat in front of it on the other, and it can soon be brought to perform.
Cowperwood knew this. His emissaries for good and evil were tireless. In the
end&mdash;and it was not long in coming&mdash;the directors and chief
stockholders of the Chicago West Division Company succumbed; and then, ho! the
sudden leasing by the Chicago West Division Company of all its
property&mdash;to the North Chicago Street Railway Company, lessee in turn of
the Chicago City Passenger Railway, a line which Cowperwood had organized to
take over the Washington Street tunnel. How had he accomplished it? The
question was on the tip of every financial tongue. Who were the men or the
organization providing the enormous sums necessary to pay six hundred dollars
per share for six hundred and fifty shares of the twelve hundred and fifty
belonging to the old West Division company, and thirty per cent. per year on
all the remainder? Where was the money coming from to cable all these lines? It
was simple enough if they had only thought. Cowperwood was merely capitalizing
the future.
</p>

<p>
Before the newspapers or the public could suitably protest, crowds of men were
at work day and night in the business heart of the city, their flaring torches
and resounding hammers making a fitful bedlamic world of that region; they were
laying the first great cable loop and repairing the La Salle Street tunnel. It
was the same on the North and West Sides, where concrete conduits were being
laid, new grip and trailer cars built, new car-barns erected, and large,
shining power-houses put up. The city, so long used to the old bridge delays,
the straw-strewn, stoveless horse-cars on their jumping rails, was agog to see
how fine this new service would be. The La Salle Street tunnel was soon aglow
with white plaster and electric lights. The long streets and avenues of the
North Side were threaded with concrete-lined conduits and heavy street-rails.
The powerhouses were completed and the system was started, even while the
contracts for the changes on the West Side were being let.
</p>

<p>
Schryhart and his associates were amazed at this swiftness of action, this
dizzy phantasmagoria of financial operations. It looked very much to the
conservative traction interests of Chicago as if this young giant out of the
East had it in mind to eat up the whole city. The Chicago Trust Company, which
he, Addison, McKenty, and others had organized to manipulate the principal
phases of the local bond issues, and of which he was rumored to be in control,
was in a flourishing condition. Apparently he could now write his check for
millions, and yet he was not beholden, so far as the older and more
conservative multimillionaires of Chicago were concerned, to any one of them.
The worst of it was that this Cowperwood&mdash;an upstart, a jail-bird, a
stranger whom they had done their best to suppress financially and ostracize
socially, had now become an attractive, even a sparkling figure in the eyes of
the Chicago public. His views and opinions on almost any topic were freely
quoted; the newspapers, even the most antagonistic, did not dare to neglect
him. Their owners were now fully alive to the fact that a new financial rival
had appeared who was worthy of their steel.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br/>
A Financier Bewitched</h2>

<p>
It was interesting to note how, able though he was, and bound up with this vast
street-railway enterprise which was beginning to affect several thousand men,
his mind could find intense relief and satisfaction in the presence and actions
of Stephanie Platow. It is not too much to say that in her, perhaps, he found
revivified the spirit and personality of Rita Sohlberg. Rita, however, had not
contemplated disloyalty&mdash;it had never occurred to her to be faithless to
Cowperwood so long as he was fond of her any more than for a long time it had
been possible for her, even after all his philanderings, to be faithless to
Sohlberg. Stephanie, on the other hand, had the strange feeling that affection
was not necessarily identified with physical loyalty, and that she could be
fond of Cowperwood and still deceive him&mdash;a fact which was based on her
lack as yet of a true enthusiasm for him. She loved him and she didn&rsquo;t.
Her attitude was not necessarily identified with her heavy, lizardish
animality, though that had something to do with it; but rather with a vague,
kindly generosity which permitted her to feel that it was hard to break with
Gardner Knowles and Lane Cross after they had been so nice to her. Gardner
Knowles had sung her praises here, there, and everywhere, and was attempting to
spread her fame among the legitimate theatrical enterprises which came to the
city in order that she might be taken up and made into a significant figure.
Lane Cross was wildly fond of her in an inadequate way which made it hard to
break with him, and yet certain that she would eventually. There was still
another man&mdash;a young playwright and poet by the name of Forbes
Gurney&mdash;tall, fair, passionate&mdash;who had newly arrived on the scene
and was courting her, or, rather, being courted by her at odd moments, for her
time was her own. In her artistically errant way she had refused to go to
school like her sister, and was idling about, developing, as she phrased it,
her artistic possibilities.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, as was natural, heard much of her stage life. At first he took all
this palaver with a grain of salt, the babbling of an ardent nature interested
in the flighty romance of the studio world. By degrees, however, he became
curious as to the freedom of her actions, the ease with which she drifted from
place to place&mdash;Lane Cross&rsquo;s studio; Bliss Bridge&rsquo;s bachelor
rooms, where he appeared always to be receiving his theatrical friends of the
Garrick Players; Mr. Gardner Knowles&rsquo;s home on the near North Side, where
he was frequently entertaining a party after the theater. It seemed to
Cowperwood, to say the least, that Stephanie was leading a rather free and
inconsequential existence, and yet it reflected her exactly&mdash;the color of
her soul. But he began to doubt and wonder.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Where were you, Stephanie, yesterday?&rdquo; he would ask, when they met
for lunch, or in the evenings early, or when she called at his new offices on
the North Side, as she sometimes did to walk or drive with him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yesterday morning I was at Lane Cross&rsquo;s studio trying on some
of his Indian shawls and veils. He has such a lot of those things&mdash;some of
the loveliest oranges and blues. You just ought to see me in them. I wish you
might.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Alone?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For a while. I thought Ethel Tuckerman and Bliss Bridge would be there,
but they didn&rsquo;t come until later. Lane Cross is such a dear. He&rsquo;s
sort of silly at times, but I like him. His portraits are so bizarre.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She went off into a description of his pretentious but insignificant art.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood marveled, not at Lane Cross&rsquo;s art nor his shawls, but at this
world in which Stephanie moved. He could not quite make her out. He had never
been able to make her explain satisfactorily that first single relationship
with Gardner Knowles, which she declared had ended so abruptly. Since then he
had doubted, as was his nature; but this girl was so sweet, childish,
irreconcilable with herself, like a wandering breath of air, or a pale-colored
flower, that he scarcely knew what to think. The artistically inclined are not
prone to quarrel with an enticing sheaf of flowers. She was heavenly to him,
coming in, as she did at times when he was alone, with bland eyes and yielding
herself in a kind of summery ecstasy. She had always something artistic to tell
of storms, winds, dust, clouds, smoke forms, the outline of buildings, the
lake, the stage. She would cuddle in his arms and quote long sections from
&ldquo;Romeo and Juliet,&rdquo; &ldquo;Paolo and Francesca,&rdquo; &ldquo;The
Ring and the Book,&rdquo; Keats&rsquo;s &ldquo;Eve of St. Agnes.&rdquo; He
hated to quarrel with her, because she was like a wild rose or some art form in
nature. Her sketch-book was always full of new things. Her muff, or the light
silk shawl she wore in summer, sometimes concealed a modeled figure of some
kind which she would produce with a look like that of a doubting child, and if
he wanted it, if he liked it, he could have it. Cowperwood meditated deeply. He
scarcely knew what to think.
</p>

<p>
The constant atmosphere of suspicion and doubt in which he was compelled to
remain, came by degrees to distress and anger him. While she was with him she
was clinging enough, but when she was away she was ardently cheerful and happy.
Unlike the station he had occupied in so many previous affairs, he found
himself, after the first little while, asking her whether she loved him instead
of submitting to the same question from her.
</p>

<p>
He thought that with his means, his position, his future possibilities he had
the power to bind almost any woman once drawn to his personality; but Stephanie
was too young and too poetic to be greatly impaired by wealth and fame, and she
was not yet sufficiently gripped by the lure of him. She loved him in her
strange way; but she was interested also by the latest arrival, Forbes Gurney.
This tall, melancholy youth, with brown eyes and pale-brown hair, was very
poor. He hailed from southern Minnesota, and what between a penchant for
journalism, verse-writing, and some dramatic work, was somewhat undecided as to
his future. His present occupation was that of an instalment collector for a
furniture company, which set him free, as a rule, at three o&rsquo;clock in the
afternoon. He was trying, in a mooning way, to identify himself with the
Chicago newspaper world, and was a discovery of Gardner Knowles.
</p>

<p>
Stephanie had seen him about the rooms of the Garrick Players. She had looked
at his longish face with its aureole of soft, crinkly hair, his fine wide
mouth, deep-set eyes, and good nose, and had been touched by an atmosphere of
wistfulness, or, let us say, life-hunger. Gardner Knowles brought a poem of his
once, which he had borrowed from him, and read it to the company, Stephanie,
Ethel Tuckerman, Lane Cross, and Irma Ottley assembled.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Listen to this,&rdquo; Knowles had suddenly exclaimed, taking it out of
his pocket.
</p>

<p>
It concerned a garden of the moon with the fragrance of pale blossoms, a mystic
pool, some ancient figures of joy, a quavered Lucidian tune.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;With eerie flute and rhythmic thrum<br/>
Of muted strings and beaten drum.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stephanie Platow had sat silent, caught by a quality that was akin to her own.
She asked to see it, and read it in silence.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think it&rsquo;s charming,&rdquo; she said.
</p>

<p>
Thereafter she hovered in the vicinity of Forbes Gurney. Why, she could
scarcely say. It was not coquetry. She just drew near, talked to him of stage
work and her plays and her ambitions. She sketched him as she had Cowperwood
and others, and one day Cowperwood found three studies of Forbes Gurney in her
note-book idyllicly done, a note of romantic feeling about them.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who is this?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, he&rsquo;s a young poet who comes up to the Players&mdash;Forbes
Gurney. He&rsquo;s so charming; he&rsquo;s so pale and dreamy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood contemplated the sketches curiously. His eyes clouded.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Another one of Stephanie&rsquo;s adherents,&rdquo; he commented,
teasingly. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a long procession I&rsquo;ve joined. Gardner
Knowles, Lane Cross, Bliss Bridge, Forbes Gurney.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stephanie merely pouted moodily.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How you talk! Bliss Bridge, Gardner Knowles! I admit I like them all,
but that&rsquo;s all I do do. They&rsquo;re just sweet and dear. You&rsquo;d
like Lane Cross yourself; he&rsquo;s such a foolish old Polly. As for Forbes
Gurney, he just drifts up there once in a while as one of the crowd. I scarcely
know him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, dolefully; &ldquo;but you sketch
him.&rdquo; For some reason Cowperwood did not believe this. Back in his brain
he did not believe Stephanie at all, he did not trust her. Yet he was intensely
fond of her&mdash;the more so, perhaps, because of this.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tell me truly, Stephanie,&rdquo; he said to her one day, urgently, and
yet very diplomatically. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care at all, so far as your past
is concerned. You and I are close enough to reach a perfect understanding. But
you didn&rsquo;t tell me the whole truth about you and Knowles, did you? Tell
me truly now. I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t mind. I can understand well enough how it
could have happened. It doesn&rsquo;t make the least bit of difference to me,
really.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stephanie was off her guard for once, in no truly fencing mood. She was
troubled at times about her various relations, anxious to put herself straight
with Cowperwood or with any one whom she truly liked. Compared to Cowperwood
and his affairs, Cross and Knowles were trivial, and yet Knowles was
interesting to her. Compared to Cowperwood, Forbes Gurney was a stripling
beggar, and yet Gurney had what Cowperwood did not have&mdash;a sad, poetic
lure. He awakened her sympathies. He was such a lonely boy. Cowperwood was so
strong, brilliant, magnetic.
</p>

<p>
Perhaps it was with some idea of clearing up her moral status generally that
she finally said: &ldquo;Well, I didn&rsquo;t tell you the exact truth about
it, either. I was a little ashamed to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the close of her confession, which involved only Knowles, and was incomplete
at that, Cowperwood burned with a kind of angry resentment. Why trifle with a
lying prostitute? That she was an inconsequential free lover at twenty-one was
quite plain. And yet there was something so strangely large about the girl, so
magnetic, and she was so beautiful after her kind, that he could not think of
giving her up. She reminded him of himself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Stephanie,&rdquo; he said, trampling under foot an impulse to
insult or rebuke and dismiss her, &ldquo;you are strange. Why didn&rsquo;t you
tell me this before? I have asked and asked. Do you really mean to say that you
care for me at all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How can you ask that?&rdquo; she demanded, reproachfully, feeling that
she had been rather foolish in confessing. Perhaps she would lose him now, and
she did not want to do that. Because his eyes blazed with a jealous hardness
she burst into tears. &ldquo;Oh, I wish I had never told you! There is nothing
to tell, anyhow. I never wanted to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was nonplussed. He knew human nature pretty well, and woman nature;
his common sense told him that this girl was not to be trusted, and yet he was
drawn to her. Perhaps she was not lying, and these tears were real.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you positively assure me that this was all&mdash;that there
wasn&rsquo;t any one else before, and no one since?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stephanie dried her eyes. They were in his private rooms in Randolph Street,
the bachelor rooms he had fitted for himself as a changing place for various
affairs.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe you care for me at all,&rdquo; she observed,
dolefully, reproachfully. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe you understand me. I
don&rsquo;t think you believe me. When I tell you how things are you
don&rsquo;t understand. I don&rsquo;t lie. I can&rsquo;t. If you are so
doubting now, perhaps you had better not see me any more. I want to be frank
with you, but if you won&rsquo;t let me&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused heavily, gloomily, very sorrowfully, and Cowperwood surveyed her
with a kind of yearning. What an unreasoning pull she had for him! He did not
believe her, and yet he could not let her go.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know what to think,&rdquo; he commented, morosely.
&ldquo;I certainly don&rsquo;t want to quarrel with you, Stephanie, for telling
me the truth. Please don&rsquo;t deceive me. You are a remarkable girl. I can
do so much for you if you will let me. You ought to see that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I&rsquo;m not deceiving you,&rdquo; she repeated, wearily. &ldquo;I
should think you could see.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I believe you,&rdquo; he went on, trying to deceive himself against his
better judgment. &ldquo;But you lead such a free, unconventional life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; thought Stephanie, &ldquo;perhaps I talk too much.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am very fond of you. You appeal to me so much. I love you, really.
Don&rsquo;t deceive me. Don&rsquo;t run with all these silly simpletons. They
are really not worthy of you. I shall be able to get a divorce one of these
days, and then I would be glad to marry you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I&rsquo;m not running with them in the sense that you think.
They&rsquo;re not anything to me beyond mere entertainment. Oh, I like them, of
course. Lane Cross is a dear in his way, and so is Gardner Knowles. They have
all been nice to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood&rsquo;s gorge rose at her calling Lane Cross dear. It incensed him,
and yet he held his peace.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do give me your word that there will never be anything between you and
any of these men so long as you are friendly with me?&rdquo; he almost
pleaded&mdash;a strange role for him. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care to share you
with any one else. I won&rsquo;t. I don&rsquo;t mind what you have done in the
past, but I don&rsquo;t want you to be unfaithful in the future.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a question! Of course I won&rsquo;t. But if you don&rsquo;t believe
me&mdash;oh, dear&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stephanie sighed painfully, and Cowperwood&rsquo;s face clouded with angry
though well-concealed suspicion and jealousy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you, Stephanie, I believe you now. I&rsquo;m going
to take your word. But if you do deceive me, and I should find it out, I will
quit you the same day. I do not care to share you with any one else. What I
can&rsquo;t understand, if you care for me, is how you can take so much
interest in all these affairs? It certainly isn&rsquo;t devotion to your art
that&rsquo;s impelling you, is it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, are you going to go on quarreling with me?&rdquo; asked Stephanie,
naively. &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you believe me when I say that I love you?
Perhaps&mdash;&rdquo; But here her histrionic ability came to her aid, and she
sobbed violently.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood took her in his arms. &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; he soothed. &ldquo;I
do believe you. I do think you care for me. Only I wish you weren&rsquo;t such
a butterfly temperament, Stephanie.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
So this particular lesion for the time being was healed.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br/>
The Exposure of Stephanie</h2>

<p>
At the same time the thought of readjusting her relations so that they would
avoid disloyalty to Cowperwood was never further from Stephanie&rsquo;s mind.
Let no one quarrel with Stephanie Platow. She was an unstable chemical
compound, artistic to her finger-tips, not understood or properly guarded by
her family. Her interest in Cowperwood, his force and ability, was intense. So
was her interest in Forbes Gurney&mdash;the atmosphere of poetry that enveloped
him. She studied him curiously on the various occasions when they met, and,
finding him bashful and recessive, set out to lure him. She felt that he was
lonely and depressed and poor, and her womanly capacity for sympathy naturally
bade her be tender.
</p>

<p>
Her end was easily achieved. One night, when they were all out in Bliss
Bridge&rsquo;s single-sticker&mdash;a fast-sailing saucer&mdash;Stephanie and
Forbes Gurney sat forward of the mast looking at the silver moon track which
was directly ahead. The rest were in the cockpit &ldquo;cutting
up&rdquo;&mdash;laughing and singing. It was very plain to all that Stephanie
was becoming interested in Forbes Gurney; and since he was charming and she
wilful, nothing was done to interfere with them, except to throw an occasional
jest their way. Gurney, new to love and romance, scarcely knew how to take his
good fortune, how to begin. He told Stephanie of his home life in the
wheat-fields of the Northwest, how his family had moved from Ohio when he was
three, and how difficult were the labors he had always undergone. He had
stopped in his plowing many a day to stand under a tree and write a
poem&mdash;such as it was&mdash;or to watch the birds or to wish he could go to
college or to Chicago. She looked at him with dreamy eyes, her dark skin turned
a copper bronze in the moonlight, her black hair irradiated with a strange,
luminous grayish blue. Forbes Gurney, alive to beauty in all its forms,
ventured finally to touch her hand&mdash;she of Knowles, Cross, and
Cowperwood&mdash;and she thrilled from head to toe. This boy was so sweet. His
curly brown hair gave him a kind of Greek innocence and aspect. She did not
move, but waited, hoping he would do more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish I might talk to you as I feel,&rdquo; he finally said, hoarsely,
a catch in his throat.
</p>

<p>
She laid one hand on his.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You dear!&rdquo; she said.
</p>

<p>
He realized now that he might. A great ecstasy fell upon him. He smoothed her
hand, then slipped his arm about her waist, then ventured to kiss the dark
cheek turned dreamily from him. Artfully her head sunk to his shoulder, and he
murmured wild nothings&mdash;how divine she was, how artistic, how wonderful!
With her view of things, it could only end one way. She manoeuvered him into
calling on her at her home, into studying her books and plays on the top-floor
sitting-room, into hearing her sing. Once fully in his arms, the rest was easy
by suggestion. He learned she was no longer innocent, and then&mdash; In the
mean time Cowperwood mingled his speculations concerning large power-houses,
immense reciprocating engines, the problem of a wage scale for his now two
thousand employees, some of whom were threatening to strike, the problem of
securing, bonding, and equipping the La Salle Street tunnel and a down-town
loop in La Salle, Munroe, Dearborn, and Randolph streets, with mental inquiries
and pictures as to what possibly Stephanie Platow might be doing. He could only
make appointments with her from time to time. He did not fail to note that,
after he began to make use of information she let drop as to her whereabouts
from day to day and her free companionship, he heard less of Gardner Knowles,
Lane Cross, and Forbes Gurney, and more of Georgia Timberlake and Ethel
Tuckerman. Why this sudden reticence? On one occasion she did say of Forbes
Gurney &ldquo;that he was having such a hard time, and that his clothes
weren&rsquo;t as nice as they should be, poor dear!&rdquo; Stephanie herself,
owing to gifts made to her by Cowperwood, was resplendent these days. She took
just enough to complete her wardrobe according to her taste.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why not send him to me?&rdquo; Cowperwood asked. &ldquo;I might find
something to do for him.&rdquo; He would have been perfectly willing to put him
in some position where he could keep track of his time. However, Mr. Gurney
never sought him for a position, and Stephanie ceased to speak of his poverty.
A gift of two hundred dollars, which Cowperwood made her in June, was followed
by an accidental meeting with her and Gurney in Washington Street. Mr. Gurney,
pale and pleasant, was very well dressed indeed. He wore a pin which Cowperwood
knew had once belonged to Stephanie. She was in no way confused. Finally
Stephanie let it out that Lane Cross, who had gone to New Hampshire for the
summer, had left his studio in her charge. Cowperwood decided to have this
studio watched.
</p>

<p>
There was in Cowperwood&rsquo;s employ at this time a young newspaper man, an
ambitious spark aged twenty-six, by the name of Francis Kennedy. He had written
a very intelligent article for the Sunday <i>Inquirer</i>, describing
Cowperwood and his plans, and pointing out what a remarkable man he was. This
pleased Cowperwood. When Kennedy called one day, announcing smartly that he was
anxious to get out of reportorial work, and inquiring whether he couldn&rsquo;t
find something to do in the street-railway world, Cowperwood saw in him a
possibly useful tool.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll try you out as secretary for a while,&rdquo; he said,
pleasantly. &ldquo;There are a few special things I want done. If you succeed
in those, I may find something else for you later.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Kennedy had been working for him only a little while when he said to him one
day: &ldquo;Francis, did you ever hear of a young man by the name of Forbes
Gurney in the newspaper world?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They were in Cowperwood&rsquo;s private office.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; replied Francis, briskly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have heard of an organization called the Garrick Players,
haven&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Francis, do you suppose you could undertake a little piece of
detective work for me, and handle it intelligently and quietly?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think so,&rdquo; said Francis, who was the pink of perfection this
morning in a brown suit, garnet tie, and sard sleeve-links. His shoes were
immaculately polished, and his young, healthy face glistened.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what I want you to do. There is a young actress, or
amateur actress, by the name of Stephanie Platow, who frequents the studio of
an artist named Cross in the New Arts Building. She may even occupy it in his
absence&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know. I want you to find out for me what the
relations of Mr. Gurney and this woman are. I have certain business reasons for
wanting to know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Young Kennedy was all attention.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t tell me where I could find out anything about this
Mr. Gurney to begin with, could you?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think he is a friend of a critic here by the name of Gardner Knowles.
You might ask him. I need not say that you must never mention me.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I understand that thoroughly, Mr. Cowperwood.&rdquo; Young Kennedy
departed, meditating. How was he to do this? With true journalistic skill he
first sought other newspaper men, from whom he learned&mdash;a bit from one and
a scrap from another&mdash;of the character of the Garrick Players, and of the
women who belonged to it. He pretended to be writing a one-act play, which he
hoped to have produced.
</p>

<p>
He then visited Lane Cross&rsquo;s studio, posing as a newspaper interviewer.
Mr. Cross was out of town, so the elevator man said. His studio was closed.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Kennedy meditated on this fact for a moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Does any one use his studio during the summer months?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I believe there is a young woman who comes here&mdash;yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t happen to know who it is?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I do. Her name is Platow. What do you want to know for?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Looky here,&rdquo; exclaimed Kennedy, surveying the rather shabby
attendant with a cordial and persuasive eye, &ldquo;do you want to make some
money&mdash;five or ten dollars, and without any trouble to you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The elevator man, whose wages were exactly eight dollars a week, pricked up his
ears.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I want to know who comes here with this Miss Platow, when they
come&mdash;all about it. I&rsquo;ll make it fifteen dollars if I find out what
I want, and I&rsquo;ll give you five right now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The elevator factotum had just sixty-five cents in his pocket at the time. He
looked at Kennedy with some uncertainty and much desire.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, what can I do?&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not here after
six. The janitor runs this elevator from six to twelve.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There isn&rsquo;t a room vacant anywhere near this one, is there?&rdquo;
Kennedy asked, speculatively.
</p>

<p>
The factotum thought. &ldquo;Yes, there is. One just across the hall.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What time does she come here as a rule?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know anything about nights. In the day she sometimes comes
mornings, sometimes in the afternoon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Anybody with her?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sometimes a man, sometimes a girl or two. I haven&rsquo;t really paid
much attention to her, to tell you the truth.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Kennedy walked away whistling.
</p>

<p>
From this day on Mr. Kennedy became a watcher over this very unconventional
atmosphere. He was in and out, principally observing the comings and goings of
Mr. Gurney. He found what he naturally suspected, that Mr. Gurney and Stephanie
spent hours here at peculiar times&mdash;after a company of friends had
jollified, for instance, and all had left, including Gurney, when the latter
would quietly return, with Stephanie sometimes, if she had left with the
others, alone if she had remained behind. The visits were of varying duration,
and Kennedy, to be absolutely accurate, kept days, dates, the duration of the
hours, which he left noted in a sealed envelope for Cowperwood in the morning.
Cowperwood was enraged, but so great was his interest in Stephanie that he was
not prepared to act. He wanted to see to what extent her duplicity would go.
</p>

<p>
The novelty of this atmosphere and its effect on him was astonishing. Although
his mind was vigorously employed during the day, nevertheless his thoughts kept
returning constantly. Where was she? What was she doing? The bland way in which
she could lie reminded him of himself. To think that she should prefer any one
else to him, especially at this time when he was shining as a great
constructive factor in the city, was too much. It smacked of age, his ultimate
displacement by youth. It cut and hurt.
</p>

<p>
One morning, after a peculiarly exasperating night of thought concerning her,
he said to young Kennedy: &ldquo;I have a suggestion for you. I wish you would
get this elevator man you are working with down there to get you a duplicate
key to this studio, and see if there is a bolt on the inside. Let me know when
you do. Bring me the key. The next time she is there of an evening with Mr.
Gurney step out and telephone me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The climax came one night several weeks after this discouraging investigation
began. There was a heavy yellow moon in the sky, and a warm, sweet summer wind
was blowing. Stephanie had called on Cowperwood at his office about four to say
that instead of staying down-town with him, as they had casually planned, she
was going to her home on the West Side to attend a garden-party of some kind at
Georgia Timberlake&rsquo;s. Cowperwood looked at her with&mdash;for him&mdash;a
morbid eye. He was all cheer, geniality, pleasant badinage; but he was thinking
all the while what a shameless enigma she was, how well she played her part,
what a fool she must take him to be. He gave her youth, her passion, her
attractiveness, her natural promiscuity of soul due credit; but he could not
forgive her for not loving him perfectly, as had so many others. She had on a
summery black-and-white frock and a fetching brown Leghorn hat, which, with a
rich-red poppy ornamenting a flare over her left ear and a peculiar ruching of
white-and-black silk about the crown, made her seem strangely young, debonair,
a study in Hebraic and American origins.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Going to have a nice time, are you?&rdquo; he asked, genially,
politically, eying her in his enigmatic and inscrutable way. &ldquo;Going to
shine among that charming company you keep! I suppose all the standbys will be
there&mdash;Bliss Bridge, Mr. Knowles, Mr. Cross&mdash;dancing attendance on
you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He failed to mention Mr. Gurney.
</p>

<p>
Stephanie nodded cheerfully. She seemed in an innocent outing mood.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled, thinking how one of these days&mdash;very shortly,
perhaps&mdash;he was certain to take a signal revenge. He would catch her in a
lie, in a compromising position somewhere&mdash;in this studio,
perhaps&mdash;and dismiss her with contempt. In an elder day, if they had lived
in Turkey, he would have had her strangled, sewn in a sack, and thrown into the
Bosporus. As it was, he could only dismiss her. He smiled and smiled, smoothing
her hand. &ldquo;Have a good time,&rdquo; he called, as she left. Later, at his
own home&mdash;it was nearly midnight&mdash;Mr. Kennedy called him up.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know the studio in the New Arts Building?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is occupied now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood called a servant to bring him his runabout. He had had a down-town
locksmith make a round keystem with a bored clutch at the end of it&mdash;a
hollow which would fit over the end of such a key as he had to the studio and
turn it easily from the outside. He felt in his pocket for it, jumped in his
runabout, and hurried away. When he reached the New Arts Building he found
Kennedy in the hall and dismissed him. &ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; he observed,
brusquely. &ldquo;I will take care of this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He hurried up the stairs, avoiding the elevator, to the vacant room opposite,
and thence reconnoitered the studio door. It was as Kennedy had reported.
Stephanie was there, and with Gurney. The pale poet had been brought there to
furnish her an evening of delight. Because of the stillness of the building at
this hour he could hear their muffled voices speaking alternately, and once
Stephanie singing the refrain of a song. He was angry and yet grateful that she
had, in her genial way, taken the trouble to call and assure him that she was
going to a summer lawn-party and dance. He smiled grimly, sarcastically, as he
thought of her surprise. Softly he extracted the clutch-key and inserted it,
covering the end of the key on the inside and turning it. It gave solidly
without sound. He next tried the knob and turned it, feeling the door spring
slightly as he did so. Then inaudibly, because of a gurgled laugh with which he
was thoroughly familiar, he opened it and stepped in.
</p>

<p>
At his rough, firm cough they sprang up&mdash;Gurney to a hiding position
behind a curtain, Stephanie to one of concealment behind draperies on the
couch. She could not speak, and could scarcely believe that her eyes did not
deceive her. Gurney, masculine and defiant, but by no means well composed,
demanded: &ldquo;Who are you? What do you want here?&rdquo; Cowperwood replied
very simply and smilingly: &ldquo;Not very much. Perhaps Miss Platow there will
tell you.&rdquo; He nodded in her direction.
</p>

<p>
Stephanie, fixed by his cold, examining eye, shrank nervously, ignoring Gurney
entirely. The latter perceived on the instant that he had a previous liaison to
deal with&mdash;an angry and outraged lover&mdash;and he was not prepared to
act either wisely or well.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Gurney,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, complacently, after staring at
Stephanie grimly and scorching her with his scorn, &ldquo;I have no concern
with you, and do not propose to do anything to disturb you or Miss Platow after
a very few moments. I am not here without reason. This young woman has been
steadily deceiving me. She has lied to me frequently, and pretended an
innocence which I did not believe. To-night she told me she was to be at a
lawn-party on the West Side. She has been my mistress for months. I have given
her money, jewelry, whatever she wanted. Those jade ear-rings, by the way, are
one of my gifts.&rdquo; He nodded cheerfully in Stephanie&rsquo;s direction.
&ldquo;I have come here simply to prove to her that she cannot lie to me any
more. Heretofore, every time I have accused her of things like this she has
cried and lied. I do not know how much you know of her, or how fond you are of
her. I merely wish her, not you, to know&rdquo;&mdash;and he turned and stared
at Stephanie&mdash;&ldquo;that the day of her lying to me is over.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
During this very peculiar harangue Stephanie, who, nervous, fearful, fixed, and
yet beautiful, remained curled up in the corner of the suggestive oriental
divan, had been gazing at Cowperwood in a way which plainly attested, trifle as
she might with others, that she was nevertheless fond of him&mdash;intensely
so. His strong, solid figure, confronting her so ruthlessly, gripped her
imagination, of which she had a world. She had managed to conceal her body in
part, but her brown arms and shoulders, her bosom, trim knees, and feet were
exposed in part. Her black hair and naive face were now heavy, distressed, sad.
She was frightened really, for Cowperwood at bottom had always overawed
her&mdash;a strange, terrible, fascinating man. Now she sat and looked, seeking
still to lure him by the pathetic cast of her face and soul, while Cowperwood,
scornful of her, and almost openly contemptuous of her lover, and his possible
opposition, merely stood smiling before them. It came over her very swiftly now
just what it was she was losing&mdash;a grim, wonderful man. Beside him Gurney,
the pale poet, was rather thin&mdash;a mere breath of romance. She wanted to
say something, to make a plea; but it was so plain Cowperwood would have none
of it, and, besides, here was Gurney. Her throat clogged, her eyes filled, even
here, and a mystical bog-fire state of emotion succeeded the primary one of
opposition. Cowperwood knew the look well. It gave him the only sense of
triumph he had.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stephanie,&rdquo; he remarked, &ldquo;I have just one word to say to you
now. We will not meet any more, of course. You are a good actress. Stick to
your profession. You may shine in it if you do not merge it too completely with
your loves. As for being a free lover, it isn&rsquo;t incompatible with what
you are, perhaps, but it isn&rsquo;t socially advisable for you. Good
night.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He turned and walked quickly out.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Frank,&rdquo; called Stephanie, in a strange, magnetized, despairing
way, even in the face of her astonished lover. Gurney stared with his mouth
open.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood paid no heed. Out he went through the dark hall and down the stairs.
For once the lure of a beautiful, enigmatic, immoral, and promiscuous
woman&mdash;poison flower though she was&mdash;was haunting him.
&ldquo;D&mdash; her!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;D&mdash; the little beast,
anyhow! The &mdash;&mdash;! The &mdash;&mdash;!&rdquo; He used terms so hard,
so vile, so sad, all because he knew for once what it was to love and
lose&mdash;to want ardently in his way and not to have&mdash;now or ever after.
He was determined that his path and that of Stephanie Platow should never be
allowed to cross again.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br/>
A Family Quarrel</h2>

<p>
It chanced that shortly before this liaison was broken off, some troubling
information was quite innocently conveyed to Aileen by Stephanie Platow&rsquo;s
own mother. One day Mrs. Platow, in calling on Mrs. Cowperwood, commented on
the fact that Stephanie was gradually improving in her art, that the Garrick
Players had experienced a great deal of trouble, and that Stephanie was shortly
to appear in a new role&mdash;something Chinese.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That was such a charming set of jade you gave her,&rdquo; she
volunteered, genially. &ldquo;I only saw it the other day for the first time.
She never told me about it before. She prizes it so very highly, that I feel as
though I ought to thank you myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen opened her eyes. &ldquo;Jade!&rdquo; she observed, curiously.
&ldquo;Why, I don&rsquo;t remember.&rdquo; Recalling Cowperwood&rsquo;s
proclivities on the instant, she was suspicious, distraught. Her face showed
her perplexity.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Platow, Aileen&rsquo;s show of surprise
troubling her. &ldquo;The ear-rings and necklet, you know. She said you gave
them to her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; answered Aileen, catching herself as by a hair.
&ldquo;I do recall it now. But it was Frank who really gave them. I hope she
likes them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She smiled sweetly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She thinks they&rsquo;re beautiful, and they do become her,&rdquo;
continued Mrs. Platow, pleasantly, understanding it all, as she fancied. The
truth was that Stephanie, having forgotten, had left her make-up box open one
day at home, and her mother, rummaging in her room for something, had
discovered them and genially confronted her with them, for she knew the value
of jade. Nonplussed for the moment, Stephanie had lost her mental, though not
her outward, composure and referred them back casually to an evening at the
Cowperwood home when Aileen had been present and the gauds had been genially
forced upon her.
</p>

<p>
Unfortunately for Aileen, the matter was not to be allowed to rest just so, for
going one afternoon to a reception given by Rhees Crier, a young sculptor of
social proclivities, who had been introduced to her by Taylor Lord, she was
given a taste of what it means to be a neglected wife from a public point of
view. As she entered on this occasion she happened to overhear two women
talking in a corner behind a screen erected to conceal wraps. &ldquo;Oh, here
comes Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; said one. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s the street-railway
magnate&rsquo;s wife. Last winter and spring he was running with that Platow
girl&mdash;of the Garrick Players, you know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The other nodded, studying Aileen&rsquo;s splendiferous green&mdash;velvet gown
with envy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wonder if she&rsquo;s faithful to him?&rdquo; she queried, while
Aileen strained to hear. &ldquo;She looks daring enough.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen managed to catch a glimpse of her observers later, when they were not
looking, and her face showed her mingled resentment and feeling; but it did no
good. The wretched gossipers had wounded her in the keenest way. She was hurt,
angry, nonplussed. To think that Cowperwood by his variability should expose
her to such gossip as this!
</p>

<p>
One day not so long after her conversation with Mrs. Platow, Aileen happened to
be standing outside the door of her own boudoir, the landing of which commanded
the lower hall, and there overheard two of her servants discussing the
Cowperwood menage in particular and Chicago life in general. One was a tall,
angular girl of perhaps twenty-seven or eight, a chambermaid, the other a
short, stout woman of forty who held the position of assistant housekeeper.
They were pretending to dust, though gossip conducted in a whisper was the
matter for which they were foregathered. The tall girl had recently been
employed in the family of Aymar Cochrane, the former president of the Chicago
West Division Railway, and now a director of the new West Chicago Street
Railway Company.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And I was that surprised,&rdquo; Aileen heard this girl saying,
&ldquo;to think I should be coming here. I cud scarcely believe me ears when
they told me. Why, Miss Florence was runnin&rsquo; out to meet him two and
three times in the week. The wonder to me was that her mother never
guessed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Och,&rdquo; replied the other, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s the very divil and all
when it comes to the wimmin.&rdquo; (Aileen did not see the upward lift of the
hand that accompanied this). &ldquo;There was a little girl that used to come
here. Her father lives up the street here. Haguenin is his name. He owns that
morning paper, the <i>Press</i>, and has a fine house up the street here a little way.
Well, I haven&rsquo;t seen her very often of late, but more than once I saw him
kissing her in this very room. Sure his wife knows all about it. Depend on it.
She had an awful fight with some woman here onct, so I hear, some woman that he
was runnin&rsquo; with and bringin&rsquo; here to the house. I hear it&rsquo;s
somethin&rsquo; terrible the way she beat her up&mdash;screamin&rsquo; and
carryin&rsquo; on. Oh, they&rsquo;re the divil, these men, when it comes to the
wimmin.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A slight rustling sound from somewhere sent the two gossipers on their several
ways, but Aileen had heard enough to understand. What was she to do? How was
she to learn more of these new women, of whom she had never heard at all? She
at once suspected Florence Cochrane, for she knew that this servant had worked
in the Cochrane family. And then Cecily Haguenin, the daughter of the editor
with whom they were on the friendliest terms! Cowperwood kissing her! Was there
no end to his liaisons&mdash;his infidelity?
</p>

<p>
She returned, fretting and grieving, to her room, where she meditated and
meditated, wondering whether she should leave him, wondering whether she should
reproach him openly, wondering whether she should employ more detectives. What
good would it do? She had employed detectives once. Had it prevented the
Stephanie Platow incident? Not at all. Would it prevent other liaisons in the
future? Very likely not. Obviously her home life with Cowperwood was coming to
a complete and disastrous end. Things could not go on in this way. She had done
wrong, possibly, in taking him away from Mrs. Cowperwood number one, though she
could scarcely believe that, for Mrs. Lillian Cowperwood was so unsuited to
him&mdash;but this repayment! If she had been at all superstitious or
religious, and had known her Bible, which she didn&rsquo;t, she might have
quoted to herself that very fatalistic statement of the New Testament,
&ldquo;With what measure ye mete it shall be measured unto you again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The truth was that Cowperwood&rsquo;s continued propensity to rove at liberty
among the fair sex could not in the long run fail of some results of an
unsatisfactory character. Coincident with the disappearance of Stephanie
Platow, he launched upon a variety of episodes, the charming daughter of so
worthy a man as Editor Haguenin, his sincerest and most sympathetic
journalistic supporter; and the daughter of Aymar Cochrane, falling victims,
among others, to what many would have called his wiles. As a matter of fact, in
most cases he was as much sinned against as sinning, since the provocation was
as much offered as given.
</p>

<p>
The manner in which he came to get in with Cecily Haguenin was simple enough.
Being an old friend of the family, and a frequent visitor at her father&rsquo;s
house, he found this particular daughter of desire an easy victim. She was a
vigorous blonde creature of twenty at this time, very full and plump, with
large, violet eyes, and with considerable alertness of mind&mdash;a sort of
doll girl with whom Cowperwood found it pleasant to amuse himself. A playful
gamboling relationship had existed between them when she was a mere child
attending school, and had continued through her college years whenever she
happened to be at home on a vacation. In these very latest days when Cowperwood
on occasion sat in the Haguenin library consulting with the
journalist-publisher concerning certain moves which he wished to have put right
before the public he saw considerably more of Cecily. One night, when her
father had gone out to look up the previous action of the city council in
connection with some matter of franchises, a series of more or less sympathetic
and understanding glances suddenly culminated in Cecily&rsquo;s playfully
waving a new novel, which she happened to have in her hand, in
Cowperwood&rsquo;s face; and he, in reply, laid hold caressingly of her arms.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You can&rsquo;t stop me so easily,&rdquo; she observed, banteringly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, I can,&rdquo; he replied.
</p>

<p>
A slight struggle ensued, in which he, with her semiwilful connivance, managed
to manoeuver her into his arms, her head backward against his shoulder.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, looking up at him with a semi-nervous,
semi-provocative glance, &ldquo;now what? You&rsquo;ll just have to let me
go.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not very soon, though.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, you will. My father will be here in a moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, not until then, anyhow. You&rsquo;re getting to be the sweetest
girl.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She did not resist, but remained gazing half nervously, half dreamily at him,
whereupon he smoothed her cheek, and then kissed her. Her father&rsquo;s
returning step put an end to this; but from this point on ascent or descent to
a perfect understanding was easily made.
</p>

<p>
In the matter of Florence Cochrane, the daughter of Aymar Cochrane, the
president of the Chicago West Division Company&mdash;a second affair of the
period&mdash;the approach was only slightly different, the result the same.
This girl, to furnish only a brief impression, was a blonde of a different type
from Cecily&mdash;delicate, picturesque, dreamy. She was mildly intellectual at
this time, engaged in reading Marlowe and Jonson; and Cowperwood, busy in the
matter of the West Chicago Street Railway, and conferring with her father, was
conceived by her as a great personage of the Elizabethan order. In a tentative
way she was in revolt against an apple-pie order of existence which was being
forced upon her. Cowperwood recognized the mood, trifled with her spiritedly,
looked into her eyes, and found the response he wanted. Neither old Aymar
Cochrane nor his impeccably respectable wife ever discovered.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Subsequently Aileen, reflecting upon these latest developments, was from one
point of view actually pleased or eased. There is always safety in numbers, and
she felt that if Cowperwood were going to go on like this it would not be
possible for him in the long run to take a definite interest in any one; and
so, all things considered, and other things being equal, he would probably just
as leave remain married to her as not.
</p>

<p>
But what a comment, she could not help reflecting, on her own charms! What an
end to an ideal union that had seemed destined to last all their days! She,
Aileen Butler, who in her youth had deemed herself the peer of any girl in
charm, force, beauty, to be shoved aside thus early in her life&mdash;she was
only forty&mdash;by the younger generation. And such silly snips as they
were&mdash;Stephanie Platow! and Cecily Haguenin! and Florence Cochrane, in all
likelihood another pasty-faced beginner! And here she was&mdash;vigorous,
resplendent, smooth of face and body, her forehead, chin, neck, eyes without a
wrinkle, her hair a rich golden reddish glow, her step springing, her weight no
more than one hundred and fifty pounds for her very normal height, with all the
advantages of a complete toilet cabinet, jewels, clothing, taste, and skill in
material selection&mdash;being elbowed out by these upstarts. It was almost
unbelievable. It was so unfair. Life was so cruel, Cowperwood so
temperamentally unbalanced. Dear God! to think that this should be true! Why
should he not love her? She studied her beauty in the mirror from time to time,
and raged and raged. Why was her body not sufficient for him? Why should he
deem any one more beautiful? Why should he not be true to his reiterated
protestations that he cared for her? Other men were true to other women. Her
father had been faithful to her mother. At the thought of her own father and
his opinion of her conduct she winced, but it did not change her point of view
as to her present rights. See her hair! See her eyes! See her smooth,
resplendent arms! Why should Cowperwood not love her? Why, indeed?
</p>

<p>
One night, shortly afterward, she was sitting in her boudoir reading, waiting
for him to come home, when the telephone-bell sounded and he informed her that
he was compelled to remain at the office late. Afterward he said he might be
obliged to run on to Pittsburg for thirty-six hours or thereabouts; but he
would surely be back on the third day, counting the present as one. Aileen was
chagrined. Her voice showed it. They had been scheduled to go to dinner with
the Hoecksemas, and afterward to the theater. Cowperwood suggested that she
should go alone, but Aileen declined rather sharply; she hung up the receiver
without even the pretense of a good-by. And then at ten o&rsquo;clock he
telephoned again, saying that he had changed his mind, and that if she were
interested to go anywhere&mdash;a later supper, or the like&mdash;she should
dress, otherwise he would come home expecting to remain.
</p>

<p>
Aileen immediately concluded that some scheme he had had to amuse himself had
fallen through. Having spoiled her evening, he was coming home to make as much
hay as possible out of this bit of sunshine. This infuriated her. The whole
business of uncertainty in the matter of his affections was telling on her
nerves. A storm was in order, and it had come. He came bustling in a little
later, slipped his arms around her as she came forward and kissed her on the
mouth. He smoothed her arms in a make-believe and yet tender way, and patted
her shoulders. Seeing her frown, he inquired, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s troubling
Babykins?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, nothing more than usual,&rdquo; replied Aileen, irritably.
&ldquo;Let&rsquo;s not talk about that. Have you had your dinner?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, we had it brought in.&rdquo; He was referring to McKenty, Addison,
and himself, and the statement was true. Being in an honest position for once,
he felt called upon to justify himself a little. &ldquo;It couldn&rsquo;t be
avoided to-night. I&rsquo;m sorry that this business takes up so much of my
time, but I&rsquo;ll get out of it some day soon. Things are bound to ease
up.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen withdrew from his embrace and went to her dressing-table. A glance
showed her that her hair was slightly awry, and she smoothed it into place. She
looked at her chin, and then went back to her book&mdash;rather sulkily, he
thought.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, Aileen, what&rsquo;s the trouble?&rdquo; he inquired.
&ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t you glad to have me up here? I know you have had a pretty
rough road of it of late, but aren&rsquo;t you willing to let bygones be
bygones and trust to the future a little?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The future! The future! Don&rsquo;t talk to me about the future.
It&rsquo;s little enough it holds in store for me,&rdquo; she replied.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood saw that she was verging on an emotional storm, but he trusted to
his powers of persuasion, and her basic affection for him, to soothe and quell
her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t act this way, pet,&rdquo; he went on.
&ldquo;You know I have always cared for you. You know I always shall.
I&rsquo;ll admit that there are a lot of little things which interfere with my
being at home as much as I would like at present; but that doesn&rsquo;t alter
the fact that my feeling is the same. I should think you could see that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Feeling! Feeling!&rdquo; taunted Aileen, suddenly. &ldquo;Yes, I know
how much feeling you have. You have feeling enough to give other women sets of
jade and jewels, and to run around with every silly little snip you meet. You
needn&rsquo;t come home here at ten o&rsquo;clock, when you can&rsquo;t go
anywhere else, and talk about feeling for me. I know how much feeling you have.
Pshaw!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She flung herself irritably back in her chair and opened her book. Cowperwood
gazed at her solemnly, for this thrust in regard to Stephanie was a revelation.
This woman business could grow peculiarly exasperating at times.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean, anyhow?&rdquo; he observed, cautiously and with much
seeming candor. &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t given any jade or jewels to any one, nor
have I been running around with any &lsquo;little snips,&rsquo; as you call
them. I don&rsquo;t know what you are talking about, Aileen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Frank,&rdquo; commented Aileen, wearily and incredulously,
&ldquo;you lie so! Why do you stand there and lie? I&rsquo;m so tired of it;
I&rsquo;m so sick of it all. How should the servants know of so many things to
talk of here if they weren&rsquo;t true? I didn&rsquo;t invite Mrs. Platow to
come and ask me why you had given her daughter a set of jade. I know why you
lie; you want to hush me up and keep quiet. You&rsquo;re afraid I&rsquo;ll go
to Mr. Haguenin or Mr. Cochrane or Mr. Platow, or to all three. Well, you can
rest your soul on that score. I won&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;m sick of you and your
lies. Stephanie Platow&mdash;the thin stick! Cecily Haguenin&mdash;the little
piece of gum! And Florence Cochrane&mdash;she looks like a dead fish!&rdquo;
(Aileen had a genius for characterization at times.) &ldquo;If it just
weren&rsquo;t for the way I acted toward my family in Philadelphia, and the
talk it would create, and the injury it would do you financially, I&rsquo;d act
to-morrow. I&rsquo;d leave you&mdash;that&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;d do. And to
think that I should ever have believed that you really loved me, or could care
for any woman permanently. Bosh! But I don&rsquo;t care. Go on! Only I&rsquo;ll
tell you one thing. You needn&rsquo;t think I&rsquo;m going to go on enduring
all this as I have in the past. I&rsquo;m not. You&rsquo;re not going to
deceive me always. I&rsquo;m not going to stand it. I&rsquo;m not so old yet.
There are plenty of men who will be glad to pay me attention if you
won&rsquo;t. I told you once that I wouldn&rsquo;t be faithful to you if you
weren&rsquo;t to me, and I won&rsquo;t be. I&rsquo;ll show you. I&rsquo;ll go
with other men. I will! I will! I swear it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he asked, softly, pleadingly, realizing the futility of
additional lies under such circumstances, &ldquo;won&rsquo;t you forgive me
this time? Bear with me for the present. I scarcely understand myself at times.
I am not like other men. You and I have run together a long time now. Why not
wait awhile? Give me a chance! See if I do not change. I may.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, wait! Change. You may change. Haven&rsquo;t I waited?
Haven&rsquo;t I walked the floor night after night! when you haven&rsquo;t been
here? Bear with you&mdash;yes, yes! Who&rsquo;s to bear with me when my heart
is breaking? Oh, God!&rdquo; she suddenly added, with passionate vigor,
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m miserable! I&rsquo;m miserable! My heart aches! It
aches!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She clutched her breast and swung from the room, moving with that vigorous
stride that had once appealed to him so, and still did. Alas, alas! it touched
him now, but only as a part of a very shifty and cruel world. He hurried out of
the room after her, and (as at the time of the Rita Sohlberg incident) slipped
his arm about her waist; but she pulled away irritably. &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo;
she exclaimed. &ldquo;Let me alone. I&rsquo;m tired of that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re really not fair to me, Aileen,&rdquo; with a great show of
feeling and sincerity. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re letting one affair that came between
us blind your whole point of view. I give you my word I haven&rsquo;t been
unfaithful to you with Stephanie Platow or any other woman. I may have flirted
with them a little, but that is really nothing. Why not be sensible? I&rsquo;m
not as black as you paint me. I&rsquo;m moving in big matters that are as much
for your concern and future as for mine. Be sensible, be liberal.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There was much argument&mdash;the usual charges and countercharges&mdash;but,
finally, because of her weariness of heart, his petting, the unsolvability of
it all, she permitted him for the time being to persuade her that there were
still some crumbs of affection left. She was soul-sick, heartsick. Even he, as
he attempted to soothe her, realized clearly that to establish the reality of
his love in her belief he would have to make some much greater effort to
entertain and comfort her, and that this, in his present mood, and with his
leaning toward promiscuity, was practically impossible. For the time being a
peace might be patched up, but in view of what she expected of him&mdash;her
passion and selfish individuality&mdash;it could not be. He would have to go
on, and she would have to leave him, if needs be; but he could not cease or go
back. He was too passionate, too radiant, too individual and complex to belong
to any one single individual alone.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br/>
Obstacles</h2>

<p>
The impediments that can arise to baffle a great and swelling career are
strange and various. In some instances all the cross-waves of life must be cut
by the strong swimmer. With other personalities there is a chance, or force,
that happily allies itself with them; or they quite unconsciously ally
themselves with it, and find that there is a tide that bears them on. Divine
will? Not necessarily. There is no understanding of it. Guardian spirits? There
are many who so believe, to their utter undoing. (Witness Macbeth). An
unconscious drift in the direction of right, virtue, duty? These are banners of
mortal manufacture. Nothing is proved; all is permitted.
</p>

<p>
Not long after Cowperwood&rsquo;s accession to control on the West Side, for
instance, a contest took place between his corporation and a citizen by the
name of Redmond Purdy&mdash;real-estate investor, property-trader, and
money-lender&mdash;which set Chicago by the ears. The La Salle and Washington
Street tunnels were now in active service, but because of the great north and
south area of the West Side, necessitating the cabling of Van Buren Street and
Blue Island Avenue, there was need of a third tunnel somewhere south of
Washington Street, preferably at Van Buren Street, because the business heart
was thus more directly reached. Cowperwood was willing and anxious to build
this tunnel, though he was puzzled how to secure from the city a right of way
under Van Buren Street, where a bridge loaded with heavy traffic now swung.
There were all sorts of complications. In the first place, the consent of the
War Department at Washington had to be secured in order to tunnel under the
river at all. Secondly, the excavation, if directly under the bridge, might
prove an intolerable nuisance, necessitating the closing or removal of the
bridge. Owing to the critical, not to say hostile, attitude of the newspapers
which, since the La Salle and Washington tunnel grants, were following his
every move with a searchlight, Cowperwood decided not to petition the city for
privileges in this case, but instead to buy the property rights of sufficient
land just north of the bridge, where the digging of the tunnel could proceed
without interference.
</p>

<p>
The piece of land most suitable for this purpose, a lot 150 x 150, lying a
little way from the river-bank, and occupied by a seven-story loft-building,
was owned by the previously mentioned Redmond Purdy, a long, thin, angular,
dirty person, who wore celluloid collars and cuffs and spoke with a nasal
intonation.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood had the customary overtures made by seemingly disinterested parties
endeavoring to secure the land at a fair price. But Purdy, who was as stingy as
a miser and as incisive as a rat-trap, had caught wind of the proposed tunnel
scheme. He was all alive for a fine profit. &ldquo;No, no, no,&rdquo; he
declared, over and over, when approached by the representatives of Mr.
Sylvester Toomey, Cowperwood&rsquo;s ubiquitous land-agent. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t want to sell. Go away.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sylvester Toomey was finally at his wit&rsquo;s end, and complained to
Cowperwood, who at once sent for those noble beacons of dark and stormy waters,
General Van Sickle and the Hon. Kent Barrows McKibben. The General was now
becoming a little dolty, and Cowperwood was thinking of pensioning him; but
McKibben was in his prime&mdash;smug, handsome, deadly, smooth. After talking
it over with Mr. Toomey they returned to Cowperwood&rsquo;s office with a
promising scheme. The Hon. Nahum Dickensheets, one of the judges of the State
Court of Appeals, and a man long since attached, by methods which need not here
be described, to Cowperwood&rsquo;s star, had been persuaded to bring his
extensive technical knowledge to bear on the emergency. At his suggestion the
work of digging the tunnel was at once begun&mdash;first at the east or
Franklin Street end; then, after eight months&rsquo; digging, at the west or
Canal Street end. A shaft was actually sunk some thirty feet back of Mr.
Purdy&rsquo;s building&mdash;between it and the river&mdash;while that
gentleman watched with a quizzical gleam in his eye this defiant procedure. He
was sure that when it came to the necessity of annexing his property the North
and West Chicago Street Railways would be obliged to pay through the nose.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll be cussed,&rdquo; he frequently observed to himself,
for he could not see how his exaction of a pound of flesh was to be evaded, and
yet he felt strangely restless at times. Finally, when it became absolutely
necessary for Cowperwood to secure without further delay this coveted strip, he
sent for its occupant, who called in pleasant anticipation of a profitable
conversation; this should be worth a small fortune to him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Purdy,&rdquo; observed Cowperwood, glibly, &ldquo;you have a piece
of land on the other side of the river that I need. Why don&rsquo;t you sell it
to me? Can&rsquo;t we fix this up now in some amicable way?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He smiled while Purdy cast shrewd, wolfish glances about the place, wondering
how much he could really hope to exact. The building, with all its interior
equipment, land, and all, was worth in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand
dollars.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why should I sell? The building is a good building. It&rsquo;s as useful
to me as it would be to you. I&rsquo;m making money out of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite true,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, &ldquo;but I am willing to pay
you a fair price for it. A public utility is involved. This tunnel will be a
good thing for the West Side and any other land you may own over there. With
what I will pay you you can buy more land in that neighborhood or elsewhere,
and make a good thing out of it. We need to put this tunnel just where it is,
or I wouldn&rsquo;t trouble to argue with you.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it,&rdquo; replied Purdy, fixedly. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve
gone ahead and dug your tunnel without consulting me, and now you expect me to
get out of the way. Well, I don&rsquo;t see that I&rsquo;m called on to get out
of there just to please you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I&rsquo;ll pay you a fair price.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How much will you pay me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How much do you want?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Purdy scratched a fox-like ear. &ldquo;One million dollars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One million dollars!&rdquo; exclaimed Cowperwood. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you
think that&rsquo;s a little steep, Mr. Purdy?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Purdy, sagely. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not any more than
it&rsquo;s worth.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood sighed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry,&rdquo; he replied, meditatively, &ldquo;but this is
really too much. Wouldn&rsquo;t you take three hundred thousand dollars in cash
now and consider this thing closed?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One million,&rdquo; replied Purdy, looking sternly at the ceiling.
&ldquo;Very well, Mr. Purdy,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m very
sorry. It&rsquo;s plain to me that we can&rsquo;t do business as I had hoped.
I&rsquo;m willing to pay you a reasonable sum; but what you ask is far too
much&mdash;preposterous! Don&rsquo;t you think you&rsquo;d better reconsider?
We might move the tunnel even yet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One million dollars,&rdquo; said Purdy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be done, Mr. Purdy. It isn&rsquo;t worth it. Why
won&rsquo;t you be fair? Call it three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars
cash, and my check to-night.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t take five or six hundred thousand dollars if you were
to offer it to me, Mr. Cowperwood, to-night or any other time. I know my
rights.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s all I
can say. If you won&rsquo;t sell, you won&rsquo;t sell. Perhaps you&rsquo;ll
change your mind later.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Purdy went out, and Cowperwood called in his lawyers and his engineers. One
Saturday afternoon, a week or two later, when the building in question had been
vacated for the day, a company of three hundred laborers, with wagons, picks,
shovels, and dynamite sticks, arrived. By sundown of the next day (which, being
Sunday, was a legal holiday, with no courts open or sitting to issue
injunctions) this comely structure, the private property of Mr. Redmond Purdy,
was completely razed and a large excavation substituted in its stead. The
gentleman of the celluloid cuffs and collars, when informed about nine
o&rsquo;clock of this same Sunday morning that his building had been almost
completely removed, was naturally greatly perturbed. A portion of the wall was
still standing when he arrived, hot and excited, and the police were appealed
to.
</p>

<p>
But, strange to say, this was of little avail, for they were shown a writ of
injunction issued by the court of highest jurisdiction, presided over by the
Hon. Nahum Dickensheets, which restrained all and sundry from interfering.
(Subsequently on demand of another court this remarkable document was
discovered to have disappeared; the contention was that it had never really
existed or been produced at all.)
</p>

<p>
The demolition and digging proceeded. Then began a scurrying of lawyers to the
door of one friendly judge after another. There were apoplectic cheeks, blazing
eyes, and gasps for breath while the enormity of the offense was being noised
abroad. Law is law, however. Procedure is procedure, and no writ of injunction
was either issuable or returnable on a legal holiday, when no courts were
sitting. Nevertheless, by three o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon an obliging
magistrate was found who consented to issue an injunction staying this terrible
crime. By this time, however, the building was gone, the excavation complete.
It remained merely for the West Chicago Street Railway Company to secure an
injunction vacating the first injunction, praying that its rights, privileges,
liberties, etc., be not interfered with, and so creating a contest which
naturally threw the matter into the State Court of Appeals, where it could
safely lie. For several years there were numberless injunctions, writs of
errors, doubts, motions to reconsider, threats to carry the matter from the
state to the federal courts on a matter of constitutional privilege, and the
like. The affair was finally settled out of court, for Mr. Purdy by this time
was a more sensible man. In the mean time, however, the newspapers had been
given full details of the transaction, and a storm of words against Cowperwood
ensued.
</p>

<p class="p2">
But more disturbing than the Redmond Purdy incident was the rivalry of a new
Chicago street-railway company. It appeared first as an idea in the brain of
one James Furnivale Woolsen, a determined young Westerner from California, and
developed by degrees into consents and petitions from fully two-thirds of the
residents of various streets in the extreme southwest section of the city where
it was proposed the new line should be located. This same James Furnivale
Woolsen, being an ambitious person, was not to be so easily put down. Besides
the consent and petitions, which Cowperwood could not easily get away from him,
he had a new form of traction then being tried out in several minor
cities&mdash;a form of electric propulsion by means of an overhead wire and a
traveling pole, which was said to be very economical, and to give a service
better than cables and cheaper even than horses.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood had heard all about this new electric system some time before, and
had been studying it for several years with the greatest interest, since it
promised to revolutionize the whole business of street-railroading. However,
having but so recently completed his excellent cable system, he did not see
that it was advisable to throw it away. The trolley was as yet too much of a
novelty; certainly it was not advisable to have it introduced into Chicago
until he was ready to introduce it himself&mdash;first on his outlying feeder
lines, he thought, then perhaps generally.
</p>

<p>
But before he could take suitable action against Woolsen, that engaging young
upstart, who was possessed of a high-power imagination and a gift of gab, had
allied himself with such interested investors as Truman Leslie MacDonald, who
saw here a heaven-sent opportunity of mulcting Cowperwood, and Jordan Jules,
once the president of the North Chicago Gas Company, who had lost money through
Cowperwood in the gas war. Two better instruments for goading a man whom they
considered an enemy could not well be imagined&mdash;Truman Leslie with his
dark, waspish, mistrustful, jealous eyes, and his slim, vital body; and Jordan
Jules, short, rotund, sandy, a sickly crop of thin, oily, light hair growing
down over his coat-collar, his forehead and crown glisteningly bald, his eyes a
seeking, searching, revengeful blue. They in turn brought in Samuel Blackman,
once president of the South Side Gas Company; Sunderland Sledd, of local
railroad management and stock-investment fame; and Norrie Simms, president of
the Douglas Trust Company, who, however, was little more than a fiscal agent.
The general feeling was that Cowperwood&rsquo;s defensive tactics&mdash;which
consisted in having the city council refuse to act&mdash;could be easily met.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I think we can soon fix that,&rdquo; exclaimed young MacDonald,
one morning at a meeting. &ldquo;We ought to be able to smoke them out. A
little publicity will do it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He appealed to his father, the editor of the <i>Inquirer</i>, but the latter refused
to act for the time being, seeing that his son was interested. MacDonald,
enraged at the do-nothing attitude of the council, invaded that body and
demanded of Alderman Dowling, still leader, why this matter of the Chicago
general ordinances was still lying unconsidered. Mr. Dowling, a large, mushy,
placid man with blue eyes, an iron frame, and a beefy smile, vouchsafed the
information that, although he was chairman of the committee on streets and
alleys, he knew nothing about it. &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t been payin&rsquo; much
attention to things lately,&rdquo; he replied.
</p>

<p>
Mr. MacDonald went to see the remaining members of this same committee. They
were non-committal. They would have to look into the matter. Somebody claimed
that there was a flaw in the petitions.
</p>

<p>
Evidently there was crooked work here somewhere. Cowperwood was to blame, no
doubt. MacDonald conferred with Blackman and Jordan Jules, and it was
determined that the council should be harried into doing its duty. This was a
legitimate enterprise. A new and better system of traction was being kept out
of the city. Schryhart, since he was offered an interest, and since there was
considerable chance of his being able to dominate the new enterprise, agreed
that the ordinances ought to be acted upon. In consequence there was a renewed
hubbub in the newspapers.
</p>

<p>
It was pointed out through Schryhart&rsquo;s Chronicle, through Hyssop&rsquo;s
and Merrill&rsquo;s papers, and through the <i>Inquirer</i> that such a situation was
intolerable. If the dominant party, at the behest of so sinister an influence
as Cowperwood, was to tie up all outside traction legislation, there could be
but one thing left&mdash;an appeal to the voters of the city to turn the
rascals out. No party could survive such a record of political trickery and
financial jugglery. McKenty, Dowling, Cowperwood, and others were characterized
as unreasonable obstructionists and debasing influences. But Cowperwood merely
smiled. These were the caterwaulings of the enemy. Later, when young MacDonald
threatened to bring legal action to compel the council to do its duty,
Cowperwood and his associates were not so cheerful. A mandamus proceeding,
however futile, would give the newspapers great opportunity for chatter;
moreover, a city election was drawing near. However, McKenty and Cowperwood
were by no means helpless. They had offices, jobs, funds, a well-organized
party system, the saloons, the dives, and those dark chambers where at late
hours ballot-boxes are incontinently stuffed.
</p>

<p>
Did Cowperwood share personally in all this? Not at all. Or McKenty? No. In
good tweed and fine linen they frequently conferred in the offices of the
Chicago Trust Company, the president&rsquo;s office of the North Chicago Street
Railway System, and Mr. Cowperwood&rsquo;s library. No dark scenes were ever
enacted there. But just the same, when the time came, the
Schryhart-Simms-MacDonald editorial combination did not win. Mr.
McKenty&rsquo;s party had the votes. A number of the most flagrantly debauched
aldermen, it is true, were defeated; but what is an alderman here and there?
The newly elected ones, even in the face of pre-election promises and vows,
could be easily suborned or convinced. So the anti-Cowperwood element was just
where it was before; but the feeling against him was much stronger, and
considerable sentiment generated in the public at large that there was
something wrong with the Cowperwood method of street-railway control.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br/>
Untoward Disclosures</h2>

<p>
Coincident with these public disturbances and of subsequent hearing upon them
was the discovery by Editor Haguenin of Cowperwood&rsquo;s relationship with
Cecily. It came about not through Aileen, who was no longer willing to fight
Cowperwood in this matter, but through Haguenin&rsquo;s lady society editor,
who, hearing rumors in the social world, springing from heaven knows where, and
being beholden to Haguenin for many favors, had carried the matter to him in a
very direct way. Haguenin, a man of insufficient worldliness in spite of his
journalistic profession, scarcely believed it. Cowperwood was so suave, so
commercial. He had heard many things concerning him&mdash;his past&mdash;but
Cowperwood&rsquo;s present state in Chicago was such, it seemed to him, as to
preclude petty affairs of this kind. Still, the name of his daughter being
involved, he took the matter up with Cecily, who under pressure confessed. She
made the usual plea that she was of age, and that she wished to live her own
life&mdash;logic which she had gathered largely from Cowperwood&rsquo;s
attitude. Haguenin did nothing about it at first, thinking to send Cecily off
to an aunt in Nebraska; but, finding her intractable, and fearing some
counter-advice or reprisal on the part of Cowperwood, who, by the way, had
indorsed paper to the extent of one hundred thousand dollars for him, he
decided to discuss matters first. It meant a cessation of relations and some
inconvenient financial readjustments; but it had to be. He was just on the
point of calling on Cowperwood when the latter, unaware as yet of the latest
development in regard to Cecily, and having some variation of his council
programme to discuss with Haguenin, asked him over the &rsquo;phone to lunch.
Haguenin was much surprised, but in a way relieved. &ldquo;I am busy,&rdquo; he
said, very heavily, &ldquo;but cannot you come to the office some time to-day?
There is something I would like to see you about.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, imagining that there was some editorial or local political
development on foot which might be of interest to him, made an appointment for
shortly after four. He drove to the publisher&rsquo;s office in the <i>Press</i>
Building, and was greeted by a grave and almost despondent man.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; began Haguenin, when the financier entered, smart
and trig, his usual air of genial sufficiency written all over him, &ldquo;I
have known you now for something like fourteen years, and during this time I
have shown you nothing but courtesy and good will. It is true that quite
recently you have done me various financial favors, but that was more due, I
thought, to the sincere friendship you bore me than to anything else. Quite
accidentally I have learned of the relationship that exists between you and my
daughter. I have recently spoken to her, and she admitted all that I need to
know. Common decency, it seems to me, might have suggested to you that you
leave my child out of the list of women you have degraded. Since it has not, I
merely wish to say to you&rdquo;&mdash;and Mr. Haguenin&rsquo;s face was very
tense and white&mdash;&ldquo;that the relationship between you and me is ended.
The one hundred thousand dollars you have indorsed for me will be arranged for
otherwise as soon as possible, and I hope you will return to me the stock of
this paper that you hold as collateral. Another type of man, Mr. Cowperwood,
might attempt to make you suffer in another way. I presume that you have no
children of your own, or that if you have you lack the parental instinct;
otherwise you could not have injured me in this fashion. I believe that you
will live to see that this policy does not pay in Chicago or anywhere
else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Haguenin turned slowly on his heel toward his desk. Cowperwood, who had
listened very patiently and very fixedly, without a tremor of an eyelash,
merely said: &ldquo;There seems to be no common intellectual ground, Mr.
Haguenin, upon which you and I can meet in this matter. You cannot understand
my point of view. I could not possibly adopt yours. However, as you wish it,
the stock will be returned to you upon receipt of my indorsements. I cannot say
more than that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He turned and walked unconcernedly out, thinking that it was too bad to lose
the support of so respectable a man, but also that he could do without it. It
was silly the way parents insisted on their daughters being something that they
did not wish to be.
</p>

<p>
Haguenin stood by his desk after Cowperwood had gone, wondering where he should
get one hundred thousand dollars quickly, and also what he should do to make
his daughter see the error of her ways. It was an astonishing blow he had
received, he thought, in the house of a friend. It occurred to him that Walter
Melville Hyssop, who was succeeding mightily with his two papers, might come to
his rescue, and that later he could repay him when the <i>Press</i> was more
prosperous. He went out to his house in a quandary concerning life and chance;
while Cowperwood went to the Chicago Trust Company to confer with Videra, and
later out to his own home to consider how he should equalize this loss. The
state and fate of Cecily Haguenin was not of so much importance as many other
things on his mind at this time.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Far more serious were his cogitations with regard to a liaison he had recently
ventured to establish with Mrs. Hosmer Hand, wife of an eminent investor and
financier. Hand was a solid, phlegmatic, heavy-thinking person who had some
years before lost his first wife, to whom he had been eminently faithful. After
that, for a period of years he had been a lonely speculator, attending to his
vast affairs; but finally because of his enormous wealth, his rather
presentable appearance and social rank, he had been entrapped by much social
attention on the part of a Mrs. Jessie Drew Barrett into marrying her daughter
Caroline, a dashing skip of a girl who was clever, incisive, calculating, and
intensely gay. Since she was socially ambitious, and without much heart, the
thought of Hand&rsquo;s millions, and how advantageous would be her situation
in case he should die, had enabled her to overlook quite easily his heavy,
unyouthful appearance and to see him in the light of a lover. There was
criticism, of course. Hand was considered a victim, and Caroline and her mother
designing minxes and cats; but since the wealthy financier was truly ensnared
it behooved friends and future satellites to be courteous, and so they were.
The wedding was very well attended. Mrs. Hand began to give house-parties,
teas, musicales, and receptions on a lavish scale.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood never met either her or her husband until he was well launched on
his street-car programme. Needing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in a
hurry, and finding the Chicago Trust Company, the Lake City Bank, and other
institutions heavily loaded with his securities, he turned in a moment of
inspirational thought to Hand. Cowperwood was always a great borrower. His
paper was out in large quantities. He introduced himself frequently to powerful
men in this way, taking long or short loans at high or low rates of interest,
as the case might be, and sometimes finding some one whom he could work with or
use. In the case of Hand, though the latter was ostensibly of the
enemies&rsquo; camp&mdash;the Schryhart-Union-Gas-Douglas-Trust-Company
crowd&mdash;nevertheless Cowperwood had no hesitation in going to him. He
wished to overcome or forestall any unfavorable impression. Though Hand, a
solemn man of shrewd but honest nature, had heard a number of unfavorable
rumors, he was inclined to be fair and think the best. Perhaps Cowperwood was
merely the victim of envious rivals.
</p>

<p>
When the latter first called on him at his office in the Rookery Building, he
was most cordial. &ldquo;Come in, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have
heard a great deal about you from one person and another&mdash;mostly from the
newspapers. What can I do for you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood exhibited five hundred thousand dollars&rsquo; worth of West Chicago
Street Railway stock. &ldquo;I want to know if I can get two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars on those by to-morrow morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Hand, a placid man, looked at the securities peacefully. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s
the matter with your own bank?&rdquo; He was referring to the Chicago Trust
Company. &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t it take care of them for you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Loaded up with other things just now,&rdquo; smiled Cowperwood,
ingratiatingly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, if I can believe all the papers say, you&rsquo;re going to wreck
these roads or Chicago or yourself; but I don&rsquo;t live by the papers. How
long would you want it for?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Six months, perhaps. A year, if you choose.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Hand turned over the securities, eying their gold seals. &ldquo;Five hundred
thousand dollars&rsquo; worth of six per cent. West Chicago preferred,&rdquo;
he commented. &ldquo;Are you earning six per cent.?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We&rsquo;re earning eight right now. You&rsquo;ll live to see the day
when these shares will sell at two hundred dollars and pay twelve per cent. at
that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you&rsquo;ve quadrupled the issue of the old company? Well,
Chicago&rsquo;s growing. Leave them here until to-morrow or bring them back.
Send over or call me, and I&rsquo;ll tell you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They talked for a little while on street-railway and corporation matters. Hand
wanted to know something concerning West Chicago land&mdash;a region adjoining
Ravenswood. Cowperwood gave him his best advice.
</p>

<p>
The next day he &rsquo;phoned, and the stocks, so Hand informed him, were
available. He would send a check over. So thus a tentative friendship began,
and it lasted until the relationship between Cowperwood and Mrs. Hand was
consummated and discovered.
</p>

<p>
In Caroline Barrett, as she occasionally preferred to sign herself, Cowperwood
encountered a woman who was as restless and fickle as himself, but not so
shrewd. Socially ambitious, she was anything but socially conventional, and she
did not care for Hand. Once married, she had planned to repay herself in part
by a very gay existence. The affair between her and Cowperwood had begun at a
dinner at the magnificent residence of Hand on the North Shore Drive
overlooking the lake. Cowperwood had gone to talk over with her husband various
Chicago matters. Mrs. Hand was excited by his risque reputation. A little woman
in stature, with intensely white teeth, red lips which she did not hesitate to
rouge on occasion, brown hair, and small brown eyes which had a gay, searching,
defiant twinkle in them, she did her best to be interesting, clever, witty, and
she was.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know Frank Cowperwood by reputation, anyhow,&rdquo; she exclaimed,
holding out a small, white, jeweled hand, the nails of which at their juncture
with the flesh were tinged with henna, and the palms of which were slightly
rouged. Her eyes blazed, and her teeth gleamed. &ldquo;One can scarcely read of
anything else in the Chicago papers.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood returned his most winning beam. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m delighted to meet
you, Mrs. Hand. I have read of you, too. But I hope you don&rsquo;t believe all
the papers say about me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And if I did it wouldn&rsquo;t hurt you in my estimation. To do is to be
talked about in these days.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, because of his desire to employ the services of Hand, was at his
best. He kept the conversation within conventional lines; but all the while he
was exchanging secret, unobserved smiles with Mrs. Hand, whom he realized at
once had married Hand for his money, and was bent, under a somewhat jealous
espionage, to have a good time anyhow. There is a kind of eagerness that goes
with those who are watched and wish to escape that gives them a gay, electric
awareness and sparkle in the presence of an opportunity for release. Mrs. Hand
had this. Cowperwood, a past master in this matter of femininity, studied her
hands, her hair, her eyes, her smile. After some contemplation he decided,
other things being equal, that Mrs. Hand would do, and that he could be
interested if she were very much interested in him. Her telling eyes and
smiles, the heightened color of her cheeks indicated after a time that she was.
</p>

<p>
Meeting him on the street one day not long after they had first met, she told
him that she was going for a visit to friends at Oconomowoc, in Wisconsin.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose you ever get up that far north in summer, do
you?&rdquo; she asked, with an air, and smiled.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never have,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;but there&rsquo;s no telling
what I might do if I were bantered. I suppose you ride and canoe?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes; and play tennis and golf, too.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But where would a mere idler like me stay?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, there are several good hotels. There&rsquo;s never any trouble about
that. I suppose you ride yourself?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;After a fashion,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, who was an expert.
</p>

<p>
Witness then the casual encounter on horseback, early one Sunday morning in the
painted hills of Wisconsin, of Frank Algernon Cowperwood and Caroline Hand. A
jaunty, racing canter, side by side; idle talk concerning people, scenery,
conveniences; his usual direct suggestions and love-making, and then,
subsequently&mdash;
</p>

<p>
The day of reckoning, if such it might be called, came later.
</p>

<p>
Caroline Hand was, perhaps, unduly reckless. She admired Cowperwood greatly
without really loving him. He found her interesting, principally because she
was young, debonair, sufficient&mdash;a new type. They met in Chicago after a
time instead of in Wisconsin, then in Detroit (where she had friends), then in
Rockford, where a sister had gone to live. It was easy for him with his time
and means. Finally, Duane Kingsland, wholesale flour merchant, religious,
moral, conventional, who knew Cowperwood and his repute, encountered Mrs. Hand
and Cowperwood first near Oconomowoc one summer&rsquo;s day, and later in
Randolph Street, near Cowperwood&rsquo;s bachelor rooms. Being the man that he
was and knowing old Hand well, he thought it was his duty to ask the latter if
his wife knew Cowperwood intimately. There was an explosion in the Hand home.
Mrs. Hand, when confronted by her husband, denied, of course, that there was
anything wrong between her and Cowperwood. Her elderly husband, from a certain
telltale excitement and resentment in her manner, did not believe this. He
thought once of confronting Cowperwood; but, being heavy and practical, he
finally decided to sever all business relationships with him and fight him in
other ways. Mrs. Hand was watched very closely, and a suborned maid discovered
an old note she had written to Cowperwood. An attempt to persuade her to leave
for Europe&mdash;as old Butler had once attempted to send Aileen years
before&mdash;raised a storm of protest, but she went. Hand, from being neutral
if not friendly, became quite the most dangerous and forceful of all
Cowperwood&rsquo;s Chicago enemies. He was a powerful man. His wrath was
boundless. He looked upon Cowperwood now as a dark and dangerous man&mdash;one
of whom Chicago would be well rid.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br/>
A Supper Party</h2>

<p>
Since the days in which Aileen had been left more or less lonely by Cowperwood,
however, no two individuals had been more faithful in their attentions than
Taylor Lord and Kent McKibben. Both were fond of her in a general way, finding
her interesting physically and temperamentally; but, being beholden to the
magnate for many favors, they were exceedingly circumspect in their attitude
toward her, particularly during those early years in which they knew that
Cowperwood was intensely devoted to her. Later they were not so careful.
</p>

<p>
It was during this latter period that Aileen came gradually, through the agency
of these two men, to share in a form of mid-world life that was not utterly
dull. In every large city there is a kind of social half world, where artists
and the more adventurous of the socially unconventional and restless meet for
an exchange of things which cannot be counted mere social form and civility. It
is the age-old world of Bohemia. Hither resort those &ldquo;accidentals&rdquo;
of fancy that make the stage, the drawing-room, and all the schools of artistic
endeavor interesting or peculiar. In a number of studios in Chicago such as
those of Lane Cross and Rhees Crier, such little circles were to be found.
Rhees Crier, for instance, a purely parlor artist, with all the airs,
conventions, and social adaptability of the tribe, had quite a following. Here
and to several other places by turns Taylor Lord and Kent McKibben conducted
Aileen, both asking and obtaining permission to be civil to her when Cowperwood
was away.
</p>

<p>
Among the friends of these two at this time was a certain Polk Lynde, an
interesting society figure, whose father owned an immense reaper works, and
whose time was spent in idling, racing, gambling, socializing&mdash;anything,
in short, that it came into his head to do. He was tall, dark, athletic,
straight, muscular, with a small dark mustache, dark, black-brown eyes, kinky
black hair, and a fine, almost military carriage&mdash;which he clothed always
to the best advantage. A clever philanderer, it was quite his pride that he did
not boast of his conquests. One look at him, however, by the initiated, and the
story was told. Aileen first saw him on a visit to the studio of Rhees Grier.
Being introduced to him very casually on this occasion, she was nevertheless
clearly conscious that she was encountering a fascinating man, and that he was
fixing her with a warm, avid eye. For the moment she recoiled from him as being
a little too brazen in his stare, and yet she admired the general appearance of
him. He was of that smart world that she admired so much, and from which now
apparently she was hopelessly debarred. That trig, bold air of his realized for
her at last the type of man, outside of Cowperwood, whom she would prefer
within limits to admire her. If she were going to be &ldquo;bad,&rdquo; as she
would have phrased it to herself, she would be &ldquo;bad&rdquo; with a man
such as he. He would be winsome and coaxing, but at the same time strong,
direct, deliciously brutal, like her Frank. He had, too, what Cowperwood could
not have, a certain social air or swagger which came with idleness, much
loafing, a sense of social superiority and security&mdash;a devil-may-care
insouciance which recks little of other people&rsquo;s will or whims.
</p>

<p>
When she next saw him, which was several weeks later at an affair of the
Courtney Tabors, friends of Lord&rsquo;s, he exclaimed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes. By George! You&rsquo;re the Mrs. Cowperwood I met several weeks
ago at Rhees Grier&rsquo;s studio. I&rsquo;ve not forgotten you. I&rsquo;ve
seen you in my eye all over Chicago. Taylor Lord introduced me to you. Say, but
you&rsquo;re a beautiful woman!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He leaned ingratiatingly, whimsically, admiringly near.
</p>

<p>
Aileen realized that for so early in the afternoon, and considering the crowd,
he was curiously enthusiastic. The truth was that because of some rounds he had
made elsewhere he was verging toward too much liquor. His eye was alight, his
color coppery, his air swagger, devil-may-care, bacchanal. This made her a
little cautious; but she rather liked his brown, hard face, handsome mouth, and
crisp Jovian curls. His compliment was not utterly improper; but she
nevertheless attempted coyly to avoid him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come, Polk, here&rsquo;s an old friend of yours over here&mdash;Sadie
Boutwell&mdash;she wants to meet you again,&rdquo; some one observed, catching
him by the arm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, you don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; he exclaimed, genially, and yet at the same
time a little resentfully&mdash;the kind of disjointed resentment a man who has
had the least bit too much is apt to feel on being interrupted.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not going to walk all over Chicago thinking of a woman
I&rsquo;ve seen somewhere only to be carried away the first time I do meet her.
I&rsquo;m going to talk to her first.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen laughed. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s charming of you, but we can meet again,
perhaps. Besides, there&rsquo;s some one here&rdquo;&mdash;Lord was tactfully
directing her attention to another woman. Rhees Grier and McKibben, who were
present also, came to her assistance. In the hubbub that ensued Aileen was
temporarily extricated and Lynde tactfully steered out of her way. But they had
met again, and it was not to be the last time. Subsequent to this second
meeting, Lynde thought the matter over quite calmly, and decided that he must
make a definite effort to become more intimate with Aileen. Though she was not
as young as some others, she suited his present mood exactly. She was rich
physically&mdash;voluptuous and sentient. She was not of his world precisely,
but what of it? She was the wife of an eminent financier, who had been in
society once, and she herself had a dramatic record. He was sure of that. He
could win her if he wanted to. It would be easy, knowing her as he did, and
knowing what he did about her.
</p>

<p>
So not long after, Lynde ventured to invite her, with Lord, McKibben, Mr. and
Mrs. Rhees Grier, and a young girl friend of Mrs. Grier who was rather
attractive, a Miss Chrystobel Lanman, to a theater and supper party. The
programme was to hear a reigning farce at Hooley&rsquo;s, then to sup at the
Richelieu, and finally to visit a certain exclusive gambling-parlor which then
flourished on the South Side&mdash;the resort of actors, society gamblers, and
the like&mdash;where roulette, trente-et-quarante, baccarat, and the honest
game of poker, to say nothing of various other games of chance, could be played
amid exceedingly recherche surroundings.
</p>

<p>
The party was gay, especially after the adjournment to the Richelieu, where
special dishes of chicken, lobster, and a bucket of champagne were served.
Later at the Alcott Club, as the gambling resort was known, Aileen, according
to Lynde, was to be taught to play baccarat, poker, and any other game that she
wished. &ldquo;You follow my advice, Mrs. Cowperwood,&rdquo; he observed,
cheerfully, at dinner&mdash;being host, he had put her between himself and
McKibben&mdash;&ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll show you how to get your money back
anyhow. That&rsquo;s more than some others can do,&rdquo; he added, spiritedly,
recalling by a look a recent occasion when he and McKibben, being out with
friends, the latter had advised liberally and had seen his advice go wrong.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you been gambling, Kent?&rdquo; asked Aileen, archly, turning to
her long-time social mentor and friend.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I can honestly say I haven&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied McKibben, with a
bland smile. &ldquo;I may have thought I was gambling, but I admit I
don&rsquo;t know how. Now Polk, here, wins all the time, don&rsquo;t you, Polk?
Just follow him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A wry smile spread over Lynde&rsquo;s face at this, for it was on record in
certain circles that he had lost as much as ten and even fifteen thousand in an
evening. He also had a record of winning twenty-five thousand once at baccarat
at an all-night and all-day sitting, and then losing it.
</p>

<p>
Lynde all through the evening had been casting hard, meaning glances into
Aileen&rsquo;s eyes. She could not avoid this, and she did not feel that she
wanted to. He was so charming. He was talking to her half the time at the
theater, without apparently addressing or even seeing her. Aileen knew well
enough what was in his mind. At times, quite as in those days when she had
first met Cowperwood, she felt an unwilled titillation in her blood. Her eyes
brightened. It was just possible that she could come to love a man like this,
although it would be hard. It would serve Cowperwood right for neglecting her.
Yet even now the shadow of Cowperwood was over her, but also the desire for
love and a full sex life.
</p>

<p>
In the gambling-rooms was gathered an interested and fairly smart
throng&mdash;actors, actresses, clubmen, one or two very emancipated women of
the high local social world, and a number of more or less gentlemanly young
gamblers. Both Lord and McKibben began suggesting column numbers for first
plays to their proteges, while Lynde leaned caressingly over Aileen&rsquo;s
powdered shoulders. &ldquo;Let me put this on quatre premier for you,&rdquo; he
suggested, throwing down a twenty-dollar gold piece.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, but let it be my money,&rdquo; complained Aileen. &ldquo;I want to
play with my money. I won&rsquo;t feel that it&rsquo;s mine if I
don&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well, but you can&rsquo;t just now. You can&rsquo;t play with
bills.&rdquo; She was extracting a crisp roll from her purse. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
have to exchange them later for you for gold. You can pay me then. He&rsquo;s
going to call now, anyhow. There you are. He&rsquo;s done it. Wait a moment.
You may win.&rdquo; And he paused to study the little ball as it circled round
and round above the receiving pockets.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me see. How much do I get if I win quatre premier?&rdquo; She was
trying to recall her experiences abroad.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ten for one,&rdquo; replied Lynde; &ldquo;but you didn&rsquo;t get it.
Let&rsquo;s try it once more for luck. It comes up every so often&mdash;once in
ten or twelve. I&rsquo;ve made it often on a first play. How long has it been
since the last quatre premier?&rdquo; he asked of a neighbor whom he
recognized.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Seven, I think, Polk. Six or seven. How&rsquo;s tricks?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, so so.&rdquo; He turned again to Aileen. &ldquo;It ought to come up
now soon. I always make it a rule to double my plays each time. It gets you
back all you&rsquo;ve lost, some time or other.&rdquo; He put down two
twenties.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Goodness,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;that will be two hundred! I had
forgotten that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Just then the call came for all placements to cease, and Aileen directed her
attention to the ball. It circled and circled in its dizzy way and then
suddenly dropped.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lost again,&rdquo; commented Lynde. &ldquo;Well, now we&rsquo;ll make it
eighty,&rdquo; and he threw down four twenties. &ldquo;Just for luck
we&rsquo;ll put something on thirty-six, and thirteen, and nine.&rdquo; With an
easy air he laid one hundred dollars in gold on each number.
</p>

<p>
Aileen liked his manner. This was like Frank. Lynde had the cool spirit of a
plunger. His father, recognizing his temperament, had set over a large fixed
sum to be paid to him annually. She recognized, as in Cowperwood, the spirit of
adventure, only working out in another way. Lynde was perhaps destined to come
to some startlingly reckless end, but what of it? He was a gentleman. His
position in life was secure. That had always been Aileen&rsquo;s sad, secret
thought. Hers had not been and might never be now.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m getting foozled already,&rdquo; she exclaimed, gaily
reverting to a girlhood habit of clapping her hands. &ldquo;How much will I win
if I win?&rdquo; The gesture attracted attention even as the ball fell.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By George, you have it!&rdquo; exclaimed Lynde, who was watching the
croupier. &ldquo;Eight hundred, two hundred, two hundred&rdquo;&mdash;he was
counting to himself&mdash;&ldquo;but we lose thirteen. Very good, that makes us
nearly one thousand ahead, counting out what we put down. Rather nice for a
beginning, don&rsquo;t you think? Now, if you&rsquo;ll take my advice
you&rsquo;ll not play quatre premier any more for a while. Suppose you double a
thirteen&mdash;you lost on that&mdash;and play Bates&rsquo;s formula.
I&rsquo;ll show you what that is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Already, because he was known to be a plunger, Lynde was gathering a few
spectators behind him, and Aileen, fascinated, and not knowing these mysteries
of chance, was content to watch him. At one stage of the playing Lynde leaned
over and, seeing her smile, whispered:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What adorable hair and eyes you have! You glow like a great rose. You
have a radiance that is wonderful.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Mr. Lynde! How you talk! Does gambling always affect you this
way?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, you do. Always, apparently!&rdquo; And he stared hard into her
upturned eyes. Still playing ostensibly for Aileen&rsquo;s benefit, he now
doubled the cash deposit on his system, laying down a thousand in gold. Aileen
urged him to play for himself and let her watch. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll just put a
little money on these odd numbers here and there, and you play any system you
want. How will that do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, not at all,&rdquo; he replied, feelingly. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re my
luck. I play with you. You keep the gold for me. I&rsquo;ll make you a fine
present if I win. The losses are mine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just as you like. I don&rsquo;t know really enough about it to play. But
I surely get the nice present if you win?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You do, win or lose,&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;And now you put the
money on the numbers I call. Twenty on seven. Eighty on thirteen. Eighty on
thirty. Twenty on nine. Fifty on twenty-four.&rdquo; He was following a system
of his own, and in obedience Aileen&rsquo;s white, plump arm reached here and
there while the spectators paused, realizing that heavier playing was being
done by this pair than by any one else. Lynde was plunging for effect. He lost
a thousand and fifty dollars at one clip.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, all that good money!&rdquo; exclaimed Aileen, mock-pathetically, as
the croupier raked it in.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Never mind, we&rsquo;ll get it back,&rdquo; exclaimed Lynde, throwing
two one-thousand-dollar bills to the cashier. &ldquo;Give me gold for
those.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The man gave him a double handful, which he put down between Aileen&rsquo;s
white arms.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One hundred on two. One hundred on four. One hundred on six. One hundred
on eight.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The pieces were five-dollar gold pieces, and Aileen quickly built up the little
yellow stacks and shoved them in place. Again the other players stopped and
began to watch the odd pair. Aileen&rsquo;s red-gold head, and pink cheeks, and
swimming eyes, her body swathed in silks and rich laces; and Lynde, erect, his
shirt bosom snowy white, his face dark, almost coppery, his eyes and hair
black&mdash;they were indeed a strikingly assorted pair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s this? What&rsquo;s this?&rdquo; asked Grier, coming up.
&ldquo;Who&rsquo;s plunging? You, Mrs. Cowperwood?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not plunging,&rdquo; replied Lynde, indifferently. &ldquo;We&rsquo;re
merely working out a formula&mdash;Mrs. Cowperwood and I. We&rsquo;re doing it
together.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen smiled. She was in her element at last. She was beginning to shine. She
was attracting attention.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One hundred on twelve. One hundred on eighteen. One hundred on
twenty-six.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good heavens, what are you up to, Lynde?&rdquo; exclaimed Lord, leaving
Mrs. Rhees and coming over. She followed. Strangers also were gathering. The
business of the place was at its topmost toss&mdash;it being two o&rsquo;clock
in the morning&mdash;and the rooms were full.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How interesting!&rdquo; observed Miss Lanman, at the other end of the
table, pausing in her playing and staring. McKibben, who was beside her, also
paused. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re plunging. Do look at all the money! Goodness,
isn&rsquo;t she daring-looking&mdash;and he?&rdquo; Aileen&rsquo;s shining arm
was moving deftly, showily about.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Look at the bills he&rsquo;s breaking!&rdquo; Lynde was taking out a
thick layer of fresh, yellow bills which he was exchanging for gold.
&ldquo;They make a striking pair, don&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The board was now practically covered with Lynde&rsquo;s gold in quaint little
stacks. He had followed a system called Mazarin, which should give him five for
one, and possibly break the bank. Quite a crowd swarmed about the table, their
faces glowing in the artificial light. The exclamation &ldquo;plunging!&rdquo;
&ldquo;plunging!&rdquo; was to be heard whispered here and there. Lynde was
delightfully cool and straight. His lithe body was quite erect, his eyes
reflective, his teeth set over an unlighted cigarette. Aileen was excited as a
child, delighted to be once more the center of comment. Lord looked at her with
sympathetic eyes. He liked her. Well, let her he amused. It was good for her
now and then; but Lynde was a fool to make a show of himself and risk so much
money.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Table closed!&rdquo; called the croupier, and instantly the little ball
began to spin. All eyes followed it. Round and round it went&mdash;Aileen as
keen an observer as any. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If we lose this,&rdquo; said Lynde, &ldquo;we will make one more bet
double, and then if we don&rsquo;t win that we&rsquo;ll quit.&rdquo; He was
already out nearly three thousand dollars.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, indeed! Only I think we ought to quit now. Here goes two
thousand if we don&rsquo;t win. Don&rsquo;t you think that&rsquo;s quite
enough? I haven&rsquo;t brought you much luck, have I?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are luck,&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;All the luck I want. One more.
Stand by me for one more try, will you? If we win I&rsquo;ll quit.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The little ball clicked even as she nodded, and the croupier, paying out on a
few small stacks here and there, raked all the rest solemnly into the receiving
orifice, while murmurs of sympathetic dissatisfaction went up here and there.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How much did they have on the board?&rdquo; asked Miss Lanman of
McKibben, in surprise. &ldquo;It must have been a great deal, wasn&rsquo;t
it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, two thousand dollars, perhaps. That isn&rsquo;t so high here,
though. People do plunge for as much as eight or ten thousand. It all
depends.&rdquo; McKibben was in a belittling, depreciating mood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, but not often, surely.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For the love of heavens, Polk!&rdquo; exclaimed Rhees Grier, coming up
and plucking at his sleeve; &ldquo;if you want to give your money away give it
to me. I can gather it in just as well as that croupier, and I&rsquo;ll go get
a truck and haul it home, where it will do some good. It&rsquo;s perfectly
terrible the way you are carrying on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lynde took his loss with equanimity. &ldquo;Now to double it,&rdquo; he
observed, &ldquo;and get all our losses back, or go downstairs and have a
rarebit and some champagne. What form of a present would please you
best?&mdash;but never mind. I know a souvenir for this occasion.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He smiled and bought more gold. Aileen stacked it up showily, if a little
repentantly. She did not quite approve of this&mdash;his plunging&mdash;and yet
she did; she could not help sympathizing with the plunging spirit. In a few
moments it was on the board&mdash;the same combination, the same stacks, only
doubled&mdash;four thousand all told. The croupier called, the ball rolled and
fell. Barring three hundred dollars returned, the bank took it all.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, now for a rarebit,&rdquo; exclaimed Lynde, easily, turning to
Lord, who stood behind him smiling. &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t a match, have you?
We&rsquo;ve had a run of bad luck, that&rsquo;s sure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lynde was secretly the least bit disgruntled, for if he had won he had intended
to take a portion of the winnings and put it in a necklace or some other gewgaw
for Aileen. Now he must pay for it. Yet there was some satisfaction in having
made an impression as a calm and indifferent, though heavy loser. He gave
Aileen his arm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, my lady,&rdquo; he observed, &ldquo;we didn&rsquo;t win; but we
had a little fun out of it, I hope? That combination, if it had come out, would
have set us up handsomely. Better luck next time, eh?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He smiled genially.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, but I was to have been your luck, and I wasn&rsquo;t,&rdquo;
replied Aileen.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are all the luck I want, if you&rsquo;re willing to be. Come to the
Richelieu to-morrow with me for lunch&mdash;will you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me see,&rdquo; replied Aileen, who, observing his ready and somewhat
iron fervor, was doubtful. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t do that,&rdquo; she said,
finally, &ldquo;I have another engagement.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How about Tuesday, then?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen, realizing of a sudden that she was making much of a situation that
ought to be handled with a light hand, answered readily: &ldquo;Very
well&mdash;Tuesday! Only call me up before. I may have to change my mind or the
time.&rdquo; And she smiled good-naturedly.
</p>

<p>
After this Lynde had no opportunity to talk to Aileen privately; but in saying
good night he ventured to press her arm suggestively. She suffered a peculiar
nervous thrill from this, but decided curiously that she had brought it upon
herself by her eagerness for life and revenge, and must make up her mind. Did
she or did she not wish to go on with this? This was the question uppermost,
and she felt that she must decide. However, as in most such cases,
circumstances were to help decide for her, and, unquestionably, a portion of
this truth was in her mind as she was shown gallantly to her door by Taylor
Lord.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br/>
Mr. Lynde to the Rescue</h2>

<p>
The interested appearance of a man like Polk Lynde at this stage of
Aileen&rsquo;s affairs was a bit of fortuitous or gratuitous humor on the part
of fate, which is involved with that subconscious chemistry of things of which
as yet we know nothing. Here was Aileen brooding over her fate, meditating over
her wrongs, as it were; and here was Polk Lynde, an interesting, forceful
Lothario of the city, who was perhaps as well suited to her moods and her
tastes at this time as any male outside of Cowperwood could be.
</p>

<p>
In many respects Lynde was a charming man. He was comparatively young&mdash;not
more than Aileen&rsquo;s own age&mdash;schooled, if not educated, at one of the
best American colleges, of excellent taste in the matter of clothes, friends,
and the details of living with which he chose to surround himself, but at heart
a rake. He loved, and had from his youth up, to gamble. He was in one phase of
the word a HARD and yet by no means a self-destructive drinker, for he had an
iron constitution and could consume spirituous waters with the minimum of ill
effect. He had what Gibbon was wont to call &ldquo;the most amiable of our
vices,&rdquo; a passion for women, and he cared no more for the cool, patient,
almost penitent methods by which his father had built up the immense reaper
business, of which he was supposedly the heir, than he cared for the mysteries
or sacred rights of the Chaldees. He realized that the business itself was a
splendid thing. He liked on occasion to think of it with all its extent of
ground-space, plain red-brick buildings, tall stacks and yelling whistles; but
he liked in no way to have anything to do with the rather commonplace routine
of its manipulation.
</p>

<p>
The principal difficulty with Aileen under these circumstances, of course, was
her intense vanity and self-consciousness. Never was there a vainer or more
sex-troubled woman. Why, she asked herself, should she sit here in loneliness
day after day, brooding about Cowperwood, eating her heart out, while he was
flitting about gathering the sweets of life elsewhere? Why should she not offer
her continued charms as a solace and a delight to other men who would
appreciate them? Would not such a policy have all the essentials of justice in
it? Yet even now, so precious had Cowperwood been to her hitherto, and so
wonderful, that she was scarcely able to think of serious disloyalty. He was so
charming when he was nice&mdash;so splendid. When Lynde sought to hold her to
the proposed luncheon engagement she at first declined. And there, under
slightly differing conditions, the matter might easily have stood. But it so
happened that just at this time Aileen was being almost daily harassed by
additional evidence and reminders of Cowperwood&rsquo;s infidelity.
</p>

<p>
For instance, going one day to call on the Haguenins&mdash;for she was
perfectly willing to keep up the pretense of amity in so long as they had not
found out the truth&mdash;she was informed that Mrs. Haguenin was &ldquo;not at
home.&rdquo; Shortly thereafter the <i>Press</i>, which had always been favorable to
Cowperwood, and which Aileen regularly read because of its friendly comment,
suddenly veered and began to attack him. There were solemn suggestions at first
that his policy and intentions might not be in accord with the best interests
of the city. A little later Haguenin printed editorials which referred to
Cowperwood as &ldquo;the wrecker,&rdquo; &ldquo;the Philadelphia
adventurer,&rdquo; &ldquo;a conscienceless promoter,&rdquo; and the like.
Aileen guessed instantly what the trouble was, but she was too disturbed as to
her own position to make any comment. She could not resolve the threats and
menaces of Cowperwood&rsquo;s envious world any more than she could see her way
through her own grim difficulties.
</p>

<p>
One day, in scanning the columns of that faithful chronicle of Chicago social
doings, the Chicago Saturday Review, she came across an item which served as a
final blow. &ldquo;For some time in high social circles,&rdquo; the paragraph
ran, &ldquo;speculation has been rife as to the amours and liaisons of a
certain individual of great wealth and pseudo social prominence, who once made
a serious attempt to enter Chicago society. It is not necessary to name the
man, for all who are acquainted with recent events in Chicago will know who is
meant. The latest rumor to affect his already nefarious reputation relates to
two women&mdash;one the daughter, and the other the wife, of men of repute and
standing in the community. In these latest instances it is more than likely
that he has arrayed influences of the greatest importance socially and
financially against himself, for the husband in the one case and the father in
the other are men of weight and authority. The suggestion has more than once
been made that Chicago should and eventually would not tolerate his bucaneering
methods in finance and social matters; but thus far no definite action has been
taken to cast him out. The crowning wonder of all is that the wife, who was
brought here from the East, and who&mdash;so rumor has it&mdash;made a rather
scandalous sacrifice of her own reputation and another woman&rsquo;s heart and
home in order to obtain the privilege of living with him, should continue so to
do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen understood perfectly what was meant. &ldquo;The father&rdquo; of the
so-called &ldquo;one&rdquo; was probably Haguenin or Cochrane, more than likely
Haguenin. &ldquo;The husband of the other&rdquo;&mdash;but who was the husband
of the other? She had not heard of any scandal with the wife of anybody. It
could not be the case of Rita Sohlberg and her husband&mdash;that was too far
back. It must be some new affair of which she had not the least inkling, and so
she sat and reflected. Now, she told herself, if she received another
invitation from Lynde she would accept it.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was only a few days later that Aileen and Lynde met in the gold-room of the
Richelieu. Strange to relate, for one determined to be indifferent she had
spent much time in making a fetching toilet. It being February and chill with
glittering snow on the ground, she had chosen a dark-green broadcloth gown,
quite new, with lapis-lazuli buttons that worked a &ldquo;Y&rdquo; pattern
across her bosom, a seal turban with an emerald plume which complemented a
sealskin jacket with immense wrought silver buttons, and bronze shoes. To
perfect it all, Aileen had fastened lapis-lazuli ear-rings of a small
flower-form in her ears, and wore a plain, heavy gold bracelet. Lynde came up
with a look of keen approval written on his handsome brown face. &ldquo;Will
you let me tell you how nice you look?&rdquo; he said, sinking into the chair
opposite. &ldquo;You show beautiful taste in choosing the right colors. Your
ear-rings go so well with your hair.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Although Aileen feared because of his desperateness, she was caught by his
sleek force&mdash;that air of iron strength under a parlor mask. His long,
brown, artistic hands, hard and muscular, indicated an idle force that might be
used in many ways. They harmonized with his teeth and chin.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So you came, didn&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he went on, looking at her
steadily, while she fronted his gaze boldly for a moment, only to look
evasively down.
</p>

<p>
He still studied her carefully, looking at her chin and mouth and piquant nose.
In her colorful cheeks and strong arms and shoulders, indicated by her
well-tailored suit, he recognized the human vigor he most craved in a woman. By
way of diversion he ordered an old-fashioned whisky cocktail, urging her to
join him. Finding her obdurate, he drew from his pocket a little box.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We agreed when we played the other night on a memento, didn&rsquo;t
we?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;A sort of souvenir? Guess?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen looked at it a little nonplussed, recognizing the contents of the box to
be jewelry. &ldquo;Oh, you shouldn&rsquo;t have done that,&rdquo; she
protested. &ldquo;The understanding was that we were to win. You lost, and that
ended the bargain. I should have shared the losses. I haven&rsquo;t forgiven
you for that yet, you know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How ungallant that would make me!&rdquo; he said, smilingly, as he
trifled with the long, thin, lacquered case. &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t want to
make me ungallant, would you? Be a good fellow&mdash;a good sport, as they say.
Guess, and it&rsquo;s yours.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen pursed her lips at this ardent entreaty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t mind guessing,&rdquo; she commented, superiorly,
&ldquo;though I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t take it. It might be a pin, it might be a
set of ear-rings, it might be a bracelet&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He made no comment, but opened it, revealing a necklace of gold wrought into
the form of a grape-vine of the most curious workmanship, with a cluster of
leaves artistically carved and arranged as a breastpiece, the center of them
formed by a black opal, which shone with an enticing luster. Lynde knew well
enough that Aileen was familiar with many jewels, and that only one of ornate
construction and value would appeal to her sense of what was becoming to her.
He watched her face closely while she studied the details of the necklace.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it exquisite!&rdquo; she commented. &ldquo;What a lovely
opal&mdash;what an odd design.&rdquo; She went over the separate leaves.
&ldquo;You shouldn&rsquo;t be so foolish. I couldn&rsquo;t take it. I have too
many things as it is, and besides&mdash;&rdquo; She was thinking of what she
would say if Cowperwood chanced to ask her where she got it. He was so
intuitive.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And besides?&rdquo; he queried.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;except that I mustn&rsquo;t take it,
really.&rdquo; &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you take it as a souvenir even if&mdash;our
agreement, you know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even if what?&rdquo; she queried.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even if nothing else comes of it. A memento, then&mdash;truly&mdash;you
know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He laid hold of her fingers with his cool, vigorous ones. A year before, even
six months, Aileen would have released her hand smilingly. Now she hesitated.
Why should she be so squeamish with other men when Cowperwood was so unkind to
her?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tell me something,&rdquo; Lynde asked, noting the doubt and holding her
fingers gently but firmly, &ldquo;do you care for me at all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I like you, yes. I can&rsquo;t say that it is anything more than
that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She flushed, though, in spite of herself.
</p>

<p>
He merely gazed at her with his hard, burning eyes. The materiality that
accompanies romance in so many temperaments awakened in her, and quite put
Cowperwood out of her mind for the moment. It was an astonishing and
revolutionary experience for her. She quite burned in reply, and Lynde smiled
sweetly, encouragingly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why won&rsquo;t you be friends with me, my sweetheart? I know
you&rsquo;re not happy&mdash;I can see that. Neither am I. I have a wreckless,
wretched disposition that gets me into all sorts of hell. I need some one to
care for me. Why won&rsquo;t you? You&rsquo;re just my sort. I feel it. Do you
love him so much&rdquo;&mdash;he was referring to Cowperwood&mdash;&ldquo;that
you can&rsquo;t love any one else?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, him!&rdquo; retorted Aileen, irritably, almost disloyally. &ldquo;He
doesn&rsquo;t care for me any more. He wouldn&rsquo;t mind. It isn&rsquo;t
him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, what is it? Why won&rsquo;t you? Am I not interesting
enough? Don&rsquo;t you like me? Don&rsquo;t you feel that I&rsquo;m really
suited to you?&rdquo; His hand sought hers softly.
</p>

<p>
Aileen accepted the caress.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, it isn&rsquo;t that,&rdquo; she replied, feelingly, running back in
her mind over her long career with Cowperwood, his former love, his keen
protestations. She had expected to make so much out of her life with him, and
here she was sitting in a public restaurant flirting with and extracting
sympathy from a comparative stranger. It cut her to the quick for the moment
and sealed her lips. Hot, unbidden tears welled to her eyes.
</p>

<p>
Lynde saw them. He was really very sorry for her, though her beauty made him
wish to take advantage of her distress. &ldquo;Why should you cry,
dearest?&rdquo; he asked, softly, looking at her flushed cheeks and colorful
eyes. &ldquo;You have beauty; you are young; you&rsquo;re lovely. He&rsquo;s
not the only man in the world. Why should you be faithful when he isn&rsquo;t
faithful to you? This Hand affair is all over town. When you meet some one that
really would care for you, why shouldn&rsquo;t you? If he doesn&rsquo;t want
you, there are others.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the mention of the Hand affair Aileen straightened up. &ldquo;The Hand
affair?&rdquo; she asked, curiously. &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know?&rdquo; he replied, a little surprised. &ldquo;I
thought you did, or I certainly wouldn&rsquo;t have mentioned it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I know about what it is,&rdquo; replied Aileen, wisely, and with a
touch of sardonic humor. &ldquo;There have been so many or the same kind. I
suppose it must be the case the Chicago <i>Review</i> was referring to&mdash;the wife
of the prominent financier. Has he been trifling with Mrs. Hand?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Something like that,&rdquo; replied Lynde. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry that I
spoke, though? really I am. I didn&rsquo;t mean to be carrying tales.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Soldiers in a common fight, eh?&rdquo; taunted Aileen, gaily.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, not that, exactly. Please don&rsquo;t be mean. I&rsquo;m not so bad.
It&rsquo;s just a principle with me. We all have our little foibles.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; replied Aileen; but her mind was running on Mrs.
Hand. So she was the latest. &ldquo;Well, I admire his taste, anyway, in this
case,&rdquo; she said, archly. &ldquo;There have been so many, though. She is
just one more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lynde smiled. He himself admired Cowperwood&rsquo;s taste. Then he dropped the
subject.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But let&rsquo;s forget that,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t
worry about him any more. You can&rsquo;t change that. Pull yourself
together.&rdquo; He squeezed her fingers. &ldquo;Will you?&rdquo; he asked,
lifting his eyebrows in inquiry.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will I what?&rdquo; replied Aileen, meditatively.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, you know. The necklace for one thing. Me, too.&rdquo; His eyes
coaxed and laughed and pleaded.
</p>

<p>
Aileen smiled. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a bad boy,&rdquo; she said, evasively. This
revelation in regard to Mrs. Hand had made her singularly retaliatory in
spirit. &ldquo;Let me think. Don&rsquo;t ask me to take the necklace to-day. I
couldn&rsquo;t. I couldn&rsquo;t wear it, anyhow. Let me see you another
time.&rdquo; She moved her plump hand in an uncertain way, and he smoothed her
wrist.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wonder if you wouldn&rsquo;t like to go around to the studio of a
friend of mine here in the tower?&rdquo; he asked, quite nonchalantly.
&ldquo;He has such a charming collection of landscapes. You&rsquo;re interested
in pictures, I know. Your husband has some of the finest.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Instantly Aileen understood what was meant&mdash;quite by instinct. The alleged
studio must be private bachelor quarters.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not this afternoon,&rdquo; she replied, quite wrought up and disturbed.
&ldquo;Not to-day. Another time. And I must be going now. But I will see
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And this?&rdquo; he asked, picking up the necklace.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You keep it until I do come,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;I may take it
then.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She relaxed a little, pleased that she was getting safely away; but her mood
was anything but antagonistic, and her spirits were as shredded as wind-whipped
clouds. It was time she wanted&mdash;a little time&mdash;that was all.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br/>
Enter Hosmer Hand</h2>

<p>
It is needless to say that the solemn rage of Hand, to say nothing of the
pathetic anger of Haguenin, coupled with the wrath of Redmond Purdy, who
related to all his sad story, and of young MacDonald and his associates of the
Chicago General Company, constituted an atmosphere highly charged with
possibilities and potent for dramatic results. The most serious element in this
at present was Hosmer Hand, who, being exceedingly wealthy and a director in a
number of the principal mercantile and financial institutions of the city, was
in a position to do Cowperwood some real financial harm. Hand had been
extremely fond of his young wife. Being a man of but few experiences with
women, it astonished and enraged him that a man like Cowperwood should dare to
venture on his preserves in this reckless way, should take his dignity so
lightly. He burned now with a hot, slow fire of revenge.
</p>

<p>
Those who know anything concerning the financial world and its great adventures
know how precious is that reputation for probity, solidarity, and conservatism
on which so many of the successful enterprises of the world are based. If men
are not absolutely honest themselves they at least wish for and have faith in
the honesty of others. No set of men know more about each other, garner more
carefully all the straws of rumor which may affect the financial and social
well being of an individual one way or another, keep a tighter mouth concerning
their own affairs and a sharper eye on that of their neighbors.
Cowperwood&rsquo;s credit had hitherto been good because it was known that he
had a &ldquo;soft thing&rdquo; in the Chicago street-railway field, that he
paid his interest charges promptly, that he had organized the group of men who
now, under him, controlled the Chicago Trust Company and the North and West
Chicago Street Railways, and that the Lake City Bank, of which Addison was
still president, considered his collateral sound. Nevertheless, even previous
to this time there had been a protesting element in the shape of Schryhart,
Simms, and others of considerable import in the Douglas Trust, who had lost no
chance to say to one and all that Cowperwood was an interloper, and that his
course was marked by political and social trickery and chicanery, if not by
financial dishonesty. As a matter of fact, Schryhart, who had once been a
director of the Lake City National along with Hand, Arneel, and others, had
resigned and withdrawn all his deposits sometime before because he found, as he
declared, that Addison was favoring Cowperwood and the Chicago Trust Company
with loans, when there was no need of so doing&mdash;when it was not
essentially advantageous for the bank so to do. Both Arneel and Hand, having at
this time no personal quarrel with Cowperwood on any score, had considered this
protest as biased. Addison had maintained that the loans were neither unduly
large nor out of proportion to the general loans of the bank. The collateral
offered was excellent. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to quarrel with
Schryhart,&rdquo; Addison had protested at the time; &ldquo;but I am afraid his
charge is unfair. He is trying to vent a private grudge through the Lake
National. That is not the way nor this the place to do it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Both Hand and Arneel, sober men both, agreed with this&mdash;admiring
Addison&mdash;and so the case stood. Schryhart, however, frequently intimated
to them both that Cowperwood was merely building up the Chicago Trust Company
at the expense of the Lake City National, in order to make the former strong
enough to do without any aid, at which time Addison would resign and the Lake
City would be allowed to shift for itself. Hand had never acted on this
suggestion but he had thought.
</p>

<p>
It was not until the incidents relating to Cowperwood and Mrs. Hand had come to
light that things financial and otherwise began to darken up. Hand, being
greatly hurt in his pride, contemplated only severe reprisal. Meeting Schryhart
at a directors&rsquo; meeting one day not long after his difficulty had come
upon him, he remarked:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought a few years ago, Norman, when you talked to me about this man
Cowperwood that you were merely jealous&mdash;a dissatisfied business rival.
Recently a few things have come to my notice which cause me to think
differently. It is very plain to me now that the man is thoroughly
bad&mdash;from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. It&rsquo;s a
pity the city has to endure him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So you&rsquo;re just beginning to find that out, are you, Hosmer?&rdquo;
answered Schryhart. &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll not say I told you so. Perhaps
you&rsquo;ll agree with me now that the responsible people of Chicago ought to
do something about it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Hand, a very heavy, taciturn man, merely looked at him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be
ready enough to do,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;when I see how and what&rsquo;s to
be done.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A little later Schryhart, meeting Duane Kingsland, learned the true source of
Hand&rsquo;s feeling against Cowperwood, and was not slow in transferring this
titbit to Merrill, Simms, and others. Merrill, who, though Cowperwood had
refused to extend his La Salle Street tunnel loop about State Street and his
store, had hitherto always liked him after a fashion&mdash;remotely admired his
courage and daring&mdash;was now appropriately shocked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Anson,&rdquo; observed Schryhart, &ldquo;the man is no good. He has
the heart of a hyena and the friendliness of a scorpion. You heard how he
treated Hand, didn&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Merrill, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, it&rsquo;s this way, so I hear.&rdquo; And Schryhart leaned over
and confidentially communicated considerable information into Mr.
Merrill&rsquo;s left ear.
</p>

<p>
The latter raised his eyebrows. &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the way he came to meet her,&rdquo; added Schryhart, contemptuously,
&ldquo;was this. He went to Hand originally to borrow two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars on West Chicago Street Railway. Angry? The word is no name for
it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say so,&rdquo; commented Merrill, dryly, though
privately interested and fascinated, for Mrs. Hand had always seemed very
attractive to him. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t wonder.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He recalled that his own wife had recently insisted on inviting Cowperwood
once.
</p>

<p>
Similarly Hand, meeting Arneel not so long afterward, confided to him that
Cowperwood was trying to repudiate a sacred agreement. Arneel was grieved and
surprised. It was enough for him to know that Hand had been seriously injured.
Between the two of them they now decided to indicate to Addison, as president
of the Lake City Bank, that all relations with Cowperwood and the Chicago Trust
Company must cease. The result of this was, not long after, that Addison, very
suave and gracious, agreed to give Cowperwood due warning that all his loans
would have to be taken care of and then resigned&mdash;to become, seven months
later, president of the Chicago Trust Company. This desertion created a great
stir at the time, astonishing the very men who had suspected that it might come
to pass. The papers were full of it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, let him go,&rdquo; observed Arneel to Hand, sourly, on the day
that Addison notified the board of directors of the Lake City of his
contemplated resignation. &ldquo;If he wants to sever his connection with a
bank like this to go with a man like that, it&rsquo;s his own lookout. He may
live to regret it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
It so happened that by now another election was pending Chicago, and Hand,
along with Schryhart and Arneel&mdash;who joined their forces because of his
friendship for Hand&mdash;decided to try to fight Cowperwood through this
means.
</p>

<p>
Hosmer Hand, feeling that he had the burden of a great duty upon him, was not
slow in acting. He was always, when aroused, a determined and able fighter.
Needing an able lieutenant in the impending political conflict, he finally
bethought himself of a man who had recently come to figure somewhat
conspicuously in Chicago politics&mdash;one Patrick Gilgan, the same Patrick
Gilgan of Cowperwood&rsquo;s old Hyde Park gas-war days. Mr. Gilgan was now a
comparatively well-to-do man. Owing to a genial capacity for mixing with
people, a close mouth, and absolutely no understanding of, and consequently no
conscience in matters of large public import (in so far as they related to the
so-called rights of the mass), he was a fit individual to succeed politically.
His saloon was the finest in all Wentworth Avenue. It fairly glittered with the
newly introduced incandescent lamp reflected in a perfect world of beveled and
faceted mirrors. His ward, or district, was full of low, rain-beaten cottages
crowded together along half-made streets; but Patrick Gilgan was now a state
senator, slated for Congress at the next Congressional election, and a possible
successor of the Hon. John J. McKenty as dictator of the city, if only the
Republican party should come into power. (Hyde Park, before it had been annexed
to the city, had always been Republican, and since then, although the larger
city was normally Democratic, Gilgan could not conveniently change.) Hearing
from the political discussion which preceded the election that Gilgan was by
far the most powerful politician on the South Side, Hand sent for him.
Personally, Hand had far less sympathy with the polite moralistic efforts of
men like Haguenin, Hyssop, and others, who were content to preach morality and
strive to win by the efforts of the unco good, than he had with the cold
political logic of a man like Cowperwood himself. If Cowperwood could work
through McKenty to such a powerful end, he, Hand, could find some one else who
could be made as powerful as McKenty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Gilgan,&rdquo; said Hand, when the Irishman came in, medium tall,
beefy, with shrewd, twinkling gray eyes and hairy hands, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t
know me&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know of you well enough,&rdquo; smiled the Irishman, with a soft
brogue. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t need an introduction to talk to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; replied Hand, extending his hand. &ldquo;I know of
you, too. Then we can talk. It&rsquo;s the political situation here in Chicago
I&rsquo;d like to discuss with you. I&rsquo;m not a politician myself, but I
take some interest in what&rsquo;s going on. I want to know what you think will
be the probable outcome of the present situation here in the city.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Gilgan, having no reason for laying his private political convictions bare to
any one whose motive he did not know, merely replied: &ldquo;Oh, I think the
Republicans may have a pretty good show. They have all but one or two of the
papers with them, I see. I don&rsquo;t know much outside of what I read and
hear people talk.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand knew that Gilgan was sparring, and was glad to find his man canny and
calculating.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t asked you to come here just to be talking over politics
in general, as you may imagine, Mr. Gilgan. I want to put a particular problem
before you. Do you happen to know either Mr. McKenty or Mr. Cowperwood?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never met either of them to talk to,&rdquo; replied Gilgan. &ldquo;I
know Mr. McKenty by sight, and I&rsquo;ve seen Mr. Cowperwood once.&rdquo; He
said no more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mr. Hand, &ldquo;suppose a group of influential men
here in Chicago were to get together and guarantee sufficient funds for a
city-wide campaign; now, if you had the complete support of the newspapers and
the Republican organization in the bargain, could you organize the opposition
here so that the Democratic party could be beaten this fall? I&rsquo;m not
talking about the mayor merely and the principal city officers, but the
council, too&mdash;the aldermen. I want to fix things so that the
McKenty-Cowperwood crowd couldn&rsquo;t get an alderman or a city official to
sell out, once they are elected. I want the Democratic party beaten so
thoroughly that there won&rsquo;t be any question in anybody&rsquo;s mind as to
the fact that it has been done. There will be plenty of money forthcoming if
you can prove to me, or, rather, to the group of men I am thinking of, that the
thing can be done.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Gilgan blinked his eyes solemnly. He rubbed his knees, put his thumbs in
the armholes of his vest, took out a cigar, lit it, and gazed poetically at the
ceiling. He was thinking very, very hard. Mr. Cowperwood and Mr. McKenty, as he
knew, were very powerful men. He had always managed to down the McKenty
opposition in his ward, and several others adjacent to it, and in the
Eighteenth Senatorial District, which he represented. But to be called upon to
defeat him in Chicago, that was different. Still, the thought of a large amount
of cash to be distributed through him, and the chance of wresting the city
leadership from McKenty by the aid of the so-called moral forces of the city,
was very inspiring. Mr. Gilgan was a good politician. He loved to scheme and
plot and make deals&mdash;as much for the fun of it as anything else. Just now
he drew a solemn face, which, however, concealed a very light heart.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have heard,&rdquo; went on Hand, &ldquo;that you have built up a
strong organization in your ward and district.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve managed to hold me own,&rdquo; suggested Gilgan, archly.
&ldquo;But this winning all over Chicago,&rdquo; he went on, after a moment,
&ldquo;now, that&rsquo;s a pretty large order. There are thirty-one wards in
Chicago this election, and all but eight of them are nominally Democratic. I
know most of the men that are in them now, and some of them are pretty shrewd
men, too. This man Dowling in council is nobody&rsquo;s fool, let me tell you
that. Then there&rsquo;s Duvanicki and Ungerich and Tiernan and
Kerrigan&mdash;all good men.&rdquo; He mentioned four of the most powerful and
crooked aldermen in the city. &ldquo;You see, Mr. Hand, the way things are now
the Democrats have the offices, and the small jobs to give out. That gives them
plenty of political workers to begin with. Then they have the privilege of
collecting money from those in office to help elect themselves. That&rsquo;s
another great privilege.&rdquo; He smiled. &ldquo;Then this man Cowperwood
employs all of ten thousand men at present, and any ward boss that&rsquo;s
favorable to him can send a man out of work to him and he&rsquo;ll find a place
for him. That&rsquo;s a gre-a-eat help in building up a party following. Then
there&rsquo;s the money a man like Cowperwood and others can contribute at
election time. Say what you will, Mr. Hand, but it&rsquo;s the two, and five,
and ten dollar bills paid out at the last moment over the saloon bars and at
the polling-places that do the work. Give me enough money&rdquo;&mdash;and at
this noble thought Mr. Gilgan straightened up and slapped one fist lightly in
the other, adjusting at the same time his half-burned cigar so that it should
not burn his hand&mdash;&ldquo;and I can carry every ward in Chicago, bar none.
If I have money enough,&rdquo; he repeated, emphasizing the last two words. He
put his cigar back in his mouth, blinked his eyes defiantly, and leaned back in
his chair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; commented Hand, simply; &ldquo;but how much
money?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s another question,&rdquo; replied Gilgan, straightening
up once more. &ldquo;Some wards require more than others. Counting out the
eight that are normally Republican as safe, you would have to carry eighteen
others to have a majority in council. I don&rsquo;t see how anything under ten
to fifteen thousand dollars to a ward would be safe to go on. I should say
three hundred thousand dollars would be safer, and that wouldn&rsquo;t be any
too much by any means.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Gilgan restored his cigar and puffed heavily the while he leaned back and
lifted his eyes once more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And how would that money be distributed exactly?&rdquo; inquired Mr.
Hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, well, it&rsquo;s never wise to look into such matters too
closely,&rdquo; commented Mr. Gilgan, comfortably. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s such a
thing as cutting your cloth too close in politics. There are ward captains,
leaders, block captains, workers. They all have to have money to do
with&mdash;to work up sentiment&mdash;and you can&rsquo;t be too inquiring as
to just how they do it. It&rsquo;s spent in saloons, and buying coal for
mother, and getting Johnnie a new suit here and there. Then there are
torch-light processions and club-rooms and jobs to look after. Sure,
there&rsquo;s plenty of places for it. Some men may have to be brought into
these wards to live&mdash;kept in boarding-houses for a week or ten
days.&rdquo; He waved a hand deprecatingly.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand, who had never busied himself with the minutiae of politics, opened
his eyes slightly. This colonizing idea was a little liberal, he thought.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who distributes this money?&rdquo; he asked, finally.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nominally, the Republican County Committee, if it&rsquo;s in charge;
actually, the man or men who are leading the fight. In the case of the
Democratic party it&rsquo;s John J. McKenty, and don&rsquo;t you forget it. In
my district it&rsquo;s me, and no one else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand, slow, solid, almost obtuse at times, meditated under lowering brows.
He had always been associated with a more or less silk-stocking crew who were
unused to the rough usage of back-room saloon politics, yet every one suspected
vaguely, of course, at times that ballot-boxes were stuffed and ward
lodging-houses colonized. Every one (at least every one of any worldly
intelligence) knew that political capital was collected from office-seekers,
office-holders, beneficiaries of all sorts and conditions under the reigning
city administration. Mr. Hand had himself contributed to the Republican party
for favors received or about to be. As a man who had been compelled to handle
large affairs in a large way he was not inclined to quarrel with this. Three
hundred thousand dollars was a large sum, and he was not inclined to subscribe
it alone, but fancied that at his recommendation and with his advice it could
be raised. Was Gilgan the man to fight Cowperwood? He looked him over and
decided&mdash;other things being equal&mdash;that he was. And forthwith the
bargain was struck. Gilgan, as a Republican central
committeeman&mdash;chairman, possibly&mdash;was to visit every ward, connect up
with every available Republican force, pick strong, suitable anti-Cowperwood
candidates, and try to elect them, while he, Hand, organized the money element
and collected the necessary cash. Gilgan was to be given money personally. He
was to have the undivided if secret support of all the high Republican elements
in the city. His business was to win at almost any cost. And as a reward he was
to have the Republican support for Congress, or, failing that, the practical
Republican leadership in city and county.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Anyhow,&rdquo; said Hand, after Mr. Gilgan finally took his departure,
&ldquo;things won&rsquo;t be so easy for Mr. Cowperwood in the future as they
were in the past. And when it comes to getting his franchises renewed, if
I&rsquo;m alive, we&rsquo;ll see whether he will or not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The heavy financier actually growled a low growl as he spoke out loud to
himself. He felt a boundless rancor toward the man who had, as he supposed,
alienated the affections of his smart young wife.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br/>
A Political Agreement</h2>

<p>
In the first and second wards of Chicago at this time&mdash;wards including the
business heart, South Clark Street, the water-front, the river-levee, and the
like&mdash;were two men, Michael (alias Smiling Mike) Tiernan and Patrick
(alias Emerald Pat) Kerrigan, who, for picturequeness of character and
sordidness of atmosphere, could not be equaled elsewhere in the city, if in the
nation at large. &ldquo;Smiling&rdquo; Mike Tiernan, proud possessor of four of
the largest and filthiest saloons of this area, was a man of large and genial
mold&mdash;perhaps six feet one inch in height, broad-shouldered in proportion,
with a bovine head, bullet-shaped from one angle, and big, healthy, hairy hands
and large feet. He had done many things from digging in a ditch to occupying a
seat in the city council from this his beloved ward, which he sold out
regularly for one purpose and another; but his chief present joy consisted in
sitting behind a solid mahogany railing at a rosewood desk in the back portion
of his largest Clark Street hostelry&mdash;&ldquo;The Silver Moon.&rdquo; Here
he counted up the returns from his various properties&mdash;salons, gambling
resorts, and houses of prostitution&mdash;which he manipulated with the
connivance or blinking courtesy of the present administration, and listened to
the pleas and demands of his henchmen and tenants.
</p>

<p>
The character of Mr. Kerrigan, Mr. Tiernan&rsquo;s only rival in this rather
difficult and sordid region, was somewhat different. He was a small man, quite
dapper, with a lean, hollow, and somewhat haggard face, but by no means sickly
body, a large, strident mustache, a wealth of coal-black hair parted slickly on
one side, and a shrewd, genial brown-black eye&mdash;constituting altogether a
rather pleasing and ornate figure whom it was not at all unsatisfactory to
meet. His ears were large and stood out bat-wise from his head; and his eyes
gleamed with a smart, evasive light. He was cleverer financially than Tiernan,
richer, and no more than thirty-five, whereas Mr. Tiernan was forty-five years
of age. Like Mr. Tiernan in the first ward, Mr. Kerrigan was a power in the
second, and controlled a most useful and dangerous floating vote. His saloons
harbored the largest floating element that was to be found in the
city&mdash;longshoremen, railroad hands, stevedores, tramps, thugs, thieves,
pimps, rounders, detectives, and the like. He was very vain, considered himself
handsome, a &ldquo;killer&rdquo; with the ladies. Married, and with two
children and a sedate young wife, he still had his mistress, who changed from
year to year, and his intermediate girls. His clothes were altogether
noteworthy, but it was his pride to eschew jewelry, except for one enormous
emerald, value fourteen thousand dollars, which he wore in his necktie on
occasions, and the wonder of which, pervading all Dearborn Street and the city
council, had won him the soubriquet of &ldquo;Emerald Pat.&rdquo; At first he
rejoiced heartily in this title, as he did in a gold and diamond medal awarded
him by a Chicago brewery for selling the largest number of barrels of beer of
any saloon in Chicago. More recently, the newspapers having begun to pay
humorous attention to both himself and Mr. Tiernan, because of their prosperity
and individuality, he resented it.
</p>

<p>
The relation of these two men to the present political situation was peculiar,
and, as it turned out, was to constitute the weak spot in the
Cowperwood-McKenty campaign. Tiernan and Kerrigan, to begin with, being
neighbors and friends, worked together in politics and business, on occasions
pooling their issues and doing each other favors. The enterprises in which they
were engaged being low and shabby, they needed counsel and consolation.
Infinitely beneath a man like McKenty in understanding and a politic grasp of
life, they were, nevertheless, as they prospered, somewhat jealous of him and
his high estate. They saw with speculative and somewhat jealous eyes how, after
his union with Cowperwood, he grew and how he managed to work his will in many
ways&mdash;by extracting tolls from the police department, and heavy annual
campaign contributions from manufacturers favored by the city gas and water
departments. McKenty&mdash;a born manipulator in this respect&mdash;knew where
political funds were to be had in an hour of emergency, and he did not hesitate
to demand them. Tiernan and Kerrigan had always been fairly treated by him as
politics go; but they had never as yet been included in his inner council of
plotters. When he was down-town on one errand or another, he stopped in at
their places to shake hands with them, to inquire after business, to ask if
there was any favor he could do them; but never did he stoop to ask a favor of
them or personally to promise any form of reward. That was the business of
Dowling and others through whom he worked.
</p>

<p>
Naturally men of strong, restive, animal disposition, finding no complete
outlet for all their growing capacity, Tiernan and Kerrigan were both curious
to see in what way they could add to their honors and emoluments. Their wards,
more than any in the city, were increasing in what might be called a
vote-piling capacity, the honest, legitimate vote not being so large, but the
opportunities afforded for colonizing, repeating, and ballot-box stuffing being
immense. In a doubtful mayoralty campaign the first and second wards alone,
coupled with a portion of the third adjoining them, would register sufficient
illegitimate votes (after voting-hours, if necessary) to completely change the
complexion of the city as to the general officers nominated. Large amounts of
money were sent to Tiernan and Kerrigan around election time by the Democratic
County Committee to be disposed of as they saw fit. They merely sent in a rough
estimate of how much they would need, and always received a little more than
they asked for. They never made nor were asked to make accounting afterward.
Tiernan would receive as high as fifteen and eighteen, Kerrigan sometimes as
much as twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars, his being the pivotal ward
under such circumstances.
</p>

<p>
McKenty had recently begun to recognize that these two men would soon have to
be given fuller consideration, for they were becoming more or less influential.
But how? Their personalities, let alone the reputation of their wards and the
methods they employed, were not such as to command public confidence. In the
mean time, owing to the tremendous growth of the city, the growth of their own
private business, and the amount of ballot-box stuffing, repeating, and the
like which was required of them, they were growing more and more restless. Why
should not they be slated for higher offices? they now frequently asked
themselves. Tiernan would have been delighted to have been nominated for
sheriff or city treasurer. He considered himself eminently qualified. Kerrigan
at the last city convention had privately urged on Dowling the wisdom of
nominating him for the position of commissioner of highways and sewers, which
office he was anxious to obtain because of its reported commercial perquisites;
but this year, of all times, owing to the need of nominating an unblemished
ticket to defeat the sharp Republican opposition, such a nomination was not
possible. It would have drawn the fire of all the respectable elements in the
city. As a result both Tiernan and Kerrigan, thinking over their services, past
and future, felt very much disgruntled. They were really not large enough
mentally to understand how dangerous&mdash;outside of certain fields of
activity&mdash;they were to the party.
</p>

<p>
After his conference with Hand, Gilgan, going about the city with the promise
of ready cash on his lips, was able to arouse considerable enthusiasm for the
Republican cause. In the wards and sections where the so-called &ldquo;better
element&rdquo; prevailed it seemed probable, because of the heavy moral
teaching of the newspapers, that the respectable vote would array itself almost
solidly this time against Cowperwood. In the poorer wards it would not be so
easy. True, it was possible, by a sufficient outlay of cash, to find certain
hardy bucaneers who could be induced to knife their own brothers, but the
result was not certain. Having heard through one person and another of the
disgruntled mood of both Kerrigan and Tiernan, and recognizing himself, even if
he was a Republican, to be a man much more of their own stripe than either
McKenty or Dowling, Gilgan decided to visit that lusty pair and see what could
be done by way of alienating them from the present center of power.
</p>

<p>
After due reflection he first sought out &ldquo;Emerald Pat&rdquo; Kerrigan,
whom he knew personally but with whom he was by no means intimate politically,
at his &ldquo;Emporium Bar&rdquo; in Dearborn Street. This particular saloon, a
feature of political Chicago at this time, was a large affair containing among
other marvelous saloon fixtures a circular bar of cherry wood twelve feet in
diameter, which glowed as a small mountain with the customary plain and colored
glasses, bottles, labels, and mirrors. The floor was a composition of small,
shaded red-and-green marbles; the ceiling a daub of pinky, fleshy nudes
floating among diaphanous clouds; the walls were alternate panels of cerise and
brown set in rosewood. Mr. Kerrigan, when other duties were not pressing, was
usually to be found standing chatting with several friends and surveying the
wonders of his bar trade, which was very large. On the day of Mr.
Gilgan&rsquo;s call he was resplendent in a dark-brown suit with a fine red
stripe in it, Cordovan leather shoes, a wine-colored tie ornamented with the
emerald of so much renown, and a straw hat of flaring proportions and novel
weave. About his waist, in lieu of a waistcoat, was fastened one of the
eccentricities of the day, a manufactured silk sash. He formed an interesting
contrast with Mr. Gilgan, who now came up very moist, pink, and warm, in a
fine, light tweed of creamy, showy texture, straw hat, and yellow shoes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How are you, Kerrigan?&rdquo; he observed, genially, there being no
political enmity between them. &ldquo;How&rsquo;s the first, and how&rsquo;s
trade? I see you haven&rsquo;t lost the emerald yet?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. No danger of that. Oh, trade&rsquo;s all right. And so&rsquo;s the
first. How&rsquo;s Mr. Gilgan?&rdquo; Kerrigan extended his hand cordially.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have a word to say to you. Have you any time to spare?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For answer Mr. Kerrigan led the way into the back room. Already he had heard
rumors of a strong Republican opposition at the coming election.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Gilgan sat down. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s about things this fall I&rsquo;ve come
to see you, of course,&rdquo; he began, smilingly. &ldquo;You and I are
supposed to be on opposite sides of the fence, and we are as a rule, but I am
wondering whether we need be this time or not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Kerrigan, shrewd though seemingly simple, fixed him with an amiable eye.
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s your scheme?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m always open
to a good idea.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, it&rsquo;s just this,&rdquo; began Mr. Gilgan, feeling his way.
&ldquo;You have a fine big ward here that you carry in your vest pocket, and so
has Tiernan, as we all know; and we all know, too, that if it wasn&rsquo;t for
what you and him can do there wouldn&rsquo;t always be a Democratic mayor
elected. Now, I have an idea, from looking into the thing, that neither you nor
Tiernan have got as much out of it so far as you might have.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Kerrigan was too cautious to comment as to that, though Mr. Gilgan paused
for a moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, I have a plan, as I say, and you can take it or leave it, just as
you want, and no hard feelings one way or the other. I think the Republicans
are going to win this fall&mdash;McKenty or no McKenty&mdash;first, second, and
third wards with us or not, as they choose. The doings of the big
fellow&rdquo;&mdash;he was referring to McKenty&mdash;&ldquo;with the other
fellow in North Clark Street&rdquo;&mdash;Mr. Gilgan preferred to be a little
enigmatic at times&mdash;&ldquo;are very much in the wind just now. You see how
the papers stand. I happen to know where there&rsquo;s any quantity of money
coming into the game from big financial quarters who have no use for this
railroad man. It&rsquo;s a solid La Salle and Dearborn Street line-up, so far
as I can see. Why, I don&rsquo;t know. But so it is. Maybe you know better than
I do. Anyhow, that&rsquo;s the way it stands now. Add to that the fact that
there are eight naturally Republican wards as it is, and ten more where there
is always a fighting chance, and you begin to see what I&rsquo;m driving at.
Count out these last ten, though, and bet only on the eight that are sure to
stand. That leaves twenty-three wards that we Republicans always conceded to
you people; but if we manage to carry thirteen of them along with the eight
I&rsquo;m talking about, we&rsquo;ll have a majority in council,
and&rdquo;&mdash;flick! he snapped his fingers&mdash;&ldquo;out you
go&mdash;you, McKenty, Cowperwood, and all the rest. No more franchises, no
more street-paving contracts, no more gas deals. Nothing&mdash;for two years,
anyhow, and maybe longer. If we win we&rsquo;ll take the jobs and the fat
deals.&rdquo; He paused and surveyed Kerrigan cheerfully but defiantly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, I&rsquo;ve just been all over the city,&rdquo; he continued,
&ldquo;in every ward and precinct, so I know something of what I am talking
about. I have the men and the cash to put up a fight all along the line this
time. This fall we win&mdash;me and the big fellows over there in La Salle
Street, and all the Republicans or Democrats or Prohibitionists, or whoever
else comes in with us&mdash;do you get me? We&rsquo;re going to put up the
biggest political fight Chicago has ever seen. I&rsquo;m not naming any names
just yet, but when the time comes you&rsquo;ll see. Now, what I want to ask of
you is this, and I&rsquo;ll not mince me words nor beat around the bush. Will
you and Tiernan come in with me and Edstrom to take over the city and run it
during the next two years? If you will, we can win hands down. It will be a
case of share and share alike on everything&mdash;police, gas, water, highways,
street-railways, everything&mdash;or we&rsquo;ll divide beforehand and put it
down in black and white. I know that you and Tiernan work together, or I
wouldn&rsquo;t talk about this. Edstrom has the Swedes where he wants them, and
he&rsquo;ll poll twenty thousand of them this fall. There&rsquo;s Ungerich with
his Germans; one of us might make a deal with him afterward, give him most any
office he wants. If we win this time we can hold the city for six or eight
years anyhow, most likely, and after that&mdash;well, there&rsquo;s no use
lookin&rsquo; too far in the future&mdash;Anyhow we&rsquo;d have a majority of
the council and carry the mayor along with it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If&mdash;&rdquo; commented Mr. Kerrigan, dryly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If,&rdquo; replied Mr. Gilgan, sententiously. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re very
right. There&rsquo;s a big &lsquo;if&rsquo; in there, I&rsquo;ll admit. But if
these two wards&mdash;yours and Tiernan&rsquo;s&mdash;could by any chance be
carried for the Republicans they&rsquo;d be equal to any four or five of the
others.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very true,&rdquo; replied Mr. Kerrigan, &ldquo;if they could be carried
for the Republicans. But they can&rsquo;t be. What do you want me to do,
anyhow? Lose me seat in council and be run out of the Democratic party?
What&rsquo;s your game? You don&rsquo;t take me for a plain damn fool, do
you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sorry the man that ever took &lsquo;Emerald Pat&rsquo; for that,&rdquo;
answered Gilgan, with honeyed compliment. &ldquo;I never would. But no one is
askin&rsquo; ye to lose your seat in council and be run out of the Democratic
party. What&rsquo;s to hinder you from electin&rsquo; yourself and
droppin&rsquo; the rest of the ticket?&rdquo; He had almost said
&ldquo;knifing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Kerrigan smiled. In spite of all his previous dissatisfaction with the
Chicago situation he had not thought of Mr. Gilgan&rsquo;s talk as leading to
this. It was an interesting idea. He had &ldquo;knifed&rdquo; people
before&mdash;here and there a particular candidate whom it was desirable to
undo. If the Democratic party was in any danger of losing this fall, and if
Gilgan was honest in his desire to divide and control, it might not be such a
bad thing. Neither Cowperwood, McKenty, nor Dowling had ever favored him in any
particular way. If they lost through him, and he could still keep himself in
power, they would have to make terms with him. There was no chance of their
running him out. Why shouldn&rsquo;t he knife the ticket? It was worth thinking
over, to say the least.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all very fine,&rdquo; he observed, dryly, after his
meditations had run their course; &ldquo;but how do I know that you
wouldn&rsquo;t turn around and &lsquo;welch&rsquo; on the agreement
afterward?&rdquo; (Mr. Gilgan stirred irritably at the suggestion.) &ldquo;Dave
Morrissey came to me four years ago to help him out, and a lot of satisfaction
I got afterward.&rdquo; Kerrigan was referring to a man whom he had helped make
county clerk, and who had turned on him when he asked for return favors and his
support for the office of commissioner of highways. Morrissey had become a
prominent politician.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s very easy to say,&rdquo; replied Gilgan, irritably,
&ldquo;but it&rsquo;s not true of me. Ask any man in my district. Ask the men
who know me. I&rsquo;ll put my part of the bargain in black and white if
you&rsquo;ll put yours. If I don&rsquo;t make good, show me up afterward.
I&rsquo;ll take you to the people that are backing me. I&rsquo;ll show you the
money. I&rsquo;ve got the goods this time. What do you stand to lose, anyhow?
They can&rsquo;t run you out for cutting the ticket. They can&rsquo;t prove it.
We&rsquo;ll bring police in here to make it look like a fair vote. I&rsquo;ll
put up as much money as they will to carry this district, and more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Kerrigan suddenly saw a grand coup here. He could &ldquo;draw down&rdquo;
from the Democrats, as he would have expressed it, twenty to twenty-five
thousand dollars to do the dirty work here. Gilgan would furnish him as much
and more&mdash;the situation being so critical. Perhaps fifteen or eighteen
thousand would be necessary to poll the number of votes required either way. At
the last hour, before stuffing the boxes, he would learn how the city was
going. If it looked favorable for the Republicans it would be easy to complete
the victory and complain that his lieutenants had been suborned. If it looked
certain for the Democrats he could throw Gilgan and pocket his funds. In either
case he would be &ldquo;in&rdquo; twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars, and
he would still be councilman.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All very fine,&rdquo; replied Mr. Kerrigan, pretending a dullness which
he did not feel; &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s damned ticklish business at best. I
don&rsquo;t know that I want anything to do with it even if we could win.
It&rsquo;s true the City Hall crowd have never played into my hands very much;
but this is a Democratic district, and I&rsquo;m a Democrat. If it ever got out
that I had thrown the party it would be pretty near all day with me.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m a man of my word,&rdquo; declared Mr. Gilgan, emphatically,
getting up. &ldquo;I never threw a man or a bet in my life. Look at me record
in the eighteenth. Did you ever hear any one say that I had?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I never did,&rdquo; returned Kerrigan, mildly. &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s
a pretty large thing you&rsquo;re proposing, Mr. Gilgan. I wouldn&rsquo;t want
to say what I thought about it offhand. This ward is supposed to be Democratic.
It couldn&rsquo;t be swung over into the Republican column without a good bit
of fuss being made about it. You&rsquo;d better see Mr. Tiernan first and hear
what he has to say. Afterward I might be willing to talk about it further. Not
now, though&mdash;not now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Gilgan went away quite jauntily and cheerfully. He was not at all downcast.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br/>
An Election Draws Near</h2>

<p>
Subsequently Mr. Kerrigan called on Mr. Tiernan casually. Mr. Tiernan returned
the call. A little later Messrs. Tiernan, Kerrigan, and Gilgan, in a
parlor-room in a small hotel in Milwaukee (in order not to be seen together),
conferred. Finally Messrs. Tiernan, Edstrom, Kerrigan, and Gilgan met and
mapped out a programme of division far too intricate to be indicated here.
Needless to say, it involved the division of chief clerks, pro rata, of police
graft, of gambling and bawdy-house perquisites, of returns from gas,
street-railway, and other organizations. It was sealed with many solemn
promises. If it could be made effective this quadrumvirate was to endure for
years. Judges, small magistrates, officers large and small, the shrievalty, the
water office, the tax office, all were to come within its purview. It was a
fine, handsome political dream, and as such worthy of every courtesy and
consideration but it was only a political dream in its ultimate aspects, and as
such impressed the participants themselves at times.
</p>

<p>
The campaign was now in full blast. The summer and fall (September and October)
went by to the tune of Democratic and Republican marching club bands, to the
sound of lusty political voices orating in parks, at street-corners, in wooden
&ldquo;wigwams,&rdquo; halls, tents, and parlors&mdash;wherever a meager
handful of listeners could be drummed up and made by any device to keep still.
The newspapers honked and bellowed, as is the way with those profit-appointed
advocates and guardians of &ldquo;right&rdquo; and &ldquo;justice.&rdquo;
Cowperwood and McKenty were denounced from nearly every street-corner in
Chicago. Wagons and sign-boards on wheels were hauled about labeled
&ldquo;Break the partnership between the street-railway corporations and the
city council.&rdquo; &ldquo;Do you want more streets stolen?&rdquo; &ldquo;Do
you want Cowperwood to own Chicago?&rdquo; Cowperwood himself, coming down-town
of a morning or driving home of an evening, saw these things. He saw the huge
signs, listened to speeches denouncing himself, and smiled. By now he was quite
aware as to whence this powerful uprising had sprung. Hand was back of it, he
knew&mdash;for so McKenty and Addison had quickly discovered&mdash;and with
Hand was Schryhart, Arneel, Merrill, the Douglas Trust Company, the various
editors, young Truman Leslie MacDonald, the old gas crowd, the Chicago General
Company&mdash;all. He even suspected that certain aldermen might possibly be
suborned to desert him, though all professed loyalty. McKenty, Addison, Videra,
and himself were planning the details of their defenses as carefully and
effectively as possible. Cowperwood was fully alive to the fact that if he lost
this election&mdash;the first to be vigorously contested&mdash;it might involve
a serious chain of events; but he did not propose to be unduly disturbed, since
he could always fight in the courts by money, and by preferment in the council,
and with the mayor and the city attorney. &ldquo;There is more than one way to
kill a cat,&rdquo; was one of his pet expressions, and it expressed his logic
and courage exactly. Yet he did not wish to lose.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;the low dives and
gin-mills&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I am elected,&rdquo; declared the Honorable Chaffee Thayer Sluss, the
Republican candidate, &ldquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hooray!&rdquo; yelled the crowd.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know that ass,&rdquo; commented Addison, when he read this in the
Transcript. &ldquo;He used to be a clerk in the Douglas Trust Company.
He&rsquo;s made a little money recently in the paper business. He&rsquo;s a
mere tool for the Arneel-Schryhart interests. He hasn&rsquo;t the courage of a
two-inch fish-worm.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When McKenty read it he simply observed: &ldquo;There are other ways of going
to City Hall than by going yourself.&rdquo; He was depending upon a
councilmanic majority at least.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;he could scarcely see why&mdash;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&rsquo;s place to
see whether he also had received a message.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sure, sure! I did!&rdquo; replied Mr. Kerrigan, gaily. &ldquo;Here it is
now in me outside coat pocket. &lsquo;Dear Mr. Kerrigan,&rsquo;&rdquo; he read,
&ldquo;&lsquo;won&rsquo;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.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s the way he does
it,&rdquo; added Mr. Kerrigan; &ldquo;just like that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He kissed the letter mockingly and put it back into his pocket.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sure I got one, jist the same way. The very same langwidge,
nearly,&rdquo; commented Mr. Tiernan, sweetly. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s beginning to
wake up, eh? What! The little old first and second are beginning to look purty
big just now, eh? What!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tush!&rdquo; observed Mr. Kerrigan to Mr. Tiernan, with a marked
sardonic emphasis, &ldquo;that combination won&rsquo;t last forever.
They&rsquo;ve been getting too big for their pants, I&rsquo;m thinking. Well,
it&rsquo;s a long road, eh? It&rsquo;s pretty near time, what?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re right,&rdquo; responded Mr. Tiernan, feelingly. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re damned right,&rdquo; replied the little politician,
cheerfully.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How&rsquo;s business, Mike?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, fair, Pat. How&rsquo;s things with you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Things lookin&rsquo; all right in your ward for November?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Tiernan wrinkled a fat forehead. &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t tell yet.&rdquo; All
this was for the benefit of Mr. McKenty, who did not suspect rank party
disloyalty.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And how about the first, Kerrigan?&rdquo; inquired Ungerich, a thin,
reflective German-American of shrewd presence. Ungerich was one who had
hitherto wormed himself higher in McKenty&rsquo;s favor than either Kerrigan or
Tiernan.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, the first&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; replied Kerrigan, archly.
&ldquo;Of course you never can tell. This fellow Scully may do something, but I
don&rsquo;t think it will be much. If we have the same police
protection&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
McKenty finally parted with his lieutenants&mdash;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.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, you can depend on me to do the best I can always,&rdquo; commented
Mr. Kerrigan, sympathetically. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a tough year, but we
haven&rsquo;t failed yet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And me, Chief! That goes for me,&rdquo; observed Mr. Tiernan, raucously.
&ldquo;I guess I can do as well as I have.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good for you, Mike!&rdquo; soothed McKenty, laying a gentle hand on his
shoulder. &ldquo;And you, too, Kerrigan. Yours are the key wards, and we
understand that. I&rsquo;ve always been sorry that the leaders couldn&rsquo;t
agree on you two for something better than councilmen; but next time there
won&rsquo;t be any doubt of it, if I have any influence then.&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Some talk, that, eh?&rdquo; commented Mr. Tiernan, eying Mr. Kerrigan in
the flare of a passing gas-lamp.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sure. That&rsquo;s the stuff they always hand out when they&rsquo;re up
against it. Pretty kind words, eh?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And after ten years of about the roughest work that&rsquo;s done, eh?
It&rsquo;s about time, what? Say, it&rsquo;s a wonder he didn&rsquo;t think of
that last June when the convention was in session.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tush! Mikey,&rdquo; smiled Mr. Kerrigan, grimly. &ldquo;You&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I will&mdash;not,&rdquo; growled Mr. Tiernan. &ldquo;Wait&rsquo;ll
the sixth.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No more, will I,&rdquo; replied Mr. Kerrigan. &ldquo;Say, we know a
trick that beats that next-year business to a pulp. What?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re dead right,&rdquo; commented Mr. Tiernan.
</p>

<p>
And so they went peacefully home.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.<br/>
Aileen&rsquo;s Revenge</h2>

<p>
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&mdash;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
loudly at her door, and she was exceedingly coy and distrait. In spite of
herself the old grip of Cowperwood was over her&mdash;the conviction that he
was such a tremendous figure in the world&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;and yet she had come.
</p>

<p>
But Lynde, meditating Aileen&rsquo;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&rsquo;s studio&mdash;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.
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re making things very difficult for your admirers,&rdquo; he
suggested, sweetly.
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Show him into the music-room,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s power of resistance.
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thought I&rsquo;d get just one glimpse of you again. Couldn&rsquo;t
resist the temptation to look in. Stunning room, isn&rsquo;t it?
Spacious&mdash;and there you are! Who did that? Oh, I see&mdash;Van Beers. And
a jolly fine piece of work it is, too, charming.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;the fiber of her had hardened, as it does with so
many as the years come on; but she was still in full bloom&mdash;a little late
in the summer, but in full bloom.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes; and this Rembrandt&mdash;I&rsquo;m surprised! I did not know
your husband&rsquo;s collection was so representative. Israels, I see, and
Gerome, and Meissonier! Gad! It is a representative collection, isn&rsquo;t
it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Some of the things are excellent,&rdquo; she commented, with an air,
aping Cowperwood and others, &ldquo;but a number will be weeded out
eventually&mdash;that Paul Potter and this Goy&mdash;as better examples come
into the market.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She had heard Cowperwood say as much, over and over.
</p>

<p>
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:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;that of his own family being one of the
best&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just wait a moment,&rdquo; said Aileen, as they neared the door of her
own boudoir. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve forgotten whether mine is in order. I want you
to see that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She opened it and stepped in.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, you may come,&rdquo; she called.
</p>

<p>
He followed. &ldquo;Oh yes, indeed. Very charming. Very graceful&mdash;those
little lacy dancing figures&mdash;aren&rsquo;t they? A delightful color scheme.
It harmonizes with you exactly. It is quite like you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused, looking at the spacious rug, which was of warm blues and creams, and
at the gilt ormolu bed. &ldquo;Well done,&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;Tell me now why
won&rsquo;t you come to the barn-dance to-night? It would be charming. You will
enjoy it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t feel in the mood to. I haven&rsquo;t for a number of
things for some time. I&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She began to move unconcernedly about him toward the door, but he detained her
with his hand. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go just yet,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Let me
talk to you. You always evade me in such a nervous way. Don&rsquo;t you like me
at all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, I like you; but can&rsquo;t we talk just as well down in the
music-room as here? Can&rsquo;t I tell you why I evade you down there just as
well as I can here?&rdquo; She smiled a winning and now fearless smile.
</p>

<p>
Lynde showed his even white teeth in two gleaming rows. His eyes filled with a
gay maliciousness. &ldquo;Surely, surely,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;but
you&rsquo;re so nice in your own room here. I hate to leave it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just the same,&rdquo; replied Aileen, still gay, but now slightly
disturbed also, &ldquo;I think we might as well. You will find me just as
entertaining downstairs.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She moved, but his strength, quite as Cowperwood&rsquo;s, was much too great
for her. He was a strong man.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really, you know,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you mustn&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What cause?&rdquo; he asked, bending over her and smoothing her plump
arms with his brown hands. &ldquo;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&rsquo;t you understand then? I thought you did.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I understood that you liked me, and all that, perhaps. Any one might
do that. But as for anything like&mdash;well&mdash;taking such liberties with
me&mdash;I never dreamed of it. But listen. I think I hear some one
coming.&rdquo; Aileen, making a sudden vigorous effort to free herself and
failing, added: &ldquo;Please let me go, Mr. Lynde. It isn&rsquo;t very gallant
of you, I must say, restraining a woman against her will. If I had given you
any real cause&mdash;I shall be angry in a moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Again the even smiling teeth and dark, wrinkling, malicious eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really! How you go on! You would think I was a perfect stranger.
Don&rsquo;t you remember what you said to me at lunch? You didn&rsquo;t keep
your promise. You practically gave me to understand that you would come. Why
didn&rsquo;t you? Are you afraid of me, or don&rsquo;t you like me, or both? I
think you&rsquo;re delicious, splendid, and I want to know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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. &ldquo;You care for me,
don&rsquo;t you? What did you mean by saying you might come, if you
didn&rsquo;t?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He held her quite firm, while Aileen struggled. It was a new sensation
this&mdash;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&mdash;and it was within the range of possibilities that Cowperwood
might return or the servants enter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, but think what you are doing,&rdquo; 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&mdash;&ldquo;here in my own room! Really, you&rsquo;re
not the man I thought you were at all, if you don&rsquo;t instantly let me go.
Mr. Lynde! Mr. Lynde!&rdquo; (He had bent over and was kissing her). &ldquo;Oh,
you shouldn&rsquo;t do this! Really! I&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;t! Really, I won&rsquo;t! I
mean it! Oh, please let me go! I&rsquo;ll scream, I tell you! I&rsquo;ll never
see you again after this day! Oh&mdash;&rdquo; It was an intense but useless
struggle.
</p>

<p class="p2">
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&mdash;quite her
avid, seeking self of earlier days.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he asked, cheerfully, &ldquo;how have things gone
to-day?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Oh, very
well,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;I stopped in at the Hoecksemas&rsquo; this
afternoon for a little while. They&rsquo;re going to Mexico in November. She
has the darlingest new basket-carriage&mdash;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&rsquo;s receptions, and over to Merrill&rsquo;s&rdquo;&mdash;she was
referring to the great store&mdash;&ldquo;and home. I saw Taylor Lord and Polk
Lynde together in Wabash Avenue.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Polk Lynde?&rdquo; commented Cowperwood. &ldquo;Is he
interesting?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, he is,&rdquo; replied Aileen. &ldquo;I never met a man with such
perfect manners. He&rsquo;s so fascinating. He&rsquo;s just like a boy, and
yet, Heaven knows, he seems to have had enough worldly experience.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So I&rsquo;ve heard,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood. &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t he
the one that was mixed up in that Carmen Torriba case here a few years
ago?&rdquo; Cowperwood was referring to the matter of a Spanish dancer
traveling in America with whom Lynde had been apparently desperately in love.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; replied Aileen, maliciously; &ldquo;but that
oughtn&rsquo;t to make any difference to you. He&rsquo;s charming, anyhow. I
like him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t say it did, did I? You don&rsquo;t object to my
mentioning a mere incident?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I know about the incident,&rdquo; replied Aileen, jestingly.
&ldquo;I know you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean by that?&rdquo; he asked, studying her face.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I know you,&rdquo; she replied, sweetly and yet defensively.
&ldquo;You think I&rsquo;ll stay here and be content while you run about with
other women&mdash;play the sweet and loving wife? Well, I won&rsquo;t. I know
why you say this about Lynde. It&rsquo;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&rsquo;t want me, so why should
you be disturbed as to whether other men are interested in me or not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he cooed, &ldquo;how you talk! Why do you say that? You
know I care for you. I can&rsquo;t prevent anything you want to do, and
I&rsquo;m sure you know I don&rsquo;t want to. It&rsquo;s you that I want to
see satisfied. You know that I care.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I know how you care,&rdquo; replied Aileen, her mood changing for
the moment. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t start that old stuff, please. I&rsquo;m sick of
it. I know how you&rsquo;re running around. I know about Mrs. Hand. Even the
newspapers make that plain. You&rsquo;ve been home just one evening in the last
eight days, long enough for me to get more than a glimpse of you. Don&rsquo;t
talk to me. Don&rsquo;t try to bill and coo. I&rsquo;ve always known.
Don&rsquo;t think I don&rsquo;t know who your latest flame is. But don&rsquo;t
begin to whine, and don&rsquo;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&rsquo;t begin and complain. It won&rsquo;t do you any
good. I&rsquo;m not going to sit here and be made a fool of. I&rsquo;ve told
you that over and over. You don&rsquo;t believe it, but I&rsquo;m not. I told
you that I&rsquo;d find some one one of these days, and I will. As a matter of
fact, I have already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;so good-looking, so suave a
society rake&mdash;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&mdash;in his father&rsquo;s
house&mdash;out horseback-riding, driving. What a splendid, loving girl she had
been&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;and in spite of
himself he could not help admiring her. She looked very young in her soul, and
yet moody&mdash;loving (for some one), eager, and defiant. He reflected for a
moment what terrible things passion and love are&mdash;how they make fools of
us all. &ldquo;All of us are in the grip of a great creative impulse,&rdquo; he
said to himself. He talked of other things for a while&mdash;the approaching
election, a poster-wagon he had seen bearing the question, &ldquo;Shall
Cowperwood own the city?&rdquo; &ldquo;Pretty cheap politics, I call
that,&rdquo; he commented. And then he told of stopping in a so-called
Republican wigwam at State and Sixteenth streets&mdash;a great, cheaply
erected, unpainted wooden shack with seats, and of hearing himself bitterly
denounced by the reigning orator. &ldquo;I was tempted once to ask that donkey
a few questions,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;but I decided I wouldn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen had to smile. In spite of all his faults he was such a wonderful
man&mdash;to set a city thus by the ears. &ldquo;Yet, what care I how fair he
be, if he be not fair to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you meet any one else besides Lynde you liked?&rdquo; he finally
asked, archly, seeking to gather further data without stirring up too much
feeling.
</p>

<p>
Aileen, who had been studying him, feeling sure the subject would come up
again, replied: &ldquo;No, I haven&rsquo;t; but I don&rsquo;t need to. One is
enough.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean by that?&rdquo; he asked, gently.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, just what I say. One will do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You mean you are in love with Lynde?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I mean&mdash;oh!&rdquo; She stopped and surveyed him defiantly.
&ldquo;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&rsquo;t make any
difference to you what I do. You don&rsquo;t want me. Why should you sit there
and try to find out, or watch? It hasn&rsquo;t been any consideration for you
that has restrained me so far. Suppose I am in love? What difference would it
make to you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I care. You know I care. Why do you say that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, you care,&rdquo; she flared. &ldquo;I know how you care. Well,
I&rsquo;ll just tell you one thing&rdquo;&mdash;rage at his indifference was
driving her on&mdash;&ldquo;I am in love with Lynde, and what&rsquo;s more,
I&rsquo;m his mistress. And I&rsquo;ll continue to be. But what do you care?
Pshaw!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her eyes blazed hotly, her color rose high and strong. She breathed heavily.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;where was she? He had never found her yet.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, quite softly, &ldquo;I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t
feel so bitterly about this. Why should you? When did you do this? Will you
tell me that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I&rsquo;ll not tell you that,&rdquo; she replied, bitterly.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s none of your affair, and I&rsquo;ll not tell you. Why should
you ask? You don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I do care, I tell you,&rdquo; he returned, irritably, almost
roughly. &ldquo;When did you? You can tell me that, at least.&rdquo; His eyes
had a hard, cold look for the moment, dying away, though, into kindly inquiry.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, not long ago. About a week,&rdquo; Aileen answered, as though she
were compelled.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How long have you known him?&rdquo; he asked, curiously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, four or five months, now. I met him last winter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And did you do this deliberately&mdash;because you were in love with
him, or because you wanted to hurt me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He could not believe from past scenes between them that she had ceased to love
him.
</p>

<p>
Aileen stirred irritably. &ldquo;I like that,&rdquo; she flared. &ldquo;I did
it because I wanted to, and not because of any love for you&mdash;I can tell
you that. I like your nerve sitting here presuming to question me after the way
you have neglected me.&rdquo; She pushed back her plate, and made as if to get
up.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wait a minute, Aileen,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I wish you wouldn&rsquo;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&rsquo;t anything I will do&mdash;&rdquo; He paused, caught by a wave of
feeling.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; she blazed, trying to overcome the emotion
that was rising in herself. The calmness of him stirred up memories of the
past. &ldquo;Well, you keep your sympathy for yourself. I don&rsquo;t need it.
I will get along. I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t talk to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen! Aileen!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s love you want&mdash;not
revenge. I know&mdash;I can tell. You want to be loved by some one completely.
I&rsquo;m sorry. You mustn&rsquo;t be too hard on me. I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t be
on you.&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me go!&rdquo; she exclaimed, angrily, hot tears in her eyes.
&ldquo;Let me go! I tell you I don&rsquo;t love you any more. I tell you I hate
you!&rdquo; She flung herself loose and stood erect before him. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t want you to talk to me! I don&rsquo;t want you to speak to me!
You&rsquo;re the cause of all my troubles. You&rsquo;re the cause of whatever I
do, when I do it, and don&rsquo;t you dare to deny it! You&rsquo;ll see!
You&rsquo;ll see! I&rsquo;ll show you what I&rsquo;ll do!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She twisted and turned, but he held her firmly until, in his strong grasp, as
usual, she collapsed and began to cry. &ldquo;Oh, I cry,&rdquo; she declared,
even in her tears, &ldquo;but it will be just the same. It&rsquo;s too late!
too late!&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.<br/>
An Hour of Defeat</h2>

<p>
The stoic Cowperwood, listening to the blare and excitement that went with the
fall campaign, was much more pained to learn of Aileen&rsquo;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&mdash;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?
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s and Kerrigan&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Look at meself! I only won by three hundred votes,&rdquo; archly
declared Mr. Kerrigan, on divers and sundry occasions. &ldquo;By God, I almost
lost me own ward!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Tiernan was equally emphatic. &ldquo;The police was no good to me,&rdquo;
he declared, firmly. &ldquo;They let the other fellows beat up me men. I only
polled six thousand when I should have had nine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But no one believed them.
</p>

<p class="p2">
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, intricate 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&mdash;a thing which had not previously dawned on Cowperwood as in any way
probable&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;verging now
toward a million, and widely scattered over a great area&mdash;he did not feel
that they would be profitable&mdash;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&mdash;providing they could secure a franchise, which previous to the late
election had not seemed probable&mdash;and in this connection he had once said
to Addison: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; With this conclusion Addison had agreed. But since this
conversation circumstances made the construction of these elevated roads far
less problematic.
</p>

<p>
In the first place, public interest in the idea of elevated roads was
increasing. They were a novelty, a factor in the life of New York; and at this
time rivalry with the great cosmopolitan heart was very keen in the mind of the
average Chicago citizen. Public sentiment in this direction, however naive or
unworthy, was nevertheless sufficient to make any elevated road in Chicago
popular for the time being. In the second place, it so happened that because of
this swelling tide of municipal enthusiasm, this renaissance of the West,
Chicago had finally been chosen, at a date shortly preceding the present
campaign, as the favored city for an enormous international fair&mdash;quite
the largest ever given in America. Men such as Hand, Schryhart, Merrill, and
Arneel, to say nothing of the various newspaper publishers and editors, had
been enthusiastic supporters of the project, and in this Cowperwood had been
one with them. No sooner, however, had the award actually been granted than
Cowperwood&rsquo;s enemies made it their first concern to utilize the situation
against him.
</p>

<p>
To begin with, the site of the fair, by aid of the new anti-Cowperwood council,
was located on the South Side, at the terminus of the Schryhart line, thus
making the whole city pay tribute to that corporation. Simultaneously the
thought suddenly dawned upon the Schryhart faction that it would be an
excellent stroke of business if the New York elevated-road idea were now
introduced into the city&mdash;not so much with the purpose of making money
immediately, but in order to bring the hated magnate to an understanding that
he had a formidable rival which might invade the territory that he now
monopolized, curtailing his and thus making it advisable for him to close out
his holdings and depart. Bland and interesting were the conferences held by Mr.
Schryhart with Mr. Hand, and by Mr. Hand with Mr. Arneel on this subject. Their
plan as first outlined was to build an elevated road on the South
Side&mdash;south of the proposed fair-grounds&mdash;and once that was
popular&mdash;having previously secured franchises which would cover the entire
field, West, South, and North&mdash;to construct the others at their leisure,
and so to bid Mr. Cowperwood a sweet and smiling adieu.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, awaiting the assembling of the new city council one month after
election, did not propose to wait in peace and quiet until the enemy should
strike at him unprepared. Calling those familiar agents, his corporation
attorneys, around him, he was shortly informed of the new elevated-road idea,
and it gave him a real shock. Obviously Hand and Schryhart were now in deadly
earnest. At once he dictated a letter to Mr. Gilgan asking him to call at his
office. At the same time he hurriedly adjured his advisers to use due diligence
in discovering what influences could be brought to bear on the new mayor, the
honorable Chaffee Thayer Sluss, to cause him to veto the ordinances in case
they came before him&mdash;to effect in him, indeed, a total change of heart.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The Hon. Chaffee Thayer Sluss, whose attitude in this instance was to prove
crucial, was a tall, shapely, somewhat grandiloquent person who took himself
and his social and commercial opportunities and doings in the most serious and,
as it were, elevated light. You know, perhaps, the type of man or woman who,
raised in an atmosphere of comparative comfort and some small social
pretension, and being short of those gray convolutions in the human brain-pan
which permit an individual to see life in all its fortuitousness and
uncertainty, proceed because of an absence of necessity and the consequent lack
of human experience to take themselves and all that they do in the most
reverential and Providence-protected spirit. The Hon. Chaffee Thayer Sluss
reasoned that, because of the splendid ancestry on which he prided himself, he
was an essentially honest man. His father had amassed a small fortune in the
wholesale harness business. The wife whom at the age of twenty-eight he had
married&mdash;a pretty but inconsequential type of woman&mdash;was the daughter
of a pickle manufacturer, whose wares were in some demand and whose children
had been considered good &ldquo;catches&rdquo; in the neighborhood from which
the Hon. Chaffee Sluss emanated. There had been a highly conservative wedding
feast, and a honeymoon trip to the Garden of the Gods and the Grand Canon. Then
the sleek Chaffee, much in the grace of both families because of his smug
determination to rise in the world, had returned to his business, which was
that of a paper-broker, and had begun with the greatest care to amass a
competence on his own account.
</p>

<p>
The Honorable Chaffee, be it admitted, had no particular faults, unless those
of smugness and a certain over-carefulness as to his own prospects and
opportunities can be counted as such. But he had one weakness, which, in view
of his young wife&rsquo;s stern and somewhat Puritanic ideas and the religious
propensities of his father and father-in-law, was exceedingly disturbing to
him. He had an eye for the beauty of women in general, and particularly for
plump, blonde women with corn-colored hair. Now and then, in spite of the fact
that he had an ideal wife and two lovely children, he would cast a meditative
and speculative eye after those alluring forms that cross the path of all men
and that seem to beckon slyly by implication if not by actual, open suggestion.
</p>

<p>
However, it was not until several years after Mr. Sluss had married, and when
he might have been considered settled in the ways of righteousness, that he
actually essayed to any extent the role of a gay Lothario. An experience or two
with the less vigorous and vicious girls of the streets, a tentative love
affair with a girl in his office who was not new to the practices she
encouraged, and he was fairly launched. He lent himself at first to the great
folly of pretending to love truly; but this was taken by one and another
intelligent young woman with a grain of salt. The entertainment and preferment
he could provide were accepted as sufficient reward. One girl, however,
actually seduced, had to be compensated by five thousand dollars&mdash;and that
after such terrors and heartaches (his wife, her family, and his own looming up
horribly in the background) as should have cured him forever of a penchant for
stenographers and employees generally. Thereafter for a long time he confined
himself strictly to such acquaintances as he could make through agents,
brokers, and manufacturers who did business with him, and who occasionally
invited him to one form of bacchanalian feast or another.
</p>

<p>
As time went on he became wiser, if, alas, a little more eager. By association
with merchants and some superior politicians whom he chanced to encounter, and
because the ward in which he lived happened to be a pivotal one, he began to
speak publicly on occasion and to gather dimly the import of that logic which
sees life as a pagan wild, and religion and convention as the forms man puts on
or off to suit his fancy, mood, and whims during the onward drift of the ages.
Not for Chaffee Thayer Sluss to grasp the true meaning of it all. His brain was
not big enough. Men led dual lives, it was true; but say what you would, and in
the face of his own erring conduct, this was very bad. On Sunday, when he went
to church with his wife, he felt that religion was essential and purifying. In
his own business he found himself frequently confronted by various little flaws
of logic relating to undue profits, misrepresentations, and the like; but say
what you would, nevertheless and notwithstanding, God was God, morality was
superior, the church was important. It was wrong to yield to one&rsquo;s
impulses, as he found it so fascinating to do. One should be better than his
neighbor, or pretend to be.
</p>

<p>
What is to be done with such a rag-bag, moralistic ass as this? In spite of all
his philanderings, and the resultant qualms due to his fear of being found out,
he prospered in business and rose to some eminence in his own community. As he
had grown more lax he had become somewhat more genial and tolerant, more
generally acceptable. He was a good Republican, a follower in the wake of
Norrie Simms and young Truman Leslie MacDonald. His father-in-law was both rich
and moderately influential. Having lent himself to some campaign speaking, and
to party work in general, he proved quite an adept. Because of all these
things&mdash;his ability, such as it was, his pliability, and his thoroughly
respectable savor&mdash;he had been slated as candidate for mayor on the
Republican ticket, which had subsequently been elected.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was well aware, from remarks made in the previous campaign, of the
derogatory attitude of Mayor Sluss. Already he had discussed it in a
conversation with the Hon. Joel Avery (ex-state senator), who was in his employ
at the time. Avery had recently been in all sorts of corporation work, and knew
the ins and outs of the courts&mdash;lawyers, judges, politicians&mdash;as he
knew his revised statutes. He was a very little man&mdash;not more than five
feet one inch tall&mdash;with a wide forehead, saffron hair and brows, brown,
cat-like eyes and a mushy underlip that occasionally covered the upper one as
he thought. After years and years Mr. Avery had learned to smile, but it was in
a strange, exotic way. Mostly he gazed steadily, folded his lower lip over his
upper one, and expressed his almost unchangeable conclusions in slow Addisonian
phrases. In the present crisis it was Mr. Avery who had a suggestion to make.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One thing that I think could be done,&rdquo; he said to Cowperwood one
day in a very confidential conference, &ldquo;would be to have a look into
the&mdash;the&mdash;shall I say the heart affairs&mdash;of the Hon. Chaffee
Thayer Sluss.&rdquo; Mr. Avery&rsquo;s cat-like eyes gleamed sardonically.
&ldquo;Unless I am greatly mistaken, judging the man by his personal presence
merely, he is the sort of person who probably has had, or if not might readily
be induced to have, some compromising affair with a woman which would require
considerable sacrifice on his part to smooth over. We are all human and
vulnerable&rdquo;&mdash;up went Mr. Avery&rsquo;s lower lip covering the upper
one, and then down again&mdash;&ldquo;and it does not behoove any of us to be
too severely ethical and self-righteous. Mr. Sluss is a well-meaning man, but a
trifle sentimental, as I take it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As Mr. Avery paused Cowperwood merely contemplated him, amused no less by his
personal appearance than by his suggestion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not a bad idea,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;though I don&rsquo;t like to mix
heart affairs with politics.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mr. Avery, soulfully, &ldquo;there may be something in
it. I don&rsquo;t know. You never can tell.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The upshot of this was that the task of obtaining an account of Mr.
Sluss&rsquo;s habits, tastes, and proclivities was assigned to that now rather
dignified legal personage, Mr. Burton Stimson, who in turn assigned it to an
assistant, a Mr. Marchbanks. It was an amazing situation in some respects, but
those who know anything concerning the intricacies of politics, finance, and
corporate control, as they were practised in those palmy days, would never
marvel at the wells of subtlety, sinks of misery, and morasses of disaster
which they represented.
</p>

<p class="p2">
From another quarter, the Hon. Patrick Gilgan was not slow in responding to
Cowperwood&rsquo;s message. Whatever his political connections and
proclivities, he did not care to neglect so powerful a man.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what can I be doing for you to-day, Mr. Cowperwood?&rdquo; he
inquired, when he arrived looking nice and fresh, very spick and span after his
victory.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Listen, Mr. Gilgan,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, simply, eying the Republican
county chairman very fixedly and twiddling his thumbs with fingers interlocked,
&ldquo;are you going to let the city council jam through the General Electric
and that South Side &lsquo;L&rsquo; road ordinance without giving me a chance
to say a word or do anything about it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Gilgan, so Cowperwood knew, was only one of a new quadrumvirate setting out
to rule the city, but he pretended to believe that he was the last
word&mdash;an all power and authority&mdash;after the fashion of McKenty.
&ldquo;Me good man,&rdquo; replied Gilgan, archly, &ldquo;you flatter me. I
haven&rsquo;t the city council in me vest pocket. I&rsquo;ve been county
chairman, it&rsquo;s true, and helped to elect some of these men, but I
don&rsquo;t own &rsquo;em. Why shouldn&rsquo;t they pass the General Electric
ordinance? It&rsquo;s an honest ordinance, as far as I know. All the newspapers
have been for it. As for this &lsquo;L&rsquo; road ordinance, I haven&rsquo;t
anything to do with it. It isn&rsquo;t anything I know much about. Young
MacDonald and Mr. Schryhart are looking after that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As a matter of fact, all that Mr. Gilgan was saying was decidedly true. A
henchman of young MacDonald&rsquo;s who was beginning to learn to play
politics&mdash;an alderman by the name of Klemm&mdash;had been scheduled as a
kind of field-marshal, and it was MacDonald&mdash;not Gilgan, Tiernan,
Kerrigan, or Edstrom&mdash;who was to round up the recalcitrant aldermen,
telling them their duty. Gilgan&rsquo;s quadrumvirate had not as yet got their
machine in good working order, though they were doing their best to bring this
about. &ldquo;I helped to elect every one of these men, it&rsquo;s true; but
that doesn&rsquo;t mean I&rsquo;m running &rsquo;em by any means,&rdquo;
concluded Gilgan. &ldquo;Not yet, anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the &ldquo;not yet&rdquo; Cowperwood smiled.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just the same, Mr. Gilgan,&rdquo; he went on, smoothly,
&ldquo;you&rsquo;re the nominal head and front of this whole movement in
opposition to me at present, and you&rsquo;re the one I have to look to. You
have this present Republican situation almost entirely in your own fingers, and
you can do about as you like if you&rsquo;re so minded. If you choose you can
persuade the members of council to take considerable more time than they
otherwise would in passing these ordinances&mdash;of that I&rsquo;m sure. I
don&rsquo;t know whether you know or not, Mr. Gilgan, though I suppose you do,
that this whole fight against me is a strike campaign intended to drive me out
of Chicago. Now you&rsquo;re a man of sense and judgment and considerable
business experience, and I want to ask you if you think that is fair. I came
here some sixteen or seventeen years ago and went into the gas business. It was
an open field, the field I undertook to develop&mdash;outlying towns on the
North, South, and West sides. Yet the moment I started the old-line companies
began to fight me, though I wasn&rsquo;t invading their territory at all at the
time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I remember it well enough,&rdquo; replied Gilgan. &ldquo;I was one of
the men that helped you to get your Hyde Park franchise. You&rsquo;d never have
got it if it hadn&rsquo;t been for me. That fellow McKibben,&rdquo; added
Gilgan, with a grin, &ldquo;a likely chap, him. He always walked as if he had
on rubber shoes. He&rsquo;s with you yet, I suppose?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, he&rsquo;s around here somewhere,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood,
loftily. &ldquo;But to go back to this other matter, most of the men that are
behind this General Electric ordinance and this &lsquo;L&rsquo; road franchise
were in the gas business&mdash;Blackman, Jules, Baker, Schryhart, and
others&mdash;and they are angry because I came into their field, and angrier
still because they had eventually to buy me out. They&rsquo;re angry because I
reorganized these old-fashioned street-railway companies here and put them on
their feet. Merrill is angry because I didn&rsquo;t run a loop around his
store, and the others are angry because I ever got a loop at all. They&rsquo;re
all angry because I managed to step in and do the things that they should have
done long before. I came here&mdash;and that&rsquo;s the whole story in a
nutshell. I&rsquo;ve had to have the city council with me to be able to do
anything at all, and because I managed to make it friendly and keep it so
they&rsquo;ve turned on me in that section and gone into politics. I know well
enough, Mr. Gilgan,&rdquo; concluded Cowperwood, &ldquo;who has been behind you
in this fight. I&rsquo;ve known all along where the money has been coming from.
You&rsquo;ve won, and you&rsquo;ve won handsomely, and I for one don&rsquo;t
begrudge you your victory in the least; but what I want to know now is, are you
going to help them carry this fight on against me in this way, or are you not?
Are you going to give me a fighting chance? There&rsquo;s going to be another
election in two years. Politics isn&rsquo;t a bed of roses that stays made just
because you make it once. These fellows that you have got in with are a crowd
of silk stockings. They haven&rsquo;t any sympathy with you or any one like
you. They&rsquo;re willing to be friendly with you now&mdash;just long enough
to get something out of you and club me to death. But after that how long do
you think they will have any use for you&mdash;how long?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not very long, maybe,&rdquo; replied Gilgan, simply and contemplatively,
&ldquo;but the world is the world, and we have to take it as we find it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, undismayed; &ldquo;but Chicago is
Chicago, and I will be here as long as they will. Fighting me in this
fashion&mdash;building elevated roads to cut into my profits and giving
franchises to rival companies&mdash;isn&rsquo;t going to get me out or
seriously injure me, either. I&rsquo;m here to stay, and the political
situation as it is to-day isn&rsquo;t going to remain the same forever and
ever. Now, you are an ambitious man; I can see that. You&rsquo;re not in
politics for your health&mdash;that I know. Tell me exactly what it is you want
and whether I can&rsquo;t get it for you as quick if not quicker than these
other fellows? What is it I can do for you that will make you see that my side
is just as good as theirs and better? I am playing a legitimate game in
Chicago. I&rsquo;ve been building up an excellent street-car service. I
don&rsquo;t want to be annoyed every fifteen minutes by a rival company coming
into the field. Now, what can I do to straighten this out? Isn&rsquo;t there
some way that you and I can come together without fighting at every step?
Can&rsquo;t you suggest some programme we can both follow that will make things
easier?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood paused, and Gilgan thought for a long time. It was true, as
Cowperwood said, that he was not in politics for his health. The situation, as
at present conditioned, was not inherently favorable for the brilliant
programme he had originally mapped out for himself. Tiernan, Kerrigan, and
Edstrom were friendly as yet; but they were already making extravagant demands;
and the reformers&mdash;those who had been led by the newspapers to believe
that Cowperwood was a scoundrel and all his works vile&mdash;were demanding
that a strictly moral programme be adhered to in all the doings of council, and
that no jobs, contracts, or deals of any kind be entered into without the full
knowledge of the newspapers and of the public. Gilgan, even after the first
post-election conference with his colleagues, had begun to feel that he was
between the devil and the deep sea, but he was feeling his way, and not
inclined to be in too much of a hurry.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s rather a flat proposition you&rsquo;re makin&rsquo;
me,&rdquo; he said softly, after a time, &ldquo;askin&rsquo; me to throw down
me friends the moment I&rsquo;ve won a victory for &rsquo;em. It&rsquo;s not
the way I&rsquo;ve been used to playin&rsquo; politics. There may be a lot of
truth in what you say. Still, a man can&rsquo;t be jumpin&rsquo; around like a
cat in a bag. He has to be faithful to somebody sometime.&rdquo; Mr. Gilgan
paused, considerably nonplussed by his own position.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, sympathetically, &ldquo;think it over.
It&rsquo;s difficult business, this business of politics. I&rsquo;m in it, for
one, only because I have to be. If you see any way you can help me, or I can
help you, let me know. In the mean time don&rsquo;t take in bad part what
I&rsquo;ve just said. I&rsquo;m in the position of a man with his hack to the
wall. I&rsquo;m fighting for my life. Naturally, I&rsquo;m going to fight. But
you and I needn&rsquo;t be the worse friends for that. We may become the best
of friends yet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s well I know that,&rdquo; said Gilgan, &ldquo;and it&rsquo;s
the best of friends I&rsquo;d like to be with you. But even if I could take
care of the aldermen, which I couldn&rsquo;t alone as yet, there&rsquo;s the
mayor. I don&rsquo;t know him at all except to say how-do-ye-do now and then;
but he&rsquo;s very much opposed to you, as I understand it. He&rsquo;ll be
running around most likely and talking in the papers. A man like that can do a
good deal.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I may be able to arrange for that,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood.
&ldquo;Perhaps Mr. Sluss can be reached. It may be that he isn&rsquo;t as
opposed to me as he thinks he is. You never can tell.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.<br/>
The New Administration</h2>

<p>
Oliver Marchbanks, the youthful fox to whom Stimson had assigned the task of
trapping Mr. Sluss in some legally unsanctioned act, had by scurrying about
finally pieced together enough of a story to make it exceedingly unpleasant for
the Honorable Chaffee in case he were to become the too willing tool of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s enemies. The principal agent in this affair was a certain
Claudia Carlstadt&mdash;adventuress, detective by disposition, and a sort of
smiling prostitute and hireling, who was at the same time a highly presentable
and experienced individual. Needless to say, Cowperwood knew nothing of these
minor proceedings, though a genial nod from him in the beginning had set in
motion the whole machinery of trespass in this respect.
</p>

<p>
Claudia Carlstadt&mdash;the instrument of the Honorable Chaffee&rsquo;s
undoing&mdash;was blonde, slender, notably fresh as yet, being only twenty-six,
and as ruthless and unconsciously cruel as only the avaricious and unthinking
type&mdash;unthinking in the larger philosophic meaning of the word&mdash;can
be. To grasp the reason for her being, one would have had to see the spiritless
South Halstead Street world from which she had sprung&mdash;one of those
neighborhoods of old, cracked, and battered houses where slatterns trudge to
and fro with beer-cans and shutters swing on broken hinges. In her youth
Claudia had been made to &ldquo;rush the growler,&rdquo; to sell newspapers at
the corner of Halstead and Harrison streets, and to buy cocaine at the nearest
drug store. Her little dresses and underclothing had always been of the poorest
and shabbiest material&mdash;torn and dirty, her ragged stockings frequently
showed the white flesh of her thin little legs, and her shoes were worn and
cracked, letting the water and snow seep through in winter. Her companions were
wretched little street boys of her own neighborhood, from whom she learned to
swear and to understand and indulge in vile practices, though, as is often the
case with children, she was not utterly depraved thereby, at that. At eleven,
when her mother died, she ran away from the wretched children&rsquo;s home to
which she had been committed, and by putting up a piteous tale she was harbored
on the West Side by an Irish family whose two daughters were clerks in a large
retail store. Through these Claudia became a cash-girl. Thereafter followed an
individual career as strange and checkered as anything that had gone before.
Sufficient to say that Claudia&rsquo;s native intelligence was considerable. At
the age of twenty she had managed&mdash;through her connections with the son of
a shoe manufacturer and with a rich jeweler&mdash;to amass a little cash and an
extended wardrobe. It was then that a handsome young Western Congressman, newly
elected, invited her to Washington to take a position in a government bureau.
This necessitated a knowledge of stenography and typewriting, which she soon
acquired. Later she was introduced by a Western Senator into that form of
secret service which has no connection with legitimate government, but which is
profitable. She was used to extract secrets by flattery and cajolery where
ordinary bribery would not avail. A matter of tracing the secret financial
connections of an Illinois Congressman finally brought her back to Chicago, and
here young Stimson encountered her. From him she learned of the political and
financial conspiracy against Cowperwood, and was in an odd manner fascinated.
From her Congressmen friends she already knew something of Sluss. Stimson
indicated that it would be worth two or three thousand dollars and expenses if
the mayor were successfully compromised. Thus Claudia Carlstadt was gently
navigated into Mr. Sluss&rsquo;s glowing life.
</p>

<p>
The matter was not so difficult of accomplishment. Through the Hon. Joel Avery,
Marchbanks secured a letter from a political friend of Mr. Sluss in behalf of a
young widow&mdash;temporarily embarrassed, a competent stenographer, and the
like&mdash;who wished a place under the new administration. Thus equipped,
Claudia presented herself at the mayor&rsquo;s office armed for the fray, as it
were, in a fetching black silk of a strangely heavy grain, her throat and
fingers ornamented with simple pearls, her yellow hair arranged about her
temples in exquisite curls. Mr. Sluss was very busy, but made an appointment.
The next time she appeared a yellow and red velvet rose had been added to her
corsage. She was a shapely, full-bosomed young woman who had acquired the art
of walking, sitting, standing, and bending after the most approved theories of
the Washington cocotte. Mr. Sluss was interested at once, but circumspect and
careful. He was now mayor of a great city, the cynosure of all eyes. It seemed
to him he remembered having already met Mrs. Brandon, as the lady styled
herself, and she reminded him where. It had been two years before in the grill
of the Richelieu. He immediately recalled details of the interesting occasion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, yes, and since then, as I understand it, you married and your
husband died. Most unfortunate.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sluss had a large international manner suited, as he thought, to a man in
so exalted a position.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Brandon nodded resignedly. Her eyebrows and lashes were carefully darkened
so as to sweeten the lines of her face, and a dimple had been made in one cheek
by the aid of an orange stick. She was the picture of delicate femininity
appealingly distressful, and yet to all appearance commercially competent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At the time I met you you were connected with the government service in
Washington, I believe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I had a small place in the Treasury Department, but this new
administration put me out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She lifted her eyes and leaned forward, thus bringing her torso into a
ravishing position. She had the air of one who has done many things besides
work in the Treasury Department. No least detail, as she observed, was lost on
Mr. Sluss. He noted her shoes, which were button patent leather with cloth
tops; her gloves, which were glace black kid with white stitching at the back
and fastened by dark-gamet buttons; the coral necklace worn on this occasion,
and her yellow and red velvet rose. Evidently a trig and hopeful widow, even if
so recently bereaved.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me see,&rdquo; mused Mr. Sluss, &ldquo;where are you living? Just
let me make a note of your address. This is a very nice letter from Mr. Barry.
Suppose you give me a few days to think what I can do? This is Tuesday. Come in
again on Friday. I&rsquo;ll see if anything suggests itself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He strolled with her to the official door, and noted that her step was light
and springy. At parting she turned a very melting gaze upon him, and at once he
decided that if he could he would find her something. She was the most
fascinating applicant that had yet appeared.
</p>

<p>
The end of Chaffee Thayer Sluss was not far distant after this. Mrs. Brandon
returned, as requested, her costume enlivened this time by a red-silk petticoat
which contrived to show its ingratiating flounces beneath the glistening black
broadcloth of her skirt.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Say, did you get on to that?&rdquo; observed one of the doormen, a
hold-over from the previous regime, to another of the same vintage. &ldquo;Some
style to the new administration, hey? We&rsquo;re not so slow, do you
think?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He pulled his coat together and fumbled at his collar to give himself an air of
smartness, and gazed gaily at his partner, both of them over sixty and dusty
specimens, at that.
</p>

<p>
The other poked him in the stomach. &ldquo;Hold your horses there, Bill. Not so
fast. We ain&rsquo;t got a real start yet. Give us another six months, and then
watch out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sluss was pleased to see Mrs. Brandon. He had spoken to John Bastienelli,
the new commissioner of taxes, whose offices were directly over the way on the
same hall, and the latter, seeing that he might want favors of the mayor later
on, had volubly agreed to take care of the lady.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am very glad to be able to give you this letter to Mr.
Bastienelli,&rdquo; commented Mr. Sluss, as he rang for a stenographer,
&ldquo;not only for the sake of my old friend Mr. Barry, but for your own as
well. Do you know Mr. Barry very well?&rdquo; he asked, curiously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Only slightly,&rdquo; admitted Mrs. Brandon, feeling that Mr. Sluss
would be glad to know she was not very intimate with those who were
recommending her. &ldquo;I was sent to him by a Mr. Amerman.&rdquo; (She named
an entirely fictitious personage.)
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sluss was relieved. As he handed her the note she once more surveyed him
with those grateful, persuasive, appealing eyes. They made him almost dizzy,
and set up a chemical perturbation in his blood which quite dispelled his good
resolutions in regard to the strange woman and his need of being circumspect.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You say you are living on the North Side?&rdquo; he inquired, smiling
weakly, almost foolishly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I have taken such a nice little apartment over-looking Lincoln
Park. I didn&rsquo;t know whether I was going to be able to keep it up, but now
that I have this position&mdash; You&rsquo;ve been so very kind to me, Mr.
Sluss,&rdquo; she concluded, with the same I-need-to-be-cared-for air. &ldquo;I
hope you won&rsquo;t forget me entirely. If I could be of any personal service
to you at any time&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sluss was rather beside himself at the thought that this charming baggage
of femininity, having come so close for the minute, was now passing on and
might disappear entirely. By a great effort of daring, as they walked toward
the door, he managed to say: &ldquo;I shall have to look into that little place
of yours sometime and see how you are getting along. I live up that way
myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, do!&rdquo; she exclaimed, warmly. &ldquo;It would be so kind. I am
practically alone in the world. Perhaps you play cards. I know how to make a
most wonderful punch. I should like you to see how cozily I am settled.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this Mr. Sluss, now completely in tow of his principal weakness,
capitulated. &ldquo;I will,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I surely will. And that
sooner than you expect, perhaps. You must let me know how you are getting
along.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He took her hand. She held his quite warmly. &ldquo;Now I&rsquo;ll hold you to
your promise,&rdquo; she gurgled, in a throaty, coaxing way. A few days later
he encountered her at lunch-time in his hall, where she had been literally
lying in wait for him in order to repeat her invitation. Then he came.
</p>

<p>
The hold-over employees who worked about the City Hall in connection with the
mayor&rsquo;s office were hereafter instructed to note as witnesses the times
of arrival and departure of Mrs. Brandon and Mr. Sluss. A note that he wrote to
Mrs. Brandon was carefully treasured, and sufficient evidence as to their
presence at hotels and restaurants was garnered to make out a damaging case.
The whole affair took about four months; then Mrs. Brandon suddenly received an
offer to return to Washington, and decided to depart. The letters that followed
her were a part of the data that was finally assembled in Mr. Stimson&rsquo;s
office to be used against Mr. Sluss in case he became too obstreperous in his
opposition to Cowperwood.
</p>

<p class="p2">
In the mean time the organization which Mr. Gilgan had planned with Mr.
Tiernan, Mr. Kerrigan, and Mr. Edstrom was encountering what might be called
rough sledding. It was discovered that, owing to the temperaments of some of
the new aldermen, and to the self-righteous attitude of their political
sponsors, no franchises of any kind were to be passed unless they had the moral
approval of such men as Hand, Sluss, and the other reformers; above all, no
money of any kind was to be paid to anybody for anything.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Whaddye think of those damn four-flushers and come-ons, anyhow?&rdquo;
inquired Mr. Kerrigan of Mr. Tiernan, shortly subsequent to a conference with
Gilgan, from which Tiernan had been unavoidably absent. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve
got an ordinance drawn up covering the whole city in an elevated-road scheme,
and there ain&rsquo;t anything in it for anybody. Say, whaddye think they think
we are, anyhow? Hey?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Tiernan himself, after his own conference with Edstrom, had been busy
getting the lay of the land, as he termed it; and his investigations led him to
believe that a certain alderman by the name of Klemm, a clever and very
respectable German-American from the North Side, was to be the leader of the
Republicans in council, and that he and some ten or twelve others were
determined, because of moral principles alone, that only honest measures should
be passed. It was staggering.
</p>

<p>
At this news Mr. Kerrigan, who had been calculating on a number of thousands of
dollars for his vote on various occasions, stared incredulously. &ldquo;Well,
I&rsquo;ll be damned!&rdquo; he commented. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ve got a nerve!
What?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been talking to this fellow Klemm of the twentieth,&rdquo;
said Mr. Tiernan, sardonically. &ldquo;Say, he&rsquo;s a real one! I met him
over at the Tremont talkin&rsquo; to Hvranek. He shakes hands like a dead fish.
Whaddye think he had the nerve to say to me. &lsquo;This isn&rsquo;t the Mr.
Tiernan of the second?&rsquo; he says.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&lsquo;I&rsquo;m the same,&rsquo; says I.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, you don&rsquo;t look as savage as I thought you did,&rsquo;
says he. Haw-haw! I felt like sayin&rsquo;, &lsquo;If you don&rsquo;t go way
I&rsquo;ll give you a slight tap on the wrist.&rsquo; I&rsquo;d like just one
pass at a stiff like that up a dark alley.&rdquo; (Mr. Tiernan almost groaned
in anguish.) &ldquo;And then he begins to say he doesn&rsquo;t see how there
can be any reasonable objection to allowin&rsquo; various new companies to
enter the street-car field. &lsquo;It&rsquo;s sufficiently clear,&rsquo; he
says, &lsquo;that the public is against monopolies in any form.&rsquo;&rdquo;
(Mr. Tiernan was mocking Mr. Klemm&rsquo;s voice and language.) &ldquo;My
eye!&rdquo; he concluded, sententiously. &ldquo;Wait till he tries to throw
that dope into Gumble and Pinski and Schlumbohm&mdash;haw, haw, haw!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Kerrigan, at the thought of these hearty aldermen accustomed to all the
perquisites of graft and rake-off, leaned back and gave vent to a burst of
deep-chested laughter. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what it is, Mike,&rdquo; he
said, archly, hitching up his tight, very artistic, and almost English
trousers, &ldquo;we&rsquo;re up against a bunch of pikers in this Gilgan crowd,
and they&rsquo;ve gotta be taught a lesson. He knows it as well as anybody
else. None o&rsquo; that Christian con game goes around where I am. I believe
this man Cowperwood&rsquo;s right when he says them fellows are a bunch of
soreheads and jealous. If Cowperwood&rsquo;s willing to put down good hard
money to keep &rsquo;em out of his game, let them do as much to stay in it.
This ain&rsquo;t no charity grab-bag. We ought to be able to round up enough of
these new fellows to make Schryhart and MacDonald come down good and plenty for
what they want. From what Gilgan said all along, I thought he was dealing with
live ones. They paid to win the election. Now let &rsquo;em pay to pull off a
swell franchise if they want it, eh?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re damn right,&rdquo; echoed Tiernan. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m with
you to a T.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was not long after this conversation that Mr. Truman Leslie MacDonald,
acting through Alderman Klemm, proceeded to make a count of noses, and found to
his astonishment that he was not as strong as he had thought he was. Political
loyalty is such a fickle thing. A number of aldermen with curious
names&mdash;Horback, Fogarty, McGrane, Sumulsky&mdash;showed signs of being
tampered with. He hurried at once to Messrs. Hand, Schryhart, and Arneel with
this disconcerting information. They had been congratulating themselves that
the recent victory, if it resulted in nothing else, would at least produce a
blanket &lsquo;L&rsquo; road franchise, and that this would be sufficient to
bring Cowperwood to his knees.
</p>

<p>
Upon receiving MacDonald&rsquo;s message Hand sent at once for Gilgan. When he
inquired as to how soon a vote on the General Electric franchise&mdash;which
had been introduced by Mr. Klemm&mdash;could reasonably be expected, Gilgan
declared himself much grieved to admit that in one direction or other
considerable opposition seemed to have developed to the measure.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; said Hand, a little savagely.
&ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t we make a plain bargain in regard to this? You had all the
money you asked for, didn&rsquo;t you? You said you could give me twenty-six
aldermen who would vote as we agreed. You&rsquo;re not going to go back on your
bargain, are you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Bargain! bargain!&rdquo; retorted Gilgan, irritated because of the
spirit of the assault. &ldquo;I agreed to elect twenty-six Republican aldermen,
and that I did. I don&rsquo;t own &rsquo;em body and soul. I didn&rsquo;t name
&rsquo;em in every case. I made deals with the men in the different wards that
had the best chance, and that the people wanted. I&rsquo;m not responsible for
any crooked work that&rsquo;s going on behind my back, am I? I&rsquo;m not
responsible for men&rsquo;s not being straight if they&rsquo;re not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Gilgan&rsquo;s face was an aggrieved question-mark.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you had the picking of these men,&rdquo; insisted Mr. Hand,
aggressively. &ldquo;Every one of them had your personal indorsement. You made
the deals with them. You don&rsquo;t mean to say they&rsquo;re going back on
their sacred agreement to fight Cowperwood tooth and nail? There can&rsquo;t be
any misunderstanding on their part as to what they were elected to do. The
newspapers have been full of the fact that nothing favorable to Cowperwood was
to be put through.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all true enough,&rdquo; replied Mr. Gilgan; &ldquo;but I
can&rsquo;t be held responsible for the private honesty of everybody. Sure I
selected these men. Sure I did! But I selected them with the help of the rest
of the Republicans and some of the Democrats. I had to make the best terms I
could&mdash;to pick the men that could win. As far as I can find out most of
&rsquo;em are satisfied not to do anything for Cowperwood. It&rsquo;s passing
these ordinances in favor of other people that&rsquo;s stirring up the
trouble.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand&rsquo;s broad forehead wrinkled, and his blue eyes surveyed Mr. Gilgan
with suspicion. &ldquo;Who are these men, anyhow?&rdquo; he inquired.
&ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to get a list of them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Gilgan, safe in his own subtlety, was ready with a toll of the supposed
recalcitrants. They must fight their own battles. Mr. Hand wrote down the
names, determining meanwhile to bring pressure to bear. He decided also to
watch Mr. Gilgan. If there should prove to be a hitch in the programme the
newspapers should be informed and commanded to thunder appropriately. Such
aldermen as proved unfaithful to the great trust imposed on them should be
smoked out, followed back to the wards which had elected them, and exposed to
the people who were behind them. Their names should be pilloried in the public
press. The customary hints as to Cowperwood&rsquo;s deviltry and trickery
should be redoubled.
</p>

<p>
But in the mean time Messrs. Stimson, Avery, McKibben, Van Sickle, and others
were on Cowperwood&rsquo;s behalf acting separately upon various unattached
aldermen&mdash;those not temperamentally and chronically allied with the reform
idea&mdash;and making them understand that if they could find it possible to
refrain from supporting anti-Cowperwood measures for the next two years, a
bonus in the shape of an annual salary of two thousand dollars or a gift in
some other form&mdash;perhaps a troublesome note indorsed or a mortgage taken
care of&mdash;would be forthcoming, together with a guarantee that the general
public should never know. In no case was such an offer made direct. Friends or
neighbors, or suave unidentified strangers, brought mysterious messages. By
this method some eleven aldermen&mdash;quite apart from the ten regular
Democrats who, because of McKenty and his influence, could be counted
upon&mdash;had been already suborned. Although Schryhart, Hand, and Arneel did
not know it, their plans&mdash;even as they planned&mdash;were being thus
undermined, and, try as they would, the coveted ordinance for a blanket
franchise persistently eluded them. They had to content themselves for the time
being with a franchise for a single &lsquo;L&rsquo; road line on the South Side
in Schryhart&rsquo;s own territory, and with a franchise to the General
Electric covering only one unimportant line, which it would be easy for
Cowperwood, if he continued in power, to take over at some later time.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL.<br/>
A Trip to Louisville</h2>

<p>
The most serious difficulty confronting Cowperwood from now on was really not
so much political as financial. In building up and financing his Chicago
street-railway enterprises he had, in those days when Addison was president of
the Lake City National, used that bank as his chief source of supply.
Afterward, when Addison had been forced to retire from the Lake City to assume
charge of the Chicago Trust Company, Cowperwood had succeeded in having the
latter designated as a central reserve and in inducing a number of rural banks
to keep their special deposits in its vaults. However, since the war on him and
his interests had begun to strengthen through the efforts of Hand and
Arneel&mdash;men most influential in the control of the other central-reserve
banks of Chicago, and in close touch with the money barons of New
York&mdash;there were signs not wanting that some of the country banks
depositing with the Chicago Trust Company had been induced to withdraw because
of pressure from outside inimical forces, and that more were to follow. It was
some time before Cowperwood fully realized to what an extent this financial
opposition might be directed against himself. In its very beginning it
necessitated speedy hurryings to New York, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, Baltimore,
Boston&mdash;even London at times&mdash;on the chance that there would be loose
and ready cash in someone&rsquo;s possession. It was on one of these
peregrinations that he encountered a curious personality which led to various
complications in his life, sentimental and otherwise, which he had not hitherto
contemplated.
</p>

<p>
In various sections of the country Cowperwood had met many men of wealth, some
grave, some gay, with whom he did business, and among these in Louisville,
Kentucky, he encountered a certain Col. Nathaniel Gillis, very wealthy, a
horseman, inventor, roue, from whom he occasionally extracted loans. The
Colonel was an interesting figure in Kentucky society; and, taking a great
liking to Cowperwood, he found pleasure, during the brief periods in which they
were together, in piloting him about. On one occasion in Louisville he
observed: &ldquo;To-night, Frank, with your permission, I am going to introduce
you to one of the most interesting women I know. She isn&rsquo;t good, but
she&rsquo;s entertaining. She has had a troubled history. She is the ex-wife of
two of my best friends, both dead, and the ex-mistress of another. I like her
because I knew her father and mother, and because she was a clever little girl
and still is a nice woman, even if she is getting along. She keeps a sort of
house of convenience here in Louisville for a few of her old friends. You
haven&rsquo;t anything particular to do to-night, have you? Suppose we go
around there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, who was always genially sportive when among strong men&mdash;a sort
of bounding collie&mdash;and who liked to humor those who could be of use to
him, agreed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It sounds interesting to me. Certainly I&rsquo;ll go. Tell me more about
her. Is she good-looking?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Rather. But better yet, she is connected with a number of women who
are.&rdquo; The Colonel, who had a small, gray goatee and sportive dark eyes,
winked the latter solemnly.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood arose.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Take me there,&rdquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
It was a rainy night. The business on which he was seeing the Colonel required
another day to complete. There was little or nothing to do. On the way the
Colonel retailed more of the life history of Nannie Hedden, as he familiarly
called her, and explained that, although this was her maiden name, she had
subsequently become first Mrs. John Alexander Fleming, then, after a divorce,
Mrs. Ira George Carter, and now, alas! was known among the exclusive set of
fast livers, to which he belonged, as plain Hattie Starr, the keeper of a more
or less secret house of ill repute. Cowperwood did not take so much interest in
all this until he saw her, and then only because of two children the Colonel
told him about, one a girl by her first marriage, Berenice Fleming, who was
away in a New York boarding-school, the other a boy, Rolfe Carter, who was in a
military school for boys somewhere in the West.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That daughter of hers,&rdquo; observed the Colonel, &ldquo;is a chip of
the old block, unless I miss my guess. I only saw her two or three times a few
years ago when I was down East at her mother&rsquo;s summer home; but she
struck me as having great charm even for a girl of ten. She&rsquo;s a lady
born, if ever there was one. How her mother is to keep her straight, living as
she does, is more than I know. How she keeps her in that school is a mystery.
There&rsquo;s apt to be a scandal here at any time. I&rsquo;m very sure the
girl doesn&rsquo;t know anything about her mother&rsquo;s business. She never
lets her come out here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice Fleming,&rdquo; Cowperwood thought to himself. &ldquo;What a
pleasing name, and what a peculiar handicap in life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How old is the daughter now?&rdquo; he inquired.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, she must be about fifteen&mdash;not more than that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
When they reached the house, which was located in a rather somber, treeless
street, Cowperwood was surprised to find the interior spacious and tastefully
furnished. Presently Mrs. Carter, as she was generally known in society, or
Hattie Starr, as she was known to a less satisfying world, appeared. Cowperwood
realized at once that he was in the presence of a woman who, whatever her
present occupation, was not without marked evidences of refinement. She was
exceedingly intelligent, if not highly intellectual, trig, vivacious, anything
but commonplace. A certain spirited undulation in her walk, a seeming gay,
frank indifference to her position in life, an obvious accustomedness to polite
surroundings took his fancy. Her hair was built up in a loose Frenchy way,
after the fashion of the empire, and her cheeks were slightly mottled with red
veins. Her color was too high, and yet it was not utterly unbecoming. She had
friendly gray-blue eyes, which went well with her light-brown hair; along with
a pink flowered house-gown, which became her fulling figure, she wore pearls.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The widow of two husbands,&rdquo; thought Cowperwood; &ldquo;the mother
of two children!&rdquo; With the Colonel&rsquo;s easy introduction began a
light conversation. Mrs. Carter gracefully persisted that she had known of
Cowperwood for some time. His strenuous street-railway operations were more or
less familiar to her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would be nice,&rdquo; she suggested, &ldquo;since Mr. Cowperwood is
here, if we invited Grace Deming to call.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The latter was a favorite of the Colonel&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I would be very glad if I could talk to Mrs. Carter,&rdquo; gallantly
volunteered Cowperwood&mdash;he scarcely knew why. He was curious to learn more
of her history. On subsequent occasions, and in more extended conversation with
the Colonel, it was retailed to him in full.
</p>

<p>
Nannie Hedden, or Mrs. John Alexander Fleming, or Mrs. Ira George Carter, or
Hattie Starr, was by birth a descendant of a long line of Virginia and Kentucky
Heddens and Colters, related in a definite or vague way to half the aristocracy
of four or five of the surrounding states. Now, although still a woman of
brilliant parts, she was the keeper of a select house of assignation in this
meager city of perhaps two hundred thousand population. How had it happened?
How could it possibly have come about? She had been in her day a reigning
beauty. She had been born to money and had married money. Her first husband,
John Alexander Fleming, who had inherited wealth, tastes, privileges, and vices
from a long line of slave-holding, tobacco-growing Flemings, was a charming man
of the Kentucky-Virginia society type. He had been trained in the law with a
view to entering the diplomatic service, but, being an idler by nature, had
never done so. Instead, horse-raising, horse-racing, philandering, dancing,
hunting, and the like, had taken up his time. When their wedding took place the
Kentucky-Virginia society world considered it a great match. There was wealth
on both sides. Then came much more of that idle social whirl which had produced
the marriage. Even philanderings of a very vital character were not barred,
though deception, in some degree at least, would be necessary. As a natural
result there followed the appearance in the mountains of North Carolina during
a charming autumn outing of a gay young spark by the name of Tucker Tanner, and
the bestowal on him by the beautiful Nannie Fleming&mdash;as she was then
called&mdash;of her temporary affections. Kind friends were quick to report
what Fleming himself did not see, and Fleming, roue that he was, encountering
young Mr. Tanner on a high mountain road one evening, said to him, &ldquo;You
get out of this party by night, or I will let daylight through you in the
morning.&rdquo; Tucker Tanner, realizing that however senseless and unfair the
exaggerated chivalry of the South might be, the end would be bullets just the
same, departed. Mrs. Fleming, disturbed but unrepentant, considered herself
greatly abused. There was much scandal. Then came quarrels, drinking on both
sides, finally a divorce. Mr. Tucker Tanner did not appear to claim his damaged
love, but the aforementioned Ira George Carter, a penniless never-do-well of
the same generation and social standing, offered himself and was accepted. By
the first marriage there had been one child, a girl. By the second there was
another child, a boy. Ira George Carter, before the children were old enough to
impress Mrs. Carter with the importance of their needs or her own affection for
them, had squandered, in one ridiculous venture after another, the bulk of the
property willed to her by her father, Major Wickham Hedden. Ultimately, after
drunkenness and dissipation on the husband&rsquo;s side, and finally his death,
came the approach of poverty. Mrs. Carter was not practical, and still
passionate and inclined to dissipation. However, the aimless, fatuous going to
pieces of Ira George Carter, the looming pathos of the future of the children,
and a growing sense of affection and responsibility had finally sobered her.
The lure of love and life had not entirely disappeared, but her chance of
sipping at those crystal founts had grown sadly slender. A woman of
thirty-eight and still possessing some beauty, she was not content to eat the
husks provided for the unworthy. Her gorge rose at the thought of that
neglected state into which the pariahs of society fall and on which the
inexperienced so cheerfully comment. Neglected by her own set, shunned by the
respectable, her fortune quite gone, she was nevertheless determined that she
would not be a back-street seamstress or a pensioner upon the bounty of quondam
friends. By insensible degrees came first unhallowed relationships through
friendship and passing passion, then a curious intermediate state between the
high world of fashion and the half world of harlotry, until, finally, in
Louisville, she had become, not openly, but actually, the mistress of a house
of ill repute. Men who knew how these things were done, and who were consulting
their own convenience far more than her welfare, suggested the advisability of
it. Three or four friends like Colonel Gillis wished rooms&mdash;convenient
place in which to loaf, gamble, and bring their women. Hattie Starr was her
name now, and as such she had even become known in a vague way to the
police&mdash;but only vaguely&mdash;as a woman whose home was suspiciously gay
on occasions.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, with his appetite for the wonders of life, his appreciation of the
dramas which produce either failure or success, could not help being interested
in this spoiled woman who was sailing so vaguely the seas of chance. Colonel
Gillis once said that with some strong man to back her, Nannie Fleming could be
put back into society. She had a pleasant appeal&mdash;she and her two
children, of whom she never spoke. After a few visits to her home Cowperwood
spent hours talking with Mrs. Carter whenever he was in Louisville. On one
occasion, as they were entering her boudoir, she picked up a photograph of her
daughter from the dresser and dropped it into a drawer. Cowperwood had never
seen this picture before. It was that of a girl of fifteen or sixteen, of whom
he obtained but the most fleeting glance. Yet, with that instinct for the
essential and vital which invariably possessed him, he gained a keen impression
of it. It was of a delicately haggard child with a marvelously agreeable smile,
a fine, high-poised head upon a thin neck, and an air of bored superiority.
Combined with this was a touch of weariness about the eyelids which drooped in
a lofty way. Cowperwood was fascinated. Because of the daughter he professed an
interest in the mother, which he really did not feel.
</p>

<p>
A little later Cowperwood was moved to definite action by the discovery in a
photographer&rsquo;s window in Louisville of a second picture of
Berenice&mdash;a rather large affair which Mrs. Carter had had enlarged from a
print sent her by her daughter some time before. Berenice was standing rather
indifferently posed at the corner of a colonial mantel, a soft straw outing-hat
held negligently in one hand, one hip sunk lower than the other, a faint,
elusive smile playing dimly around her mouth. The smile was really not a smile,
but only the wraith of one, and the eyes were wide, disingenuous, mock-simple.
The picture because of its simplicity, appealed to him. He did not know that
Mrs. Carter had never sanctioned its display. &ldquo;A personage,&rdquo; was
Cowperwood&rsquo;s comment to himself, and he walked into the
photographer&rsquo;s office to see what could be done about its removal and the
destruction of the plates. A half-hundred dollars, he found, would arrange it
all&mdash;plates, prints, everything. Since by this ruse he secured a picture
for himself, he promptly had it framed and hung in his Chicago rooms, where
sometimes of an afternoon when he was hurrying to change his clothes he stopped
to look at it. With each succeeding examination his admiration and curiosity
grew. Here was perhaps, he thought, the true society woman, the high-born lady,
the realization of that ideal which Mrs. Merrill and many another grande dame
had suggested.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was not so long after this again that, chancing to be in Louisville, he
discovered Mrs. Carter in a very troubled social condition. Her affairs had
received a severe setback. A certain Major Hagenback, a citizen of considerable
prominence, had died in her home under peculiar circumstances. He was a man of
wealth, married, and nominally living with his wife in Lexington. As a matter
of fact, he spent very little time there, and at the time of his death of heart
failure was leading a pleasurable existence with a Miss Trent, an actress, whom
he had introduced to Mrs. Carter as his friend. The police, through a talkative
deputy coroner, were made aware of all the facts. Pictures of Miss Trent, Mrs.
Carter, Major Hagenback, his wife, and many curious details concerning Mrs.
Carter&rsquo;s home were about to appear in the papers when Colonel Gillis and
others who were powerful socially and politically interfered; the affair was
hushed up, but Mrs. Carter was in distress. This was more than she had
bargained for.
</p>

<p>
Her quondam friends were frightened away for the nonce. She herself had lost
courage. When Cowperwood saw her she had been in the very human act of crying,
and her eyes were red.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; he commented, on seeing her&mdash;she was in moody
gray in the bargain&mdash;&ldquo;you don&rsquo;t mean to tell me you&rsquo;re
worrying about anything, are you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; she explained, pathetically, &ldquo;I have
had so much trouble since I saw you. You heard of Major Hagenback&rsquo;s
death, didn&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; Cowperwood, who had heard something of the
story from Colonel Gillis, nodded. &ldquo;Well, I have just been notified by
the police that I will have to move, and the landlord has given me notice, too.
If it just weren&rsquo;t for my two children&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She dabbed at her eyes pathetically.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood meditated interestedly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you any place you can go?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have a summer place in Pennsylvania,&rdquo; she confessed; &ldquo;but
I can&rsquo;t go there very well in February. Besides, it&rsquo;s my living
I&rsquo;m worrying about. I have only this to depend on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She waved her hand inclusively toward the various rooms. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you
own that place in Pennsylvania?&rdquo; he inquired.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, but it isn&rsquo;t worth much, and I couldn&rsquo;t sell it.
I&rsquo;ve been trying to do that anyhow for some time, because Berenice is
getting tired of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And haven&rsquo;t you any money laid away?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s taken all I have to run this place and keep the children in
school. I&rsquo;ve been trying to give Berenice and Rolfe a chance to do
something for themselves.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the repetition of Berenice&rsquo;s name Cowperwood consulted his own
interest or mood in the matter. A little assistance for her would not bother
him much. Besides, it would probably eventually bring about a meeting with the
daughter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you clear out of this?&rdquo; he observed, finally.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s no business to be in, anyhow, if you have any regard for your
children. They can&rsquo;t survive anything like this. You want to put your
daughter back in society, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; almost pleaded Mrs. Carter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Precisely,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood, who, when he was thinking,
almost invariably dropped into a short, cold, curt, business manner. Yet he was
humanely inclined in this instance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, why not live in your Pennsylvania place for the present, or,
if not that, go to New York? You can&rsquo;t stay here. Ship or sell these
things.&rdquo; He waved a hand toward the rooms.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I would only too gladly,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Carter, &ldquo;if I knew
what to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Take my advice and go to New York for the present. You will get rid of
your expenses here, and I will help you with the rest&mdash;for the present,
anyhow. You can get a start again. It is too bad about these children of yours.
I will take care of the boy as soon as he is old enough. As for
Berenice&rdquo;&mdash;he used her name softly&mdash;&ldquo;if she can stay in
her school until she is nineteen or twenty the chances are that she will make
social connections which will save her nicely. The thing for you to do is to
avoid meeting any of this old crowd out here in the future if you can. It might
be advisable to take her abroad for a time after she leaves school.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, if I just could,&rdquo; sighed Mrs. Carter, rather lamely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, do what I suggest now, and we will see,&rdquo; observed
Cowperwood. &ldquo;It would be a pity if your two children were to have their
lives ruined by such an accident as this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Carter, realizing that here, in the shape of Cowperwood, if he chose to be
generous, was the open way out of a lowering dungeon of misery, was inclined to
give vent to a bit of grateful emotion, but, finding him subtly remote,
restrained herself. His manner, while warmly generous at times, was also easily
distant, except when he wished it to be otherwise. Just now he was thinking of
the high soul of Berenice Fleming and of its possible value to him.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap41"></a>CHAPTER XLI.<br/>
The Daughter of Mrs. Fleming</h2>

<p>
Berenice Fleming, at the time Cowperwood first encountered her mother, was an
inmate of the Misses Brewster&rsquo;s School for Girls, then on Riverside
Drive, New York, and one of the most exclusive establishments of its kind in
America. The social prestige and connections of the Heddens, Flemings, and
Carters were sufficient to gain her this introduction, though the social
fortunes of her mother were already at this time on the down grade. A tall
girl, delicately haggard, as he had imagined her, with reddish-bronze hair of a
tinge but distantly allied to that of Aileen&rsquo;s, she was unlike any woman
Cowperwood had ever known. Even at seventeen she stood up and out with an
inexplicable superiority which brought her the feverish and exotic attention of
lesser personalities whose emotional animality found an outlet in swinging a
censer at her shrine.
</p>

<p>
A strange maiden, decidedly! Even at this age, when she was, as one might
suppose, a mere slip of a girl, she was deeply conscious of herself, her sex,
her significance, her possible social import. Armed with a fair skin, a few
freckles, an almost too high color at times, strange, deep, night-blue,
cat-like eyes, a long nose, a rather pleasant mouth, perfect teeth, and a
really good chin, she moved always with a feline grace that was careless,
superior, sinuous, and yet the acme of harmony and a rhythmic flow of lines.
One of her mess-hall tricks, when unobserved by her instructors, was to walk
with six plates and a water-pitcher all gracefully poised on the top of her
head after the fashion of the Asiatic and the African, her hips moving, her
shoulders, neck, and head still. Girls begged weeks on end to have her repeat
this &ldquo;stunt,&rdquo; as they called it. Another was to put her arms behind
her and with a rush imitate the Winged Victory, a copy of which graced the
library hall.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; one little rosy-cheeked satellite used to urge on her,
adoringly, &ldquo;she must have been like you. Her head must have been like
yours. You are lovely when you do it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For answer Berenice&rsquo;s deep, almost black-blue eyes turned on her admirer
with solemn unflattered consideration. She awed always by the something that
she did not say.
</p>

<p>
The school, for all the noble dames who presided over it&mdash;solemn,
inexperienced owl-like conventionalists who insisted on the last tittle and jot
of order and procedure&mdash;was a joke to Berenice. She recognized the value
of its social import, but even at fifteen and sixteen she was superior to it.
She was superior to her superiors and to the specimens of
maidenhood&mdash;supposed to be perfect socially&mdash;who gathered about to
hear her talk, to hear her sing, declaim, or imitate. She was deeply,
dramatically, urgently conscious of the value of her personality in itself, not
as connected with any inherited social standing, but of its innate worth, and
of the artistry and wonder of her body. One of her chief delights was to walk
alone in her room&mdash;sometimes at night, the lamp out, the moon perhaps
faintly illuminating her chamber&mdash;and to pose and survey her body, and
dance in some naive, graceful, airy Greek way a dance that was singularly free
from sex consciousness&mdash;and yet was it? She was conscious of her
body&mdash;of every inch of it&mdash;under the ivory-white clothes which she
frequently wore. Once she wrote in a secret diary which she
maintained&mdash;another art impulse or an affectation, as you will: &ldquo;My
skin is so wonderful. It tingles so with rich life. I love it and my strong
muscles underneath. I love my hands and my hair and my eyes. My hands are long
and thin and delicate; my eyes are a dark, deep blue; my hair is a brown, rusty
red, thick and sleepy. My long, firm, untired limbs can dance all night. Oh, I
love life! I love life!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
You would not have called Berenice Fleming sensuous&mdash;though she
was&mdash;because she was self-controlled. Her eyes lied to you. They lied to
all the world. They looked you through and through with a calm savoir faire, a
mocking defiance, which said with a faint curl of the lips, barely suggested to
help them out, &ldquo;You cannot read me, you cannot read me.&rdquo; She put
her head to one side, smiled, lied (by implication), assumed that there was
nothing. And there was nothing, as yet. Yet there was something, too&mdash;her
inmost convictions, and these she took good care to conceal. The
world&mdash;how little it should ever, ever know! How little it ever could know
truly!
</p>

<p>
The first time Cowperwood encountered this Circe daughter of so unfortunate a
mother was on the occasion of a trip to New York, the second spring following
his introduction to Mrs. Carter in Louisville. Berenice was taking some part in
the closing exercises of the Brewster School, and Mrs. Carter, with Cowperwood
for an escort, decided to go East. Cowperwood having located himself at the
Netherlands, and Mrs. Carter at the much humbler Grenoble, they journeyed
together to visit this paragon whose picture he had had hanging in his rooms in
Chicago for months past. When they were introduced into the somewhat somber
reception parlor of the Brewster School, Berenice came slipping in after a few
moments, a noiseless figure of a girl, tall and slim, and deliciously sinuous.
Cowperwood saw at first glance that she fulfilled all the promise of her
picture, and was delighted. She had, he thought, a strange, shrewd, intelligent
smile, which, however, was girlish and friendly. Without so much as a glance in
his direction she came forward, extending her arms and hands in an inimitable
histrionic manner, and exclaimed, with a practised and yet natural inflection:
&ldquo;Mother, dear! So here you are really! You know, I&rsquo;ve been thinking
of you all morning. I wasn&rsquo;t sure whether you would come to-day, you
change about so. I think I even dreamed of you last night.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her skirts, still worn just below the shoe-tops, had the richness of scraping
silk then fashionable. She was also guilty of using a faint perfume of some
kind.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood could see that Mrs. Carter, despite a certain nervousness due to the
girl&rsquo;s superior individuality and his presence, was very proud of her.
Berenice, he also saw quickly, was measuring him out of the tail of her
eye&mdash;a single sweeping glance which she vouchsafed from beneath her long
lashes sufficing; but she gathered quite accurately the totality of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s age, force, grace, wealth, and worldly ability. Without
hesitation she classed him as a man of power in some field, possibly finance,
one of the numerous able men whom her mother seemed to know. She always
wondered about her mother. His large gray eyes, that searched her with
lightning accuracy, appealed to her as pleasant, able eyes. She knew on the
instant, young as she was, that he liked women, and that probably he would
think her charming; but as for giving him additional attention it was outside
her code. She preferred to be interested in her dear mother exclusively.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Carter, airily, &ldquo;let me introduce
Mr. Cowperwood.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice turned, and for the fraction of a second leveled a frank and yet
condescending glance from wells of what Cowperwood considered to be indigo
blue.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your mother has spoken of you from time to time,&rdquo; he said,
pleasantly.
</p>

<p>
She withdrew a cool, thin hand as limp and soft as wax, and turned to her
mother again without comment, and yet without the least embarrassment.
Cowperwood seemed in no way important to her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What would you say, dear,&rdquo; pursued Mrs. Carter, after a brief
exchange of commonplaces, &ldquo;if I were to spend next winter in New
York?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would be charming if I could live at home. I&rsquo;m sick of this
silly boarding-school.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Berenice! I thought you liked it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hate it, but only because it&rsquo;s so dull. The girls here are so
silly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Carter lifted her eyebrows as much as to say to her escort, &ldquo;Now
what do you think?&rdquo; Cowperwood stood solemnly by. It was not for him to
make a suggestion at present. He could see that for some reason&mdash;probably
because of her disordered life&mdash;Mrs. Carter was playing a game of manners
with her daughter; she maintained always a lofty, romantic air. With Berenice
it was natural&mdash;the expression of a vain, self-conscious, superior
disposition.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A rather charming garden here,&rdquo; he observed, lifting a curtain and
looking out into a blooming plot.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, the flowers are nice,&rdquo; commented Berenice.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wait; I&rsquo;ll get some for you. It&rsquo;s against the rules, but
they can&rsquo;t do more than send me away, and that&rsquo;s what I
want.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice! Come back here!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was Mrs. Carter calling.
</p>

<p>
The daughter was gone in a fling of graceful lines and flounces. &ldquo;Now
what do you make of her?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Carter, turning to her friend.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Youth, individuality, energy&mdash;a hundred things. I see nothing wrong
with her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I could only see to it that she had her opportunities
unspoiled.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Already Berenice was returning, a subject for an artist in almost studied
lines. Her arms were full of sweet-peas and roses which she had ruthlessly
gathered.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You wilful girl!&rdquo; scolded her mother, indulgently. &ldquo;I shall
have to go and explain to your superiors. Whatever shall I do with her, Mr.
Cowperwood?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Load her with daisy chains and transport her to Cytherea,&rdquo;
commented Cowperwood, who had once visited this romantic isle, and therefore
knew its significance.
</p>

<p>
Berenice paused. &ldquo;What a pretty speech that is!&rdquo; she exclaimed.
&ldquo;I have a notion to give you a special flower for that. I will,
too.&rdquo; She presented him with a rose.
</p>

<p>
For a girl who had slipped in shy and still, Cowperwood commented, her mood had
certainly changed. Still, this was the privilege of the born actress, to
change. And as he viewed Berenice Fleming now he felt her to be such&mdash;a
born actress, lissome, subtle, wise, indifferent, superior, taking the world as
she found it and expecting it to obey&mdash;to sit up like a pet dog and be
told to beg. What a charming character! What a pity it should not be allowed to
bloom undisturbed in its make-believe garden! What a pity, indeed!
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap42"></a>CHAPTER XLII.<br/>
F. A. Cowperwood, Guardian</h2>

<p>
It was some time after this first encounter before Cowperwood saw Berenice
again, and then only for a few days in that region of the Pocono Mountains
where Mrs. Carter had her summer home. It was an idyllic spot on a
mountainside, some three miles from Stroudsburg, among a peculiar juxtaposition
of hills which, from the comfortable recesses of a front veranda, had the
appearance, as Mrs. Carter was fond of explaining, of elephants and camels
parading in the distance. The humps of the hills&mdash;some of them as high as
eighteen hundred feet&mdash;rose stately and green. Below, quite visible for a
mile or more, moved the dusty, white road descending to Stroudsburg. Out of her
Louisville earnings Mrs. Carter had managed to employ, for the several summer
seasons she had been here, a gardener, who kept the sloping front lawn in
seasonable flowers. There was a trig two-wheeled trap with a smart horse and
harness, and both Rolfe and Berenice were possessed of the latest novelty of
the day&mdash;low-wheeled bicycles, which had just then superseded the old,
high-wheel variety. For Berenice, also, was a music-rack full of classic music
and song collections, a piano, a shelf of favorite books, painting-materials,
various athletic implements, and several types of Greek dancing-tunics which
she had designed herself, including sandals and fillet for her hair. She was an
idle, reflective, erotic person dreaming strange dreams of a near and yet
far-off social supremacy, at other times busying herself with such social
opportunities as came to her. A more safely calculating and yet wilful girl
than Berenice Fleming would have been hard to find. By some trick of mental
adjustment she had gained a clear prevision of how necessary it was to select
the right socially, and to conceal her true motives and feelings; and yet she
was by no means a snob, mentally, nor utterly calculating. Certain things in
her own and in her mother&rsquo;s life troubled her&mdash;quarrels in her early
days, from her seventh to her eleventh year, between her mother and her
stepfather, Mr. Carter; the latter&rsquo;s drunkenness verging upon delirium
tremens at times; movings from one place to another&mdash;all sorts of sordid
and depressing happenings. Berenice had been an impressionable child. Some
things had gripped her memory mightily&mdash;once, for instance, when she had
seen her stepfather, in the presence of her governess, kick a table over, and,
seizing the toppling lamp with demoniac skill, hurl it through a window. She,
herself, had been tossed by him in one of these tantrums, when, in answer to
the cries of terror of those about her, he had shouted: &ldquo;Let her fall! It
won&rsquo;t hurt the little devil to break a few bones.&rdquo; This was her
keenest memory of her stepfather, and it rather softened her judgment of her
mother, made her sympathetic with her when she was inclined to be critical. Of
her own father she only knew that he had divorced her mother&mdash;why, she
could not say. She liked her mother on many counts, though she could not feel
that she actually loved her&mdash;Mrs. Carter was too fatuous at times, and at
other times too restrained. This house at Pocono, or Forest Edge, as Mrs.
Carter had named it, was conducted after a peculiar fashion. From June to
October only it was open, Mrs. Carter, in the past, having returned to
Louisville at that time, while Berenice and Rolfe went back to their respective
schools. Rolfe was a cheerful, pleasant-mannered youth, well bred, genial, and
courteous, but not very brilliant intellectually. Cowperwood&rsquo;s judgment
of him the first time he saw him was that under ordinary circumstances he would
make a good confidential clerk, possibly in a bank. Berenice, on the other
hand, the child of the first husband, was a creature of an exotic mind and an
opalescent heart. After his first contact with her in the reception-room of the
Brewster School Cowperwood was deeply conscious of the import of this budding
character. He was by now so familiar with types and kinds of women that an
exceptional type&mdash;quite like an exceptional horse to a judge of
horse-flesh&mdash;stood out in his mind with singular vividness. Quite as in
some great racing-stable an ambitious horseman might imagine that he detected
in some likely filly the signs and lineaments of the future winner of a Derby,
so in Berenice Fleming, in the quiet precincts of the Brewster School,
Cowperwood previsioned the central figure of a Newport lawn fete or a London
drawing-room. Why? She had the air, the grace, the lineage, the
blood&mdash;that was why; and on that score she appealed to him intensely,
quite as no other woman before had ever done.
</p>

<p>
It was on the lawn of Forest Edge that Cowperwood now saw Berenice. The latter
had had the gardener set up a tall pole, to which was attached a tennis-ball by
a cord, and she and Rolfe were hard at work on a game of tether-ball.
Cowperwood, after a telegram to Mrs. Carter, had been met at the station in
Pocono by her and rapidly driven out to the house. The green hills pleased him,
the up-winding, yellow road, the silver-gray cottage with the brown-shingle
roof in the distance. It was three in the afternoon, and bright for a sinking
sun.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There they are now,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Carter, cheerful and smiling,
as they came out from under a low ledge that skirted the road a little way from
the cottage. Berenice, executing a tripping, running step to one side, was
striking the tethered ball with her racquet. &ldquo;They are hard at it, as
usual. Two such romps!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She surveyed them with pleased motherly interest, which Cowperwood considered
did her much credit. He was thinking that it would be too bad if her hopes for
her children should not be realized. Yet possibly they might not be. Life was
very grim. How strange, he thought, was this type of woman&mdash;at once a
sympathetic, affectionate mother and a panderer to the vices of men. How
strange that she should have these children at all. Berenice had on a white
skirt, white tennis-shoes, a pale-cream silk waist or blouse, which fitted her
very loosely. Because of exercise her color was high&mdash;quite pink&mdash;and
her dusty, reddish hair was blowy. Though they turned into the hedge gate and
drove to the west entrance, which was at one side of the house, there was no
cessation of the game, not even a glance from Berenice, so busy was she.
</p>

<p>
He was merely her mother&rsquo;s friend to her. Cowperwood noted, with singular
vividness of feeling, that the lines of her movements&mdash;the fleeting,
momentary positions she assumed&mdash;were full of a wondrous natural charm. He
wanted to say so to Mrs. Carter, but restrained himself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a brisk game,&rdquo; he commented, with a pleased glance.
&ldquo;You play, do you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I did. I don&rsquo;t much any more. Sometimes I try a set with Rolfe
or Bevy; but they both beat me so badly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Bevy? Who is Bevy?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s short of Berenice. It&rsquo;s what Rolfe called her
when he was a baby.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Bevy! I think that rather nice.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I always like it, too. Somehow it seems to suit her, and yet I
don&rsquo;t know why.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Before dinner Berenice made her appearance, freshened by a bath and clad in a
light summer dress that appeared to Cowperwood to be all flounces, and the more
graceful in its lines for the problematic absence of a corset. Her face and
hands, however&mdash;a face thin, long, and sweetly hollow, and hands that were
slim and sinewy&mdash;gripped and held his fancy. He was reminded in the least
degree of Stephanie; but this girl&rsquo;s chin was firmer and more delicately,
though more aggressively, rounded. Her eyes, too, were shrewder and less
evasive, though subtle enough.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So I meet you again,&rdquo; he observed, with a somewhat aloof air, as
she came out on the porch and sank listlessly into a wicker chair. &ldquo;The
last time I met you you were hard at work in New York.&rdquo;<br/>
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Breaking the rules. No, I forget; that was my easiest work. Oh,
Rolfe,&rdquo; she called over her shoulder, indifferently, &ldquo;I see your
pocket-knife out on the grass.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, properly suppressed, waited a brief space. &ldquo;Who won that
exciting game?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I did, of course. I always win at tether-ball.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, do you?&rdquo; commented Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I mean with brother, of course. He plays so poorly.&rdquo; She turned to
the west&mdash;the house faced south&mdash;and studied the road which came up
from Stroudsburg. &ldquo;I do believe that&rsquo;s Harry Kemp,&rdquo; she
added, quite to herself. &ldquo;If so, he&rsquo;ll have my mail, if there is
any.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She got up again and disappeared into the house, coming out a few moments later
to saunter down to the gate, which was over a hundred feet away. To Cowperwood
she seemed to float, so hale and graceful was she. A smart youth in blue serge
coat, white trousers, and white shoes drove by in a high-seated trap.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Two letters for you,&rdquo; he called, in a high, almost falsetto voice.
&ldquo;I thought you would have eight or nine. Blessed hot, isn&rsquo;t
it?&rdquo; He had a smart though somewhat effeminate manner, and Cowperwood at
once wrote him down as an ass. Berenice took the mail with an engaging smile.
She sauntered past him reading, without so much as a glance. Presently he heard
her voice within.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mother, the Haggertys have invited me for the last week in August. I
have half a mind to cut Tuxedo and go. I like Bess Haggerty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, you&rsquo;ll have to decide that, dearest. Are they going to be at
Tarrytown or Loon Lake?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Loon Lake, of course,&rdquo; came Berenice&rsquo;s voice.
</p>

<p>
What a world of social doings she was involved in, thought Cowperwood. She had
begun well. The Haggertys were rich coal-mine operators in Pennsylvania. Harris
Haggerty, to whose family she was probably referring, was worth at least six or
eight million. The social world they moved in was high.
</p>

<p>
They drove after dinner to The Saddler, at Saddler&rsquo;s Run, where a dance
and &ldquo;moonlight promenade&rdquo; was to be given. On the way over, owing
to the remoteness of Berenice, Cowperwood for the first time in his life felt
himself to be getting old. In spite of the vigor of his mind and body, he
realized constantly that he was over fifty-two, while she was only seventeen.
Why should this lure of youth continue to possess him? She wore a white
concoction of lace and silk which showed a pair of smooth young shoulders and a
slender, queenly, inimitably modeled neck. He could tell by the sleek lines of
her arms how strong she was.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is perhaps too late,&rdquo; he said to himself, in comment. &ldquo;I
am getting old.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The freshness of the hills in the pale night was sad.
</p>

<p>
Saddler&rsquo;s, when they reached there after ten, was crowded with the youth
and beauty of the vicinity. Mrs. Carter, who was prepossessing in a ball
costume of silver and old rose, expected that Cowperwood would dance with her.
And he did, but all the time his eyes were on Berenice, who was caught up by
one youth and another of dapper mien during the progress of the evening and
carried rhythmically by in the mazes of the waltz or schottische. There was a
new dance in vogue that involved a gay, running step&mdash;kicking first one
foot and then the other forward, turning and running backward and kicking
again, and then swinging with a smart air, back to back, with one&rsquo;s
partner. Berenice, in her lithe, rhythmic way, seemed to him the soul of
spirited and gracious ease&mdash;unconscious of everybody and everything save
the spirit of the dance itself as a medium of sweet emotion, of some far-off,
dreamlike spirit of gaiety. He wondered. He was deeply impressed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Carter, when in an intermission she came
forward to where Cowperwood and she were sitting in the moonlight discussing
New York and Kentucky social life, &ldquo;haven&rsquo;t you saved one dance for
Mr. Cowperwood?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, with a momentary feeling of resentment, protested that he did not
care to dance any more. Mrs. Carter, he observed to himself, was a fool.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I believe,&rdquo; said her daughter, with a languid air, &ldquo;that I
am full up. I could break one engagement, though, somewhere.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not for me, though, please,&rdquo; pleaded Cowperwood. &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t care to dance any more, thank you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He almost hated her at the moment for a chilly cat. And yet he did not.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Bevy, how you talk! I think you are acting very badly this
evening.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Please, please,&rdquo; pleaded Cowperwood, quite sharply. &ldquo;Not any
more. I don&rsquo;t care to dance any more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Bevy looked at him oddly for a moment&mdash;a single thoughtful glance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I have a dance, though,&rdquo; she pleaded, softly. &ldquo;I was
just teasing. Won&rsquo;t you dance it with me?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t refuse, of course,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, coldly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the next one,&rdquo; she replied.
</p>

<p>
They danced, but he scarcely softened to her at first, so angry was he.
Somehow, because of all that had gone before, he felt stiff and ungainly. She
had managed to break in upon his natural savoir faire&mdash;this chit of a
girl. But as they went on through a second half the spirit of her dancing soul
caught him, and he felt more at ease, quite rhythmic. She drew close and swept
him into a strange unison with herself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You dance beautifully,&rdquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I love it,&rdquo; she replied. She was already of an agreeable height
for him.
</p>

<p>
It was soon over. &ldquo;I wish you would take me where the ices are,&rdquo;
she said to Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
He led her, half amused, half disturbed at her attitude toward him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are having a pleasant time teasing me, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he
asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am only tired,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;The evening bores me. Really
it does. I wish we were all home.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We can go when you say, no doubt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As they reached the ices, and she took one from his hand, she surveyed him with
those cool, dull blue eyes of hers&mdash;eyes that had the flat quality of
unglazed Dutch tiles.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish you would forgive me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I was rude. I
couldn&rsquo;t help it. I am all out of sorts with myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hadn&rsquo;t felt you were rude,&rdquo; he observed, lying grandly,
his mood toward her changing entirely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes I was, and I hope you will forgive me. I sincerely wish you
would.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do with all my heart&mdash;the little that there is to forgive.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He waited to take her back, and yielded her to a youth who was waiting. He
watched her trip away in a dance, and eventually led her mother to the trap.
Berenice was not with them on the home drive; some one else was bringing her.
Cowperwood wondered when she would come, and where was her room, and whether
she was really sorry, and&mdash; As he fell asleep Berenice Fleming and her
slate-blue eyes were filling his mind completely.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap43"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.<br/>
The Planet Mars</h2>

<p>
The banking hostility to Cowperwood, which in its beginning had made necessary
his trip to Kentucky and elsewhere, finally reached a climax. It followed an
attempt on his part to furnish funds for the building of elevated roads. The
hour for this new form of transit convenience had struck. The public demanded
it. Cowperwood saw one elevated road, the South Side Alley Line, being built,
and another, the West Side Metropolitan Line, being proposed, largely, as he
knew, in order to create sentiment for the idea, and so to make his opposition
to a general franchise difficult. He was well aware that if he did not choose
to build them others would. It mattered little that electricity had arrived
finally as a perfected traction factor, and that all his lines would soon have
to be done over to meet that condition, or that it was costing him thousands
and thousands to stay the threatening aspect of things politically. In addition
he must now plunge into this new realm, gaining franchises by the roughest and
subtlest forms of political bribery. The most serious aspect of this was not
political, but rather financial. Elevated roads in Chicago, owing to the
sparseness of the population over large areas, were a serious thing to
contemplate. The mere cost of iron, right of way, rolling-stock, and
power-plants was immense. Being chronically opposed to investing his private
funds where stocks could just as well be unloaded on the public, and the
management and control retained by him, Cowperwood, for the time being, was
puzzled as to where he should get credit for the millions to be laid down in
structural steel, engineering fees, labor, and equipment before ever a dollar
could be taken out in passenger fares. Owing to the advent of the World&rsquo;s
Fair, the South Side &lsquo;L&rsquo;&mdash;to which, in order to have peace and
quiet, he had finally conceded a franchise&mdash;was doing reasonably well. Yet
it was not making any such return on the investment as the New York roads. The
new lines which he was preparing would traverse even less populous sections of
the city, and would in all likelihood yield even a smaller return. Money had to
be forthcoming&mdash;something between twelve and fifteen million
dollars&mdash;and this on the stocks and bonds of a purely paper corporation
which might not yield paying dividends for years to come. Addison, finding that
the Chicago Trust Company was already heavily loaded, called upon various minor
but prosperous local banks to take over the new securities (each in part, of
course). He was astonished and chagrined to find that one and all uniformly
refused.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you how it is, Judah,&rdquo; one bank president confided
to him, in great secrecy. &ldquo;We owe Timothy Arneel at least three hundred
thousand dollars that we only have to pay three per cent. for. It&rsquo;s a
call-loan. Besides, the Lake National is our main standby when it comes to
quick trades, and he&rsquo;s in on that. I understand from one or two friends
that he&rsquo;s at outs with Cowperwood, and we can&rsquo;t afford to offend
him. I&rsquo;d like to, but no more for me&mdash;not at present, anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Simmons,&rdquo; replied Addison, &ldquo;these fellows are simply
cutting off their noses to spite their faces. These stock and bond issues are
perfectly good investments, and no one knows it better than you do. All this
hue and cry in the newspapers against Cowperwood doesn&rsquo;t amount to
anything. He&rsquo;s perfectly solvent. Chicago is growing. His lines are
becoming more valuable every year.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; replied Simmons. &ldquo;But what about this talk of
a rival elevated system? Won&rsquo;t that injure his lines for the time being,
anyhow, if it comes into the field?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I know anything about Cowperwood,&rdquo; replied Addison, simply,
&ldquo;there isn&rsquo;t going to be any rival elevated road. It&rsquo;s true
they got the city council to give them a franchise for one line on the South
Side; but that&rsquo;s out of his territory, anyhow, and that other one to the
Chicago General Company doesn&rsquo;t amount to anything. It will be years and
years before it can be made to pay a dollar, and when the time comes he will
probably take it over if he wants it. Another election will be held in two
years, and then the city administration may not be so unfavorable. As it is,
they haven&rsquo;t been able to hurt him through the council as much as they
thought they would.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes; but he lost the election.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;True; but it doesn&rsquo;t follow he&rsquo;s going to lose the next one,
or every one.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just the same,&rdquo; replied Simmons, very secretively, &ldquo;I
understand there&rsquo;s a concerted effort on to drive him out. Schryhart,
Hand, Merrill, Arneel&mdash;they&rsquo;re the most powerful men we have. I
understand Hand says that he&rsquo;ll never get his franchises renewed except
on terms that&rsquo;ll make his lines unprofitable. There&rsquo;s going to be
an awful smash here one of these days if that&rsquo;s true.&rdquo; Mr. Simmons
looked very wise and solemn.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Never believe it,&rdquo; replied Addison, contemptuously. &ldquo;Hand
isn&rsquo;t Chicago, neither is Schryhart, nor Arneel. Cowperwood is a brainy
man. He isn&rsquo;t going to be put under so easily. Did you ever hear what was
the real bottom cause of all this disturbance?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ve heard,&rdquo; replied Simmons.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you believe it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know. Yes, I suppose I do. Still, I don&rsquo;t know
that that need have anything to do with it. Money envy is enough to make any
man fight. This man Hand is very powerful.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Not long after this Cowperwood, strolling into the president&rsquo;s office of
the Chicago Trust Company, inquired: &ldquo;Well, Judah, how about those
Northwestern &lsquo;L&rsquo; bonds?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s just as I thought, Frank,&rdquo; replied Addison, softly.
&ldquo;We&rsquo;ll have to go outside of Chicago for that money. Hand, Arneel,
and the rest of that crowd have decided to combine against us. That&rsquo;s
plain. Something has started them off in full cry. I suppose my resignation may
have had something to do with it. Anyhow, every one of the banks in which they
have any hand has uniformly refused to come in. To make sure that I was right I
even called up the little old Third National of Lake View and the Drovers and
Traders on Forty-seventh Street. That&rsquo;s Charlie Wallin&rsquo;s bank. When
I was over in the Lake National he used to hang around the back door asking for
anything I could give him that was sound. Now he says his orders are from his
directors not to share in anything we have to offer. It&rsquo;s the same story
everywhere&mdash;they daren&rsquo;t. I asked Wallin if he knew why the
directors were down on the Chicago Trust or on you, and at first he said he
didn&rsquo;t. Then he said he&rsquo;d stop in and lunch with me some day.
They&rsquo;re the silliest lot of old ostriches I ever heard of. As if refusing
to let us have money on any loan here was going to prevent us from getting it!
They can take their little old one-horse banks and play blockhouses with them
if they want to. I can go to New York and in thirty-six hours raise twenty
million dollars if we need it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Addison was a little warm. It was a new experience for him. Cowperwood merely
curled his mustaches and smiled sardonically.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, never mind,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Will you go down to New York,
or shall I?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was decided, after some talk, that Addison should go. When he reached New
York he found, to his surprise, that the local opposition to Cowperwood had,
for some mysterious reason, begun to take root in the East.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you how it is,&rdquo; observed Joseph Haeckelheimer, to
whom Addison applied&mdash;a short, smug, pussy person who was the head of
Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb &amp; Co., international bankers. &ldquo;We hear odd
things concerning Mr. Cowperwood out in Chicago. Some people say he is
sound&mdash;some not. He has some very good franchises covering a large portion
of the city, but they are only twenty-year franchises, and they will all run
out by 1903 at the latest. As I understand it, he has managed to stir up all
the local elements&mdash;some very powerful ones, too&mdash;and he is certain
to have a hard time to get his franchises renewed. I don&rsquo;t live in
Chicago, of course. I don&rsquo;t know much about it, but our Western
correspondent tells me this is so. Mr. Cowperwood is a very able man, as I
understand it, but if all these influential men are opposed to him they can
make him a great deal of trouble. The public is very easily aroused.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You do a very able man a great injustice, Mr. Haeckelheimer,&rdquo;
Addison retorted. &ldquo;Almost any one who starts out to do things
successfully and intelligently is sure to stir up a great deal of feeling. The
particular men you mention seem to feel that they have a sort of
proprietor&rsquo;s interest in Chicago. They really think they own it. As a
matter of fact, the city made them; they didn&rsquo;t make the city.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Haeckelheimer lifted his eyebrows. He laid two fine white hands, plump and
stubby, over the lower buttons of his protuberant waistcoat. &ldquo;Public
favor is a great factor in all these enterprises,&rdquo; he almost sighed.
&ldquo;As you know, part of a man&rsquo;s resources lies in his ability to
avoid stirring up opposition. It may be that Mr. Cowperwood is strong enough to
overcome all that. I don&rsquo;t know. I&rsquo;ve never met him. I&rsquo;m just
telling you what I hear.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This offish attitude on the part of Mr. Haeckelheimer was indicative of a new
trend. The man was enormously wealthy. The firm of Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb &amp;
Co. represented a controlling interest in some of the principal railways and
banks in America. Their favor was not to be held in light esteem.
</p>

<p>
It was plain that these rumors against Cowperwood in New York, unless offset
promptly by favorable events in Chicago, might mean&mdash;in the large banking
quarters, anyhow&mdash;the refusal of all subsequent Cowperwood issues. It
might even close the doors of minor banks and make private investors nervous.
</p>

<p>
Addison&rsquo;s report of all this annoyed Cowperwood no little. It made him
angry. He saw in it the work of Schryhart, Hand, and others who were trying
their best to discredit him. &ldquo;Let them talk,&rdquo; he declared, crossly.
&ldquo;I have the street-railways. They&rsquo;re not going to rout me out of
here. I can sell stocks and bonds to the public direct if need be! There are
plenty of private people who are glad to invest in these properties.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this psychological moment enter, as by the hand of Fate, the planet Mars and
the University. This latter, from having been for years a humble Baptist
college of the cheapest character, had suddenly, through the beneficence of a
great Standard Oil multimillionaire, flared upward into a great university, and
was causing a stir throughout the length and breadth of the educational world.
</p>

<p>
It was already a most noteworthy spectacle, one of the sights of the city.
Millions were being poured into it; new and beautiful buildings were almost
monthly erected. A brilliant, dynamic man had been called from the East as
president. There were still many things needed&mdash;dormitories, laboratories
of one kind and another, a great library; and, last but not least, a giant
telescope&mdash;one that would sweep the heavens with a hitherto unparalleled
receptive eye, and wring from it secrets not previously decipherable by the eye
and the mind of man.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood had always been interested in the heavens and in the giant
mathematical and physical methods of interpreting them. It so happened that the
war-like planet, with its sinister aspect, was just at this time to be seen
hanging in the west, a fiery red; and the easily aroused public mind was being
stirred to its shallow depth by reflections and speculations regarding the
famous canals of the luminary. The mere thought of the possibility of a larger
telescope than any now in existence, which might throw additional light on this
evasive mystery, was exciting not only Chicago, but the whole world. Late one
afternoon Cowperwood, looking over some open fields which faced his new
power-house in West Madison Street, observed the planet hanging low and lucent
in the evening sky, a warm, radiant bit of orange in a sea of silver. He paused
and surveyed it. Was it true that there were canals on it, and people? Life was
surely strange.
</p>

<p>
One day not long after this Alexander Rambaud called him up on the &rsquo;phone
and remarked, jocosely:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I say, Cowperwood, I&rsquo;ve played a rather shabby trick on you just
now. Doctor Hooper, of the University, was in here a few minutes ago asking me
to be one of ten to guarantee the cost of a telescope lens that he thinks he
needs to run that one-horse school of his out there. I told him I thought you
might possibly be interested. His idea is to find some one who will guarantee
forty thousand dollars, or eight or ten men who will guarantee four or five
thousand each. I thought of you, because I&rsquo;ve heard you discuss astronomy
from time to time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let him come,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, who was never willing to be
behind others in generosity, particularly where his efforts were likely to be
appreciated in significant quarters.
</p>

<p>
Shortly afterward appeared the doctor himself&mdash;short, rotund, rubicund,
displaying behind a pair of clear, thick, gold-rimmed glasses, round, dancing,
incisive eyes. Imaginative grip, buoyant, self-delusive self-respect were
written all over him. The two men eyed each other&mdash;one with that
broad-gage examination which sees even universities as futile in the endless
shift of things; the other with that faith in the balance for right which makes
even great personal forces, such as financial magnates, serve an idealistic
end.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s not a very long story I have to tell you, Mr.
Cowperwood,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;Our astronomical work is handicapped
just now by the simple fact that we have no lens at all, no telescope worthy of
the name. I should like to see the University do original work in this field,
and do it in a great way. The only way to do it, in my judgment, is to do it
better than any one else can. Don&rsquo;t you agree with me?&rdquo; He showed a
row of shining white teeth.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled urbanely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will a forty-thousand-dollar lens be a better lens than any other
lens?&rdquo; he inquired.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Made by Appleman Brothers, of Dorchester, it will,&rdquo; replied the
college president. &ldquo;The whole story is here, Mr. Cowperwood. These men
are practical lens-makers. A great lens, in the first place, is a matter of
finding a suitable crystal. Large and flawless crystals are not common, as you
may possibly know. Such a crystal has recently been found, and is now owned by
Mr. Appleman. It takes about four or five years to grind and polish it. Most of
the polishing, as you may or may not know, is done by the hand&mdash;smoothing
it with the thumb and forefinger. The time, judgment, and skill of an optical
expert is required. To-day, unfortunately, that is not cheap. The laborer is
worthy of his hire, however, I suppose&rdquo;&mdash;he waved a soft, full,
white hand&mdash;&ldquo;and forty thousand is little enough. It would be a
great honor if the University could have the largest, most serviceable, and
most perfect lens in the world. It would reflect great credit, I take it, on
the men who would make this possible.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood liked the man&rsquo;s artistically educational air; obviously here
was a personage of ability, brains, emotion, and scientific enthusiasm. It was
splendid to him to see any strong man in earnest, for himself or others.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And forty thousand will do this?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, sir. Forty thousand will guarantee us the lens, anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And how about land, buildings, a telescope frame? Have you all those
things prepared for it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not as yet, but, since it takes four years at least to grind the lens,
there will be time enough, when the lens is nearing completion, to look after
the accessories. We have picked our site, however&mdash;Lake Geneva&mdash;and
we would not refuse either land or accessories if we knew where to get
them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Again the even, shining teeth, the keen eyes boring through the glasses.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood saw a great opportunity. He asked what would be the cost of the
entire project. Dr. Hooper presumed that three hundred thousand would do it all
handsomely&mdash;lens, telescope, land, machinery, building&mdash;a great
monument.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And how much have you guaranteed on the cost of your lens?&rdquo;
&ldquo;Sixteen thousand dollars, so far.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be paid when?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In instalments&mdash;ten thousand a year for four years. Just enough to
keep the lens-maker busy for the present.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood reflected. Ten thousand a year for four years would be a mere salary
item, and at the end of that time he felt sure that he could supply the
remainder of the money quite easily. He would be so much richer; his plans
would be so much more mature. On such a repute (the ability to give a
three-hundred-thousand-dollar telescope out of hand to be known as the
Cowperwood telescope) he could undoubtedly raise money in London, New York, and
elsewhere for his Chicago enterprise. The whole world would know him in a day.
He paused, his enigmatic eyes revealing nothing of the splendid vision that
danced before them. At last! At last!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How would it do, Mr. Hooper,&rdquo; he said, sweetly, &ldquo;if, instead
of ten men giving you four thousand each, as you plan, one man were to give you
forty thousand in annual instalments of ten thousand each? Could that be
arranged as well?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; exclaimed the doctor, glowing, his eyes
alight, &ldquo;do I understand that you personally might wish to give the money
for this lens?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I might, yes. But I should have to exact one pledge, Mr. Hooper, if I
did any such thing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what would that be?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The privilege of giving the land and the building&mdash;the whole
telescope, in fact. I presume no word of this will be given out unless the
matter is favorably acted upon?&rdquo; he added, cautiously and diplomatically.
</p>

<p>
The new president of the university arose and eyed him with a peculiarly
approbative and grateful gaze. He was a busy, overworked man. His task was
large. Any burden taken from his shoulders in this fashion was a great relief.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My answer to that, Mr. Cowperwood, if I had the authority, would be to
agree now in the name of the University, and thank you. For form&rsquo;s sake,
I must submit the matter to the trustees of the University, but I have no doubt
as to the outcome. I anticipate nothing but grateful approbation. Let me thank
you again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They shook hands warmly, and the solid collegian bustled forth. Cowperwood sank
quietly in his chair. He pressed his fingers together, and for a moment or two
permitted himself to dream. Then he called a stenographer and began a bit of
dictation. He did not care to think even to himself how universally
advantageous all this might yet prove to be.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The result was that in the course of a few weeks the proffer was formally
accepted by the trustees of the University, and a report of the matter, with
Cowperwood&rsquo;s formal consent, was given out for publication. The
fortuitous combination of circumstances already described gave the matter a
unique news value. Giant reflectors and refractors had been given and were in
use in other parts of the world, but none so large or so important as this. The
gift was sufficient to set Cowperwood forth in the light of a public benefactor
and patron of science. Not only in Chicago, but in London, Paris, and New York,
wherever, indeed, in the great capitals scientific and intellectual men were
gathered, this significant gift of an apparently fabulously rich American
became the subject of excited discussion. Banking men, among others, took sharp
note of the donor, and when Cowperwood&rsquo;s emissaries came around later
with a suggestion that the fifty-year franchises about to be voted him for
elevated roads should be made a basis of bond and mortgage loans, they were
courteously received. A man who could give three-hundred-thousand-dollar
telescopes in the hour of his greatest difficulties must be in a rather
satisfactory financial condition. He must have great wealth in reserve. After
some preliminaries, during which Cowperwood paid a flying visit to Threadneedle
Street in London, and to Wall Street in New York, an arrangement was made with
an English-American banking company by which the majority of the bonds for his
proposed roads were taken over by them for sale in Europe and elsewhere, and he
was given ample means wherewith to proceed. Instantly the stocks of his surface
lines bounded in price, and those who had been scheming to bring about
Cowperwood&rsquo;s downfall gnashed impotent teeth. Even Haeckelheimer &amp;
Co. were interested.
</p>

<p>
Anson Merrill, who had only a few weeks before given a large field for athletic
purposes to the University, pulled a wry face over this sudden eclipse of his
glory. Hosmer Hand, who had given a chemical laboratory, and Schryhart, who had
presented a dormitory, were depressed to think that a benefaction less costly
than theirs should create, because of the distinction of the idea, so much more
notable comment. It was merely another example of the brilliant fortune which
seemed to pursue the man, the star that set all their plans at defiance.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap44"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.<br/>
A Franchise Obtained</h2>

<p>
The money requisite for the construction of elevated roads having been thus
pyrotechnically obtained, the acquisition of franchises remained no easy
matter. It involved, among other problems, the taming of Chaffee Thayer Sluss,
who, quite unconscious of the evidence stored up against him, had begun to
fulminate the moment it was suggested in various secret political quarters that
a new ordinance was about to be introduced, and that Cowperwood was to be the
beneficiary. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you let them do that, Mr. Sluss,&rdquo;
observed Mr. Hand, who for purposes of conference had courteously but firmly
bidden his hireling, the mayor, to lunch. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you let them pass
that if you can help it.&rdquo; (As chairman or president of the city council
Mr. Sluss held considerable manipulative power over the machinery of
procedure.) &ldquo;Raise such a row that they won&rsquo;t try to pass it over
your head. Your political future really depends on it&mdash;your standing with
the people of Chicago. The newspapers and the respectable financial and social
elements will fully support you in this. Otherwise they will wholly desert you.
Things have come to a handsome pass when men sworn and elected to perform given
services turn on their backers and betray them in this way!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand was very wroth.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sluss, immaculate in black broadcloth and white linen, was very sure that
he would fulfil to the letter all of Mr. Hand&rsquo;s suggestions. The proposed
ordinance should be denounced by him; its legislative progress heartily opposed
in council.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They shall get no quarter from me!&rdquo; he declared, emphatically.
&ldquo;I know what the scheme is. They know that I know it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked at Mr. Hand quite as one advocate of righteousness should look at
another, and the rich promoter went away satisfied that the reins of government
were in safe hands. Immediately afterward Mr. Sluss gave out an interview in
which he served warning on all aldermen and councilmen that no such ordinance
as the one in question would ever be signed by him as mayor.
</p>

<p>
At half past ten on the same morning on which the interview appeared&mdash;the
hour at which Mr. Sluss usually reached his office&mdash;his private telephone
bell rang, and an assistant inquired if he would be willing to speak with Mr.
Frank A. Cowperwood. Mr. Sluss, somehow anticipating fresh laurels of victory,
gratified by the front-page display given his announcement in the morning
papers, and swelling internally with civic pride, announced, solemnly:
&ldquo;Yes; connect me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Sluss,&rdquo; began Cowperwood, at the other end, &ldquo;this is
Frank A. Cowperwood.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes. What can I do for you, Mr. Cowperwood?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see by the morning papers that you state that you will have nothing to
do with any proposed ordinance which looks to giving me a franchise for any
elevated road on the North or West Side?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is quite true,&rdquo; replied Mr. Sluss, loftily. &ldquo;I will
not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think it is rather premature, Mr. Sluss, to denounce
something which has only a rumored existence?&rdquo; (Cowperwood, smiling
sweetly to himself, was quite like a cat playing with an unsuspicious mouse.)
&ldquo;I should like very much to talk this whole matter over with you
personally before you take an irrevocable attitude. It is just possible that
after you have heard my side you may not be so completely opposed to me. From
time to time I have sent to you several of my personal friends, but apparently
you do not care to receive them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite true,&rdquo; replied Mr. Sluss, loftily; &ldquo;but you must
remember that I am a very busy man, Mr. Cowperwood, and, besides, I do not see
how I can serve any of your purposes. You are working for a set of conditions
to which I am morally and temperamentally opposed. I am working for another. I
do not see that we have any common ground on which to meet. In fact, I do not
see how I can be of any service to you whatsoever.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just a moment, please, Mr. Mayor,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, still very
sweetly, and fearing that Sluss might choose to hang up the receiver, so
superior was his tone. &ldquo;There may be some common ground of which you do
not know. Wouldn&rsquo;t you like to come to lunch at my residence or receive
me at yours? Or let me come to your office and talk this matter over. I believe
you will find it the part of wisdom as well as of courtesy to do this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot possibly lunch with you to-day,&rdquo; replied Sluss,
&ldquo;and I cannot see you, either. There are a number of things pressing for
my attention. I must say also that I cannot hold any back-room conferences with
you or your emissaries. If you come you must submit to the presence of
others.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well, Mr. Sluss,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, cheerfully. &ldquo;I
will not come to your office. But unless you come to mine before five
o&rsquo;clock this afternoon you will face by noon to-morrow a suit for breach
of promise, and your letters to Mrs. Brandon will be given to the public. I
wish to remind you that an election is coming on, and that Chicago favors a
mayor who is privately moral as well as publicly so. Good morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Cowperwood hung up his telephone receiver with a click, and Mr. Sluss
sensibly and visibly stiffened and paled. Mrs. Brandon! The charming, lovable,
discreet Mrs. Brandon who had so ungenerously left him! Why should she be
thinking of suing him for breach of promise, and how did his letter to her come
to be in Cowperwood&rsquo;s hands? Good heavens&mdash;those mushy letters! His
wife! His children! His church and the owlish pastor thereof! Chicago! And its
conventional, moral, religious atmosphere! Come to think of it, Mrs. Brandon
had scarcely if ever written him a note of any kind. He did not even know her
history.
</p>

<p>
At the thought of Mrs. Sluss&mdash;her hard, cold, blue eyes&mdash;Mr. Sluss
arose, tall and distrait, and ran his hand through his hair. He walked to the
window, snapping his thumb and middle finger and looking eagerly at the floor.
He thought of the telephone switchboard just outside his private office, and
wondered whether his secretary, a handsome young Presbyterian girl, had been
listening, as usual. Oh, this sad, sad world! If the North Side ever learned of
this&mdash;Hand, the newspapers, young MacDonald&mdash;would they protect him?
They would not. Would they run him for mayor again? Never! Could the public be
induced to vote for him with all the churches fulminating against private
immorality, hypocrites, and whited sepulchers? Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! And he was
so very, very much respected and looked up to&mdash;that was the worst of it
all. This terrible demon Cowperwood had descended on him, and he had thought
himself so secure. He had not even been civil to Cowperwood. What if the latter
chose to avenge the discourtesy?
</p>

<p>
Mr. Sluss went back to his chair, but he could not sit in it. He went for his
coat, took it down, hung it up again, took it down, announced over the
&rsquo;phone that he could not see any one for several hours, and went out by a
private door. Wearily he walked along North Clark Street, looking at the
hurly-burly of traffic, looking at the dirty, crowded river, looking at the sky
and smoke and gray buildings, and wondering what he should do. The world was so
hard at times; it was so cruel. His wife, his family, his political career. He
could not conscientiously sign any ordinances for Mr. Cowperwood&mdash;that
would be immoral, dishonest, a scandal to the city. Mr. Cowperwood was a
notorious traitor to the public welfare. At the same time he could not very
well refuse, for here was Mrs. Brandon, the charming and unscrupulous creature,
playing into the hands of Cowperwood. If he could only meet her, beg of her,
plead; but where was she? He had not seen her for months and months. Could he
go to Hand and confess all? But Hand was a hard, cold, moral man also. Oh,
Lord! Oh, Lord! He wondered and thought, and sighed and pondered&mdash;all
without avail.
</p>

<p>
Pity the poor earthling caught in the toils of the moral law. In another
country, perhaps, in another day, another age, such a situation would have been
capable of a solution, one not utterly destructive to Mr. Sluss, and not
entirely favorable to a man like Cowperwood. But here in the United States,
here in Chicago, the ethical verities would all, as he knew, be lined up
against him. What Lake View would think, what his pastor would think, what Hand
and all his moral associates would think&mdash;ah, these were the terrible, the
incontrovertible consequences of his lapse from virtue.
</p>

<p>
At four o&rsquo;clock, after Mr. Sluss had wandered for hours in the snow and
cold, belaboring himself for a fool and a knave, and while Cowperwood was
sitting at his desk signing papers, contemplating a glowing fire, and wondering
whether the mayor would deem it advisable to put in an appearance, his office
door opened and one of his trim stenographers entered announcing Mr. Chaffee
Thayer Sluss. Enter Mayor Sluss, sad, heavy, subdued, shrunken, a very
different gentleman from the one who had talked so cavalierly over the wires
some five and a half hours before. Gray weather, severe cold, and much
contemplation of seemingly irreconcilable facts had reduced his spirits
greatly. He was a little pale and a little restless. Mental distress has a
reducing, congealing effect, and Mayor Sluss seemed somewhat less than his
usual self in height, weight, and thickness. Cowperwood had seen him more than
once on various political platforms, but he had never met him. When the
troubled mayor entered he arose courteously and waved him to a chair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sit down, Mr. Sluss,&rdquo; he said, genially. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a
disagreeable day out, isn&rsquo;t it? I suppose you have come in regard to the
matter we were discussing this morning?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Nor was this cordiality wholly assumed. One of the primal instincts of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s nature&mdash;for all his chicane and subtlety&mdash;was to
take no rough advantage of a beaten enemy. In the hour of victory he was always
courteous, bland, gentle, and even sympathetic; he was so to-day, and quite
honestly, too.
</p>

<p>
Mayor Sluss put down the high sugar-loaf hat he wore and said, grandiosely, as
was his manner even in the direst extremity: &ldquo;Well, you see, I am here,
Mr. Cowperwood. What is it you wish me to do, exactly?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing unreasonable, I assure you, Mr. Sluss,&rdquo; replied
Cowperwood. &ldquo;Your manner to me this morning was a little brusque, and, as
I have always wanted to have a sensible private talk with you, I took this way
of getting it. I should like you to dismiss from your mind at once the thought
that I am going to take an unfair advantage of you in any way. I have no
present intention of publishing your correspondence with Mrs. Brandon.&rdquo;
(As he said this he took from his drawer a bundle of letters which Mayor Sluss
recognized at once as the enthusiastic missives which he had sometime before
penned to the fair Claudia. Mr. Sluss groaned as he beheld this incriminating
evidence.) &ldquo;I am not trying,&rdquo; continued Cowperwood, &ldquo;to wreck
your career, nor to make you do anything which you do not feel that you can
conscientiously undertake. The letters that I have here, let me say, have come
to me quite by accident. I did not seek them. But, since I do have them, I
thought I might as well mention them as a basis for a possible talk and
compromise between us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood did not smile. He merely looked thoughtfully at Sluss; then, by way
of testifying to the truthfulness of what he had been saying, thumped the
letters up and down, just to show that they were real.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mr. Sluss, heavily, &ldquo;I see.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He studied the bundle&mdash;a small, solid affair&mdash;while Cowperwood looked
discreetly elsewhere. He contemplated his own shoes, the floor. He rubbed his
hands and then his knees.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood saw how completely he had collapsed. It was ridiculous, pitiable.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come, Mr. Sluss,&rdquo; said Cowperwood, amiably, &ldquo;cheer up.
Things are not nearly as desperate as you think. I give you my word right now
that nothing which you yourself, on mature thought, could say was unfair will
be done. You are the mayor of Chicago. I am a citizen. I merely wish fair play
from you. I merely ask you to give me your word of honor that from now on you
will take no part in this fight which is one of pure spite against me. If you
cannot conscientiously aid me in what I consider to be a perfectly legitimate
demand for additional franchises, you will, at least, not go out of your way to
publicly attack me. I will put these letters in my safe, and there they will
stay until the next campaign is over, when I will take them out and destroy
them. I have no personal feeling against you&mdash;none in the world. I do not
ask you to sign any ordinance which the council may pass giving me
elevated-road rights. What I do wish you to do at this time is to refrain from
stirring up public sentiment against me, especially if the council should see
fit to pass an ordinance over your veto. Is that satisfactory?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But my friends? The public? The Republican party? Don&rsquo;t you see it
is expected of me that I should wage some form of campaign against you?&rdquo;
queried Sluss, nervously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, succinctly, &ldquo;and,
anyhow, there are ways and ways of waging a public campaign. Go through the
motions, if you wish, but don&rsquo;t put too much heart in it. And, anyhow,
see some one of my lawyers from time to time when they call on you. Judge
Dickensheets is an able and fair man. So is General Van Sickle. Why not confer
with them occasionally?&mdash;not publicly, of course, but in some less
conspicuous way. You will find both of them most helpful.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled encouragingly, quite beneficently, and Chaffee Thayer Sluss,
his political hopes gone glimmering, sat and mused for a few moments in a sad
and helpless quandary.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he said, at last, rubbing his hands feverishly.
&ldquo;It is what I might have expected. I should have known. There is no other
way, but&mdash;&rdquo; Hardly able to repress the hot tears now burning beneath
his eyelids, the Hon. Mr. Sluss picked up his hat and left the room. Needless
to add that his preachings against Cowperwood were permanently silenced.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap45"></a>CHAPTER XLV.<br/>
Changing Horizons</h2>

<p>
The effect of all this was to arouse in Cowperwood the keenest feelings of
superiority he had ever yet enjoyed. Hitherto he had fancied that his enemies
might worst him, but at last his path seemed clear. He was now worth, all in
all, the round sum of twenty million dollars. His art-collection had become the
most important in the West&mdash;perhaps in the nation, public collections
excluded. He began to envision himself as a national figure, possibly even an
international one. And yet he was coming to feel that, no matter how complete
his financial victory might ultimately be, the chances were that he and Aileen
would never be socially accepted here in Chicago. He had done too many
boisterous things&mdash;alienated too many people. He was as determined as ever
to retain a firm grip on the Chicago street-railway situation. But he was
disturbed for a second time in his life by the thought that, owing to the
complexities of his own temperament, he had married unhappily and would find
the situation difficult of adjustment. Aileen, whatever might be said of her
deficiencies, was by no means as tractable or acquiescent as his first wife.
And, besides, he felt that he owed her a better turn. By no means did he
actually dislike her as yet; though she was no longer soothing, stimulating, or
suggestive to him as she had formerly been. Her woes, because of him, were too
many; her attitude toward him too censorious. He was perfectly willing to
sympathize with her, to regret his own change of feeling, but what would you?
He could not control his own temperament any more than Aileen could control
hers.
</p>

<p>
The worst of this situation was that it was now becoming complicated on
Cowperwood&rsquo;s part with the most disturbing thoughts concerning Berenice
Fleming. Ever since the days when he had first met her mother he had been
coming more and more to feel for the young girl a soul-stirring
passion&mdash;and that without a single look exchanged or a single word spoken.
There is a static something which is beauty, and this may be clothed in the
habiliments of a ragged philosopher or in the silks and satins of pampered
coquetry. It was a suggestion of this beauty which is above sex and above age
and above wealth that shone in the blowing hair and night-blue eyes of Berenice
Fleming. His visit to the Carter family at Pocono had been a disappointment to
him, because of the apparent hopelessness of arousing Berenice&rsquo;s
interest, and since that time, and during their casual encounters, she had
remained politely indifferent. Nevertheless, he remained true to his
persistence in the pursuit of any game he had fixed upon.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Carter, whose relations with Cowperwood had in the past been not wholly
platonic, nevertheless attributed much of his interest in her to her children
and their vital chance. Berenice and Rolfe themselves knew nothing concerning
the nature of their mother&rsquo;s arrangements with Cowperwood. True to his
promise of protectorship and assistance, he had established her in a New York
apartment adjacent to her daughter&rsquo;s school, and where he fancied that he
himself might spend many happy hours were Berenice but near. Proximity to
Berenice! The desire to arouse her interest and command her favor! Cowperwood
would scarcely have cared to admit to himself how great a part this played in a
thought which had recently been creeping into his mind. It was that of erecting
a splendid house in New York.
</p>

<p>
By degrees this idea of building a New York house had grown upon him. His
Chicago mansion was a costly sepulcher in which Aileen sat brooding over the
woes which had befallen her. Moreover, aside from the social defeat which it
represented, it was becoming merely as a structure, but poorly typical of the
splendor and ability of his imaginations. This second dwelling, if he ever
achieved it, should be resplendent, a monument to himself. In his speculative
wanderings abroad he had seen many such great palaces, designed with the utmost
care, which had housed the taste and culture of generations of men. His
art-collection, in which he took an immense pride, had been growing, until it
was the basis if not the completed substance for a very splendid memorial.
Already in it were gathered paintings of all the important schools; to say
nothing of collections of jade, illumined missals, porcelains, rugs, draperies,
mirror frames, and a beginning at rare originals of sculpture. The beauty of
these strange things, the patient laborings of inspired souls of various times
and places, moved him, on occasion, to a gentle awe. Of all individuals he
respected, indeed revered, the sincere artist. Existence was a mystery, but
these souls who set themselves to quiet tasks of beauty had caught something of
which he was dimly conscious. Life had touched them with a vision, their hearts
and souls were attuned to sweet harmonies of which the common world knew
nothing. Sometimes, when he was weary after a strenuous day, he would
enter&mdash;late in the night&mdash;his now silent gallery, and turning on the
lights so that the whole sweet room stood revealed, he would seat himself
before some treasure, reflecting on the nature, the mood, the time, and the man
that had produced it. Sometimes it would be one of Rembrandt&rsquo;s melancholy
heads&mdash;the sad &ldquo;Portrait of a Rabbi&rdquo;&mdash;or the sweet
introspection of a Rousseau stream. A solemn Dutch housewife, rendered with the
bold fidelity and resonant enameled surfaces of a Hals or the cold elegance of
an Ingres, commanded his utmost enthusiasm. So he would sit and wonder at the
vision and skill of the original dreamer, exclaiming at times: &ldquo;A marvel!
A marvel!&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
At the same time, so far as Aileen was concerned things were obviously shaping
up for additional changes. She was in that peculiar state which has befallen
many a woman&mdash;trying to substitute a lesser ideal for a greater, and
finding that the effort is useless or nearly so. In regard to her affair with
Lynde, aside from the temporary relief and diversion it had afforded her, she
was beginning to feel that she had made a serious mistake. Lynde was
delightful, after his fashion. He could amuse her with a different type of
experience from any that Cowperwood had to relate. Once they were intimate he
had, with an easy, genial air, confessed to all sorts of liaisons in Europe and
America. He was utterly pagan&mdash;a faun&mdash;and at the same time he was
truly of the smart world. His open contempt of all but one or two of the people
in Chicago whom Aileen had secretly admired and wished to associate with, and
his easy references to figures of importance in the East and in Paris and
London, raised him amazingly in her estimation; it made her feel, sad to
relate, that she had by no means lowered herself in succumbing so readily to
his forceful charms.
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless, because he was what he was&mdash;genial, complimentary,
affectionate, but a playboy, merely, and a soldier of fortune, with no desire
to make over her life for her on any new basis&mdash;she was now grieving over
the futility of this romance which had got her nowhere, and which, in all
probability, had alienated Cowperwood for good. He was still outwardly genial
and friendly, but their relationship was now colored by a sense of mistake and
uncertainty which existed on both sides, but which, in Aileen&rsquo;s case,
amounted to a subtle species of soul-torture. Hitherto she had been the
aggrieved one, the one whose loyalty had never been in question, and whose
persistent affection and faith had been greatly sinned against. Now all this
was changed. The manner in which he had sinned against her was plain enough,
but the way in which, out of pique, she had forsaken him was in the other
balance. Say what one will, the loyalty of woman, whether a condition in nature
or an evolved accident of sociology, persists as a dominating thought in at
least a section of the race; and women themselves, be it said, are the ones who
most loudly and openly subscribe to it. Cowperwood himself was fully aware that
Aileen had deserted him, not because she loved him less or Lynde more, but
because she was hurt&mdash;and deeply so. Aileen knew that he knew this. From
one point of view it enraged her and made her defiant; from another it grieved
her to think she had uselessly sinned against his faith in her. Now he had
ample excuse to do anything he chose. Her best claim on him&mdash;her
wounds&mdash;she had thrown away as one throws away a weapon. Her pride would
not let her talk to him about this, and at the same time she could not endure
the easy, tolerant manner with which he took it. His smiles, his forgiveness,
his sometimes pleasant jesting were all a horrible offense.
</p>

<p>
To complete her mental quandary, she was already beginning to quarrel with
Lynde over this matter of her unbreakable regard for Cowperwood. With the
sufficiency of a man of the world Lynde intended that she should succumb to him
completely and forget her wonderful husband. When with him she was apparently
charmed and interested, yielding herself freely, but this was more out of pique
at Cowperwood&rsquo;s neglect than from any genuine passion for Lynde. In spite
of her pretensions of anger, her sneers, and criticisms whenever
Cowperwood&rsquo;s name came up, she was, nevertheless, hopelessly fond of him
and identified with him spiritually, and it was not long before Lynde began to
suspect this. Such a discovery is a sad one for any master of women to make. It
jolted his pride severely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You care for him still, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he asked, with a wry
smile, upon one occasion. They were sitting at dinner in a private room at
Kinsley&rsquo;s, and Aileen, whose color was high, and who was becomingly
garbed in metallic-green silk, was looking especially handsome. Lynde had been
proposing that she should make special arrangements to depart with him for a
three-months&rsquo; stay in Europe, but she would have nothing to do with the
project. She did not dare. Such a move would make Cowperwood feel that she was
alienating herself forever; it would give him an excellent excuse to leave her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, it isn&rsquo;t that,&rdquo; she had declared, in reply to
Lynde&rsquo;s query. &ldquo;I just don&rsquo;t want to go. I can&rsquo;t.
I&rsquo;m not prepared. It&rsquo;s nothing but a notion of yours, anyhow.
You&rsquo;re tired of Chicago because it&rsquo;s getting near spring. You go
and I&rsquo;ll be here when you come back, or I may decide to come over
later.&rdquo; She smiled.
</p>

<p>
Lynde pulled a dark face.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hell!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I know how it is with you. You still stick
to him, even when he treats you like a dog. You pretend not to love him when as
a matter of fact you&rsquo;re mad about him. I&rsquo;ve seen it all along. You
don&rsquo;t really care anything about me. You can&rsquo;t. You&rsquo;re too
crazy about him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, shut up!&rdquo; replied Aileen, irritated greatly for the moment by
this onslaught. &ldquo;You talk like a fool. I&rsquo;m not anything of the
sort. I admire him. How could any one help it?&rdquo; (At this time, of course,
Cowperwood&rsquo;s name was filling the city.) &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a very
wonderful man. He was never brutal to me. He&rsquo;s a full-sized
man&mdash;I&rsquo;ll say that for him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By now Aileen had become sufficiently familiar with Lynde to criticize him in
her own mind, and even outwardly by innuendo, for being a loafer and idler who
had never created in any way the money he was so freely spending. She had
little power to psychologize concerning social conditions, but the stalwart
constructive persistence of Cowperwood along commercial lines coupled with the
current American contempt of leisure reflected somewhat unfavorably upon Lynde,
she thought.
</p>

<p>
Lynde&rsquo;s face clouded still more at this outburst. &ldquo;You go to the
devil,&rdquo; he retorted. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t get you at all. Sometimes you
talk as though you were fond of me. At other times you&rsquo;re all wrapped up
in him. Now you either care for me or you don&rsquo;t. Which is it? If
you&rsquo;re so crazy about him that you can&rsquo;t leave home for a month or
so you certainly can&rsquo;t care much about me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aileen, however, because of her long experience with Cowperwood, was more than
a match for Lynde. At the same time she was afraid to let go of him for fear
that she should have no one to care for her. She liked him. He was a happy
resource in her misery, at least for the moment. Yet the knowledge that
Cowperwood looked upon this affair as a heavy blemish on her pristine
solidarity cooled her. At the thought of him and of her whole tarnished and
troubled career she was very unhappy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hell!&rdquo; Lynde had repeated, irritably, &ldquo;stay if you want to.
I&rsquo;ll not be trying to over-persuade you&mdash;depend on that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They quarreled still further over this matter, and, though they eventually made
up, both sensed the drift toward an ultimately unsatisfactory conclusion.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was one morning not long after this that Cowperwood, feeling in a genial
mood over his affairs, came into Aileen&rsquo;s room, as he still did on
occasions, to finish dressing and pass the time of day.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he observed, gaily, as he stood before the mirror adjusting
his collar and tie, &ldquo;how are you and Lynde getting along these
days&mdash;nicely?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, you go to the devil!&rdquo; replied Aileen, flaring up and
struggling with her divided feelings, which pained her constantly. &ldquo;If it
hadn&rsquo;t been for you there wouldn&rsquo;t be any chance for your smarty
&lsquo;how-am-I-getting-alongs.&rsquo; I am getting along all
right&mdash;fine&mdash;regardless of anything you may think. He&rsquo;s as good
a man as you are any day, and better. I like him. At least he&rsquo;s fond of
me, and that&rsquo;s more than you are. Why should you care what I do? You
don&rsquo;t, so why talk about it? I want you to let me alone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen, Aileen, how you carry on! Don&rsquo;t flare up so. I meant
nothing by it. I&rsquo;m sorry as much for myself as for you. I&rsquo;ve told
you I&rsquo;m not jealous. You think I&rsquo;m critical. I&rsquo;m not anything
of the kind. I know how you feel. That&rsquo;s all very good.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes, yes,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Well, you can keep your feelings
to yourself. Go to the devil! Go to the devil, I tell you!&rdquo; Her eyes
blazed.
</p>

<p>
He stood now, fully dressed, in the center of the rug before her, and Aileen
looked at him, keen, valiant, handsome&mdash;her old Frank. Once again she
regretted her nominal faithlessness, and raged at him in her heart for his
indifference. &ldquo;You dog,&rdquo; she was about to add, &ldquo;you have no
heart!&rdquo; but she changed her mind. Her throat tightened and her eyes
filled. She wanted to run to him and say: &ldquo;Oh, Frank, don&rsquo;t you
understand how it all is, how it all came about? Won&rsquo;t you love me
again&mdash;can&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; But she restrained herself. It seemed to
her that he might understand&mdash;that he would, in fact&mdash;but that he
would never again be faithful, anyhow. And she would so gladly have discarded
Lynde and any and all men if he would only have said the word, would only have
really and sincerely wished her to do so.
</p>

<p>
It was one day not long after their morning quarrel in her bedroom that
Cowperwood broached the matter of living in New York to Aileen, pointing out
that thereby his art-collection, which was growing constantly, might be more
suitably housed, and that it would give her a second opportunity to enter
social life.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So that you can get rid of me out here,&rdquo; commented Aileen, little
knowing of Berenice Fleming.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, sweetly. &ldquo;You see how
things are. There&rsquo;s no chance of our getting into Chicago society.
There&rsquo;s too much financial opposition against me here. If we had a big
house in New York, such as I would build, it would be an introduction in
itself. After all, these Chicagoans aren&rsquo;t even a snapper on the real
society whip. It&rsquo;s the Easterners who set the pace, and the New-Yorkers
most of all. If you want to say the word, I can sell this place and we can live
down there, part of the time, anyhow. I could spend as much of my time with you
there as I have been doing here&mdash;perhaps more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Because of her soul of vanity Aileen&rsquo;s mind ran forward in spite of
herself to the wider opportunities which his words suggested. This house had
become a nightmare to her&mdash;a place of neglect and bad memories. Here she
had fought with Rita Sohlberg; here she had seen society come for a very little
while only to disappear; here she had waited this long time for the renewal of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s love, which was now obviously never to be restored in its
original glamour. As he spoke she looked at him quizzically, almost sadly in
her great doubt. At the same time she could not help reflecting that in New
York where money counted for so much, and with Cowperwood&rsquo;s great and
growing wealth and prestige behind her, she might hope to find herself socially
at last. &ldquo;Nothing venture, nothing have&rdquo; had always been her motto,
nailed to her mast, though her equipment for the life she now craved had never
been more than the veriest make-believe&mdash;painted wood and tinsel. Vain,
radiant, hopeful Aileen! Yet how was she to know?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; she observed, finally. &ldquo;Do as you like. I can
live down there as well as I can here, I presume&mdash;alone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood knew the nature of her longings. He knew what was running in her
mind, and how futile were her dreams. Life had taught him how fortuitous must
be the circumstances which could enable a woman of Aileen&rsquo;s handicaps and
defects to enter that cold upper world. Yet for all the courage of him, for the
very life of him, he could not tell her. He could not forget that once, behind
the grim bars in the penitentiary for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, he
had cried on her shoulder. He could not be an ingrate and wound her with his
inmost thoughts any more than he could deceive himself. A New York mansion and
the dreams of social supremacy which she might there entertain would soothe her
ruffled vanity and assuage her disappointed heart; and at the same time he
would be nearer Berenice Fleming. Say what one will of these ferret windings of
the human mind, they are, nevertheless, true and characteristic of the average
human being, and Cowperwood was no exception. He saw it all, he calculated on
it&mdash;he calculated on the simple humanity of Aileen.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap46"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.<br/>
Depths and Heights</h2>

<p>
The complications which had followed his various sentimental affairs left
Cowperwood in a quandary at times as to whether there could be any peace or
satisfaction outside of monogamy, after all. Although Mrs. Hand had gone to
Europe at the crisis of her affairs, she had returned to seek him out. Cecily
Haguenin found many opportunities of writing him letters and assuring him of
her undying affection. Florence Cochrane persisted in seeing or attempting to
see him even after his interest in her began to wane. For another thing Aileen,
owing to the complication and general degeneracy of her affairs, had recently
begun to drink. Owing to the failure of her affair with Lynde&mdash;for in
spite of her yielding she had never had any real heart interest in it&mdash;and
to the cavalier attitude with which Cowperwood took her disloyalty, she had
reached that state of speculative doldrums where the human animal turns upon
itself in bitter self-analysis; the end with the more sensitive or the less
durable is dissipation or even death. Woe to him who places his faith in
illusion&mdash;the only reality&mdash;and woe to him who does not. In one way
lies disillusion with its pain, in the other way regret.
</p>

<p>
After Lynde&rsquo;s departure for Europe, whither she had refused to follow
him, Aileen took up with a secondary personage by the name of Watson Skeet, a
sculptor. Unlike most artists, he was the solitary heir of the president of an
immense furniture-manufacturing company in which he refused to take any
interest. He had studied abroad, but had returned to Chicago with a view to
propagating art in the West. A large, blond, soft-fleshed man, he had a kind of
archaic naturalness and simplicity which appealed to Aileen. They had met at
the Rhees Griers&rsquo;. Feeling herself neglected after Lynde&rsquo;s
departure, and dreading loneliness above all things, Aileen became intimate
with Skeet, but to no intense mental satisfaction. That driving standard
within&mdash;that obsessing ideal which requires that all things be measured by
it&mdash;was still dominant. Who has not experienced the chilling memory of the
better thing? How it creeps over the spirit of one&rsquo;s current dreams! Like
the specter at the banquet it stands, its substanceless eyes viewing with a sad
philosophy the makeshift feast. The what-might-have-been of her life with
Cowperwood walked side by side with her wherever she went. Once occasionally
indulging in cigarettes, she now smoked almost constantly. Once barely sipping
at wines, cocktails, brandy-and-soda, she now took to the latter, or, rather,
to a new whisky-and-soda combination known as &ldquo;highball&rdquo; with a
kind of vehemence which had little to do with a taste for the thing itself.
True, drinking is, after all, a state of mind, and not an appetite. She had
found on a number of occasions when she had been quarreling with Lynde or was
mentally depressed that in partaking of these drinks a sort of warm,
speculative indifference seized upon her. She was no longer so sad. She might
cry, but it was in a soft, rainy, relieving way. Her sorrows were as strange,
enticing figures in dreams. They moved about and around her, not as things
actually identical with her, but as ills which she could view at a distance.
Sometimes both she and they (for she saw herself also as in a kind of mirage or
inverted vision) seemed beings of another state, troubled, but not bitterly
painful. The old nepenthe of the bottle had seized upon her. After a few
accidental lapses, in which she found it acted as a solace or sedative, the
highball visioned itself to her as a resource. Why should she not drink if it
relieved her, as it actually did, of physical and mental pain? There were
apparently no bad after-effects. The whisky involved was diluted to an almost
watery state. It was her custom now when at home alone to go to the
butler&rsquo;s pantry where the liquors were stored and prepare a drink for
herself, or to order a tray with a siphon and bottle placed in her room.
Cowperwood, noticing the persistence of its presence there and the fact that
she drank heavily at table, commented upon it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re not taking too much of that, are you, Aileen?&rdquo; he
questioned one evening, watching her drink down a tumbler of whisky and water
as she sat contemplating a pattern of needlework with which the table was
ornamented.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly I&rsquo;m not,&rdquo; she replied, irritably, a little flushed
and thick of tongue. &ldquo;Why do you ask?&rdquo; She herself had been
wondering whether in the course of time it might not have a depreciating effect
on her complexion. This was the only thing that still concerned her&mdash;her
beauty.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I see you have that bottle in your room all the time. I was
wondering if you might not be forgetting how much you are using it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Because she was so sensitive he was trying to be tactful.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she answered, crossly, &ldquo;what if I am? It
wouldn&rsquo;t make any particular difference if I did. I might as well drink
as do some other things that are done.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was a kind of satisfaction to her to bait him in this way. His inquiry,
being a proof of continued interest on his part, was of some value. At least he
was not entirely indifferent to her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t talk that way, Aileen,&rdquo; he replied.
&ldquo;I have no objection to your drinking some. I don&rsquo;t suppose it
makes any difference to you now whether I object or not. But you are too
good-looking, too well set up physically, to begin that. You don&rsquo;t need
it, and it&rsquo;s such a short road to hell. Your state isn&rsquo;t so bad.
Good heavens! many another woman has been in your position. I&rsquo;m not going
to leave you unless you want to leave me. I&rsquo;ve told you that over and
over. I&rsquo;m just sorry people change&mdash;we all do. I suppose I&rsquo;ve
changed some, but that&rsquo;s no reason for your letting yourself go to
pieces. I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t be desperate about this business. It may come
out better than you think in the long run.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was merely talking to console her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! oh! oh!&rdquo; Aileen suddenly began to rock and cry in a foolish
drunken way, as though her heart would break, and Cowperwood got up. He was
horrified after a fashion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t come near me!&rdquo; Aileen suddenly exclaimed, sobering
in an equally strange way. &ldquo;I know why you come. I know how much you care
about me or my looks. Don&rsquo;t you worry whether I drink or not. I&rsquo;ll
drink if I please, or do anything else if I choose. If it helps me over my
difficulties, that&rsquo;s my business, not yours,&rdquo; and in defiance she
prepared another glass and drank it.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood shook his head, looking at her steadily and sorrowfully.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s too bad, Aileen,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know
what to do about you exactly. You oughtn&rsquo;t to go on this way. Whisky
won&rsquo;t get you anywhere. It will simply ruin your looks and make you
miserable in the bargain.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, to hell with my looks!&rdquo; she snapped. &ldquo;A lot of good
they&rsquo;ve done me.&rdquo; And, feeling contentious and sad, she got up and
left the table. Cowperwood followed her after a time, only to see her dabbing
at her eyes and nose with powder. A half-filled glass of whisky and water was
on the dressing-table beside her. It gave him a strange feeling of
responsibility and helplessness.
</p>

<p>
Mingled with his anxiety as to Aileen were thoughts of the alternate rise and
fall of his hopes in connection with Berenice. She was such a superior girl,
developing so definitely as an individual. To his satisfaction she had, on a
few recent occasions when he had seen her, unbent sufficiently to talk to him
in a friendly and even intimate way, for she was by no means hoity-toity, but a
thinking, reasoning being of the profoundest intellectual, or, rather, the
highest artistic tendencies. She was so care-free, living in a high and
solitary world, at times apparently enwrapt in thoughts serene, at other times
sharing vividly in the current interests of the social world of which she was a
part, and which she dignified as much as it dignified her.
</p>

<p>
One Sunday morning at Pocono, in late June weather, when he had come East to
rest for a few days, and all was still and airy on the high ground which the
Carter cottage occupied, Berenice came out on the veranda where Cowperwood was
sitting, reading a fiscal report of one of his companies and meditating on his
affairs. By now they had become somewhat more sympatica than formerly, and
Berenice had an easy, genial way in his presence. She liked him, rather. With
an indescribable smile which wrinkled her nose and eyes, and played about the
corners of her mouth, she said: &ldquo;Now I am going to catch a bird.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A what?&rdquo; asked Cowperwood, looking up and pretending he had not
heard, though he had. He was all eyes for any movement of hers. She was dressed
in a flouncy morning gown eminently suitable for the world in which she was
moving.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A bird,&rdquo; she replied, with an airy toss of her head. &ldquo;This
is June-time, and the sparrows are teaching their young to fly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, previously engrossed in financial speculations, was translated, as
by the wave of a fairy wand, into another realm where birds and fledglings and
grass and the light winds of heaven were more important than brick and stone
and stocks and bonds. He got up and followed her flowing steps across the grass
to where, near a clump of alder bushes, she had seen a mother sparrow enticing
a fledgling to take wing. From her room upstairs, she had been watching this
bit of outdoor sociology. It suddenly came to Cowperwood, with great force, how
comparatively unimportant in the great drift of life were his own affairs when
about him was operative all this splendid will to existence, as sensed by her.
He saw her stretch out her hands downward, and run in an airy, graceful way,
stooping here and there, while before her fluttered a baby sparrow, until
suddenly she dived quickly and then, turning, her face agleam, cried:
&ldquo;See, I have him! He wants to fight, too! Oh, you little dear!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She was holding &ldquo;him,&rdquo; as she chose to characterize it, in the
hollow of her hand, the head between her thumb and forefinger, with the
forefinger of her free hand petting it the while she laughed and kissed it. It
was not so much bird-love as the artistry of life and of herself that was
moving her. Hearing the parent bird chirping distractedly from a nearby limb,
she turned and called: &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t make such a row! I
sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t keep him long.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood laughed&mdash;trig in the morning sun. &ldquo;You can scarcely blame
her,&rdquo; he commented.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, she knows well enough I wouldn&rsquo;t hurt him,&rdquo; Berenice
replied, spiritedly, as though it were literally true.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Does she, indeed?&rdquo; inquired Cowperwood. &ldquo;Why do you say
that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because it&rsquo;s true. Don&rsquo;t you think they know when their
children are really in danger?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But why should they?&rdquo; persisted Cowperwood, charmed and interested
by the involute character of her logic. She was quite deceptive to him. He
could not be sure what she thought.
</p>

<p>
She merely fixed him a moment with her cool, slate-blue eyes. &ldquo;Do you
think the senses of the world are only five?&rdquo; she asked, in the most
charming and non-reproachful way. &ldquo;Indeed, they know well enough. She
knows.&rdquo; She turned and waved a graceful hand in the direction of the
tree, where peace now reigned. The chirping had ceased. &ldquo;She knows I am
not a cat.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Again that enticing, mocking smile that wrinkled her nose, her eye-corners, her
mouth. The word &ldquo;cat&rdquo; had a sharp, sweet sound in her mouth. It
seemed to be bitten off closely with force and airy spirit. Cowperwood surveyed
her as he would have surveyed the ablest person he knew. Here was a woman, he
saw, who could and would command the utmost reaches of his soul in every
direction. If he interested her at all, he would need them all. The eyes of her
were at once so elusive, so direct, so friendly, so cool and keen. &ldquo;You
will have to be interesting, indeed, to interest me,&rdquo; they seemed to say;
and yet they were by no means averse, apparently, to a hearty camaraderie. That
nose-wrinkling smile said as much. Here was by no means a Stephanie Platow, nor
yet a Rita Sohlberg. He could not assume her as he had Ella Hubby, or Florence
Cochrane, or Cecily Haguenin. Here was an iron individuality with a soul for
romance and art and philosophy and life. He could not take her as he had those
others. And yet Berenice was really beginning to think more than a little about
Cowperwood. He must be an extraordinary man; her mother said so, and the
newspapers were always mentioning his name and noting his movements.
</p>

<p>
A little later, at Southampton, whither she and her mother had gone, they met
again. Together with a young man by the name of Greanelle, Cowperwood and
Berenice had gone into the sea to bathe. It was a wonderful afternoon.
</p>

<p>
To the east and south and west spread the sea, a crinkling floor of blue, and
to their left, as they faced it, was a lovely outward-curving shore of tawny
sand. Studying Berenice in blue-silk bathing costume and shoes, Cowperwood had
been stung by the wonder of passing life&mdash;how youth comes in, ever fresh
and fresh, and age goes out. Here he was, long crowded years of conflict and
experience behind him, and yet this twenty-year-old girl, with her incisive
mind and keen tastes, was apparently as wise in matters of general import as
himself. He could find no flaw in her armor in those matters which they could
discuss. Her knowledge and comments were so ripe and sane, despite a tendency
to pose a little, which was quite within her rights. Because Greanelle had
bored her a little she had shunted him off and was amusing herself talking to
Cowperwood, who fascinated her by his compact individuality.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know,&rdquo; she confided to him, on this occasion, &ldquo;I get
so very tired of young men sometimes. They can be so inane. I do declare, they
are nothing more than shoes and ties and socks and canes strung together in
some unimaginable way. Vaughn Greanelle is for all the world like a
perambulating manikin to-day. He is just an English suit with a cane attached
walking about.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, bless my soul,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood, &ldquo;what an
indictment!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;He knows nothing at all
except polo, and the latest swimming-stroke, and where everybody is, and who is
going to marry who. Isn&rsquo;t it dull?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She tossed her head back and breathed as though to exhale the fumes of the dull
and the inane from her inmost being.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you tell him that?&rdquo; inquired Cowperwood, curiously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly I did.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t wonder he looks so solemn,&rdquo; he said, turning and
looking back at Greanelle and Mrs. Carter; they were sitting side by side in
sand-chairs, the former beating the sand with his toes. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a
curious girl, Berenice,&rdquo; he went on, familiarly. &ldquo;You are so direct
and vital at times.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not any more than you are, from all I can hear,&rdquo; she replied,
fixing him with those steady eyes. &ldquo;Anyhow, why should I be bored? He is
so dull. He follows me around out here all the time, and I don&rsquo;t want
him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She tossed her head and began to run up the beach to where bathers were fewer
and fewer, looking back at Cowperwood as if to say, &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you
follow?&rdquo; He developed a burst of enthusiasm and ran quite briskly,
overtaking her near some shallows where, because of a sandbar offshore, the
waters were thin and bright.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, look!&rdquo; exclaimed Berenice, when he came up. &ldquo;See, the
fish! O-oh!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She dashed in to where a few feet offshore a small school of minnows as large
as sardines were playing, silvery in the sun. She ran as she had for the bird,
doing her best to frighten them into a neighboring pocket or pool farther up on
the shore. Cowperwood, as gay as a boy of ten, joined in the chase. He raced
after them briskly, losing one school, but pocketing another a little farther
on and calling to her to come.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; exclaimed Berenice at one point. &ldquo;Here they are now.
Come quick! Drive them in here!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her hair was blowy, her face a keen pink, her eyes an electric blue by
contrast. She was bending low over the water&mdash;Cowperwood also&mdash;their
hands outstretched, the fish, some five in all, nervously dancing before them
in their efforts to escape. All at once, having forced them into a corner, they
dived; Berenice actually caught one. Cowperwood missed by a fraction, but drove
the fish she did catch into her hands.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she exclaimed, jumping up, &ldquo;how wonderful! It&rsquo;s
alive. I caught it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She danced up and down, and Cowperwood, standing before her, was sobered by her
charm. He felt an impulse to speak to her of his affection, to tell her how
delicious she was to him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You,&rdquo; he said, pausing over the word and giving it special
emphasis&mdash;&ldquo;you are the only thing here that is wonderful to
me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She looked at him a moment, the live fish in her extended hands, her eyes
keying to the situation. For the least fraction of a moment she was uncertain,
as he could see, how to take this. Many men had been approximative before. It
was common to have compliments paid to her. But this was different. She said
nothing, but fixed him with a look which said quite plainly, &ldquo;You had
better not say anything more just now, I think.&rdquo; Then, seeing that he
understood, that his manner softened, and that he was troubled, she crinkled
her nose gaily and added: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s like fairyland. I feel as though I
had caught it out of another world.&rdquo; Cowperwood understood. The direct
approach was not for use in her case; and yet there was something, a
camaraderie, a sympathy which he felt and which she felt. A girls&rsquo;
school, conventions, the need of socially placing herself, her conservative
friends, and their viewpoint&mdash;all were working here. If he were only
single now, she told herself, she would be willing to listen to him in a very
different spirit, for he was charming. But this way&mdash; And he, for his
part, concluded that here was one woman whom he would gladly marry if she would
have him.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap47"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.<br/>
American Match</h2>

<p>
Following Cowperwood&rsquo;s coup in securing cash by means of his seeming gift
of three hundred thousand dollars for a telescope his enemies rested for a
time, but only because of a lack of ideas wherewith to destroy him. Public
sentiment&mdash;created by the newspapers&mdash;was still against him. Yet his
franchises had still from eight to ten years to run, and meanwhile he might
make himself unassailably powerful. For the present he was busy, surrounded by
his engineers and managers and legal advisers, constructing his several
elevated lines at a whirlwind rate. At the same time, through Videra, Kaffrath,
and Addison, he was effecting a scheme of loaning money on call to the local
Chicago banks&mdash;the very banks which were most opposed to him&mdash;so that
in a crisis he could retaliate. By manipulating the vast quantity of stocks and
bonds of which he was now the master he was making money hand over fist, his
one rule being that six per cent. was enough to pay any holder who had merely
purchased his stock as an outsider. It was most profitable to himself. When his
stocks earned more than that he issued new ones, selling them on &rsquo;change
and pocketing the difference. Out of the cash-drawers of his various companies
he took immense sums, temporary loans, as it were, which later he had charged
by his humble servitors to &ldquo;construction,&rdquo; &ldquo;equipment,&rdquo;
or &ldquo;operation.&rdquo; He was like a canny wolf prowling in a forest of
trees of his own creation.
</p>

<p>
The weak note in this whole project of elevated lines was that for some time it
was destined to be unprofitable. Its very competition tended to weaken the
value of his surface-line companies. His holdings in these as well as in
elevated-road shares were immense. If anything happened to cause them to fall
in price immense numbers of these same stocks held by others would be thrown on
the market, thus still further depreciating their value and compelling him to
come into the market and buy. With the most painstaking care he began at once
to pile up a reserve in government bonds for emergency purposes, which he
decided should be not less than eight or nine million dollars, for he feared
financial storms as well as financial reprisal, and where so much was at stake
he did not propose to be caught napping.
</p>

<p>
At the time that Cowperwood first entered on elevated-road construction there
was no evidence that any severe depression in the American money-market was
imminent. But it was not long before a new difficulty began to appear. It was
now the day of the trust in all its watery magnificence. Coal, iron, steel,
oil, machinery, and a score of other commercial necessities had already been
&ldquo;trustified,&rdquo; and others, such as leather, shoes, cordage, and the
like, were, almost hourly, being brought under the control of shrewd and
ruthless men. Already in Chicago Schryhart, Hand, Arneel, Merrill, and a score
of others were seeing their way to amazing profits by underwriting these
ventures which required ready cash, and to which lesser magnates, content with
a portion of the leavings of Dives&rsquo;s table, were glad to bring to their
attention. On the other hand, in the nation at large there was growing up a
feeling that at the top there were a set of giants&mdash;Titans&mdash;who,
without heart or soul, and without any understanding of or sympathy with the
condition of the rank and file, were setting forth to enchain and enslave them.
The vast mass, writhing in ignorance and poverty, finally turned with pathetic
fury to the cure-all of a political leader in the West. This latter prophet,
seeing gold becoming scarcer and scarcer and the cash and credits of the land
falling into the hands of a few who were manipulating them for their own
benefit, had decided that what was needed was a greater volume of currency, so
that credits would be easier and money cheaper to come by in the matter of
interest. Silver, of which there was a superabundance in the mines, was to be
coined at the ratio of sixteen dollars of silver for every one of gold in
circulation, and the parity of the two metals maintained by fiat of government.
Never again should the few be able to make a weapon of the people&rsquo;s
medium of exchange in order to bring about their undoing. There was to be ample
money, far beyond the control of central banks and the men in power over them.
It was a splendid dream worthy of a charitable heart, but because of it a
disturbing war for political control of the government was shortly threatened
and soon began. The money element, sensing the danger of change involved in the
theories of the new political leader, began to fight him and the element in the
Democratic party which he represented. The rank and file of both
parties&mdash;the more or less hungry and thirsty who lie ever at the bottom on
both sides&mdash;hailed him as a heaven-sent deliverer, a new Moses come to
lead them out of the wilderness of poverty and distress. Woe to the political
leader who preaches a new doctrine of deliverance, and who, out of tenderness
of heart, offers a panacea for human ills. His truly shall be a crown of
thorns.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, no less than other men of wealth, was opposed to what he deemed a
crack-brained idea&mdash;that of maintaining a parity between gold and silver
by law. Confiscation was his word for it&mdash;the confiscation of the wealth
of the few for the benefit of the many. Most of all was he opposed to it
because he feared that this unrest, which was obviously growing, foreshadowed a
class war in which investors would run to cover and money be locked in
strong-boxes. At once he began to shorten sail, to invest only in the soundest
securities, and to convert all his weaker ones into cash.
</p>

<p>
To meet current emergencies, however, he was compelled to borrow heavily here
and there, and in doing so he was quick to note that those banks representing
his enemies in Chicago and elsewhere were willing to accept his various stocks
as collateral, providing he would accept loans subject to call. He did so
gladly, at the same time suspecting Hand, Schryhart, Arneel, and Merrill of
some scheme to wreck him, providing they could get him where the calling of his
loans suddenly and in concert would financially embarrass him. &ldquo;I think I
know what that crew are up to,&rdquo; he once observed to Addison, at this
period. &ldquo;Well, they will have to rise very early in the morning if they
catch me napping.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The thing that he suspected was really true. Schryhart, Hand, and Arneel,
watching him through their agents and brokers, had soon discovered&mdash;in the
very earliest phases of the silver agitation and before the real storm
broke&mdash;that he was borrowing in New York, in London, in certain quarters
of Chicago, and elsewhere. &ldquo;It looks to me,&rdquo; said Schryhart, one
day, to his friend Arneel, &ldquo;as if our friend has gotten in a little too
deep. He has overreached himself. These elevated-road schemes of his have eaten
up too much capital. There is another election coming on next fall, and he
knows we are going to fight tooth and nail. He needs money to electrify his
surface lines. If we could trace out exactly where he stands, and where he has
borrowed, we might know what to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Unless I am greatly mistaken,&rdquo; replied Arneel, &ldquo;he is in a
tight place or is rapidly getting there. This silver agitation is beginning to
weaken stocks and tighten money. I suggest that our banks here loan him all the
money he wants on call. When the time comes, if he isn&rsquo;t ready, we can
shut him up tighter than a drum. If we can pick up any other loans he&rsquo;s
made anywhere else, well and good.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel said this without a shadow of bitterness or humor. In some tight
hour, perhaps, now fast approaching, Mr. Cowperwood would be promised
salvation&mdash;&ldquo;saved&rdquo; on condition that he should leave Chicago
forever. There were those who would take over his property in the interest of
the city and upright government and administer it accordingly.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Unfortunately, at this very time Messrs. Hand, Schryhart, and Arneel were
themselves concerned in a little venture to which the threatened silver
agitation could bode nothing but ill. This concerned so simple a thing as
matches, a commodity which at this time, along with many others, had been
trustified and was yielding a fine profit. &ldquo;American Match&rdquo; was a
stock which was already listed on every exchange and which was selling steadily
around one hundred and twenty.
</p>

<p>
The geniuses who had first planned a combination of all match concerns and a
monopoly of the trade in America were two men, Messrs. Hull and
Stackpole&mdash;bankers and brokers, primarily. Mr. Phineas Hull was a small,
ferret-like, calculating man with a sparse growth of dusty-brown hair and an
eyelid, the right one, which was partially paralyzed and drooped heavily,
giving him a characterful and yet at times a sinister expression.
</p>

<p>
His partner, Mr. Benoni Stackpole, had been once a stage-driver in Arkansas,
and later a horse-trader. He was a man of great force and
calculation&mdash;large, oleaginous, politic, and courageous. Without the
ultimate brain capacity of such men as Arneel, Hand, and Merrill, he was,
nevertheless, resourceful and able. He had started somewhat late in the race
for wealth, but now, with all his strength, he was endeavoring to bring to
fruition this plan which, with the aid of Hull, he had formulated. Inspired by
the thought of great wealth, they had first secured control of the stock of one
match company, and had then put themselves in a position to bargain with the
owners of others. The patents and processes controlled by one company and
another had been combined, and the field had been broadened as much as
possible.
</p>

<p>
But to do all this a great deal of money had been required, much more than was
in possession of either Hull or Stackpole. Both of them being Western men, they
looked first to Western capital. Hand, Schryhart, Arneel, and Merrill were in
turn appealed to, and great blocks of the new stock were sold to them at inside
figures. By the means thus afforded the combination proceeded apace. Patents
for exclusive processes were taken over from all sides, and the idea of
invading Europe and eventually controlling the market of the world had its
inception. At the same time it occurred to each and all of their lordly patrons
that it would be a splendid thing if the stock they had purchased at
forty-five, and which was now selling in open market at one hundred and twenty,
should go to three hundred, where, if these monopolistic dreams were true, it
properly belonged. A little more of this stock&mdash;the destiny of which at
this time seemed sure and splendid&mdash;would not be amiss. And so there began
a quiet campaign on the part of each capitalist to gather enough of it to
realize a true fortune on the rise.
</p>

<p>
A game of this kind is never played with the remainder of the financial
community entirely unaware of what is on foot. In the inner circles of
brokerage life rumors were soon abroad that a tremendous boom was in store for
American Match. Cowperwood heard of it through Addison, always at the center of
financial rumor, and the two of them bought heavily, though not so heavily but
that they could clear out at any time with at least a slight margin in their
favor. During a period of eight months the stock slowly moved upward, finally
crossing the two-hundred mark and reaching two-twenty, at which figure both
Addison and Cowperwood sold, realizing nearly a million between them on their
investment.
</p>

<p>
In the mean time the foreshadowed political storm was brewing. At first a cloud
no larger than a man&rsquo;s hand, it matured swiftly in the late months of
1895, and by the spring of 1896 it had become portentous and was ready to
burst. With the climacteric nomination of the &ldquo;Apostle of Free
Silver&rdquo; for President of the United States, which followed in July, a
chill settled down over the conservative and financial elements of the country.
What Cowperwood had wisely proceeded to do months before, others less
far-seeing, from Maine to California and from the Gulf to Canada, began to do
now. Bank-deposits were in part withdrawn; feeble or uncertain securities were
thrown upon the market. All at once Schryhart, Arneel, Hand, and Merrill
realized that they were in more or less of a trap in regard to their large
holdings in American Match. Having gathered vast quantities of this stock,
which had been issued in blocks of millions, it was now necessary to sustain
the market or sell at a loss. Since money was needed by many holders, and this
stock was selling at two-twenty, telegraphic orders began to pour in from all
parts of the country to sell on the Chicago Exchange, where the deal was being
engineered and where the market obviously existed. All of the instigators of
the deal conferred, and decided to sustain the market. Messrs. Hull and
Stackpole, being the nominal heads of the trust, were delegated to buy, they in
turn calling on the principal investors to take their share, pro rata. Hand,
Schryhart, Arneel, and Merrill, weighted with this inpouring flood of stock,
which they had to take at two-twenty, hurried to their favorite banks,
hypothecating vast quantities at one-fifty and over, and using the money so
obtained to take care of the additional shares which they were compelled to
buy.
</p>

<p>
At last, however, their favorite banks were full to overflowing and at the
danger-point. They could take no more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, no, no!&rdquo; Hand declared to Phineas Hull over the &rsquo;phone.
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t risk another dollar in this venture, and I won&rsquo;t!
It&rsquo;s a perfect proposition. I realize all its merits just as well as you
do. But enough is enough. I tell you a financial slump is coming. That&rsquo;s
the reason all this stock is coming out now. I am willing to protect my
interests in this thing up to a certain point. As I told you, I agree not to
throw a single share on the market of all that I now have. But more than that I
cannot do. The other gentlemen in this agreement will have to protect
themselves as best they can. I have other things to look out for that are just
as important to me, and more so, than American Match.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was the same with Mr. Schryhart, who, stroking a crisp, black mustache, was
wondering whether he had not better throw over what holdings he had and clear
out; however, he feared the rage of Hand and Arneel for breaking the market and
thus bringing on a local panic. It was risky business. Arneel and Merrill
finally agreed to hold firm to what they had; but, as they told Mr. Hull,
nothing could induce them to &ldquo;protect&rdquo; another share, come what
might.
</p>

<p>
In this crisis naturally Messrs. Hull and Stackpole&mdash;estimable gentlemen
both&mdash;were greatly depressed. By no means so wealthy as their lofty
patrons, their private fortunes were in much greater jeopardy. They were eager
to make any port in so black a storm. Witness, then, the arrival of Benoni
Stackpole at the office of Frank Algernon Cowperwood. He was at the end of his
tether, and Cowperwood was the only really rich man in the city not yet
involved in this speculation. In the beginning he had heard both Hand and
Schryhart say that they did not care to become involved if Cowperwood was in
any way, shape, or manner to be included, but that had been over a year ago,
and Schryhart and Hand were now, as it were, leaving both him and his partner
to their fates. They could have no objection to his dealing with Cowperwood in
this crisis if he could make sure that the magnate would not sell him out. Mr.
Stackpole was six feet one in his socks and weighed two hundred and thirty
pounds. Clad in a brown linen suit and straw hat (for it was late July), he
carried a palm-leaf fan as well as his troublesome stocks in a small yellow
leather bag. He was wet with perspiration and in a gloomy state of mind.
Failure was staring him in the face&mdash;giant failure. If American Match fell
below two hundred he would have to close his doors as banker and broker and, in
view of what he was carrying, he and Hull would fail for approximately twenty
million dollars. Messrs. Hand, Schryhart, Arneel, and Merrill would lose in the
neighborhood of six or eight millions between them. The local banks would
suffer in proportion, though not nearly so severely, for, loaning at one-fifty,
they would only sacrifice the difference between that and the lowest point to
which the stock might fall.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood eyed the new-comer, when he entered, with an equivocal eye, for he
knew well now what was coming. Only a few days before he had predicted an
eventual smash to Addison.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; began Stackpole, &ldquo;in this bag I have
fifteen thousand shares of American Match, par value one million five hundred
thousand dollars, market value three million three hundred thousand at this
moment, and worth every cent of three hundred dollars a share and more. I
don&rsquo;t know how closely you have been following the developments of
American Match. We own all the patents on labor-saving machines and,
what&rsquo;s more, we&rsquo;re just about to close contracts with Italy and
France to lease our machines and processes to them for pretty nearly one
million dollars a year each. We&rsquo;re dickering with Austria and England,
and of course we&rsquo;ll take up other countries later. The American Match
Company will yet make matches for the whole world, whether I&rsquo;m connected
with it or not. This silver agitation has caught us right in mid-ocean, and
we&rsquo;re having a little trouble weathering the storm. I&rsquo;m a perfectly
frank man when it comes to close business relations of this kind, and I&rsquo;m
going to tell you just how things stand. If we can scull over this rough place
that has come up on account of the silver agitation our stock will go to three
hundred before the first of the year. Now, if you want to take it you can have
it outright at one hundred and fifty dollars&mdash;that is, providing
you&rsquo;ll agree not to throw any of it back on the market before next
December; or, if you won&rsquo;t promise that&rdquo; (he paused to see if by
any chance he could read Cowperwood&rsquo;s inscrutable face) &ldquo;I want you
to loan me one hundred and fifty dollars a share on these for thirty days at
least at ten or fifteen, or whatever rate you care to fix.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood interlocked his fingers and twiddled his thumbs as he contemplated
this latest evidence of earthly difficulty and uncertainty. Time and chance
certainly happened to all men, and here was one opportunity of paying out those
who had been nagging him. To take this stock at one-fifty on loan and peddle it
out swiftly and fully at two-twenty or less would bring American Match
crumbling about their ears. When it was selling at one-fifty or less he could
buy it back, pocket his profit, complete his deal with Mr. Stackpole, pocket
his interest, and smile like the well-fed cat in the fable. It was as simple as
twiddling his thumbs, which he was now doing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who has been backing this stock here in Chicago besides yourself and Mr.
Hull?&rdquo; he asked, pleasantly. &ldquo;I think that I already know, but I
should like to be certain if you have no objection.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;None in the least, none in the least,&rdquo; replied Mr. Stackpole,
accommodatingly. &ldquo;Mr. Hand, Mr. Schryhart, Mr. Arneel, and Mr.
Merrill.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is what I thought,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood, easily. &ldquo;They
can&rsquo;t take this up for you? Is that it? Saturated?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Saturated,&rdquo; agreed Mr. Stackpole, dully. &ldquo;But there&rsquo;s
one thing I&rsquo;d have to stipulate in accepting a loan on these. Not a share
must be thrown on the market, or, at least, not before I have failed to respond
to your call. I have understood that there is a little feeling between you and
Mr. Hand and the other gentlemen I have mentioned. But, as I say&mdash;and
I&rsquo;m talking perfectly frankly now&mdash;I&rsquo;m in a corner, and
it&rsquo;s any port in a storm. If you want to help me I&rsquo;ll make the best
terms I can, and I won&rsquo;t forget the favor.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He opened the bag and began to take out the securities&mdash;long
greenish-yellow bundles, tightly gripped in the center by thick elastic bands.
They were in bundles of one thousand shares each. Since Stackpole half
proffered them to him, Cowperwood took them in one hand and lightly weighed
them up and down.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, Mr. Stackpole,&rdquo; he said, sympathetically, after a
moment of apparent reflection, &ldquo;but I cannot possibly help you in this
matter. I&rsquo;m too involved in other things myself, and I do not often
indulge in stock-peculations of any kind. I have no particular malice toward
any one of the gentlemen you mention. I do not trouble to dislike all who
dislike me. I might, of course, if I chose, take these stocks and pay them out
and throw them on the market to-morrow, but I have no desire to do anything of
the sort. I only wish I could help you, and if I thought I could carry them
safely for three or four months I would. As it is&mdash;&rdquo; He lifted his
eyebrows sympathetically. &ldquo;Have you tried all the bankers in town?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Practically every one.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And they can&rsquo;t help you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They are carrying all they can stand now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Too bad. I&rsquo;m sorry, very. By the way, do you happen, by any
chance, to know Mr. Millard Bailey or Mr. Edwin Kaffrath?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied Stackpole, hopefully.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, now, there are two men who are much richer than is generally
supposed. They often have very large sums at their disposal. You might look
them up on a chance. Then there&rsquo;s my friend Videra. I don&rsquo;t know
how he is fixed at present. You can always find him at the Twelfth Ward Bank.
He might be inclined to take a good portion of that&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know.
He&rsquo;s much better off than most people seem to think. I wonder you
haven&rsquo;t been directed to some one of these men before.&rdquo; (As a
matter of fact, no one of the individuals in question would have been
interested to take a dollar of this loan except on Cowperwood&rsquo;s order,
but Stackpole had no reason for knowing this. They were not prominently
identified with the magnate.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thank you very much. I will,&rdquo; observed Stackpole, restoring his
undesired stocks to his bag.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, with an admirable show of courtesy, called a stenographer, and
pretended to secure for his guest the home addresses of these gentlemen. He
then bade Mr. Stackpole an encouraging farewell. The distrait promoter at once
decided to try not only Bailey and Kaffrath, but Videra; but even as he drove
toward the office of the first-mentioned Cowperwood was personally busy
reaching him by telephone.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I say, Bailey,&rdquo; he called, when he had secured the wealthy
lumberman on the wire, &ldquo;Benoni Stackpole, of Hull &amp; Stackpole, was
here to see me just now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He has with him fifteen thousand shares of American Match&mdash;par
value one hundred, market value to-day two-twenty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He is trying to hypothecate the lot or any part of it at
one-fifty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know what the trouble with American Match is, don&rsquo;t
you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. I only know it&rsquo;s being driven up to where it is now by a bull
campaign.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, listen to me. It&rsquo;s going to break. American Match is going
to bust.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But I want you to loan this man five hundred thousand dollars at
one-twenty or less and then recommend that he go to Edwin Kaffrath or Anton
Videra for the balance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, Frank, I haven&rsquo;t any five hundred thousand to spare. You say
American Match is going to bust.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know you haven&rsquo;t, but draw the check on the Chicago Trust, and
Addison will honor it. Send the stock to me and forget all about it. I will do
the rest. But under no circumstances mention my name, and don&rsquo;t appear
too eager. Not more than one-twenty at the outside, do you hear? and less if
you can get it. You recognize my voice, do you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perfectly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Drive over afterward if you have time and let me know what
happens.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; commented Mr. Bailey, in a businesslike way.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood next called for Mr. Kaffrath. Conversing to similar effect with that
individual and with Videra, before three-quarters of an hour Cowperwood had
arranged completely for Mr. Stackpole&rsquo;s tour. He was to have his total
loan at one-twenty or less. Checks were to be forthcoming at once. Different
banks were to be drawn on&mdash;banks other than the Chicago Trust Company.
Cowperwood would see, in some roundabout way, that these checks were promptly
honored, whether the cash was there or not. In each case the hypothecated
stocks were to be sent to him. Then, having seen to the perfecting of this
little programme, and that the banks to be drawn upon in this connection
understood perfectly that the checks in question were guaranteed by him or
others, he sat down to await the arrival of his henchmen and the turning of the
stock into his private safe.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap48"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.<br/>
Panic</h2>

<p>
On August 4, 1896, the city of Chicago, and for that matter the entire
financial world, was startled and amazed by the collapse of American Match, one
of the strongest of market securities, and the coincident failure of Messrs.
Hull and Stackpole, its ostensible promoters, for twenty millions. As early as
eleven o&rsquo;clock of the preceding day the banking and brokerage world of
Chicago, trading in this stock, was fully aware that something untoward was on
foot in connection with it. Owing to the high price at which the stock was
&ldquo;protected,&rdquo; and the need of money to liquidate, blocks of this
stock from all parts of the country were being rushed to the market with the
hope of realizing before the ultimate break. About the stock-exchange, which
frowned like a gray fortress at the foot of La Salle Street, all was
excitement&mdash;as though a giant anthill had been ruthlessly disturbed.
Clerks and messengers hurried to and fro in confused and apparently aimless
directions. Brokers whose supply of American Match had been apparently
exhausted on the previous day now appeared on &rsquo;change bright and early,
and at the clang of the gong began to offer the stock in sizable lots of from
two hundred to five hundred shares. The agents of Hull &amp; Stackpole were in
the market, of course, in the front rank of the scrambling, yelling throng,
taking up whatever stock appeared at the price they were hoping to maintain.
The two promoters were in touch by &rsquo;phone and wire not only with those
various important personages whom they had induced to enter upon this bull
campaign, but with their various clerks and agents on &rsquo;change. Naturally,
under the circumstances both were in a gloomy frame of mind. This game was no
longer moving in those large, easy sweeps which characterize the more favorable
aspects of high finance. Sad to relate, as in all the troubled flumes of life
where vast currents are compressed in narrow, tortuous spaces, these two men
were now concerned chiefly with the momentary care of small but none the less
heartbreaking burdens. Where to find fifty thousand to take care of this or
that burden of stock which was momentarily falling upon them? They were as two
men called upon, with their limited hands and strength, to seal up the
ever-increasing crevices of a dike beyond which raged a mountainous and
destructive sea.
</p>

<p>
At eleven o&rsquo;clock Mr. Phineas Hull rose from the chair which sat before
his solid mahogany desk, and confronted his partner.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you, Ben,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid we
can&rsquo;t make this. We&rsquo;ve hypothecated so much of this stock around
town that we can&rsquo;t possibly tell who&rsquo;s doing what. I know as well
as I&rsquo;m standing on this floor that some one, I can&rsquo;t say which one,
is selling us out. You don&rsquo;t suppose it could be Cowperwood or any of
those people he sent to us, do you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Stackpole, worn by his experiences of the past few weeks, was inclined to be
irritable.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How should I know, Phineas?&rdquo; he inquired, scowling in troubled
thought. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think so. I didn&rsquo;t notice any signs that
they were interested in stock-gambling. Anyhow, we had to have the money in
some form. Any one of the whole crowd is apt to get frightened now at any
moment and throw the whole thing over. We&rsquo;re in a tight place,
that&rsquo;s plain.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For the fortieth time he plucked at a too-tight collar and pulled up his
shirt-sleeves, for it was stifling, and he was coatless and waistcoatless. Just
then Mr. Hull&rsquo;s telephone bell rang&mdash;the one connecting with the
firm&rsquo;s private office on &rsquo;change, and the latter jumped to seize
the receiver.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; he inquired, irritably.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Two thousand shares of American offered at two-twenty! Shall I take
them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The man who was &rsquo;phoning was in sight of another man who stood at the
railing of the brokers&rsquo; gallery overlooking &ldquo;the pit,&rdquo; or
central room of the stock-exchange, and who instantly transferred any sign he
might receive to the man on the floor. So Mr. Hull&rsquo;s &ldquo;yea&rdquo; or
&ldquo;nay&rdquo; would be almost instantly transmuted into a cash transaction
on &rsquo;change.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you think of that?&rdquo; asked Hull of Stackpole, putting his
hand over the receiver&rsquo;s mouth, his right eyelid drooping heavier than
ever. &ldquo;Two thousand more to take up! Where d&rsquo;you suppose they are
coming from? Tch!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, the bottom&rsquo;s out, that&rsquo;s all,&rdquo; replied
Stackpole, heavily and gutturally. &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t do what we can&rsquo;t
do. I say this, though: support it at two-twenty until three o&rsquo;clock.
Then we&rsquo;ll figure up where we stand and what we owe. And meanwhile
I&rsquo;ll see what I can do. If the banks won&rsquo;t help us and Arneel and
that crowd want to get from under, we&rsquo;ll fail, that&rsquo;s all; but not
before I&rsquo;ve had one more try, by Jericho! They may not help us,
but&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Actually Mr. Stackpole did not see what was to be done unless Messrs. Hand,
Schryhart, Merrill, and Arneel were willing to risk much more money, but it
grieved and angered him to think he and Hull should be thus left to sink
without a sigh. He had tried Kaffrath, Videra, and Bailey, but they were
adamant. Thus cogitating, Stackpole put on his wide-brimmed straw hat and went
out. It was nearly ninety-six in the shade. The granite and asphalt pavements
of the down-town district reflected a dry, Turkish-bath-room heat. There was no
air to speak of. The sky was a burning, milky blue, with the sun gleaming
feverishly upon the upper walls of the tall buildings.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand, in his seventh-story suite of offices in the Rookery Building, was
suffering from the heat, but much more from mental perturbation. Though not a
stingy or penurious man, it was still true that of all earthly things he
suffered most from a financial loss. How often had he seen chance or
miscalculation sweep apparently strong and valiant men into the limbo of the
useless and forgotten! Since the alienation of his wife&rsquo;s affections by
Cowperwood, he had scarcely any interest in the world outside his large
financial holdings, which included profitable investments in a half-hundred
companies. But they must pay, pay, pay heavily in interest&mdash;all of
them&mdash;and the thought that one of them might become a failure or a drain
on his resources was enough to give him an almost physical sensation of
dissatisfaction and unrest, a sort of spiritual and mental nausea which would
cling to him for days and days or until he had surmounted the difficulty. Mr.
Hand had no least corner in his heart for failure.
</p>

<p>
As a matter of fact, the situation in regard to American Match had reached such
proportions as to be almost numbing. Aside from the fifteen thousand shares
which Messrs. Hull and Stackpole had originally set aside for themselves, Hand,
Arneel, Schryhart, and Merrill had purchased five thousand shares each at
forty, but had since been compelled to sustain the market to the extent of over
five thousand shares more each, at prices ranging from one-twenty to
two-twenty, the largest blocks of shares having been bought at the latter
figure. Actually Hand was caught for nearly one million five hundred thousand
dollars, and his soul was as gray as a bat&rsquo;s wing. At fifty-seven years
of age men who are used only to the most successful financial calculations and
the credit that goes with unerring judgment dread to be made a mark by chance
or fate. It opens the way for comment on their possibly failing vitality or
judgment. And so Mr. Hand sat on this hot August afternoon, ensconced in a
large carved mahogany chair in the inner recesses of his inner offices, and
brooded. Only this morning, in the face of a falling market, he would have sold
out openly had he not been deterred by telephone messages from Arneel and
Schryhart suggesting the advisability of a pool conference before any action
was taken. Come what might on the morrow, he was determined to quit unless he
saw some clear way out&mdash;to be shut of the whole thing unless the ingenuity
of Stackpole and Hull should discover a way of sustaining the market without
his aid. While he was meditating on how this was to be done Mr. Stackpole
appeared, pale, gloomy, wet with perspiration.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Mr. Hand,&rdquo; he exclaimed, wearily, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve done all
I can. Hull and I have kept the market fairly stable so far. You saw what
happened between ten and eleven this morning. The jig&rsquo;s up. We&rsquo;ve
borrowed our last dollar and hypothecated our last share. My personal fortune
has gone into the balance, and so has Hull&rsquo;s. Some one of the outside
stockholders, or all of them, are cutting the ground from under us. Fourteen
thousand shares since ten o&rsquo;clock this morning! That tells the story. It
can&rsquo;t be done just now&mdash;not unless you gentlemen are prepared to go
much further than you have yet gone. If we could organize a pool to take care
of fifteen thousand more shares&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Stackpole paused, for Mr. Hand was holding up a fat, pink digit.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No more of that,&rdquo; he was saying, solemnly. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t
be done. I, for one, won&rsquo;t sink another dollar in this proposition at
this time. I&rsquo;d rather throw what I have on the market and take what I can
get. I am sure the others feel the same way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand, to play safe, had hypothecated nearly all his shares with various
banks in order to release his money for other purposes, and he knew he would
not dare to throw over all his holdings, just as he knew he would have to make
good at the figure at which they had been margined. But it was a fine threat to
make.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Stackpole stared ox-like at Mr. Hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I might as well go back, then, and
post a notice on our front door. We bought fourteen thousand shares and held
the market where it is, but we haven&rsquo;t a dollar to pay for them with.
Unless the banks or some one will take them over for us we&rsquo;re
gone&mdash;we&rsquo;re bankrupt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand, who knew that if Mr. Stackpole carried out this decision it meant the
loss of his one million five hundred thousand, halted mentally. &ldquo;Have you
been to all the banks?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;What does Lawrence, of the
Prairie National, have to say?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s the same with all of them,&rdquo; replied Stackpole, now
quite desperate, &ldquo;as it is with you. They have all they can
carry&mdash;every one. It&rsquo;s this damned silver
agitation&mdash;that&rsquo;s it, and nothing else. There&rsquo;s nothing the
matter with this stock. It will right itself in a few months. It&rsquo;s sure
to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will it?&rdquo; commented Mr. Hand, sourly. &ldquo;That depends on what
happens next November.&rdquo; (He was referring to the coming national
election.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; sighed Mr. Stackpole, seeing that it was a
condition, and not a theory, that confronted him. Then, suddenly clenching his
right hand, he exclaimed, &ldquo;Damn that upstart!&rdquo; (He was thinking of
the &ldquo;Apostle of Free Silver.&rdquo;) &ldquo;He&rsquo;s the cause of all
this. Well, if there&rsquo;s nothing to be done I might as well be going.
There&rsquo;s all those shares we bought to-day which we ought to be able to
hypothecate with somebody. It would be something if we could get even a hundred
and twenty on them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very true,&rdquo; replied Hand. &ldquo;I wish it could be done. I,
personally, cannot sink any more money. But why don&rsquo;t you go and see
Schryhart and Arneel? I&rsquo;ve been talking to them, and they seem to be in a
position similar to my own; but if they are willing to confer, I am. I
don&rsquo;t see what&rsquo;s to be done, but it may be that all of us together
might arrange some way of heading off the slaughter of the stock to-morrow. I
don&rsquo;t know. If only we don&rsquo;t have to suffer too great a
decline.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand was thinking that Messrs. Hull and Stackpole might be forced to part
with all their remaining holdings at fifty cents on the dollar or less. Then if
it could possibly be taken and carried by the united banks for them (Schryhart,
himself, Arneel) and sold at a profit later, he and his associates might recoup
some of their losses. The local banks at the behest of the big quadrumvirate
might be coerced into straining their resources still further. But how was this
to be done? How, indeed?
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was Schryhart who, in pumping and digging at Stackpole when he finally
arrived there, managed to extract from him the truth in regard to his visit to
Cowperwood. As a matter of fact, Schryhart himself had been guilty this very
day of having thrown two thousand shares of American Match on the market
unknown to his confreres. Naturally, he was eager to learn whether Stackpole or
any one else had the least suspicion that he was involved. As a consequence he
questioned Stackpole closely, and the latter, being anxious as to the outcome
of his own interests, was not unwilling to make a clean breast. He had the
justification in his own mind that the quadrumvirate had been ready to desert
him anyhow.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why did you go to him?&rdquo; exclaimed Schryhart, professing to be
greatly astonished and annoyed, as, indeed, in one sense he was. &ldquo;I
thought we had a distinct understanding in the beginning that under no
circumstances was he to be included in any portion of this. You might as well
go to the devil himself for assistance as go there.&rdquo; At the same time he
was thinking &ldquo;How fortunate!&rdquo; Here was not only a loophole for
himself in connection with his own subtle side-plays, but also, if the
quadrumvirate desired, an excuse for deserting the troublesome fortunes of Hull
&amp; Stackpole.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, the truth is,&rdquo; replied Stackpole, somewhat sheepishly and
yet defiantly, &ldquo;last Thursday I had fifteen thousand shares on which I
had to raise money. Neither you nor any of the others wanted any more. The
banks wouldn&rsquo;t take them. I called up Rambaud on a chance, and he
suggested Cowperwood.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As has been related, Stackpole had really gone to Cowperwood direct, but a lie
under the circumstances seemed rather essential.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Rambaud!&rdquo; sneered Schryhart. &ldquo;Cowperwood&rsquo;s
man&mdash;he and all the others. You couldn&rsquo;t have gone to a worse crowd
if you had tried. So that&rsquo;s where this stock is coming from, beyond a
doubt. That fellow or his friends are selling us out. You might have known
he&rsquo;d do it. He hates us. So you&rsquo;re through, are you?&mdash;not
another single trick to turn?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not one,&rdquo; replied Stackpole, solemnly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s too bad. You have acted most unwisely in going to
Cowperwood; but we shall have to see what can be done.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Schryhart&rsquo;s idea, like that of Hand, was to cause Hull &amp; Stackpole to
relinquish all their holdings for nothing to the banks in order that, under
pressure, the latter might carry the stocks he and the others had hypothecated
with them until such a time as the company might be organized at a profit. At
the same time he was intensely resentful against Cowperwood for having by any
fluke of circumstance reaped so large a profit as he must have done. Plainly,
the present crisis had something to do with him. Schryhart was quick to call up
Hand and Arneel, after Stackpole had gone, suggesting a conference, and
together, an hour later, at Arneel&rsquo;s office, they foregathered along with
Merrill to discuss this new and very interesting development. As a matter of
fact, during the course of the afternoon all of these gentlemen had been
growing more and more uneasy. Not that between them they were not eminently
capable of taking care of their own losses, but the sympathetic effect of such
a failure as this (twenty million dollars), to say nothing of its reaction upon
the honor of themselves and the city as a financial center, was a most
unsatisfactory if not disastrous thing to contemplate, and now this matter of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s having gained handsomely by it all was added to their
misery. Both Hand and Arneel growled in opposition when they heard, and Merrill
meditated, as he usually did, on the wonder of Cowperwood&rsquo;s subtlety. He
could not help liking him.
</p>

<p>
There is a sort of municipal pride latent in the bosoms of most members of a
really thriving community which often comes to the surface under the most
trying circumstances. These four men were by no means an exception to this
rule. Messrs. Schryhart, Hand, Arneel, and Merrill were concerned as to the
good name of Chicago and their united standing in the eyes of Eastern
financiers. It was a sad blow to them to think that the one great enterprise
they had recently engineered&mdash;a foil to some of the immense affairs which
had recently had their genesis in New York and elsewhere&mdash;should have come
to so untimely an end. Chicago finance really should not be put to shame in
this fashion if it could be avoided. So that when Mr. Schryhart arrived, quite
warm and disturbed, and related in detail what he had just learned, his friends
listened to him with eager and wary ears.
</p>

<p>
It was now between five and six o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon and still
blazing outside, though the walls of the buildings on the opposite side of the
street were a cool gray, picked out with pools of black shadow. A
newsboy&rsquo;s strident voice was heard here and there calling an extra,
mingled with the sound of homing feet and street-cars&mdash;Cowperwood&rsquo;s
street-cars.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what it is,&rdquo; said Schryhart, finally.
&ldquo;It seems to me we have stood just about enough of this man&rsquo;s
beggarly interference. I&rsquo;ll admit that neither Hull nor Stackpole had any
right to go to him. They laid themselves and us open to just such a trick as
has been worked in this case.&rdquo; Mr. Schryhart was righteously incisive,
cold, immaculate, waspish. &ldquo;At the same time,&rdquo; he continued,
&ldquo;any other moneyed man of equal standing with ourselves would have had
the courtesy to confer with us and give us, or at least our banks, an
opportunity for taking over these securities. He would have come to our aid for
Chicago&rsquo;s sake. He had no occasion for throwing these stocks on the
market, considering the state of things. He knows very well what the effect of
their failure will be. The whole city is involved, but it&rsquo;s little he
cares. Mr. Stackpole tells me that he had an express understanding with him,
or, rather, with the men who it is plain have been representing him, that not a
single share of this stock was to be thrown on the market. As it is, I venture
to say not a single share of it is to be found anywhere in any of their safes.
I can sympathize to a certain extent with poor Stackpole. His position, of
course, was very trying. But there is no excuse&mdash;none in the
world&mdash;for such a stroke of trickery on Cowperwood&rsquo;s part.
It&rsquo;s just as we&rsquo;ve known all along&mdash;the man is nothing but a
wrecker. We certainly ought to find some method of ending his career here if
possible.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Schryhart kicked out his well-rounded legs, adjusted his soft-roll collar,
and smoothed his short, crisp, wiry, now blackish-gray mustache. His black eyes
flashed an undying hate.
</p>

<p>
At this point Mr. Arneel, with a cogency of reasoning which did not at the
moment appear on the surface, inquired: &ldquo;Do any of you happen to know
anything in particular about the state of Mr. Cowperwood&rsquo;s finances at
present? Of course we know of the Lake Street &lsquo;L&rsquo; and the
Northwestern. I hear he&rsquo;s building a house in New York, and I presume
that&rsquo;s drawing on him somewhat. I know he has four hundred thousand
dollars in loans from the Chicago Central; but what else has he?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, there&rsquo;s the two hundred thousand he owes the Prairie
National,&rdquo; piped up Schrybart, promptly. &ldquo;From time to time
I&rsquo;ve heard of several other sums that escape my mind just now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Merrill, a diplomatic mouse of a man&mdash;gray, Parisian,
dandified&mdash;was twisting in his large chair, surveying the others with
shrewd though somewhat propitiatory eyes. In spite of his old grudge against
Cowperwood because of the latter&rsquo;s refusal to favor him in the matter of
running street-car lines past his store, he had always been interested in the
man as a spectacle. He really disliked the thought of plotting to injure
Cowperwood. Just the same, he felt it incumbent to play his part in such a
council as this. &ldquo;My financial agent, Mr. Hill, loaned him several
hundred thousand not long ago,&rdquo; he volunteered, a little doubtfully.
&ldquo;I presume he has many other outstanding obligations.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand stirred irritably.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, he&rsquo;s owing the Third National and the Lake City as much if
not more,&rdquo; he commented. &ldquo;I know where there are five hundred
thousand dollars of his loans that haven&rsquo;t been mentioned here. Colonel
Ballinger has two hundred thousand. He must owe Anthony Ewer all of that. He
owes the Drovers and Traders all of one hundred and fifty thousand.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
On the basis of these suggestions Arneel made a mental calculation, and found
that Cowperwood was indebted apparently to the tune of about three million
dollars on call, if not more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t all the facts,&rdquo; he said, at last, slowly and
distinctly. &ldquo;If we could talk with some of the presidents of our banks
to-night, we should probably find that there are other items of which we do not
know. I do not like to be severe on any one, but our own situation is serious.
Unless something is done to-night Hull &amp; Stackpole will certainly fail in
the morning. We are, of course, obligated to the various banks for our loans,
and we are in honor bound to do all we can for them. The good name of Chicago
and its rank as a banking center is to a certain extent involved. As I have
already told Mr. Stackpole and Mr. Hull, I personally have gone as far as I can
in this matter. I suppose it is the same with each of you. The only other
resources we have under the circumstances are the banks, and they, as I
understand it, are pretty much involved with stock on hypothecation. I know at
least that this is true of the Lake City and the Douglas Trust.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s true of nearly all of them,&rdquo; said Hand. Both Schryhart
and Merrill nodded assent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We are not obligated to Mr. Cowperwood for anything so far as I
know,&rdquo; continued Mr. Arneel, after a slight but somewhat portentous
pause. &ldquo;As Mr. Schryhart has suggested here to-day, he seems to have a
tendency to interfere and disturb on every occasion. Apparently he stands
obligated to the various banks in the sums we have mentioned. Why
shouldn&rsquo;t his loans be called? It would help strengthen the local banks,
and possibly permit them to aid in meeting this situation for us. While he
might be in a position to retaliate, I doubt it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel had no personal opposition to Cowperwood&mdash;none, at least, of a
deep-seated character. At the same time Hand, Merrill, and Schryhart were his
friends. In him, they felt, centered the financial leadership of the city. The
rise of Cowperwood, his Napoleonic airs, threatened this. As Mr. Arneel talked
he never raised his eyes from the desk where he was sitting. He merely drummed
solemnly on the surface with his fingers. The others contemplated him a little
tensely, catching quite clearly the drift of his proposal.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;An excellent idea&mdash;excellent!&rdquo; exclaimed Schryhart. &ldquo;I
will join in any programme that looks to the elimination of this man. The
present situation may be just what is needed to accomplish this. Anyhow, it may
help to solve our difficulty. If so, it will certainly be a case of good coming
out of evil.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see no reason why these loans should not be called,&rdquo; Hand
commented. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m willing to meet the situation on that basis.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And I have no particular objection,&rdquo; said Merrill. &ldquo;I think,
however, it would be only fair to give as much notice as possible of any
decision we may reach,&rdquo; he added.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why not send for the various bankers now,&rdquo; suggested Schryhart,
&ldquo;and find out exactly where he stands, and how much it will take to carry
Hull &amp; Stackpole? Then we can inform Mr. Cowperwood of what we propose to
do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To this proposition Mr. Hand nodded an assent, at the same time consulting a
large, heavily engraved gold watch of the most ponderous and inartistic design.
&ldquo;I think,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that we have found the solution to this
situation at last. I suggest that we get Candish and Kramer, of the
stock-exchange&rdquo; (he was referring to the president and secretary,
respectively, of that organization), &ldquo;and Simmons, of the Douglas Trust.
We should soon be able to tell what we can do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The library of Mr. Arneel&rsquo;s home was fixed upon as the most suitable
rendezvous. Telephones were forthwith set ringing and messengers and telegrams
despatched in order that the subsidiary financial luminaries and the watch-dogs
of the various local treasuries might come and, as it were, put their seal on
this secret decision, which it was obviously presumed no minor official or
luminary would have the temerity to gainsay.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap49"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.<br/>
Mount Olympus</h2>

<p>
By eight o&rsquo;clock, at which hour the conference was set, the principal
financial personages of Chicago were truly in a great turmoil. Messrs. Hand,
Schryhart, Merrill, and Arneel were personally interested! What would you? As
early as seven-thirty there was a pattering of horses&rsquo; hoofs and a jingle
of harness, as splendid open carriages were drawn up in front of various
exclusive mansions and a bank president, or a director at least, issued forth
at the call of one of the big quadrumvirate to journey to the home of Mr.
Arneel. Such interesting figures as Samuel Blackman, once president of the old
Chicago Gas Company, and now a director of the Prairie National; Hudson Baker,
once president of the West Chicago Gas Company, and now a director of the
Chicago Central National; Ormonde Ricketts, publisher of the Chronicle and
director of the Third National; Norrie Simms, president of the Douglas Trust
Company; Walter Rysam Cotton, once an active wholesale coffee-broker, but now a
director principally of various institutions, were all en route. It was a
procession of solemn, superior, thoughtful gentlemen, and all desirous of
giving the right appearance and of making the correct impression. For, be it
known, of all men none are so proud or vainglorious over the minor trappings of
materialism as those who have but newly achieved them. It is so essential
apparently to fulfil in manner and air, if not in fact, the principle of
&ldquo;presence&rdquo; which befits the role of conservator of society and
leader of wealth. Every one of those named and many more&mdash;to the number of
thirty&mdash;rode thus loftily forth in the hot, dry evening air and were soon
at the door of the large and comfortable home of Mr. Timothy Arneel.
</p>

<p>
That important personage was not as yet present to receive his guests, and
neither were Messrs. Schryhart, Hand, nor Merrill. It would not be fitting for
such eminent potentates to receive their underlings in person on such an
occasion. At the hour appointed these four were still in their respective
offices, perfecting separately the details of the plan upon which they had
agreed and which, with a show of informality and of momentary inspiration, they
would later present. For the time being their guests had to make the best of
their absence. Drinks and liquors were served, but these were of small comfort.
A rack provided for straw hats was for some reason not used, every one
preferring to retain his own head-gear. Against the background of wood
panneling and the chairs covered with summer linen the company presented a
galleryesque variety and interest. Messrs. Hull and Stackpole, the corpses or
victims over which this serious gathering were about to sit in state, were not
actually present within the room, though they were within call in another part
of the house, where, if necessary, they could be reached and their advice or
explanations heard. This presumably brilliant assemblage of the financial
weight and intelligence of the city appeared as solemn as owls under the
pressure of a rumored impending financial crisis. Before Arneel&rsquo;s
appearance there was a perfect buzz of minor financial gossip, such as:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is it as serious as that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I knew things were pretty shaky, but I was by no means certain how
shaky.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fortunately, we are not carrying much of that stock.&rdquo; (This from
one of the few really happy bankers.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is a rather serious occasion, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t tell me!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear, dear!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Never a word in criticism from any source of either Hand or Schryhart or Arneel
or Merrill, though the fact that they were back of the pool was well known.
Somehow they were looked upon as benefactors who were calling this conference
with a view of saving others from disaster rather than for the purpose of
assisting themselves. Such phrases as, &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Hand! Marvelous man!
Marvelous!&rdquo; or, &ldquo;Mr. Schryhart&mdash;very able&mdash;very able
indeed!&rdquo; or, &ldquo;You may depend on it these men are not going to allow
anything serious to overtake the affairs of the city at this time,&rdquo; were
heard on every hand. The fact that immense quantities of cash or paper were
involved in behalf of one or other of these four was secretly admitted by one
banker to another. No rumor that Cowperwood or his friends had been profiting
or were in any way involved had come to any one present&mdash;not as yet.
</p>

<p>
At eight-thirty exactly Mr. Arneel first ambled in quite informally, Hand,
Schryhart, and Merrill appearing separately very shortly after. Rubbing their
hands and mopping their faces with their handkerchiefs, they looked about them,
making an attempt to appear as nonchalant and cheerful as possible under such
trying circumstances. There were many old acquaintances and friends to greet,
inquiries to be made as to the health of wives and children. Mr. Arneel, clad
in yellowish linen, with a white silk shirt of lavender stripe, and carrying a
palm-leaf fan, seemed quite refreshed; his fine expanse of neck and bosom
looked most paternal, and even Abrahamesque. His round, glistening pate exuded
beads of moisture. Mr. Schryhart, on the contrary, for all the heat, appeared
quite hard and solid, as though he might be carved out of some dark wood. Mr.
Hand, much of Mr. Arneel&rsquo;s type, but more solid and apparently more
vigorous, had donned for the occasion a blue serge coat with trousers of an
almost gaudy, bright stripe. His ruddy, archaic face was at once encouraging
and serious, as though he were saying, &ldquo;My dear children, this is very
trying, but we will do the best we can.&rdquo; Mr. Merrill was as cool and
ornate and lazy as it was possible for a great merchant to be. To one person
and another he extended a cool, soft hand, nodding and smiling half the time in
silence. To Mr. Arneel as the foremost citizen and the one of largest wealth
fell the duty (by all agreed as most appropriate) of assuming the
chair&mdash;which in this case was an especially large one at the head of the
table.
</p>

<p>
There was a slight stir as he finally, at the suggestion of Schryhart, went
forward and sat down. The other great men found seats.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, gentlemen,&rdquo; began Mr. Arneel, dryly (he had a low, husky
voice), &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be as brief as I can. This is a very unusual occasion
which brings us together. I suppose you all know how it is with Mr. Hull and
Mr. Stackpole. American Match is likely to come down with a crash in the
morning if something very radical isn&rsquo;t done to-night. It is at the
suggestion of a number of men and banks that this meeting is called.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel had an informal, tete-a-tete way of speaking as if he were sitting
on a chaise-longue with one other person.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The failure,&rdquo; he went on, firmly, &ldquo;if it comes, as I hope it
won&rsquo;t, will make a lot of trouble for a number of banks and private
individuals which we would like to avoid, I am sure. The principal creditors of
American Match are our local banks and some private individuals who have loaned
money on the stock. I have a list of them here, along with the amounts for
which they are responsible. It is in the neighborhood of ten millions of
dollars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel, with the unconscious arrogance of wealth and power, did not trouble
to explain how he got the list, neither did he show the slightest perturbation.
He merely fished down in one pocket in a heavy way and produced it, spreading
it out on the table before him. The company wondered whose names and what
amounts were down, and whether it was his intention to read it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; resumed Mr. Arneel, seriously, &ldquo;I want to say here
that Mr. Stackpole, Mr. Merrill, Mr. Hand, and myself have been to a certain
extent investors in this stock, and up to this afternoon we felt it to be our
duty, not so much to ourselves as to the various banks which have accepted this
stock as collateral and to the city at large, to sustain it as much as
possible. We believed in Mr. Hull and Mr. Stackpole. We might have gone still
further if there had been any hope that a number of others could carry the
stock without seriously injuring themselves; but in view of recent developments
we know that this can&rsquo;t be done. For some time Mr. Hull and Mr. Stackpole
and the various bank officers have had reason to think that some one has been
cutting the ground from under them, and now they know it. It is because of
this, and because only concerted action on the part of banks and individuals
can save the financial credit of the city at this time, that this meeting is
called. Stocks are going to continue to be thrown on the market. It is possible
that Hull &amp; Stackpole may have to liquidate in some way. One thing is
certain: unless a large sum of money is gathered to meet the claim against them
in the morning, they will fail. The trouble is due indirectly, of course, to
this silver agitation; but it is due a great deal more, we believe, to a piece
of local sharp dealing which has just come to light, and which has really been
the cause of putting the financial community in the tight place where it stands
to-night. I might as well speak plainly as to this matter. It is the work of
one man&mdash;Mr. Cowperwood. American Match might have pulled through and the
city been have spared the danger which now confronts it if Mr. Hull and Mr.
Stackpole had not made the mistake of going to this man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel paused, and Mr. Norrie Simms, more excitable than most by
temperament, chose to exclaim, bitterly: &ldquo;The wrecker!&rdquo; A stir of
interest passed over the others accompanied by murmurs of disapproval.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The moment he got the stock in his hands as collateral,&rdquo; continued
Mr. Arneel, solemnly, &ldquo;and in the face of an agreement not to throw a
share on the market, he has been unloading steadily. That is what has been
happening yesterday and to-day. Over fifteen thousand shares of this stock,
which cannot very well be traced to outside sources, have been thrown on the
market, and we have every reason to believe that all of it comes from the same
place. The result is that American Match, and Mr. Hull and Mr. Stackpole, are
on the verge of collapse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The scoundrel!&rdquo; repeated Mr. Norrie Simms, bitterly, almost rising
to his feet. The Douglas Trust Company was heavily interested in American
Match.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What an outrage!&rdquo; commented Mr. Lawrence, of the Prairie National,
which stood to lose at least three hundred thousand dollars in shrinkage of
values on hypothecated stock alone. To this bank that Cowperwood owed at least
three hundred thousand dollars on call.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Depend on it to find his devil&rsquo;s hoof in it somewhere,&rdquo;
observed Jordan Jules, who had never been able to make any satisfactory
progress in his fight on Cowperwood in connection with the city council and the
development of the Chicago General Company. The Chicago Central, of which he
was now a director, was one of the banks from which Cowperwood had judiciously
borrowed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s a pity he should be allowed to go on bedeviling the town in
this fashion,&rdquo; observed Mr. Sunderland Sledd to his neighbor, Mr. Duane
Kingsland, who was a director in a bank controlled by Mr. Hand.
</p>

<p>
The latter, as well as Schryhart, observed with satisfaction the effect of Mr.
Arneel&rsquo;s words on the company.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel now again fished in his pocket laboriously, and drew forth a second
slip of paper which he spread out before him. &ldquo;This is a time when
frankness must prevail,&rdquo; he went on, solemnly, &ldquo;if anything is to
be done, and I am in hopes that we can do something. I have here a memorandum
of some of the loans which the local banks have made to Mr. Cowperwood and
which are still standing on their books. I want to know if there are any
further loans of which any of you happen to know and which you are willing to
mention at this time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked solemnly around.
</p>

<p>
Immediately several loans were mentioned by Mr. Cotton and Mr. Osgood which had
not been heard of previously. The company was now very well aware, in a general
way, of what was coming.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, gentlemen,&rdquo; continued Mr. Arneel, &ldquo;I have, previous to
this meeting, consulted with a number of our leading men. They agree with me
that, since so many banks are in need of funds to carry this situation, and
since there is no particular obligation on anybody&rsquo;s part to look after
the interests of Mr. Cowperwood, it might be just as well if these loans of
his, which are outstanding, were called and the money used to aid the banks and
the men who have been behind Mr. Hull and Mr. Stackpole. I have no personal
feeling against Mr. Cowperwood&mdash;that is, he has never done me any direct
injury&mdash;but naturally I cannot approve of the course he has seen fit to
take in this case. Now, if there isn&rsquo;t money available from some source
to enable you gentlemen to turn around, there will be a number of other
failures. Runs may be started on a half-dozen banks. Time is the essence of a
situation like this, and we haven&rsquo;t any time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Arneel paused and looked around. A slight buzz of conversation sprang up,
mostly bitter and destructive criticism of Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would be only just if he could be made to pay for this,&rdquo;
commented Mr. Blackman to Mr. Sledd. &ldquo;He has been allowed to play fast
and loose long enough. It is time some one called a halt on him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, it looks to me as though it would be done tonight,&rdquo; Mr.
Sledd returned.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile Mr. Schryhart was again rising to his feet. &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; he
was saying, &ldquo;if there is no objection on any one&rsquo;s part, Mr.
Arneel, as chairman, might call for a formal expression of opinion from the
different gentlemen present which will be on record as the sense of this
meeting.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this point Mr. Kingsland, a tall, whiskered gentleman, arose to inquire
exactly how it came that Cowperwood had secured these stocks, and whether those
present were absolutely sure that the stock has been coming from him or from
his friends. &ldquo;I would not like to think we were doing any man an
injustice,&rdquo; he concluded.
</p>

<p>
In reply to this Mr. Schryhart called in Mr. Stackpole to corroborate him. Some
of the stocks had been positively identified. Stackpole related the full story,
which somehow seemed to electrify the company, so intense was the feeling
against Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is amazing that men should be permitted to do things like this and
still hold up their heads in the business world,&rdquo; said one, Mr. Vasto,
president of the Third National, to his neighbor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should think there would be no difficulty in securing united action in
a case of this kind,&rdquo; said Mr. Lawrence, president of the Prairie
National, who was very much beholden to Hand for past and present favors.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here is a case,&rdquo; put in Schryhart, who was merely waiting for an
opportunity to explain further, &ldquo;in which an unexpected political
situation develops an unexpected crisis, and this man uses it for his personal
aggrandizement and to the detriment of every other person. The welfare of the
city is nothing to him. The stability of the very banks he borrows from is
nothing. He is a pariah, and if this opportunity to show him what we think of
him and his methods is not used we will be doing less than our duty to the city
and to one another.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Mr. Arneel, finally, after Cowperwood&rsquo;s
different loans had been carefully tabulated, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t you think it
would be wise to send for Mr. Cowperwood and state to him directly the decision
we have reached and the reasons for it? I presume all of us would agree that he
should be notified.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think he should be notified,&rdquo; said Mr. Merrill, who saw behind
this smooth talk the iron club that was being brandished.
</p>

<p>
Both Hand and Schryhart looked at each other and Arneel while they politely
waited for some one else to make a suggestion. When no one ventured, Hand, who
was hoping this would prove a ripping blow to Cowperwood, remarked, viciously:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He might as well be told&mdash;if we can reach him. It&rsquo;s
sufficient notice, in my judgment. He might as well understand that this is the
united action of the leading financial forces of the city.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; added Mr. Schryhart. &ldquo;It is time he understood, I
think, what the moneyed men of this community think of him and his crooked
ways.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A murmur of approval ran around the room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said Mr. Arneel. &ldquo;Anson, you know him better
than some of the rest of us. Perhaps you had better see if you can get him on
the telephone and ask him to call. Tell him that we are here in executive
session.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think he might take it more seriously if you spoke to him,
Timothy,&rdquo; replied Merrill.
</p>

<p>
Arneel, being always a man of action, arose and left the room, seeking a
telephone which was located in a small workroom or office den on the same
floor, where he could talk without fear of being overheard.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Sitting in his library on this particular evening, and studying the details of
half a dozen art-catalogues which had accumulated during the week, Cowperwood
was decidedly conscious of the probable collapse of American Match on the
morrow. Through his brokers and agents he was well aware that a conference was
on at this hour at the house of Arneel. More than once during the day he had
seen bankers and brokers who were anxious about possible shrinkage in
connection with various hypothecated securities, and to-night his valet had
called him to the &rsquo;phone half a dozen times to talk with Addison, with
Kaffrath, with a broker by the name of Prosser who had succeeded Laughlin in
active control of his private speculations, and also, be it said, with several
of the banks whose presidents were at this particular conference. If Cowperwood
was hated, mistrusted, or feared by the overlords of these institutions, such
was by no means the case with the underlings, some of whom, through being
merely civil, were hopeful of securing material benefits from him at some
future time. With a feeling of amused satisfaction he was meditating upon how
heavily and neatly he had countered on his enemies. Whereas they were
speculating as to how to offset their heavy losses on the morrow, he was
congratulating himself on corresponding gains. When all his deals should be
closed up he would clear within the neighborhood of a million dollars. He did
not feel that he had worked Messrs. Hull and Stackpole any great injustice.
They were at their wit&rsquo;s end. If he had not seized this opportunity to
undercut them Schryhart or Arneel would have done so, anyhow.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Mingled with thoughts of a forthcoming financial triumph were others of
Berenice Fleming. There are such things as figments of the brain, even in the
heads of colossi. He thought of Berenice early and late; he even dreamed of
her. He laughed at himself at times for thus being taken in the toils of a mere
girl&mdash;the strands of her ruddy hair&mdash;but working in Chicago these
days he was always conscious of her, of what she was doing, of where she was
going in the East, of how happy he would be if they were only together, happily
mated.
</p>

<p>
It had so happened, unfortunately, that in the course of this summer&rsquo;s
stay at Narragansett Berenice, among other diversions, had assumed a certain
interest in one Lieutenant Lawrence Braxmar, U.S.N., whom she found loitering
there, and who was then connected with the naval station at Portsmouth, New
Hampshire. Cowperwood, coming East at this time for a few days&rsquo; stay in
order to catch another glimpse of his ideal, had been keenly disturbed by the
sight of Braxmar and by what his presence might signify. Up to this time he had
not given much thought to younger men in connection with her. Engrossed in her
personality, he could think of nothing as being able to stand long between him
and the fulfilment of his dreams. Berenice must be his. That radiant spirit,
enwrapt in so fair an outward seeming, must come to see and rejoice in him. Yet
she was so young and airy in her mood that he sometimes wondered. How was he to
draw near? What say exactly? What do? Berenice was in no way hypnotized by
either his wealth or fame. She was accustomed (she little knew to what extent
by his courtesy) to a world more resplendent in its social security than his
own. Surveying Braxmar keenly upon their first meeting, Cowperwood had liked
his face and intelligence, had judged him to be able, but had wondered
instantly how he could get rid of him. Viewing Berenice and the Lieutenant as
they strolled off together along a summery seaside veranda, he had been for
once lonely, and had sighed. These uncertain phases of affection could become
very trying at times. He wished he were young again, single.
</p>

<p>
To-night, therefore, this thought was haunting him like a gloomy undertone,
when at half past eleven the telephone rang once more, and he heard a low, even
voice which said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood? This is Mr. Arneel.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A number of the principal financial men of the city are gathered here at
my house this evening. The question of ways and means of preventing a panic
to-morrow is up for discussion. As you probably know, Hull &amp; Stackpole are
in trouble. Unless something is done for them tonight they will certainly fail
to-morrow for twenty million dollars. It isn&rsquo;t so much their failure that
we are considering as it is the effect on stocks in general, and on the banks.
As I understand it, a number of your loans are involved. The gentlemen here
have suggested that I call you up and ask you to come here, if you will, to
help us decide what ought to be done. Something very drastic will have to be
decided on before morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
During this speech Cowperwood&rsquo;s brain had been reciprocating like a
well-oiled machine.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My loans?&rdquo; he inquired, suavely. &ldquo;What have they to do with
the situation? I don&rsquo;t owe Hull &amp; Stackpole anything.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very true. But a number of the banks are carrying securities for you.
The idea is that a number of these will have to be called&mdash;the majority of
them&mdash;unless some other way can be devised to-night. We thought you might
possibly wish to come and talk it over, and that you might be able to suggest
some other way out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, caustically. &ldquo;The idea is to
sacrifice me in order to save Hull &amp; Stackpole. Is that it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
His eyes, quite as though Arneel were before him, emitted malicious sparks.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, not precisely that,&rdquo; replied Arneel, conservatively;
&ldquo;but something will have to be done. Don&rsquo;t you think you had better
come over?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very good. I&rsquo;ll come,&rdquo; was the cheerful reply. &ldquo;It
isn&rsquo;t anything that can be discussed over the &rsquo;phone,
anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He hung up the receiver and called for his runabout. On the way over he thanked
the prevision which had caused him, in anticipation of some such attack as
this, to set aside in the safety vaults of the Chicago Trust Company several
millions in low-interest-bearing government bonds. Now, if worst came to worst,
these could be drawn on and hypothecated. These men should see at last how
powerful he was and how secure.
</p>

<p>
As he entered the home of Arneel he was a picturesque and truly representative
figure of his day. In a light summer suit of cream and gray twill, with a straw
hat ornamented by a blue-and-white band, and wearing yellow quarter-shoes of
the softest leather, he appeared a very model of trig, well-groomed
self-sufficiency. As he was ushered into the room he gazed about him in a
brave, leonine way.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A fine night for a conference, gentlemen,&rdquo; he said, walking toward
a chair indicated by Mr. Arneel. &ldquo;I must say I never saw so many straw
hats at a funeral before. I understand that my obsequies are contemplated. What
can I do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He beamed in a genial, sufficient way, which in any one else would have brought
a smile to the faces of the company. In him it was an implication of basic
power which secretly enraged and envenomed nearly all those present. They
merely stirred in a nervous and wholly antagonistic way. A number of those who
knew him personally nodded&mdash;Merrill, Lawrence, Simms; but there was no
friendly light in their eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, gentlemen?&rdquo; he inquired, after a moment or two of ominous
silence, observing Hand&rsquo;s averted face and Schryhart&rsquo;s eyes, which
were lifted ceilingward.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; began Mr. Arneel, quietly, in no way disturbed by
Cowperwood&rsquo;s jaunty air, &ldquo;as I told you over the &rsquo;phone, this
meeting is called to avert, if possible, what is likely to be a very serious
panic in the morning. Hull &amp; Stackpole are on the verge of failure. The
outstanding loans are considerable&mdash;in the neighborhood of seven or eight
million here in Chicago. On the other hand, there are assets in the shape of
American Match stocks and other properties sufficient to carry them for a while
longer if the banks can only continue their loans. As you know, we are all
facing a falling market, and the banks are short of ready money. Something has
to be done. We have canvassed the situation here to-night as thoroughly as
possible, and the general conclusion is that your loans are among the most
available assets which can be reached quickly. Mr. Schryhart, Mr. Merrill, Mr.
Hand, and myself have done all we can thus far to avert a calamity, but we find
that some one with whom Hull &amp; Stackpole have been hypothecating stocks has
been feeding them out in order to break the market. We shall know how to avoid
that in the future&rdquo; (and he looked hard at Cowperwood), &ldquo;but the
thing at present is immediate cash, and your loans are the largest and the most
available. Do you think you can find the means to pay them back in the
morning?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Arneel blinked his keen, blue eyes solemnly, while the rest, like a pack of
genial but hungry wolves, sat and surveyed this apparently whole but now
condemned scapegoat and victim. Cowperwood, who was keenly alive to the spirit
of the company, looked blandly and fearlessly around. On his knee he held his
blue&mdash;banded straw hat neatly balanced on one edge. His full mustache
curled upward in a jaunty, arrogant way.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can meet my loans,&rdquo; he replied, easily. &ldquo;But I would not
advise you or any of the gentlemen present to call them.&rdquo; His voice, for
all its lightness, had an ominous ring.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; inquired Hand, grimly and heavily, turning squarely
about and facing him. &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t appear that you have extended any
particular courtesy to Hull or Stackpole.&rdquo; His face was red and scowling.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, smiling, and ignoring the reference
to his trick, &ldquo;I know why this meeting was called. I know that these
gentlemen here, who are not saying a word, are mere catspaws and rubber stamps
for you and Mr. Schryhart and Mr. Arneel and Mr. Merrill. I know how you four
gentlemen have been gambling in this stock, and what your probable losses are,
and that it is to save yourselves from further loss that you have decided to
make me the scapegoat. I want to tell you here&rdquo;&mdash;and he got up, so
that in his full stature he loomed over the room&mdash;&ldquo;you can&rsquo;t
do it. You can&rsquo;t make me your catspaw to pull your chestnuts out of the
fire, and no rubber-stamp conference can make any such attempt successful. If
you want to know what to do, I&rsquo;ll tell you&mdash;close the Chicago Stock
Exchange to-morrow morning and keep it closed. Then let Hull &amp; Stackpole
fail, or if not you four put up the money to carry them. If you can&rsquo;t,
let your banks do it. If you open the day by calling a single one of my loans
before I am ready to pay it, I&rsquo;ll gut every bank from here to the river.
You&rsquo;ll have panic, all the panic you want. Good evening,
gentlemen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He drew out his watch, glanced at it, and quickly walked to the door, putting
on his hat as he went. As he bustled jauntily down the wide interior staircase,
preceded by a footman to open the door, a murmur of dissatisfaction arose in
the room he had just left.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The wrecker!&rdquo; re-exclaimed Norrie Simms, angrily, astounded at
this demonstration of defiance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The scoundrel!&rdquo; declared Mr. Blackman. &ldquo;Where does he get
the wealth to talk like that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Mr. Arneel, stung to the quick by this amazing
effrontery, and yet made cautious by the blazing wrath of Cowperwood, &ldquo;it
is useless to debate this question in anger. Mr. Cowperwood evidently refers to
loans which can be controlled in his favor, and of which I for one know
nothing. I do not see what can be done until we do know. Perhaps some of you
can tell us what they are.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But no one could, and after due calculation advice was borrowed of caution. The
loans of Frank Algernon Cowperwood were not called.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap50"></a>CHAPTER L.<br/>
A New York Mansion</h2>

<p>
The failure of American Match the next morning was one of those events that
stirred the city and the nation and lingered in the minds of men for years. At
the last moment it was decided that in lieu of calling Cowperwood&rsquo;s loans
Hull &amp; Stackpole had best be sacrificed, the stock-exchange closed, and all
trading ended. This protected stocks from at least a quotable decline and left
the banks free for several days (ten all told) in which to repair their
disrupted finances and buttress themselves against the eventual facts.
Naturally, the minor speculators throughout the city&mdash;those who had
expected to make a fortune out of this crash&mdash;raged and complained, but,
being faced by an adamantine exchange directorate, a subservient press, and the
alliance between the big bankers and the heavy quadrumvirate, there was nothing
to be done. The respective bank presidents talked solemnly of &ldquo;a mere
temporary flurry,&rdquo; Hand, Schryhart, Merrill, and Arneel went still
further into their pockets to protect their interests, and Cowperwood,
triumphant, was roundly denounced by the smaller fry as a
&ldquo;bucaneer,&rdquo; a &ldquo;pirate,&rdquo; a
&ldquo;wolf&rdquo;&mdash;indeed, any opprobrious term that came into their
minds. The larger men faced squarely the fact that here was an enemy worthy of
their steel. Would he master them? Was he already the dominant money power in
Chicago? Could he thus flaunt their helplessness and his superiority in their
eyes and before their underlings and go unwhipped?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I must give in!&rdquo; Hosmer Hand had declared to Arneel and Schryhart,
at the close of the Arneel house conference and as they stood in consultation
after the others had departed. &ldquo;We seem to be beaten to-night, but I, for
one, am not through yet. He has won to-night, but he won&rsquo;t win always.
This is a fight to a finish between me and him. The rest of you can stay in or
drop out, just as you wish.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hear, hear!&rdquo; exclaimed Schryhart, laying a fervently sympathetic
hand on his shoulder. &ldquo;Every dollar that I have is at your service,
Hosmer. This fellow can&rsquo;t win eventually. I&rsquo;m with you to the
end.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Arneel, walking with Merrill and the others to the door, was silent and dour.
He had been cavalierly affronted by a man who, but a few short years before, he
would have considered a mere underling. Here was Cowperwood bearding the lion
in his den, dictating terms to the principal financial figures of the city,
standing up trig and resolute, smiling in their faces and telling them in so
many words to go to the devil. Mr. Arneel glowered under lowering brows, but
what could he do? &ldquo;We must see,&rdquo; he said to the others, &ldquo;what
time will bring. Just now there is nothing much to do. This crisis has been too
sudden. You say you are not through with him, Hosmer, and neither am I. But we
must wait. We shall have to break him politically in this city, and I am
confident that in the end we can do it.&rdquo; The others were grateful for his
courage even though to-morrow he and they must part with millions to protect
themselves and the banks. For the first time Merrill concluded that he would
have to fight Cowperwood openly from now on, though even yet he admired his
courage. &ldquo;But he is too defiant, too cavalier! A very lion of a
man,&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;A man with the heart of a Numidian
lion.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was true.
</p>

<p class="p2">
From this day on for a little while, and because there was no immediate
political contest in sight, there was comparative peace in Chicago, although it
more resembled an armed camp operating under the terms of some agreed
neutrality than it did anything else. Schryhart, Hand, Arneel, and Merrill were
quietly watchful. Cowperwood&rsquo;s chief concern was lest his enemies might
succeed in their project of worsting him politically in one or all three of the
succeeding elections which were due to occur every two years between now and
1903, at which time his franchises would have to be renewed. As in the past
they had made it necessary for him to work against them through bribery and
perjury, so in ensuing struggles they might render it more and more difficult
for him or his agents to suborn the men elected to office. The subservient and
venal councilmen whom he now controlled might be replaced by men who, if no
more honest, would be more loyal to the enemy, thus blocking the extension of
his franchises. Yet upon a renewal period of at least twenty and preferably
fifty years depended the fulfilment of all the colossal things he had
begun&mdash;his art-collection, his new mansion, his growing prestige as a
financier, his rehabilitation socially, and the celebration of his triumph by a
union, morganatic or otherwise, with some one who would be worthy to share his
throne.
</p>

<p>
It is curious how that first and most potent tendency of the human mind,
ambition, becomes finally dominating. Here was Cowperwood at fifty-seven, rich
beyond the wildest dream of the average man, celebrated in a local and in some
respects in a national way, who was nevertheless feeling that by no means had
his true aims been achieved. He was not yet all-powerful as were divers Eastern
magnates, or even these four or five magnificently moneyed men here in Chicago
who, by plodding thought and labor in many dreary fields such as Cowperwood
himself frequently scorned, had reaped tremendous and uncontended profits. How
was it, he asked himself, that his path had almost constantly been strewn with
stormy opposition and threatened calamity? Was it due to his private
immorality? Other men were immoral; the mass, despite religious dogma and
fol-de-rol theory imposed from the top, was generally so. Was it not rather due
to his inability to control without dominating personally&mdash;without
standing out fully and clearly in the sight of all men? Sometimes he thought
so. The humdrum conventional world could not brook his daring, his insouciance,
his constant desire to call a spade a spade. His genial sufficiency was a taunt
and a mockery to many. The hard implication of his eye was dreaded by the
weaker as fire is feared by a burnt child. Dissembling enough, he was not
sufficiently oily and make-believe.
</p>

<p>
Well, come what might, he did not need to be or mean to be so, and there the
game must lie; but he had not by any means attained the height of his ambition.
He was not yet looked upon as a money prince. He could not rank as yet with the
magnates of the East&mdash;the serried Sequoias of Wall Street. Until he could
stand with these men, until he could have a magnificent mansion, acknowledged
as such by all, until he could have a world-famous gallery, Berenice,
millions&mdash;what did it avail?
</p>

<p>
The character of Cowperwood&rsquo;s New York house, which proved one of the
central achievements of his later years, was one of those flowerings&mdash;out
of disposition which eventuate in the case of men quite as in that of plants.
After the passing of the years neither a modified Gothic (such as his
Philadelphia house had been), nor a conventionalized Norman-French, after the
style of his Michigan Avenue home, seemed suitable to him. Only the Italian
palaces of medieval or Renaissance origin which he had seen abroad now appealed
to him as examples of what a stately residence should be. He was really seeking
something which should not only reflect his private tastes as to a home, but
should have the more enduring qualities of a palace or even a museum, which
might stand as a monument to his memory. After much searching Cowperwood had
found an architect in New York who suited him entirely&mdash;one Raymond Pyne,
rake, raconteur, man-about-town&mdash;who was still first and foremost an
artist, with an eye for the exceptional and the perfect. These two spent days
and days together meditating on the details of this home museum. An immense
gallery was to occupy the west wing of the house and be devoted to pictures; a
second gallery should occupy the south wing and be given over to sculpture and
large whorls of art; and these two wings were to swing as an L around the house
proper, the latter standing in the angle between them. The whole structure was
to be of a rich brownstone, heavily carved. For its interior decoration the
richest woods, silks, tapestries, glass, and marbles were canvassed. The main
rooms were to surround a great central court with a colonnade of pink-veined
alabaster, and in the center there would be an electrically lighted fountain of
alabaster and silver. Occupying the east wall a series of hanging baskets of
orchids, or of other fresh flowers, were to give a splendid glow of color, a
morning-sun effect, to this richly artificial realm. One chamber&mdash;a lounge
on the second floor&mdash;was to be entirely lined with thin-cut transparent
marble of a peach-blow hue, the lighting coming only through these walls and
from without. Here in a perpetual atmosphere of sunrise were to be racks for
exotic birds, a trellis of vines, stone benches, a central pool of glistening
water, and an echo of music. Pyne assured him that after his death this room
would make an excellent chamber in which to exhibit porcelains, jades, ivories,
and other small objects of value.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was now actually transferring his possessions to New York, and had
persuaded Aileen to accompany him. Fine compound of tact and chicane that he
was, he had the effrontery to assure her that they could here create a happier
social life. His present plan was to pretend a marital contentment which had no
basis solely in order to make this transition period as undisturbed as
possible. Subsequently he might get a divorce, or he might make an arrangement
whereby his life would be rendered happy outside the social pale.
</p>

<p>
Of all this Berenice Fleming knew nothing at all. At the same time the building
of this splendid mansion eventually awakened her to an understanding of the
spirit of art that occupied the center of Cowperwood&rsquo;s iron personality
and caused her to take a real interest in him. Before this she had looked on
him as a kind of Western interloper coming East and taking advantage of her
mother&rsquo;s good nature to scrape a little social courtesy. Now, however,
all that Mrs. Carter had been telling her of his personality and achievements
was becoming crystallized into a glittering chain of facts. This house, the
papers were fond of repeating, would be a jewel of rare workmanship. Obviously
the Cowperwoods were going to try to enter society. &ldquo;What a pity it
is,&rdquo; Mrs. Carter once said to Berenice, &ldquo;that he couldn&rsquo;t
have gotten a divorce from his wife before he began all this. I am so afraid
they will never be received. He would be if he only had the right woman; but
she&mdash;&rdquo; Mrs. Carter, who had once seen Aileen in Chicago, shook her
head doubtfully. &ldquo;She is not the type,&rdquo; was her comment. &ldquo;She
has neither the air nor the understanding.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If he is so unhappy with her,&rdquo; observed Berenice, thoughtfully,
&ldquo;why doesn&rsquo;t he leave her? She can be happy without him. It is so
silly&mdash;this cat-and-dog existence. Still I suppose she values the position
he gives her,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;since she isn&rsquo;t so interesting
herself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose,&rdquo; said Mrs. Carter, &ldquo;that he married her twenty
years ago, when he was a very different man from what he is to-day. She is not
exactly coarse, but not clever enough. She cannot do what he would like to see
done. I hate to see mismatings of this kind, and yet they are so common. I do
hope, Bevy, that when you marry it will be some one with whom you can get
along, though I do believe I would rather see you unhappy than poor.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This was delivered as an early breakfast peroration in Central Park South, with
the morning sun glittering on one of the nearest park lakes. Bevy, in
spring-green and old-gold, was studying the social notes in one of the morning
papers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think I should prefer to be unhappy with wealth than to be without
it,&rdquo; she said, idly, without looking up.
</p>

<p>
Her mother surveyed her admiringly, conscious of her imperious mood. What was
to become of her? Would she marry well? Would she marry in time? Thus far no
breath of the wretched days in Louisville had affected Berenice. Most of those
with whom Mrs. Carter had found herself compelled to deal would be kind enough
to keep her secret. But there were others. How near she had been to drifting on
the rocks when Cowperwood had appeared!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;After all,&rdquo; observed Berenice, thoughtfully, &ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood
isn&rsquo;t a mere money-grabber, is he? So many of these Western moneyed men
are so dull.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Carter, who by now had become a confirmed
satellite of her secret protector, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t understand him at
all. He is a very astonishing man, I tell you. The world is certain to hear a
lot more of Frank Cowperwood before he dies. You can say what you please, but
some one has to make the money in the first place. It&rsquo;s little enough
that good breeding does for you in poverty. I know, because I&rsquo;ve seen
plenty of our friends come down.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In the new house, on a scaffold one day, a famous sculptor and his assistants
were at work on a Greek frieze which represented dancing nymphs linked together
by looped wreaths. Berenice and her mother happened to be passing. They stopped
to look, and Cowperwood joined them. He waved his hand at the figures of the
frieze, and said to Berenice, with his old, gay air, &ldquo;If they had copied
you they would have done better.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How charming of you!&rdquo; she replied, with her cool, strange, blue
eyes fixed on him. &ldquo;They are beautiful.&rdquo; In spite of her earlier
prejudices she knew now that he and she had one god in common&mdash;Art; and
that his mind was fixed on things beautiful as on a shrine.
</p>

<p>
He merely looked at her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This house can be little more than a museum to me,&rdquo; he remarked,
simply, when her mother was out of hearing; &ldquo;but I shall build it as
perfectly as I can. Perhaps others may enjoy it if I do not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She looked at him musingly, understandingly, and he smiled. She realized, of
course, that he was trying to convey to her that he was lonely.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap51"></a>CHAPTER LI.<br/>
The Revival of Hattie Starr</h2>

<p>
Engrossed in the pleasures and entertainments which Cowperwood&rsquo;s money
was providing, Berenice had until recently given very little thought to her
future. Cowperwood had been most liberal. &ldquo;She is young,&rdquo; he once
said to Mrs. Carter, with an air of disinterested liberality, when they were
talking about Berenice and her future. &ldquo;She is an exquisite. Let her have
her day. If she marries well she can pay you back, or me. But give her all she
needs now.&rdquo; And he signed checks with the air of a gardener who is
growing a wondrous orchid.
</p>

<p>
The truth was that Mrs. Carter had become so fond of Berenice as an object of
beauty, a prospective grande dame, that she would have sold her soul to see her
well placed; and as the money to provide the dresses, setting, equipage had to
come from somewhere, she had placed her spirit in subjection to Cowperwood and
pretended not to see the compromising position in which she was placing all
that was near and dear to her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, you&rsquo;re so good,&rdquo; she more than once said to him a mist
of gratitude commingled with joy in her eyes. &ldquo;I would never have
believed it of any one. But Bevy&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;An esthete is an esthete,&rdquo; Cowperwood replied. &ldquo;They are
rare enough. I like to see a spirit as fine as hers move untroubled. She will
make her way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Seeing Lieutenant Braxmar in the foreground of Berenice&rsquo;s affairs, Mrs.
Carter was foolish enough to harp on the matter in a friendly, ingratiating
way. Braxmar was really interesting after his fashion. He was young, tall,
muscular, and handsome, a graceful dancer; but, better yet, he represented in
his moods lineage, social position, a number of the things which engaged
Berenice most. He was intelligent, serious, with a kind of social grace which
was gay, courteous, wistful. Berenice met him first at a local dance, where a
new step was being practised&mdash;&ldquo;dancing in the barn,&rdquo; as it was
called&mdash;and so airily did he tread it with her in his handsome uniform
that she was half smitten for the moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You dance delightfully,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Is this a part of your
life on the ocean wave?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Deep-sea-going dancing,&rdquo; he replied, with a heavenly smile.
&ldquo;All battles are accompanied by balls, don&rsquo;t you know?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, what a wretched jest!&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
unbelievably bad.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not for me. I can make much worse ones.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not for me,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t stand them.&rdquo;
And they went prancing on. Afterward he came and sat by her; they walked in the
moonlight, he told her of naval life, his Southern home and connections.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Carter, seeing him with Berenice, and having been introduced, observed the
next morning, &ldquo;I like your Lieutenant, Bevy. I know some of his relatives
well. They come from the Carolinas. He&rsquo;s sure to come into money. The
whole family is wealthy. Do you think he might be interested in you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, possibly&mdash;yes, I presume so,&rdquo; replied Berenice, airily,
for she did not take too kindly to this evidence of parental interest. She
preferred to see life drift on in some nebulous way at present, and this was
bringing matters too close to home. &ldquo;Still, he has so much machinery on
his mind I doubt whether he could take any serious interest in a woman. He is
almost more of a battle-ship than he is a man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She made a mouth, and Mrs. Carter commented gaily: &ldquo;You rogue! All the
men take an interest in you. You don&rsquo;t think you could care for him,
then, at all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, mother, what a question! Why do you ask? Is it so essential that I
should?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, not that exactly,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Carter, sweetly, bracing
herself for a word which she felt incumbent upon her; &ldquo;but think of his
position. He comes of such a good family, and he must be heir to a considerable
fortune in his own right. Oh, Bevy, I don&rsquo;t want to hurry or spoil your
life in any way, but do keep in mind the future. With your tastes and instincts
money is so essential, and unless you marry it I don&rsquo;t know where you are
to get it. Your father was so thoughtless, and Rolfe&rsquo;s was even
worse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She sighed.
</p>

<p>
Berenice, for almost the first time in her life, took solemn heed of this
thought. She pondered whether she could endure Braxmar as a life partner,
follow him around the world, perhaps retransferring her abode to the South; but
she could not make up her mind. This suggestion on the part of her mother
rather poisoned the cup for her. To tell the truth, in this hour of doubt her
thoughts turned vaguely to Cowperwood as one who represented in his avid way
more of the things she truly desired. She remembered his wealth, his plaint
that his new house could be only a museum, the manner in which he approached
her with looks and voiceless suggestions. But he was old and married&mdash;out
of the question, therefore&mdash;and Braxmar was young and charming. To think
her mother should have been so tactless as to suggest the necessity for
consideration in his case! It almost spoiled him for her. And was their
financial state, then, as uncertain as her mother indicated?
</p>

<p>
In this crisis some of her previous social experiences became significant. For
instance, only a few weeks previous to her meeting with Braxmar she had been
visiting at the country estate of the Corscaden Batjers, at Redding Hills, Long
Island, and had been sitting with her hostess in the morning room of Hillcrest,
which commanded a lovely though distant view of Long Island Sound.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Fredericka Batjer was a chestnut blonde, fair, cool, quiescent&mdash;a
type out of Dutch art. Clad in a morning gown of gray and silver, her hair
piled in a Psyche knot, she had in her lap on this occasion a Java basket
filled with some attempt at Norwegian needlework.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Bevy,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you remember Kilmer Duelma, don&rsquo;t
you? Wasn&rsquo;t he at the Haggertys&rsquo; last summer when you were
there?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice, who was seated at a small Chippendale writing-desk penning letters,
glanced up, her mind visioning for the moment the youth in question. Kilmer
Duelma&mdash;tall, stocky, swaggering, his clothes the loose, nonchalant
perfection of the season, his walk ambling, studied, lackadaisical, aimless,
his color high, his cheeks full, his eyes a little vacuous, his mind
acquiescing in a sort of genial, inconsequential way to every query and thought
that was put to him. The younger of the two sons of Auguste Duelma, banker,
promoter, multimillionaire, he would come into a fortune estimated roughly at
between six and eight millions. At the Haggertys&rsquo; the year before he had
hung about her in an aimless fashion.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Batjer studied Berenice curiously for a moment, then returned to her
needlework. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve asked him down over this week-end,&rdquo; she
suggested.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; queried Berenice, sweetly. &ldquo;Are there others?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; assented Mrs. Batjer, remotely. &ldquo;Kilmer
doesn&rsquo;t interest you, I presume.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice smiled enigmatically.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You remember Clarissa Faulkner, don&rsquo;t you, Bevy?&rdquo; pursued
Mrs. Batjer. &ldquo;She married Romulus Garrison.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perfectly. Where is she now?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They have leased the Chateau Brieul at Ars for the winter. Romulus is a
fool, but Clarissa is so clever. You know she writes that she is holding a
veritable court there this season. Half the smart set of Paris and London are
dropping in. It is so charming for her to be able to do those things now. Poor
dear! At one time I was quite troubled over her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Without giving any outward sign Berenice did not fail to gather the full import
of the analogy. It was all true. One must begin early to take thought of
one&rsquo;s life. She suffered a disturbing sense of duty. Kilmer Duelma
arrived at noon Friday with six types of bags, a special valet, and a
preposterous enthusiasm for polo and hunting (diseases lately acquired from a
hunting set in the Berkshires). A cleverly contrived compliment supposed to
have emanated from Miss Fleming and conveyed to him with tact by Mrs. Batjer
brought him ambling into Berenice&rsquo;s presence suggesting a Sunday drive to
Saddle Rock.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Haw! haw! You know, I&rsquo;m delighted to see you again. Haw! haw!
It&rsquo;s been an age since I&rsquo;ve seen the Haggertys. We missed you after
you left. Haw! haw! I did, you know. Since I saw you I have taken up
polo&mdash;three ponies with me all the time now&mdash;haw! haw!&mdash;a
regular stable nearly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice strove valiantly to retain a serene interest. Duty was in her mind,
the Chateau Brieul, the winter court of Clarissa Garrison, some first
premonitions of the flight of time. Yet the drive was a bore, conversation a
burden, the struggle to respond titanic, impossible. When Monday came she fled,
leaving three days between that and a week-end at Morristown. Mrs.
Batjer&mdash;who read straws most capably&mdash;sighed. Her own Corscaden was
not much beyond his money, but life must be lived and the ambitious must
inherit wealth or gather it wisely. Some impossible scheming silly would soon
collect Duelma, and then&mdash; She considered Berenice a little difficult.
</p>

<p>
Berenice could not help piecing together the memory of this incident with her
mother&rsquo;s recent appeal in behalf of Lieutenant Braxmar. A great, cloying,
disturbing, disintegrating factor in her life was revealed by the dawning
discovery that she and her mother were without much money, that aside from her
lineage she was in a certain sense an interloper in society. There were never
rumors of great wealth in connection with her&mdash;no flattering whispers or
public notices regarding her station as an heiress. All the smug minor manikins
of the social world were on the qui vive for some cotton-headed doll of a girl
with an endless bank-account. By nature sybaritic, an intense lover of art
fabrics, of stately functions, of power and success in every form, she had been
dreaming all this while of a great soul-freedom and art-freedom under some such
circumstances as the greatest individual wealth of the day, and only that,
could provide. Simultaneously she had vaguely cherished the idea that if she
ever found some one who was truly fond of her, and whom she could love or even
admire intensely&mdash;some one who needed her in a deep, sincere way&mdash;she
would give herself freely and gladly. Yet who could it be? She had been charmed
by Braxmar, but her keen, analytic intelligence required some one harder, more
vivid, more ruthless, some one who would appeal to her as an immense force. Yet
she must be conservative, she must play what cards she had to win.
</p>

<p>
During his summer visit at Narragansett Cowperwood had not been long disturbed
by the presence of Braxmar, for, having received special orders, the latter was
compelled to hurry away to Hampton Roads. But the following November, forsaking
temporarily his difficult affairs in Chicago for New York and the Carter
apartment in Central Park South, Cowperwood again encountered the Lieutenant,
who arrived one evening brilliantly arrayed in full official regalia in order
to escort Berenice to a ball. A high military cap surmounting his handsome
face, his epaulets gleaming in gold, the lapels of his cape thrown back to
reveal a handsome red silken lining, his sword clanking by his side, he seemed
a veritable singing flame of youth. Cowperwood, caught in the drift of
circumstance&mdash;age, unsuitableness, the flaring counter-attractions of
romance and vigor&mdash;fairly writhed in pain.
</p>

<p>
Berenice was so beautiful in a storm of diaphanous clinging garments. He stared
at them from an adjacent room, where he pretended to be reading, and sighed.
Alas, how was his cunning and foresight&mdash;even his&mdash;to overcome the
drift of life itself? How was he to make himself appealing to youth? Braxmar
had the years, the color, the bearing. Berenice seemed to-night, as she
prepared to leave, to be fairly seething with youth, hope, gaiety. He arose
after a few moments and, giving business as an excuse, hurried away. But it was
only to sit in his own rooms in a neighboring hotel and meditate. The logic of
the ordinary man under such circumstances, compounded of the age-old notions of
chivalry, self-sacrifice, duty to higher impulses, and the like, would have
been to step aside in favor of youth, to give convention its day, and retire in
favor of morality and virtue. Cowperwood saw things in no such moralistic or
altruistic light. &ldquo;I satisfy myself,&rdquo; had ever been his motto, and
under that, however much he might sympathize with Berenice in love or with love
itself, he was not content to withdraw until he was sure that the end of hope
for him had really come. There had been moments between him and
Berenice&mdash;little approximations toward intimacy&mdash;which had led him to
believe that by no means was she seriously opposed to him. At the same time
this business of the Lieutenant, so Mrs. Carter confided to him a little later,
was not to be regarded lightly. While Berenice might not care so much,
obviously Braxmar did.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ever since he has been away he has been storming her with
letters,&rdquo; she remarked to Cowperwood, one afternoon. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
think he is the kind that can be made to take no for an answer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A very successful kind,&rdquo; commented Cowperwood, dryly. Mrs. Carter
was eager for advice in the matter. Braxmar was a man of parts. She knew his
connections. He would inherit at least six hundred thousand dollars at his
father&rsquo;s death, if not more. What about her Louisville record? Supposing
that should come out later? Would it not be wise for Berenice to marry, and
have the danger over with?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is a problem, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; observed Cowperwood, calmly.
&ldquo;Are you sure she&rsquo;s in love?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I wouldn&rsquo;t say that, but such things so easily turn into love.
I have never believed that Berenice could be swept off her feet by any
one&mdash;she is so thoughtful&mdash;but she knows she has her own way to make
in the world, and Mr. Braxmar is certainly eligible. I know his cousins, the
Clifford Porters, very well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood knitted his brows. He was sick to his soul with this worry over
Berenice. He felt that he must have her, even at the cost of inflicting upon
her a serious social injury. Better that she should surmount it with him than
escape it with another. It so happened, however, that the final grim necessity
of acting on any such idea was spared him.
</p>

<p>
Imagine a dining-room in one of the principal hotels of New York, the hour
midnight, after an evening at the opera, to which Cowperwood, as host, had
invited Berenice, Lieutenant Braxmar, and Mrs. Carter. He was now playing the
role of disinterested host and avuncular mentor.
</p>

<p>
His attitude toward Berenice, meditating, as he was, a course which should be
destructive to Braxmar, was gentle, courteous, serenely thoughtful. Like a true
Mephistopheles he was waiting, surveying Mrs. Carter and Berenice, who were
seated in front chairs clad in such exotic draperies as opera-goers
affect&mdash;Mrs. Carter in pale-lemon silk and diamonds; Berenice in purple
and old-rose, with a jeweled comb in her hair. The Lieutenant in his dazzling
uniform smiled and talked blandly, complimented the singers, whispered pleasant
nothings to Berenice, descanted at odd moments to Cowperwood on naval
personages who happened to be present. Coming out of the opera and driving
through blowy, windy streets to the Waldorf, they took the table reserved for
them, and Cowperwood, after consulting with regard to the dishes and ordering
the wine, went back reminiscently to the music, which had been &ldquo;La
Boheme.&rdquo; The death of Mimi and the grief of Rodolph, as voiced by the
splendid melodies of Puccini, interested him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That makeshift studio world may have no connection with the genuine
professional artist, but it&rsquo;s very representative of life,&rdquo; he
remarked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, I&rsquo;m sure,&rdquo; said Braxmar, seriously.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All I know of Bohemia is what I have read in books&mdash;Trilby, for
instance, and&mdash;&rdquo; He could think of no other, and stopped. &ldquo;I
suppose it is that way in Paris.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked at Berenice for confirmation and to win a smile. Owing to her mobile
and sympathetic disposition, she had during the opera been swept from period to
period by surges of beauty too gay or pathetic for words, but clearly
comprehended of the spirit. Once when she had been lost in dreamy
contemplation, her hands folded on her knees, her eyes fixed on the stage, both
Braxmar and Cowperwood had studied her parted lips and fine profile with common
impulses of emotion and enthusiasm. Realizing after the mood was gone that they
had been watching her, Berenice had continued the pose for a moment, then had
waked as from a dream with a sigh. This incident now came back to her as well
as her feeling in regard to the opera generally.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is very beautiful,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I do not know what to say.
People are like that, of course. It is so much better than just dull comfort.
Life is really finest when it&rsquo;s tragic, anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She looked at Cowperwood, who was studying her; then at Braxmar, who saw
himself for the moment on the captain&rsquo;s bridge of a battle-ship
commanding in time of action. To Cowperwood came back many of his principal
moments of difficulty. Surely his life had been sufficiently dramatic to
satisfy her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I care so much for it,&rdquo; interposed Mrs.
Carter. &ldquo;One gets tired of sad happenings. We have enough drama in real
life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood and Braxmar smiled faintly. Berenice looked contemplatively away.
The crush of diners, the clink of china and glass, the bustling to and fro of
waiters, and the strumming of the orchestra diverted her somewhat, as did the
nods and smiles of some entering guests who recognized Braxmar and herself, but
not Cowperwood.
</p>

<p>
Suddenly from a neighboring door, opening from the men&rsquo;s cafe and grill,
there appeared the semi-intoxicated figure of an ostensibly swagger society
man, his clothing somewhat awry, an opera-coat hanging loosely from one
shoulder, a crush-opera-hat dangling in one hand, his eyes a little bloodshot,
his under lip protruding slightly and defiantly, and his whole visage
proclaiming that devil-may-care, superior, and malicious aspect which the
drunken rake does not so much assume as achieve. He looked sullenly,
uncertainly about; then, perceiving Cowperwood and his party, made his way
thither in the half-determined, half-inconsequential fashion of one not quite
sound after his cups. When he was directly opposite Cowperwood&rsquo;s
table&mdash;the cynosure of a number of eyes&mdash;he suddenly paused as if in
recognition, and, coming over, laid a genial and yet condescending hand on Mrs.
Carter&rsquo;s bare shoulder.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, hello, Hattie!&rdquo; he called, leeringly and jeeringly.
&ldquo;What are you doing down here in New York? You haven&rsquo;t given up
your business in Louisville, have you, eh, old sport? Say, lemme tell you
something. I haven&rsquo;t had a single decent girl since you left&mdash;not
one. If you open a house down here, let me know, will you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He bent over her smirkingly and patronizingly the while he made as if to
rummage in his white waistcoat pocket for a card. At the same moment Cowperwood
and Braxmar, realizing quite clearly the import of his words, were on their
feet. While Mrs. Carter was pulling and struggling back from the stranger,
Braxmar&rsquo;s hand (he being the nearest) was on him, and the head waiter and
two assistants had appeared.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is the trouble here? What has he done?&rdquo; they demanded.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile the intruder, leering contentiously at them all, was exclaiming in
very audible tones: &ldquo;Take your hands off. Who are you? What the devil
have you got to do with this? Don&rsquo;t you think I know what I&rsquo;m
about? She knows me&mdash;don&rsquo;t you, Hattie? That&rsquo;s Hattie Starr,
of Louisville&mdash;ask her! She kept one of the swellest ever run in
Louisville. What do you people want to be so upset about? I know what I&rsquo;m
doing. She knows me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He not only protested, but contested, and with some vehemence. Cowperwood,
Braxmar, and the waiters forming a cordon, he was shoved and hustled out into
the lobby and the outer entranceway, and an officer was called.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This man should be arrested,&rdquo; Cowperwood protested, vigorously,
when the latter appeared. &ldquo;He has grossly insulted lady guests of mine.
He is drunk and disorderly, and I wish to make that charge. Here is my card.
Will you let me know where to come?&rdquo; He handed it over, while Braxmar,
scrutinizing the stranger with military care, added: &ldquo;I should like to
thrash you within an inch of your life. If you weren&rsquo;t drunk I would. If
you are a gentleman and have a card I want you to give it to me. I want to talk
to you later.&rdquo; He leaned over and presented a cold, hard face to that of
Mr. Beales Chadsey, of Louisville, Kentucky.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tha&rsquo;s all right, Captain,&rdquo; leered Chadsey, mockingly.
&ldquo;I got a card. No harm done. Here you are. You c&rsquo;n see me any time
you want&mdash;Hotel Buckingham, Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. I got a
right to speak to anybody I please, where I please, when I please. See?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He fumbled and protested while the officer stood by read to take him in charge.
Not finding a card, he added: &ldquo;Tha&rsquo;s all right. Write it down.
Beales Chadsey, Hotel Buckingham, or Louisville, Kentucky. See me any time you
want to. Tha&rsquo;s Hattie Starr. She knows me. I couldn&rsquo;t make a
mistake about her&mdash;not once in a million. Many&rsquo;s the night I spent
in her house.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Braxmar was quite ready to lunge at him had not the officer intervened.
</p>

<p>
Back in the dining-room Berenice and her mother were sitting, the latter quite
flustered, pale, distrait, horribly taken aback&mdash;by far too much
distressed for any convincing measure of deception.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, the very idea!&rdquo; she was saying. &ldquo;That dreadful man! How
terrible! I never saw him before in my life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice, disturbed and nonplussed, was thinking of the familiar and lecherous
leer with which the stranger had addressed her mother&mdash;the horror, the
shame of it. Could even a drunken man, if utterly mistaken, be so defiant, so
persistent, so willing to explain? What shameful things had she been hearing?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come, mother,&rdquo; she said, gently, and with dignity; &ldquo;never
mind, it is all right. We can go home at once. You will feel better when you
are out of here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She called a waiter and asked him to say to the gentlemen that they had gone to
the women&rsquo;s dressing-room. She pushed an intervening chair out of the way
and gave her mother her arm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To think I should be so insulted,&rdquo; Mrs. Carter mumbled on,
&ldquo;here in a great hotel, in the presence of Lieutenant Braxmar and Mr.
Cowperwood! This is too dreadful. Well, I never.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She half whimpered as she walked; and Berenice, surveying the room with
dignity, a lofty superiority in her face, led solemnly forth, a strange,
lacerating pain about her heart. What was at the bottom of these shameful
statements? Why should this drunken roisterer have selected her mother, of all
other women in the dining-room, for the object of these outrageous remarks? Why
should her mother be stricken, so utterly collapsed, if there were not some
truth in what he had said? It was very strange, very sad, very grim, very
horrible. What would that gossiping, scandal-loving world of which she knew so
much say to a scene like this? For the first time in her life the import and
horror of social ostracism flashed upon her.
</p>

<p>
The following morning, owing to a visit paid to the Jefferson Market Police
Court by Lieutenant Braxmar, where he proposed, if satisfaction were not
immediately guaranteed, to empty cold lead into Mr. Beales Chadsey&rsquo;s
stomach, the following letter on Buckingham stationery was written and sent to
Mrs. Ira George Carter&mdash;36 Central Park South:
</p>

<p class="letter">
DEAR MADAM:<br/>
    Last evening, owing to a drunken debauch, for which I have no satisfactory
or suitable explanation to make, I was the unfortunate occasion of an outrage
upon your feelings and those of your daughter and friends, for which I wish
most humbly to apologize. I cannot tell you how sincerely I regret whatever I
said or did, which I cannot now clearly recall. My mental attitude when
drinking is both contentious and malicious, and while in this mood and state I
was the author of statements which I know to be wholly unfounded. In my drunken
stupor I mistook you for a certain notorious woman of Louisville&mdash;why, I
have not the slightest idea. For this wholly shameful and outrageous conduct I
sincerely ask your pardon&mdash;beg your forgiveness. I do not know what amends
I can make, but anything you may wish to suggest I shall gladly do. In the mean
while I hope you will accept this letter in the spirit in which it is written
and as a slight attempt at recompense which I know can never fully be made.
</p>

<p class="right">
Very sincerely,                    <br/>
BEALES CHADSEY.
</p>

<p>
At the same time Lieutenant Braxmar was fully aware before this letter was
written or sent that the charges implied against Mrs. Carter were only too well
founded. Beales Chadsey had said drunk what twenty men in all sobriety and even
the police at Louisville would corroborate. Chadsey had insisted on making this
clear to Braxmar before writing the letter.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap52"></a>CHAPTER LII.<br/>
Behind the Arras</h2>

<p>
Berenice, perusing the apology from Beales Chadsey, which her mother&mdash;very
much fagged and weary&mdash;handed her the next morning, thought that it read
like the overnight gallantry of some one who was seeking to make amends without
changing his point of view. Mrs. Carter was too obviously self-conscious. She
protested too much. Berenice knew that she could find out for herself if she
chose, but would she choose? The thought sickened her, and yet who was she to
judge too severely?
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood came in bright and early to put as good a face on the matter as he
could. He explained how he and Braxmar had gone to the police station to make a
charge; how Chadsey, sobered by arrest, had abandoned his bravado and humbly
apologized. When viewing the letter handed him by Mrs. Carter he exclaimed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh yes. He was very glad to promise to write that if we would let him
off. Braxmar seemed to think it was necessary that he should. I wanted the
judge to impose a fine and let it go at that. He was drunk, and that&rsquo;s
all there was to it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He assumed a very unknowing air when in the presence of Berenice and her
mother, but when alone with the latter his manner changed completely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Brazen it out,&rdquo; he commanded. &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t amount to
anything. Braxmar doesn&rsquo;t believe that this man really knows anything.
This letter is enough to convince Berenice. Put a good face on it; more depends
on your manner than on anything else. You&rsquo;re much too upset. That
won&rsquo;t do at all; you&rsquo;ll tell the whole story that way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At the same time he privately regarded this incident as a fine windfall of
chance&mdash;in all likelihood the one thing which would serve to scare the
Lieutenant away. Outwardly, however, he demanded effrontery, assumption; and
Mrs. Carter was somewhat cheered, but when she was alone she cried. Berenice,
coming upon her accidentally and finding her eyes wet, exclaimed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, mother, please don&rsquo;t be foolish. How can you act this way? We
had better go up in the country and rest a little while if you are so
unstrung.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Carter protested that it was merely nervous reaction, but to Berenice it
seemed that where there was so much smoke there must be some fire.
</p>

<p>
Her manner in the aftermath toward Braxmar was gracious, but remote. He called
the next day to say how sorry he was, and to ask her to a new diversion. She
was sweet, but distant. In so far as she was concerned it was plain that the
Beales Chadsey incident was closed, but she did not accept his invitation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mother and I are planning to go to the country for a few days,&rdquo;
she observed, genially. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say just when we shall return, but
if you are still here we shall meet, no doubt. You must be sure and come to see
us.&rdquo; She turned to an east court-window, where the morning sun was
gleaming on some flowers in a window-box, and began to pinch off a dead leaf
here and there.
</p>

<p>
Braxmar, full of the tradition of American romance, captivated by her vibrant
charm, her poise and superiority under the circumstances, her obvious readiness
to dismiss him, was overcome, as the human mind frequently is, by a riddle of
the spirit, a chemical reaction as mysterious to its victim as to one who is
its witness. Stepping forward with a motion that was at once gallant, reverent,
eager, unconscious, he exclaimed:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice! Miss Fleming! Please don&rsquo;t send me away like this.
Don&rsquo;t leave me. It isn&rsquo;t anything I have done, is it? I am mad
about you. I can&rsquo;t bear to think that anything that has happened could
make any difference between you and me. I haven&rsquo;t had the courage to tell
you before, but I want to tell you now. I have been in love with you from the
very first night I saw you. You are such a wonderful girl! I don&rsquo;t feel
that I deserve you, but I love you. I love you with all the honor and force in
me. I admire and respect you. Whatever may or may not be true, it is all one
and the same to me. Be my wife, will you? Marry me, please! Oh, I&rsquo;m not
fit to be the lacer of your shoes, but I have position and I&rsquo;ll make a
name for myself, I hope. Oh, Berenice!&rdquo; He extended his arms in a
dramatic fashion, not outward, but downward, stiff and straight, and declared:
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what I shall do without you. Is there no hope for me
at all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
An artist in all the graces of sex&mdash;histrionic, plastic,
many-faceted&mdash;Berenice debated for the fraction of a minute what she
should do and say. She did not love the Lieutenant as he loved her by any
means, and somehow this discovery concerning her mother shamed her pride,
suggesting an obligation to save herself in one form or another, which she
resented bitterly. She was sorry for his tactless proposal at this time,
although she knew well enough the innocence and virtue of the emotion from
which it sprung.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really, Mr. Braxmar,&rdquo; she replied, turning on him with solemn
eyes, &ldquo;you mustn&rsquo;t ask me to decide that now. I know how you feel.
I&rsquo;m afraid, though, that I may have been a little misleading in my
manner. I didn&rsquo;t mean to be. I&rsquo;m quite sure you&rsquo;d better
forget your interest in me for the present anyhow. I could only make up my mind
in one way if you should insist. I should have to ask you to forget me
entirely. I wonder if you can see how I feel&mdash;how it hurts me to say
this?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused, perfectly poised, yet quite moved really, as charming a figure as
one would have wished to see&mdash;part Greek, part
Oriental&mdash;contemplative, calculating.
</p>

<p>
In that moment, for the first time, Braxmar realized that he was talking to
some one whom he could not comprehend really. She was strangely self-contained,
enigmatic, more beautiful perhaps because more remote than he had ever seen her
before. In a strange flash this young American saw the isles of Greece,
Cytherea, the lost Atlantis, Cyprus, and its Paphian shrine. His eyes burned
with a strange, comprehending luster; his color, at first high, went pale.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t believe you don&rsquo;t care for me at all, Miss
Berenice,&rdquo; he went on, quite strainedly. &ldquo;I felt you did care about
me. But here,&rdquo; he added, all at once, with a real, if summoned, military
force, &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t bother you. You do understand me. You know how I
feel. I won&rsquo;t change. Can&rsquo;t we be friends, anyhow?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He held out his hand, and she took it, feeling now that she was putting an end
to what might have been an idyllic romance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course we can,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I hope I shall see you again
soon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After he was gone she walked into the adjoining room and sat down in a wicker
chair, putting her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands. What
a denouement to a thing so innocent, so charming! And now he was gone. She
would not see him any more, would not want to see him&mdash;not much, anyhow.
Life had sad, even ugly facts. Oh yes, yes, and she was beginning to perceive
them clearly.
</p>

<p>
Some two days later, when Berenice had brooded and brooded until she could
endure it no longer, she finally went to Mrs. Carter and said: &ldquo;Mother,
why don&rsquo;t you tell me all about this Louisville matter so that I may
really know? I can see something is worrying you. Can&rsquo;t you trust me? I
am no longer a child by any means, and I am your daughter. It may help me to
straighten things out, to know what to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Carter, who had always played a game of lofty though loving motherhood,
was greatly taken aback by this courageous attitude. She flushed and chilled a
little; then decided to lie.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I tell you there was nothing at all,&rdquo; she declared, nervously and
pettishly. &ldquo;It is all an awful mistake. I wish that dreadful man could be
punished severely for what he said to me. To be outraged and insulted this way
before my own child!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; questioned Berenice, fixing her with those cool, blue
eyes, &ldquo;why don&rsquo;t you tell me all about Louisville? You and I
shouldn&rsquo;t have things between us. Maybe I can help you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
All at once Mrs. Carter, realizing that her daughter was no longer a child nor
a mere social butterfly, but a woman superior, cool, sympathetic, with
intuitions much deeper than her own, sank into a heavily flowered wing-chair
behind her, and, seeking a small pocket-handkerchief with one hand, placed the
other over her eyes and began to cry.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was so driven, Bevy, I didn&rsquo;t know which way to turn. Colonel
Gillis suggested it. I wanted to keep you and Rolfe in school and give you a
chance. It isn&rsquo;t true&mdash;anything that horrible man said. It
wasn&rsquo;t anything like what he suggested. Colonel Gillis and several others
wanted me to rent them bachelor quarters, and that&rsquo;s the way it all came
about. It wasn&rsquo;t my fault; I couldn&rsquo;t help myself, Bevy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what about Mr. Cowperwood?&rdquo; inquired Berenice curiously. She
had begun of late to think a great deal about Cowperwood. He was so cool, deep,
dynamic, in a way resourceful, like herself.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing about him,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Carter, looking up
defensively. Of all her men friends she best liked Cowperwood. He had never
advised her to evil ways or used her house as a convenience to himself alone.
&ldquo;He never did anything but help me out. He advised me to give up my house
in Louisville and come East and devote myself to looking after you and Rolfe.
He offered to help me until you two should be able to help yourselves, and so I
came. Oh, if I had only not been so foolish&mdash;so afraid of life! But your
father and Mr. Carter just ran through everything.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She heaved a deep, heartfelt sigh.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then we really haven&rsquo;t anything at all, have we,
mother&mdash;property or anything else?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Carter shook her head, meaning no.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the money we have been spending is Mr. Cowperwood&rsquo;s?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice paused and looked out the window over the wide stretch of park which
it commanded. Framed in it like a picture were a small lake, a hill of trees,
with a Japanese pagoda effect in the foreground. Over the hill were the yellow
towering walls of a great hotel in Central Park West. In the street below could
be heard the jingle of street-cars. On a road in the park could be seen a
moving line of pleasure vehicles&mdash;society taking an airing in the chill
November afternoon.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Poverty, ostracism,&rdquo; she thought. And should she marry rich? Of
course, if she could. And whom should she marry? The Lieutenant? Never. He was
really not masterful enough mentally, and he had witnessed her discomfiture.
And who, then? Oh, the long line of sillies, light-weights, rakes,
ne&rsquo;er-do-wells, who, combined with sober, prosperous, conventional,
muddle-headed oofs, constituted society. Here and there, at far jumps, was a
real man, but would he be interested in her if he knew the whole truth about
her?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you broken with Mr. Braxmar?&rdquo; asked her mother, curiously,
nervously, hopefully, hopelessly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t seen him since,&rdquo; replied Berenice, lying
conservatively. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know whether I shall or not. I want to
think.&rdquo; She arose. &ldquo;But don&rsquo;t you mind, mother. Only I wish
we had some other way of living besides being dependent on Mr.
Cowperwood.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She walked into her boudoir, and before her mirror began to dress for a dinner
to which she had been invited. So it was Cowperwood&rsquo;s money that had been
sustaining them all during the last few years; and she had been so liberal with
his means&mdash;so proud, vain, boastful, superior. And he had only fixed her
with those inquiring, examining eyes. Why? But she did not need to ask herself
why. She knew now. What a game he had been playing, and what a silly she had
been not to see it. Did her mother in any way suspect? She doubted it. This
queer, paradoxical, impossible world! The eyes of Cowperwood burned at her as
she thought.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap53"></a>CHAPTER LIII.<br/>
A Declaration of Love</h2>

<p>
For the first time in her life Berenice now pondered seriously what she could
do. She thought of marriage, but decided that instead of sending for Braxmar or
taking up some sickening chase of an individual even less satisfactory it might
be advisable to announce in a simple social way to her friends that her mother
had lost her money, and that she herself was now compelled to take up some form
of employment&mdash;the teaching of dancing, perhaps, or the practice of it
professionally. She suggested this calmly to her mother one day. Mrs. Carter,
who had been long a parasite really, without any constructive monetary notions
of real import, was terrified. To think that she and &ldquo;Bevy,&rdquo; her
wonderful daughter, and by reaction her son, should come to anything so humdrum
and prosaic as ordinary struggling life, and after all her dreams. She sighed
and cried in secret, writing Cowperwood a cautious explanation and asking him
to see her privately in New York when he returned.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think we had best go on a little while longer?&rdquo;
she suggested to Berenice. &ldquo;It just wrings my heart to think that you,
with your qualifications, should have to stoop to giving dancing-lessons. We
had better do almost anything for a while yet. You can make a suitable
marriage, and then everything will be all right for you. It doesn&rsquo;t
matter about me. I can live. But you&mdash;&rdquo; Mrs. Carter&rsquo;s strained
eyes indicated the misery she felt. Berenice was moved by this affection for
her, which she knew to be genuine; but what a fool her mother had been, what a
weak reed, indeed, she was to lean upon! Cowperwood, when he conferred with
Mrs. Carter, insisted that Berenice was quixotic, nervously awry, to wish to
modify her state, to eschew society and invalidate her wondrous charm by any
sort of professional life. By prearrangement with Mrs. Carter he hurried to
Pocono at a time when he knew that Berenice was there alone. Ever since the
Beales Chadsey incident she had been evading him.
</p>

<p>
When he arrived, as he did about one in the afternoon of a crisp January day,
there was snow on the ground, and the surrounding landscape was bathed in a
crystalline light that gave back to the eye endless facets of
luster&mdash;jewel beams that cut space with a flash. The automobile had been
introduced by now, and he rode in a touring-car of eighty horse-power that gave
back from its dark-brown, varnished surface a lacquered light. In a great fur
coat and cap of round, black lamb&rsquo;s-wool he arrived at the door.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Bevy,&rdquo; he exclaimed, pretending not to know of Mrs.
Carter&rsquo;s absence, &ldquo;how are you? How&rsquo;s your mother? Is she
in?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice fixed him with her cool, steady-gazing eyes, as frank and incisive as
they were daring, and smiled him an equivocal welcome. She wore a blue denim
painter&rsquo;s apron, and a palette of many colors glistened under her thumb.
She was painting and thinking&mdash;thinking being her special occupation these
days, and her thoughts had been of Braxmar, Cowperwood, Kilmer Duelma, a
half-dozen others, as well as of the stage, dancing, painting. Her life was in
a melting-pot, as it were, before her; again it was like a disarranged puzzle,
the pieces of which might be fitted together into some interesting picture if
she could but endure.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do come in,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s cold, isn&rsquo;t it?
Well, there&rsquo;s a nice fire here for you. No, mother isn&rsquo;t here. She
went down to New York. I should think you might have found her at the
apartment. Are you in New York for long?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She was gay, cheerful, genial, but remote. Cowperwood felt the protective gap
that lay between him and her. It had always been there. He felt that, even
though she might understand and like him, yet there was
something&mdash;convention, ambition, or some deficiency on his part&mdash;that
was keeping her from him, keeping her eternally distant.
</p>

<p>
He looked about the room, at the picture she was attempting (a snow-scape, of a
view down a slope), at the view itself which he contemplated from the window,
at some dancing sketches she had recently executed and hung on the wall for the
time being&mdash;lovely, short tunic motives. He looked at her in her
interesting and becoming painter&rsquo;s apron. &ldquo;Well, Berenice,&rdquo;
he said, &ldquo;always the artist first. It is your world. You will never
escape it. These things are beautiful.&rdquo; He waved an ungloved hand in the
direction of a choric line. &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t your mother I came to see,
anyhow. It is you. I had such a curious letter from her. She tells me you want
to give up society and take to teaching or something of that sort. I came
because I wanted to talk to you about that. Don&rsquo;t you think you are
acting rather hastily?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He spoke now as though there were some reason entirely disassociated from
himself that was impelling him to this interest in her.
</p>

<p>
Berenice, brush in hand, standing by her picture, gave him a look that was
cool, curious, defiant, equivocal.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t think so,&rdquo; she replied, quietly. &ldquo;You know
how things have been, so I may speak quite frankly. I know that mother&rsquo;s
intentions were always of the best.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her mouth moved with the faintest touch of sadness. &ldquo;Her heart, I am
afraid, is better than her head. As for your motives, I am satisfied to believe
that they have been of the best also. I know that they have been, in
fact&mdash;it would be ungenerous of me to suggest anything else.&rdquo;
(Cowperwood&rsquo;s fixed eyes, it seemed to her, had moved somewhere in their
deepest depths.) &ldquo;Yet I don&rsquo;t feel we can go on as we have been
doing. We have no money of our own. Why shouldn&rsquo;t I do something? What
else can I really do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused, and Cowperwood gazed at her, quite still. In her informal, bunchy
painter&rsquo;s apron, and with her blue eyes looking out at him from beneath
her loose red hair, it seemed to him she was the most perfect thing he had ever
known. Such a keen, fixed, enthroned mind. She was so capable, so splendid,
and, like his own, her eyes were unafraid. Her spiritual equipoise was
undisturbed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice,&rdquo; he said, quietly, &ldquo;let me tell you something. You
did me the honor just now to speak of my motives ingiving your mother money as
of the best. They were&mdash;from my own point of view&mdash;the best I have
ever known. I will not say what I thought they were in the beginning. I know
what they were now. I am going to speak quite frankly with you, if you will let
me, as long as we are here together. I don&rsquo;t know whether you know this
or not, but when I first met your mother I only knew by chance that she had a
daughter, and it was of no particular interest to me then. I went to her house
as the guest of a financial friend of mine who admired her greatly. From the
first I myself admired her, because I found her to be a lady to the manner
born&mdash;she was interesting. One day I happened to see a photograph of you
in her home, and before I could mention it she put it away. Perhaps you recall
the one. It is in profile&mdash;taken when you were about sixteen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I remember,&rdquo; replied Berenice, simply&mdash;as quietly as
though she were hearing a confession.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, that picture interested me intensely. I inquired about you, and
learned all I could. After that I saw another picture of you, enlarged, in a
Louisville photographer&rsquo;s window. I bought it. It is in my office
now&mdash;my private office&mdash;in Chicago. You are standing by a
mantelpiece.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I remember,&rdquo; replied Berenice, moved, but uncertain.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Let me tell you a little something about my life, will you? It
won&rsquo;t take long. I was born in Philadelphia. My family had always
belonged there. I have been in the banking and street-railway business all my
life. My first wife was a Presbyterian girl, religious, conventional. She was
older than I by six or seven years. I was happy for a while&mdash;five or six
years. We had two children&mdash;both still living. Then I met my present wife.
She was younger than myself&mdash;at least ten years, and very good-looking.
She was in some respects more intelligent than my first wife&mdash;at least
less conventional, more generous, I thought. I fell in love with her, and when
I eventually left Philadelphia I got a divorce and married her. I was greatly
in love with her at the time. I thought she was an ideal mate for me, and I
still think she has many qualities which make her attractive. But my own ideals
in regard to women have all the time been slowly changing. I have come to see,
through various experiments, that she is not the ideal woman for me at all. She
does not understand me. I don&rsquo;t pretend to understand myself, but it has
occurred to me that there might be a woman somewhere who would understand me
better than I understand myself, who would see the things that I don&rsquo;t
see about myself, and would like me, anyhow. I might as well tell you that I
have been a lover of women always. There is just one ideal thing in this world
to me, and that is the woman that I would like to have.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should think it would make it rather difficult for any one woman to
discover just which woman you would like to have?&rdquo; smiled Berenice,
whimsically. Cowperwood was unabashed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would, I presume, unless she should chance to be the very one woman I
am talking about,&rdquo; he replied, impressively.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should think she would have her work cut out for her under any
circumstances,&rdquo; added Berenice, lightly, but with a touch of sympathy in
her voice.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am making a confession,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, seriously and a
little heavily. &ldquo;I am not apologizing for myself. The women I have known
would make ideal wives for some men, but not for me. Life has taught me that
much. It has changed me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And do you think the process has stopped by any means?&rdquo; she
replied, quaintly, with that air of superior banter which puzzled, fascinated,
defied him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I will not say that. My ideal has become fixed, though, apparently.
I have had it for a number of years now. It spoils other matters for me. There
is such a thing as an ideal. We do have a pole-star in physics.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As he said this Cowperwood realized that for him he was making a very
remarkable confession. He had come here primarily to magnetize her and control
her judgment. As a matter of fact, it was almost the other way about. She was
almost dominating him. Lithe, slender, resourceful, histrionic, she was
standing before him making him explain himself, only he did not see her so much
in that light as in the way of a large, kindly, mothering intelligence which
could see, feel, and understand. She would know how it was, he felt sure. He
could make himself understood if he tried. Whatever he was or had been, she
would not take a petty view. She could not. Her answers thus far guaranteed as
much.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;we do have a pole-star, but you do not
seem able to find it. Do you expect to find your ideal in any living
woman?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have found it,&rdquo; he answered, wondering at the ingenuity and
complexity of her mind&mdash;and of his own, for that matter&mdash;of all mind
indeed. Deep below deep it lay, staggering him at times by its fathomless
reaches. &ldquo;I hope you will take seriously what I am going to say, for it
will explain so much. When I began to be interested in your picture I was so
because it coincided with the ideal I had in mind&mdash;the thing that you
think changes swiftly. That was nearly seven years ago. Since then it has never
changed. When I saw you at your school on Riverside Drive I was fully
convinced. Although I have said nothing, I have remained so. Perhaps you think
I had no right to any such feelings. Most people would agree with you. I had
them and do have them just the same, and it explains my relation to your
mother. When she came to me once in Louisville and told me of her difficulties
I was glad to help her for your sake. That has been my reason ever since,
although she does not know that. In some respects, Berenice, your mother is a
little dull. All this while I have been in love with you&mdash;intensely so. As
you stand there now you seem to me amazingly beautiful&mdash;the ideal I have
been telling you about. Don&rsquo;t be disturbed; I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t press
any attentions on you.&rdquo; (Berenice had moved very slightly. She was
concerned as much for him as for herself. His power was so wide, his power so
great. She could not help taking him seriously when he was so serious.)
&ldquo;I have done whatever I have done in connection with you and your mother
because I have been in love with you and because I wanted you to become the
splendid thing I thought you ought to become. You have not known it, but you
are the cause of my building the house on Fifth Avenue&mdash;the principal
reason. I wanted to build something worthy of you. A dream? Certainly.
Everything we do seems to have something of that quality. Its beauty, if there
is any, is due to you. I made it beautiful thinking of you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused, and Berenice gave no sign. Her first impulse had been to object, but
her vanity, her love of art, her love of power&mdash;all were touched. At the
same time she was curious now as to whether he had merely expected to take her
as his mistress or to wait until he could honor her as his wife.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose you are wondering whether I ever expected to marry you or
not,&rdquo; he went on, getting the thought out of her mind. &ldquo;I am no
different from many men in that respect, Berenice. I will be frank. I wanted
you in any way that I could get you. I was living in the hope all along that
you would fall in love with me&mdash;as I had with you. I hated Braxmar here,
not long ago, when he appeared on the scene, but I could never have thought of
interfering. I was quite prepared to give you up. I have envied every man I
have ever seen with you&mdash;young and old. I have even envied your mother for
being so close to you when I could not be. At the same time I have wanted you
to have everything that would help you in any way. I did not want to interfere
with you in case you found some one whom you could truly love if I knew that
you could not love me. There is the whole story outside of anything you may
know. But it is not because of this that I came to-day. Not to tell you
this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused, as if expecting her to say something, though she made no comment
beyond a questioning &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The thing that I have come to say is that I want you to go on as you
were before. Whatever you may think of me or of what I have just told you, I
want you to believe that I am sincere and disinterested in what I am telling
you now. My dream in connection with you is not quite over. Chance might make
me eligible if you should happen to care. But I want you to go on and be happy,
regardless of me. I have dreamed, but I dare say it has been a mistake. Hold
your head high&mdash;you have a right to. Be a lady. Marry any one you really
love. I will see that you have a suitable marriage portion. I love you,
Berenice, but I will make it a fatherly affection from now on. When I die I
will put you in my will. But go on now in the spirit you were going before. I
really can&rsquo;t be happy unless I think you are going to be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused, still looking at her, believing for the time being what he said. If
he should die she would find herself in his will. If she were to go on and
socialize and seek she might find some one to love, but also she might think of
him more kindly before she did so. What would be the cost of her as a ward
compared to his satisfaction and delight in having her at least friendly and
sympathetic and being in her good graces and confidence?
</p>

<p>
Berenice, who had always been more or less interested in him, temperamentally
biased, indeed, in his direction because of his efficiency, simplicity,
directness, and force, was especially touched in this instance by his utter
frankness and generosity. She might question his temperamental control over his
own sincerity in the future, but she could scarcely question that at present he
was sincere. Moreover, his long period of secret love and admiration, the
thought of so powerful a man dreaming of her in this fashion, was so
flattering. It soothed her troubled vanity and shame in what had gone before.
His straightforward confession had a kind of nobility which was electric,
moving. She looked at him as he stood there, a little gray about the
temples&mdash;the most appealing ornament of some men to some women&mdash;and
for the life of her she could not help being moved by a kind of tenderness,
sympathy, mothering affection. Obviously he did need the woman his attitude
seemed to show that he needed, some woman of culture, spirit, taste,
amorousness; or, at least, he was entitled to dream of her. As he stood before
her he seemed a kind of superman, and yet also a bad boy&mdash;handsome,
powerful, hopeful, not so very much older than herself now, impelled by some
blazing internal force which harried him on and on. How much did he really care
for her? How much could he? How much could he care for any one? Yet see all he
had done to interest her. What did that mean? To say all this? To do all this?
Outside was his car brown and radiant in the snow. He was the great Frank
Algernon Cowperwood, of Chicago, and he was pleading with her, a mere chit of a
girl, to be kind to him, not to put him out of her life entirely. It touched
her intellect, her pride, her fancy.
</p>

<p>
Aloud she said: &ldquo;I like you better now. I really believe in you. I never
did, quite, before. Not that I think I ought to let you spend your money on me
or mother&mdash;I don&rsquo;t. But I admire you. You make me. I understand how
it is, I think. I know what your ambitions are. I have always felt that I did,
in part. But you mustn&rsquo;t talk to me any more now. I want to think. I want
to think over what you have said. I don&rsquo;t know whether I can bring myself
to it or not.&rdquo; (She noticed that his eyes seemed to move somehow in their
deepest depths again.) &ldquo;But we won&rsquo;t talk about it any more at
present.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, Berenice,&rdquo; he added, with a real plea in his voice, &ldquo;I
wonder if you do understand. I have been so lonely&mdash;I am&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I do,&rdquo; she replied, holding out her hand. &ldquo;We are going
to be friends, whatever happens, from now on, because I really like you. You
mustn&rsquo;t ask me to decide about the other, though, to-day. I can&rsquo;t
do it. I don&rsquo;t want to. I don&rsquo;t care to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not when I would so gladly give you everything&mdash;when I need it so
little?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not until I think it out for myself. I don&rsquo;t think so, though.
No,&rdquo; she replied, with an air. &ldquo;There, Mr. Guardian Father,&rdquo;
she laughed, pushing his hand away.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood&rsquo;s heart bounded. He would have given millions to take her
close in his arms. As it was he smiled appealingly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you want to jump in and come to New York with me? If your
mother isn&rsquo;t at the apartment you could stop at the Netherland.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, not to-day. I expect to be in soon. I will let you know, or mother
will.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He bustled out and into the machine after a moment of parley, waving to her
over the purpling snow of the evening as his machine tore eastward, planning to
make New York by dinner-time. If he could just keep her in this friendly,
sympathetic attitude. If he only could!
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap54"></a>CHAPTER LIV.<br/>
Wanted&mdash;Fifty-year Franchises</h2>

<p>
Whatever his momentary satisfaction in her friendly acceptance of his
confession, the uncertain attitude of Berenice left Cowperwood about where he
was before. By a strange stroke of fate Braxmar, his young rival, had been
eliminated, and Berenice had been made to see him, Cowperwood, in his true
colors of love and of service for her. Yet plainly she did not accept them at
his own valuation. More than ever was he conscious of the fact that he had
fallen in tow of an amazing individual, one who saw life from a distinct and
peculiar point of view and who was not to be bent to his will. That fact more
than anything else&mdash;for her grace and beauty merely emblazoned
it&mdash;caused him to fall into a hopeless infatuation.
</p>

<p>
He said to himself over and over, &ldquo;Well, I can live without her if I
must,&rdquo; but at this stage the mere thought was an actual stab in his
vitals. What, after all, was life, wealth, fame, if you couldn&rsquo;t have the
woman you wanted&mdash;love, that indefinable, unnamable coddling of the spirit
which the strongest almost more than the weakest crave? At last he saw clearly,
as within a chalice-like nimbus, that the ultimate end of fame, power, vigor
was beauty, and that beauty was a compound of the taste, the emotion, the
innate culture, passion, and dreams of a woman like Berenice Fleming. That was
it: that was it. And beyond was nothing save crumbling age, darkness, silence.
</p>

<p>
In the mean time, owing to the preliminary activity and tact of his agents and
advisers, the Sunday newspapers were vying with one another in describing the
wonders of his new house in New York&mdash;its cost, the value of its ground,
the wealthy citizens with whom the Cowperwoods would now be neighbors. There
were double-column pictures of Aileen and Cowperwood, with articles indicating
them as prospective entertainers on a grand scale who would unquestionably be
received because of their tremendous wealth. As a matter of fact, this was
purely newspaper gossip and speculation. While the general columns made news
and capital of his wealth, special society columns, which dealt with the
ultra-fashionable, ignored him entirely. Already the machination of certain
Chicago social figures in distributing information as to his past was
discernible in the attitude of those clubs, organizations, and even churches,
membership in which constitutes a form of social passport to better and higher
earthly, if not spiritual, realms. His emissaries were active enough, but soon
found that their end was not to be gained in a day. Many were waiting locally,
anxious enough to get in, and with social equipments which the Cowperwoods
could scarcely boast. After being blackballed by one or two exclusive clubs,
seeing his application for a pew at St. Thomas&rsquo;s quietly pigeon-holed for
the present, and his invitations declined by several multimillionaires whom he
met in the course of commercial transactions, he began to feel that his
splendid home, aside from its final purpose as an art-museum, could be of
little value.
</p>

<p>
At the same time Cowperwood&rsquo;s financial genius was constantly being
rewarded by many new phases of materiality chiefly by an offensive and
defensive alliance he was now able to engineer between himself and the house of
Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb &amp; Co. Seeing the iron manner in which he had managed
to wrest victory out of defeat after the first seriously contested election,
these gentlemen had experienced a change of heart and announced that they would
now gladly help finance any new enterprise which Cowperwood might undertake.
Among many other financiers, they had heard of his triumph in connection with
the failure of American Match.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dot must be a right cleffer man, dot Cowperwood,&rdquo; Mr. Gotloeb told
several of his partners, rubbing his hands and smiling. &ldquo;I shouldt like
to meet him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And so Cowperwood was manoeuvered into the giant banking office, where Mr.
Gotloeb extended a genial hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hear much of Chicawkgo,&rdquo; he explained, in his semi-German,
semi-Hebraic dialect, &ldquo;but almozd more uff you. Are you goink to swallow
up all de street-railwaiss unt elefated roats out dere?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood smiled his most ingenuous smile.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why? Would you like me to leave a few for you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not dot exzagly, but I might not mint sharink in some uff dem wit
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You can join with me at any time, Mr. Gotloeb, as you must know. The
door is always very, very wide open for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I musd look into dot some more. It loogs very promising to me. I am
gladt to meet you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The great external element in Cowperwood&rsquo;s financial success&mdash;and
one which he himself had foreseen from the very beginning&mdash;was the fact
that Chicago was developing constantly. What had been when he arrived a soggy,
messy plain strewn with shanties, ragged sidewalks, a higgledy-piggledy
business heart, was now truly an astounding metropolis which had passed the
million mark in population and which stretched proud and strong over the
greater part of Cook County. Where once had been a meager, makeshift financial
section, with here and there only a splendid business building or hotel or a
public office of some kind, there were now canon-like streets lined with
fifteen and even eighteen story office buildings, from the upper stories of
which, as from watch-towers, might be surveyed the vast expanding regions of
simple home life below. Farther out were districts of mansions, parks, pleasure
resorts, great worlds of train-yards and manufacturing areas. In the commercial
heart of this world Frank Algernon Cowperwood had truly become a figure of
giant significance. How wonderful it is that men grow until, like colossi, they
bestride the world, or, like banyan-trees, they drop roots from every branch
and are themselves a forest&mdash;a forest of intricate commercial life, of
which a thousand material aspects are the evidence. His street-railway
properties were like a net&mdash;the parasite Gold Thread&mdash;linked together
as they were, and draining two of the three important &ldquo;sides&rdquo; of
the city.
</p>

<p>
In 1886, when he had first secured a foothold, they had been capitalized at
between six and seven millions (every device for issuing a dollar on real
property having been exhausted). To-day, under his management, they were
capitalized at between sixty and seventy millions. The majority of the stock
issued and sold was subject to a financial device whereby twenty per cent.
controlled eighty per cent., Cowperwood holding that twenty per cent. and
borrowing money on it as hypothecated collateral. In the case of the West Side
corporation, a corporate issue of over thirty millions had been made, and these
stocks, owing to the tremendous carrying power of the roads and the swelling
traffic night and morning of poor sheep who paid their hard-earned nickels, had
a market value which gave the road an assured physical value of about three
times the sum for which it could have been built. The North Chicago company,
which in 1886 had a physical value of little more than a million, could not now
be duplicated for less than seven millions, and was capitalized at nearly
fifteen millions. The road was valued at over one hundred thousand dollars more
per mile than the sum for which it could actually have been replaced. Pity the
poor groveling hack at the bottom who has not the brain-power either to
understand or to control that which his very presence and necessities create.
</p>

<p>
These tremendous holdings, paying from ten to twelve per cent. on every
hundred-dollar share, were in the control, if not in the actual ownership, of
Cowperwood. Millions in loans that did not appear on the books of the companies
he had converted into actual cash, wherewith he had bought houses, lands,
equipages, paintings, government bonds of the purest gold value, thereby
assuring himself to that extent of a fortune vaulted and locked, absolutely
secure. After much toiling and moiling on the part of his overworked legal
department he had secured a consolidation, under the title of the Consolidated
Traction Company of Illinois, of all outlying lines, each having separate
franchises and capitalized separately, yet operated by an amazing hocus-pocus
of contracts and agreements in single, harmonious union with all his other
properties. The North and West Chicago companies he now proposed to unite into
a third company to be called the Union Traction Company. By taking up the ten
and twelve per cent. issues of the old North and West companies and giving two
for one of the new six-per-cent one-hundred-dollar-share Union Traction stocks
in their stead, he could satisfy the current stockholders, who were apparently
made somewhat better off thereby, and still create and leave for himself a
handsome margin of nearly eighty million dollars. With a renewal of his
franchises for twenty, fifty, or one hundred years he would have fastened on
the city of Chicago the burden of yielding interest on this somewhat fictitious
value and would leave himself personally worth in the neighborhood of one
hundred millions.
</p>

<p>
This matter of extending his franchises was a most difficult and intricate
business, however. It involved overcoming or outwitting a recent and very
treacherous increase of local sentiment against him. This had been occasioned
by various details which related to his elevated roads. To the two lines
already built he now added a third property, the Union Loop. This he prepared
to connect not only with his own, but with other outside elevated properties,
chief among which was Mr. Schryhart&rsquo;s South Side &ldquo;L.&rdquo; He
would then farm out to his enemies the privilege of running trains on this new
line. However unwillingly, they would be forced to avail themselves of the
proffered opportunity, because within the region covered by the new loop was
the true congestion&mdash;here every one desired to come either once or twice
during the day or night. By this means Cowperwood would secure to his property
a paying interest from the start.
</p>

<p>
This scheme aroused a really unprecedented antagonism in the breasts of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s enemies. By the Arneel-Hand-Schryhart contingent it was
looked upon as nothing short of diabolical. The newspapers, directed by such
men as Haguenin, Hyssop, Ormonde Ricketts, and Truman Leslie MacDonald (whose
father was now dead, and whose thoughts as editor of the <i>Inquirer</i> were almost
solely directed toward driving Cowperwood out of Chicago), began to shout, as a
last resort, in the interests of democracy. Seats for everybody (on
Cowperwood&rsquo;s lines), no more straps in the rush hours, three-cent fares
for workingmen, morning and evening, free transfers from all of
Cowperwood&rsquo;s lines north to west and west to north, twenty per cent. of
the gross income of his lines to be paid to the city. The masses should be made
cognizant of their individual rights and privileges. Such a course, while
decidedly inimical to Cowperwood&rsquo;s interests at the present time, and as
such strongly favored by the majority of his opponents, had nevertheless its
disturbing elements to an ultra-conservative like Hosmer Hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know about this, Norman,&rdquo; he remarked to Schryhart,
on one occasion. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know about this. It&rsquo;s one thing to
stir up the public, but it&rsquo;s another to make them forget. This is a
restless, socialistic country, and Chicago is the very hotbed and center of it.
Still, if it will serve to trip him up I suppose it will do for the present.
The newspapers can probably smooth it all over later. But I don&rsquo;t
know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand was of that order of mind that sees socialism as a horrible
importation of monarchy-ridden Europe. Why couldn&rsquo;t the people be
satisfied to allow the strong, intelligent, God-fearing men of the community to
arrange things for them? Wasn&rsquo;t that what democracy meant? Certainly it
was&mdash;he himself was one of the strong. He could not help distrusting all
this radical palaver. Still, anything to hurt Cowperwood&mdash;anything.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was not slow to realize that public sentiment was now in danger of
being thoroughly crystallized against him by newspaper agitation. Although his
franchises would not expire&mdash;the large majority of them&mdash;before
January 1, 1903, yet if things went on at this rate it would be doubtful soon
whether ever again he would be able to win another election by methods
legitimate or illegitimate. Hungry aldermen and councilmen might be venal and
greedy enough to do anything he should ask, provided he was willing to pay
enough, but even the thickest-hided, the most voracious and corrupt politician
could scarcely withstand the searching glare of publicity and the infuriated
rage of a possibly aroused public opinion. By degrees this last, owing to the
untiring efforts of the newspapers, was being whipped into a wild foam. To come
into council at this time and ask for a twenty-year extension of franchises not
destined to expire for seven years was too much. It could not be done. Even
suborned councilmen would be unwilling to undertake it just now. There are some
things which even politically are impossible.
</p>

<p>
To make matters worse, the twenty-year-franchise limit was really not at all
sufficient for his present needs. In order to bring about the consolidation of
his North and West surface lines, which he was now proposing and on the
strength of which he wished to issue at least two hundred million
dollars&rsquo; worth of one-hundred-dollar-six-per-cent. shares in place of the
seventy million dollars current of ten and twelve per cents., it was necessary
for him to secure a much more respectable term of years than the brief one now
permitted by the state legislature, even providing that this latter could be
obtained.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Peeble are not ferry much indrested in tees short-time frangizes,&rdquo;
observed Mr. Gotloeb once, when Cowperwood was talking the matter over with
him. He wanted Haeckelheimer &amp; Co. to underwrite the whole issue.
&ldquo;Dey are so insigure. Now if you couldt get, say, a frangize for fifty or
one hunnert years or something like dot your stocks wouldt go off like hot
cakes. I know where I couldt dispose of fifty million dollars off dem in
Cermany alone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was most unctuous and pleading.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood understood this quite as well as Gotloeb, if not better. He was not
at all satisfied with the thought of obtaining a beggarly twenty-year extension
for his giant schemes when cities like Philadelphia, Boston, New York, and
Pittsburg were apparently glad to grant their corporations franchises which
would not expire for ninety-nine years at the earliest, and in most cases were
given in perpetuity. This was the kind of franchise favored by the great
moneyed houses of New York and Europe, and which Gotloeb, and even Addison,
locally, were demanding.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is certainly important that we get these franchises renewed for fifty
years,&rdquo; Addison used to say to him, and it was seriously and disagreeably
true.
</p>

<p>
The various lights of Cowperwood&rsquo;s legal department, constantly on the
search for new legislative devices, were not slow to grasp the import of the
situation. It was not long before the resourceful Mr. Joel Avery appeared with
a suggestion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you notice what the state legislature of New York is doing in
connection with the various local transit problems down there?&rdquo; asked
this honorable gentleman of Cowperwood, one morning, ambling in when announced
and seating himself in the great presence. A half-burned cigar was between his
fingers, and a little round felt hat looked peculiarly rakish above his
sinister, intellectual, constructive face and eyes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, who had actually noted
and pondered upon the item in question, but who did not care to say so.
&ldquo;I saw something about it, but I didn&rsquo;t pay much attention to it.
What of it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, it plans to authorize a body of four or five men&mdash;one branch
in New York, one in Buffalo, I presume&mdash;to grant all new franchises and
extend old ones with the consent of the various local communities involved.
They are to fix the rate of compensation to be paid to the state or the city,
and the rates of fare. They can regulate transfers, stock issues, and all that
sort of thing. I was thinking if at any time we find this business of renewing
the franchises too uncertain here we might go into the state legislature and
see what can be done about introducing a public-service commission of that kind
into this state. We are not the only corporation that would welcome it. Of
course, it would be better if there were a general or special demand for it
outside of ourselves. It ought not to originate with us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He stared at Cowperwood heavily, the latter returning a reflective gaze.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll think it over,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There may be something
in that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Henceforth the thought of instituting such a commission never left
Cowperwood&rsquo;s mind. It contained the germ of a solution&mdash;the
possibility of extending his franchises for fifty or even a hundred years.
</p>

<p>
This plan, as Cowperwood was subsequently to discover, was a thing more or less
expressly forbidden by the state constitution of Illinois. The latter provided
that no special or exclusive privilege, immunity, or franchise whatsoever
should be granted to any corporation, association, or individual. Yet,
&ldquo;What is a little matter like the constitution between friends,
anyhow?&rdquo; some one had already asked. There are fads in legislation as
well as dusty pigeonholes in which phases of older law are tucked away and
forgotten. Many earlier ideals of the constitution-makers had long since been
conveniently obscured or nullified by decisions, appeals to the federal
government, appeals to the state government, communal contracts, and the
like&mdash;fine cobwebby figments, all, but sufficient, just the same, to
render inoperative the original intention. Besides, Cowperwood had but small
respect for either the intelligence or the self-protective capacity of such men
as constituted the rural voting element of the state. From his lawyers and from
others he had heard innumerable droll stories of life in the state legislature,
and the state counties and towns&mdash;on the bench, at the rural huskings
where the state elections were won, in country hotels, on country roads and
farms. &ldquo;One day as I was getting on the train at Petunkey,&rdquo; old
General Van Sickle, or Judge Dickensheets, or ex-Judge Avery would
begin&mdash;and then would follow some amazing narration of rural immorality or
dullness, or political or social misconception. Of the total population of the
state at this time over half were in the city itself, and these he had managed
to keep in control. For the remaining million, divided between twelve small
cities and an agricultural population, he had small respect. What did this
handful of yokels amount to, anyhow?&mdash;dull, frivoling, barn-dancing boors.
</p>

<p>
The great state of Illinois&mdash;a territory as large as England proper and as
fertile as Egypt, bordered by a great lake and a vast river, and with a
population of over two million free-born Americans&mdash;would scarcely seem a
fit subject for corporate manipulation and control. Yet a more trade-ridden
commonwealth might not have been found anywhere at this time within the entire
length and breadth of the universe. Cowperwood personally, though contemptuous
of the bucolic mass when regarded as individuals, had always been impressed by
this great community of his election. Here had come Marquette and Joliet, La
Salle and Hennepin, dreaming a way to the Pacific. Here Lincoln and Douglas,
antagonist and protagonist of slavery argument, had contested; here had arisen
&ldquo;Joe&rdquo; Smith, propagator of that strange American dogma of the
Latter-Day Saints. What a state, Cowperwood sometimes thought; what a figment
of the brain, and yet how wonderful! He had crossed it often on his way to St.
Louis, to Memphis, to Denver, and had been touched by its very
simplicity&mdash;the small, new wooden towns, so redolent of American
tradition, prejudice, force, and illusion. The white-steepled church, the
lawn-faced, tree-shaded village streets, the long stretches of flat, open
country where corn grew in serried rows or where in winter the snow bedded
lightly&mdash;it all reminded him a little of his own father and mother, who
had been in many respects suited to such a world as this. Yet none the less did
he hesitate to press on the measure which was to adjust his own future, to make
profitable his issue of two hundred million dollars&rsquo; worth of Union
Traction, to secure him a fixed place in the financial oligarchy of America and
of the world.
</p>

<p>
The state legislature at this time was ruled over by a small group of
wire-pulling, pettifogging, corporation-controlled individuals who came up from
the respective towns, counties, and cities of the state, but who bore the same
relation to the communities which they represented and to their superiors and
equals in and out of the legislative halls at Springfield that men do to such
allies anywhere in any given field. Why do we call them pettifogging and
dismiss them? Perhaps they were pettifogging, but certainly no more so than any
other shrewd rat or animal that burrows its way onward&mdash;and shall we say
upward? The deepest controlling principle which animated these individuals was
the oldest and first, that of self-preservation. Picture, for example, a common
occurrence&mdash;that of Senator John H. Southack, conversing with, perhaps,
Senator George Mason Wade, of Gallatin County, behind a legislative door in one
of the senate conference chambers toward the close of a session&mdash;Senator
Southack, blinking, buttonholing his well-dressed colleague and drawing very
near; Senator Wade, curious, confidential, expectant (a genial, solid,
experienced, slightly paunchy but well-built Senator Wade&mdash;and handsome,
too).
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know, George, I told you there would be something eventually in the
Quincy water-front improvement if it ever worked out. Well, here it is. Ed
Truesdale was in town yesterday.&rdquo; (This with a knowing eye, as much as to
say, &ldquo;Mum&rsquo;s the word.&rdquo;) &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s five hundred;
count it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A quick flashing out of some green and yellow bills from a vest pocket, a light
thumbing and counting on the part of Senator Wade. A flare of comprehension,
approval, gratitude, admiration, as though to signify, &ldquo;This is something
like.&rdquo; &ldquo;Thanks, John. I had pretty near forgot all about it. Nice
people, eh? If you see Ed again give him my regards. When that Bellville
contest comes up let me know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Wade, being a good speaker, was frequently in request to stir up the
populace to a sense of pro or con in connection with some legislative crisis
impending, and it was to some such future opportunity that he now pleasantly
referred. O life, O politics, O necessity, O hunger, O burning human appetite
and desire on every hand!
</p>

<p>
Mr. Southack was an unobtrusive, pleasant, quiet man of the type that would
usually be patronized as rural and pettifogging by men high in commercial
affairs. He was none the less well fitted to his task, a capable and diligent
beneficiary and agent. He was well dressed, middle-aged,&mdash;only
forty-five&mdash;cool, courageous, genial, with eyes that were material, but
not cold or hard, and a light, springy, energetic step and manner. A holder of
some C. W. &amp; I. R.R. shares, a director of one of his local county banks, a
silent partner in the Effingham Herald, he was a personage in his district, one
much revered by local swains. Yet a more game and rascally type was not to be
found in all rural legislation.
</p>

<p>
It was old General Van Sickle who sought out Southack, having remembered him
from his earlier legislative days. It was Avery who conducted the negotiations.
Primarily, in all state scheming at Springfield, Senator Southack was supposed
to represent the C. W. I., one of the great trunk-lines traversing the state,
and incidentally connecting Chicago with the South, West, and East. This road,
having a large local mileage and being anxious to extend its franchises in
Chicago and elsewhere, was deep in state politics. By a curious coincidence it
was mainly financed by Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb &amp; Co., of New York, though
Cowperwood&rsquo;s connection with that concern was not as yet known. Going to
Southack, who was the Republican whip in the senate, Avery proposed that he, in
conjunction with Judge Dickensheets and one Gilson Bickel, counsel for the C.
W. I., should now undertake to secure sufficient support in the state senate
and house for a scheme introducing the New York idea of a public-service
commission into the governing machinery of the state of Illinois. This measure,
be it noted, was to be supplemented by one very interesting and important
little proviso to the effect that all franchise-holding corporations should
hereby, for a period of fifty years from the date of the enactment of the bill
into law, be assured of all their rights, privileges, and
immunities&mdash;including franchises, of course. This was justified on the
ground that any such radical change as that involved in the introduction of a
public-service commission might disturb the peace and well-being of
corporations with franchises which still had years to run.
</p>

<p>
Senator Southack saw nothing very wrong with this idea, though he naturally
perceived what it was all about and whom it was truly designed to protect.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, succinctly, &ldquo;I see the lay of that land, but
what do I get out of it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fifty thousand dollars for yourself if it&rsquo;s successful, ten
thousand if it isn&rsquo;t&mdash;provided you make an honest effort; two
thousand dollars apiece for any of the boys who see fit to help you if we win.
Is that perfectly satisfactory?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perfectly,&rdquo; replied Senator Southack.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap55"></a>CHAPTER LV.<br/>
Cowperwood and the Governor</h2>

<p>
A Public-service-commission law might, ipso facto, have been quietly passed at
this session, if the arbitrary franchise-extending proviso had not been
introduced, and this on the thin excuse that so novel a change in the working
scheme of the state government might bring about hardship to some. This
redounded too obviously to the benefit of one particular corporation. The
newspaper men&mdash;as thick as flies about the halls of the state capitol at
Springfield, and essentially watchful and loyal to their papers&mdash;were
quick to sense the true state of affairs. Never were there such hawks as
newspapermen. These wretches (employed by sniveling, mud-snouting newspapers of
the opposition) were not only in the councils of politicians, in the pay of
rival corporations, in the confidence of the governor, in the secrets of the
senators and local representatives, but were here and there in one
another&rsquo;s confidence. A piece of news&mdash;a rumor, a dream, a
fancy&mdash;whispered by Senator Smith to Senator Jones, or by Representative
Smith to Representative Jones, and confided by him in turn to Charlie White, of
the Globe, or Eddie Burns, of the Democrat, would in turn be communicated to
Robert Hazlitt, of the <i>Press</i>, or Harry Emonds, of the Transcript.
</p>

<p>
All at once a disturbing announcement in one or other of the papers, no one
knowing whence it came. Neither Senator Smith nor Senator Jones had told any
one. No word of the confidence imposed in Charlie White or Eddie Burns had ever
been breathed. But there you were&mdash;the thing was in the papers, the storm
of inquiry, opinion, opposition was on. No one knew, no one was to blame, but
it was on, and the battle had henceforth to be fought in the open.
</p>

<p>
Consider also the governor who presided at this time in the executive chamber
at Springfield. He was a strange, tall, dark, osseous man who, owing to the
brooding, melancholy character of his own disposition, had a checkered and a
somewhat sad career behind him. Born in Sweden, he had been brought to America
as a child, and allowed or compelled to fight his own way upward under all the
grinding aspects of poverty. Owing to an energetic and indomitable temperament,
he had through years of law practice and public labors of various kinds built
up for himself a following among Chicago Swedes which amounted to adoration. He
had been city tax-collector, city surveyor, district attorney, and for six or
eight years a state circuit judge. In all these capacities he had manifested a
tendency to do the right as he saw it and play fair&mdash;qualities which
endeared him to the idealistic. Honest, and with a hopeless brooding sympathy
for the miseries of the poor, he had as circuit judge, and also as district
attorney, rendered various decisions which had made him very unpopular with the
rich and powerful&mdash;decisions in damage cases, fraud cases, railroad claim
cases, where the city or the state was seeking to oust various powerful railway
corporations from possession of property&mdash;yards, water-frontages, and the
like, to which they had no just claim. At the same time the populace, reading
the news items of his doings and hearing him speak on various and sundry
occasions, conceived a great fancy for him. He was primarily soft-hearted,
sweet-minded, fiery, a brilliant orator, a dynamic presence. In addition he was
woman-hungry&mdash;a phase which homely, sex-starved intellectuals the world
over will understand, to the shame of a lying age, that because of quixotic
dogma belies its greatest desire, its greatest sorrow, its greatest joy. All
these factors turned an ultra-conservative element in the community against
him, and he was considered dangerous. At the same time he had by careful
economy and investment built up a fair sized fortune. Recently, however, owing
to the craze for sky-scrapers, he had placed much of his holdings in a somewhat
poorly constructed and therefore unprofitable office building. Because of this
error financial wreck was threatening him. Even now he was knocking at the
doors of large bonding companies for assistance.
</p>

<p>
This man, in company with the antagonistic financial element and the
newspapers, constituted, as regards Cowperwood&rsquo;s
public-service-commission scheme, a triumvirate of difficulties not easy to
overcome. The newspapers, in due time, catching wind of the true purport of the
plan, ran screaming to their readers with the horrible intelligence. In the
offices of Schryhart, Arneel, Hand, and Merrill, as well as in other centers of
finance, there was considerable puzzling over the situation, and then a shrewd,
intelligent deduction was made.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you see what he&rsquo;s up to, Hosmer?&rdquo; inquired Schryhart of
Hand. &ldquo;He sees that we have him scotched here in Chicago. As things stand
now he can&rsquo;t go into the city council and ask for a franchise for more
than twenty years under the state law, and he can&rsquo;t do that for three or
four years yet, anyhow. His franchises don&rsquo;t expire soon enough. He knows
that by the time they do expire we will have public sentiment aroused to such a
point that no council, however crooked it may be, will dare to give him what he
asks unless he is willing to make a heavy return to the city. If he does that
it will end his scheme of selling any two hundred million dollars of Union
Traction at six per cent. The market won&rsquo;t back him up. He can&rsquo;t
pay twenty per cent. to the city and give universal transfers and pay six per
cent. on two hundred million dollars, and everybody knows it. He has a fine
scheme of making a cool hundred million out of this. Well, he can&rsquo;t do
it. We must get the newspapers to hammer this legislative scheme of his to
death. When he comes into the local council he must pay twenty or thirty per
cent. of the gross receipts of his roads to the city. He must give free
transfers from every one of his lines to every other one. Then we have him. I
dislike to see socialistic ideas fostered, but it can&rsquo;t be helped. We
have to do it. If we ever get him out of here we can hush up the newspapers,
and the public will forget about it; at least we can hope so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In the mean time the governor had heard the whisper of
&ldquo;boodle&rdquo;&mdash;a word of the day expressive of a corrupt
legislative fund. Not at all a small-minded man, nor involved in the financial
campaign being waged against Cowperwood, nor inclined to be influenced mentally
or emotionally by superheated charges against the latter, he nevertheless
speculated deeply. In a vague way he sensed the dreams of Cowperwood. The
charge of seducing women so frequently made against the street-railway magnate,
so shocking to the yoked conventionalists, did not disturb him at all. Back of
the onward sweep of the generations he himself sensed the mystic Aphrodite and
her magic. He realized that Cowperwood had traveled fast&mdash;that he was
pressing to the utmost a great advantage in the face of great obstacles. At the
same time he knew that the present street-car service of Chicago was by no
means bad. Would he be proving unfaithful to the trust imposed on him by the
great electorate of Illinois if he were to advantage Cowperwood&rsquo;s cause?
Must he not rather in the sight of all men smoke out the animating causes
here&mdash;greed, over-weening ambition, colossal self-interest as opposed to
the selflessness of a Christian ideal and of a democratic theory of government?
</p>

<p>
Life rises to a high plane of the dramatic, and hence of the artistic, whenever
and wherever in the conflict regarding material possession there enters a
conception of the ideal. It was this that lit forever the beacon fires of Troy,
that thundered eternally in the horses&rsquo; hoofs at Arbela and in the guns
at Waterloo. Ideals were here at stake&mdash;the dreams of one man as opposed
perhaps to the ultimate dreams of a city or state or nation&mdash;the
grovelings and wallowings of a democracy slowly, blindly trying to stagger to
its feet. In this conflict&mdash;taking place in an inland cottage-dotted state
where men were clowns and churls, dancing fiddlers at country fairs&mdash;were
opposed, as the governor saw it, the ideals of one man and the ideals of men.
</p>

<p>
Governor Swanson decided after mature deliberation to veto the bill.
Cowperwood, debonair as ever, faithful as ever to his logic and his conception
of individuality, was determined that no stone should be left unturned that
would permit him to triumph, that would carry him finally to the gorgeous
throne of his own construction. Having first engineered the matter through the
legislature by a tortuous process, fired upon at every step by the press, he
next sent various individuals&mdash;state legislators, representatives of the
C. W. &amp; I., members of outside corporations to see the governor, but
Swanson was adamant. He did not see how he could conscientiously sanction the
bill. Finally, one day, as he was seated in his Chicago business office&mdash;a
fateful chamber located in the troublesome building which was subsequently to
wreck his fortune and which was the raison d&rsquo;etre of a present period of
care and depression&mdash;enter the smug, comfortable presence of Judge Nahum
Dickensheets, at present senior counsel of the North Chicago Street Railway. He
was a very mountain of a man physically&mdash;smooth-faced, agreeably clothed,
hard and yet ingratiating of eye, a thinker, a reasoner. Swanson knew much of
him by reputation and otherwise, although personally they were no more than
speaking acquaintances.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How are you, Governor? I&rsquo;m glad to see you again. I heard you were
back in Chicago. I see by the morning papers that you have that Southack
public-service bill up before you. I thought I would come over and have a few
words with you about it if you have no objection. I&rsquo;ve been trying to get
down to Springfield for the last three weeks to have a little chat with you
before you reached a conclusion one way or the other. Do you mind if I inquire
whether you have decided to veto it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The ex-judge, faintly perfumed, clean and agreeable, carried in his hand a
large-sized black hand-satchel which he put down beside him on the floor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, Judge,&rdquo; replied Swanson, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve practically
decided to veto it. I can see no practical reason for supporting it. As I look
at it now, it&rsquo;s specious and special, not particularly called for or
necessary at this time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The governor talked with a slight Swedish accent, intellectual, individual.
</p>

<p>
A long, placid, philosophic discussion of all the pros and cons of the
situation followed. The governor was tired, distrait, but ready to listen in a
tolerant way to more argument along a line with which he was already fully
familiar. He knew, of course, that Dickensheets was counsel for the North
Chicago Street Railway Company.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;m very glad to have heard what you have to say, Judge,&rdquo;
finally commented the governor. I don&rsquo;t want you to think I haven&rsquo;t
given this matter serious thought&mdash;I have. I know most of the things that
have been done down at Springfield. Mr. Cowperwood is an able man; I
don&rsquo;t charge any more against him than I do against twenty other agencies
that are operating down there at this very moment. I know what his difficulties
are. I can hardly be accused of sympathizing with his enemies, for they
certainly do not sympathize with me. I am not even listening to the newspapers.
This is a matter of faith in democracy&mdash;a difference in ideals between
myself and many other men. I haven&rsquo;t vetoed the bill yet. I don&rsquo;t
say that something may not arise to make me sign it. My present intention,
unless I hear something much more favorable in its behalf than I have already
heard, is to veto it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Governor,&rdquo; said Dickensheets, rising, &ldquo;let me thank you for
your courtesy. I would be the last person in the world to wish to influence you
outside the line of your private convictions and your personal sense of fair
play. At the same time I have tried to make plain to you how essential it is,
how only fair and right, that this local street-railway-franchise business
should be removed out of the realm of sentiment, emotion, public passion, envy,
buncombe, and all the other influences that are at work to frustrate and make
difficult the work of Mr. Cowperwood. All envy, I tell you. His enemies are
willing to sacrifice every principle of justice and fair play to see him
eliminated. That sums it up.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That may all be true,&rdquo; replied Swanson. &ldquo;Just the same,
there is another principle involved here which you do not seem to see or do not
care to consider&mdash;the right of the people under the state constitution to
a consideration, a revaluation, of their contracts at the time and in the
manner agreed upon under the original franchise. What you propose is sumptuary
legislation; it makes null and void an agreement between the people and the
street-railway companies at a time when the people have a right to expect a
full and free consideration of this matter aside from state legislative
influence and control. To persuade the state legislature, by influence or by
any other means, to step in at this time and interfere is unfair. The
propositions involved in those bills should be referred to the people at the
next election for approval or not, just as they see fit. That is the way this
matter should be arranged. It will not do to come into the legislature and
influence or buy votes, and then expect me to write my signature under the
whole matter as satisfactory.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Swanson was not heated or antipathetic. He was cool, firm, well-intentioned.
</p>

<p>
Dickensheets passed his hand over a wide, high temple. He seemed to be
meditating something&mdash;some hitherto untried statement or course of action.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Governor,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;I want to thank you, anyhow.
You have been exceedingly kind. By the way, I see you have a large, roomy safe
here.&rdquo; He had picked up the bag he was carrying. &ldquo;I wonder if I
might leave this here for a day or two in your care? It contains some papers
that I do not wish to carry into the country with me. Would you mind locking it
up in your safe and letting me have it when I send for it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;With pleasure,&rdquo; replied the governor.
</p>

<p>
He took it, placed it in lower storage space, and closed and locked the door.
The two men parted with a genial hand-shake. The governor returned to his
meditations, the judge hurried to catch a car.
</p>

<p>
About eleven o&rsquo;clock the next morning Swanson was still working in his
office, worrying greatly over some method whereby he could raise one hundred
thousand dollars to defray interest charges, repairs, and other payments, on a
structure that was by no means meeting expenses and was hence a drain. At this
juncture his office door opened, and his very youthful office-boy presented him
the card of F. A. Cowperwood. The governor had never seen him before.
Cowperwood entered brisk, fresh, forceful. He was as crisp as a new dollar
bill&mdash;as clean, sharp, firmly limned.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Governor Swanson, I believe?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The two were scrutinizing each other defensively.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am Mr. Cowperwood. I come to have a very few words with you. I will
take very little of your time. I do not wish to go over any of the arguments
that have been gone over before. I am satisfied that you know all about
them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I had a talk with Judge Dickensheets yesterday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just so, Governor. Knowing all that you do, permit me to put one more
matter before you. I know that you are, comparatively, a poor man&mdash;that
every dollar you have is at present practically tied in this building. I know
of two places where you have applied for a loan of one hundred thousand dollars
and have been refused because you haven&rsquo;t sufficient security to offer
outside of this building, which is mortgaged up to its limit as it stands. The
men, as you must know, who are fighting you are fighting me. I am a scoundrel
because I am selfish and ambitious&mdash;a materialist. You are not a
scoundrel, but a dangerous person because you are an idealist. Whether you veto
this bill or not, you will never again be elected Governor of Illinois if the
people who are fighting me succeed, as they will succeed, in fighting
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Swanson&rsquo;s dark eyes burned illuminatively. He nodded his head in assent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Governor, I have come here this morning to bribe you, if I can. I do not
agree with your ideals; in the last analysis I do not believe that they will
work. I am sure I do not believe in most of the things that you believe in.
Life is different at bottom perhaps from what either you or I may think. Just
the same, as compared with other men, I sympathize with you. I will loan you
that one hundred thousand dollars and two or three or four hundred thousand
dollars more besides if you wish. You need never pay me a dollar&mdash;or you
can if you wish. Suit yourself. In that black bag which Judge Dickensheets
brought here yesterday, and which is in your safe, is three hundred thousand
dollars in cash. He did not have the courage to mention it. Sign the bill and
let me beat the men who are trying to beat me. I will support you in the future
with any amount of money or influence that I can bring to bear in any political
contest you may choose to enter, state or national.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood&rsquo;s eyes glowed like a large, genial collie&rsquo;s. There was a
suggestion of sympathetic appeal in them, rich and deep, and, even more than
that, a philosophic perception of ineffable things. Swanson arose. &ldquo;You
really don&rsquo;t mean to say that you are trying to bribe me openly, do
you?&rdquo; he inquired. In spite of a conventional impulse to burst forth in
moralistic denunciation, solemnly phrased, he was compelled for the moment to
see the other man&rsquo;s viewpoint. They were working in different directions,
going different ways, to what ultimate end?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood,&rdquo; continued the governor, his face a physiognomy
out of Goya, his eye alight with a kind of understanding sympathy, &ldquo;I
suppose I ought to resent this, but I can&rsquo;t. I see your point of view.
I&rsquo;m sorry, but I can&rsquo;t help you nor myself. My political belief, my
ideals, compel me to veto this bill; when I forsake these I am done politically
with myself. I may not be elected governor again, but that does not matter,
either. I could use your money, but I won&rsquo;t. I shall have to bid you good
morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He moved toward the safe, slowly, opened it, took out the bag and brought it
over.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You must take that with you,&rdquo; he added.
</p>

<p>
The two men looked at each other a moment curiously, sadly&mdash;the one with a
burden of financial, political, and moral worry on his spirit, the other with
an unconquerable determination not to be worsted even in defeat.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Governor,&rdquo; concluded Cowperwood, in the most genial, contented,
undisturbed voice, &ldquo;you will live to see another legislature pass and
another governor sign some such bill. It will not be done this session,
apparently, but it will be done. I am not through, because my case is right and
fair. Just the same, after you have vetoed the bill, come and see me, and I
will loan you that one hundred thousand if you want it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood went out. Swanson vetoed the bill. It is on record that subsequently
he borrowed one hundred thousand dollars from Cowperwood to stay him from ruin.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap56"></a>CHAPTER LVI.<br/>
The Ordeal of Berenice</h2>

<p>
At the news that Swanson had refused to sign the bill and that the legislature
lacked sufficient courage to pass it over his veto both Schryhart and Hand
literally rubbed their hands in comfortable satisfaction.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Hosmer,&rdquo; said Schryhart the next day, when they met at their
favorite club&mdash;the Union League&mdash;&ldquo;it looks as though we were
making some little progress, after all, doesn&rsquo;t it? Our friend
didn&rsquo;t succeed in turning that little trick, did he?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He beamed almost ecstatically upon his solid companion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not this time. I wonder what move he will decide to make next.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see very well what it can be. He knows now that he
can&rsquo;t get his franchises without a compromise that will eat into his
profits, and if that happens he can&rsquo;t sell his Union Traction stock. This
legislative scheme of his must have cost him all of three hundred thousand
dollars, and what has he to show for it? The new legislature, unless I&rsquo;m
greatly mistaken, will be afraid to touch anything in connection with him.
It&rsquo;s hardly likely that any of the Springfield politicians will want to
draw the fire of the newspapers again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Schryhart felt very powerful, imposing&mdash;sleek, indeed&mdash;now that his
theory of newspaper publicity as a cure was apparently beginning to work. Hand,
more saturnine, more responsive to the uncertainty of things mundane&mdash;the
shifty undercurrents that are perpetually sapping and mining below&mdash;was
agreeable, but not sure. Perhaps so.
</p>

<p class="p2">
In regard to his Eastern life during this interlude, Cowperwood had been
becoming more and more keenly alive to the futility of the attempt to effect a
social rescue for Aileen. &ldquo;What was the use?&rdquo; he often asked
himself, as he contemplated her movements, thoughts, plans, as contrasted with
the natural efficiency, taste, grace, and subtlety of a woman like Berenice. He
felt that the latter could, if she would, smooth over in an adroit way all the
silly social antagonisms which were now afflicting him. It was a woman&rsquo;s
game, he frequently told himself, and would never be adjusted till he had the
woman.
</p>

<p>
Simultaneously Aileen, looking at the situation from her own point of view and
nonplussed by the ineffectiveness of mere wealth when not combined with a
certain social something which she did not appear to have, was, nevertheless,
unwilling to surrender her dream. What was it, she asked herself over and over,
that made this great difference between women and women? The question contained
its own answer, but she did not know that. She was still
good-looking&mdash;very&mdash;and an adept in self-ornamentation, after her
manner and taste. So great had been the newspaper palaver regarding the arrival
of a new multimillionaire from the West and the palace he was erecting that
even tradesmen, clerks, and hall-boys knew of her. Almost invariably, when
called upon to state her name in such quarters, she was greeted by a slight
start of recognition, a swift glance of examination, whispers, even open
comment. That was something. Yet how much more, and how different were those
rarefied reaches of social supremacy to which popular repute bears scarcely any
relationship at all. How different, indeed? From what Cowperwood had said in
Chicago she had fancied that when they took up their formal abode in New York
he would make an attempt to straighten out his life somewhat, to modify the
number of his indifferent amours and to present an illusion of solidarity and
unity. Yet, now that they had actually arrived, she noticed that he was more
concerned with his heightened political and financial complications in Illinois
and with his art-collection than he was with what might happen to be going on
in the new home or what could be made to happen there. As in the days of old,
she was constantly puzzled by his persistent evenings out and his sudden
appearances and disappearances. Yet, determine as she might, rage secretly or
openly as she would, she could not cure herself of the infection of Cowperwood,
the lure that surrounded and substantiated a mind and spirit far greater than
any other she had ever known. Neither honor, virtue, consistent charity, nor
sympathy was there, but only a gay, foamy, unterrified sufficiency and a
creative, constructive sense of beauty that, like sunlit spray, glowing with
all the irradiative glories of the morning, danced and fled, spun driftwise
over a heavy sea of circumstance. Life, however dark and somber, could never
apparently cloud his soul. Brooding and idling in the wonder palace of his
construction, Aileen could see what he was like. The silver fountain in the
court of orchids, the peach-like glow of the pink marble chamber, with its
birds and flowers, the serried brilliance of his amazing art-collections were
all like him, were really the color of his soul. To think that after all she
was not the one to bind him to subjection, to hold him by golden yet steely
threads of fancy to the hem of her garment! To think that he should no longer
walk, a slave of his desire, behind the chariot of her spiritual and physical
superiority. Yet she could not give up.
</p>

<p>
By this time Cowperwood had managed through infinite tact and a stoic disregard
of his own aches and pains to re-establish at least a temporary working
arrangement with the Carter household. To Mrs. Carter he was still a
Heaven-sent son of light. Actually in a mournful way she pleaded for
Cowperwood, vouching for his disinterestedness and long-standing generosity.
Berenice, on the other hand, was swept between her craving for a great state
for herself&mdash;luxury, power&mdash;and her desire to conform to the current
ethics and morals of life. Cowperwood was married, and because of his attitude
of affection for her his money was tainted. She had long speculated on his
relation to Aileen, the basis of their differences, had often wondered why
neither she nor her mother had ever been introduced. What type of woman was the
second Mrs. Cowperwood? Beyond generalities Cowperwood had never mentioned her.
Berenice actually thought to seek her out in some inconspicuous way, but, as it
chanced, one night her curiosity was rewarded without effort. She was at the
opera with friends, and her escort nudged her arm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you noticed Box 9&mdash;the lady in white satin with the green lace
shawl?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; Berenice raised her glasses.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Frank Algernon Cowperwood, the wife of the Chicago millionaire.
They have just built that house at 68th Street. He has part lease of number 9,
I believe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Berenice almost started, but retained her composure, giving merely an
indifferent glance. A little while after, she adjusted her glasses carefully
and studied Mrs. Cowperwood. She noted curiously that Aileen&rsquo;s hair was
somewhat the color of her own&mdash;more carroty red. She studied her eyes,
which were slightly ringed, her smooth cheeks and full mouth, thickened
somewhat by drinking and dissipation. Aileen was good-looking, she
thought&mdash;handsome in a material way, though so much older than herself.
Was it merely age that was alienating Cowperwood, or was it some deep-seated
intellectual difference? Obviously Mrs. Cowperwood was well over forty&mdash;a
fact which did not give Berenice any sense of satisfaction or of advantage. She
really did not care enough. It did occur to her, however, that this woman whom
she was observing had probably given the best years of her life to
Cowperwood&mdash;the brilliant years of her girlhood. And now he was tired of
her! There were small carefully powdered lines at the tails of Aileen&rsquo;s
eyes and at the corners of her mouth. At the same time she seemed
preternaturally gay, kittenish, spoiled. With her were two men&mdash;one a
well-known actor, sinisterly handsome, a man with a brutal, unclean reputation,
the other a young social pretender&mdash;both unknown to Berenice. Her
knowledge was to come from her escort, a loquacious youth, more or less versed,
as it happened, in the gay life of the city.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hear that she is creating quite a stir in Bohemia,&rdquo; he observed.
&ldquo;If she expects to enter society it&rsquo;s a poor way to begin,
don&rsquo;t you think?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know that she expects to?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All the usual signs are out&mdash;a box here, a house on Fifth
Avenue.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This study of Aileen puzzled and disturbed Berenice a little. Nevertheless, she
felt immensely superior. Her soul seemed to soar over the plain Aileen
inhabited. The type of the latter&rsquo;s escorts suggested error&mdash;a lack
of social discrimination. Because of the high position he had succeeded in
achieving Cowperwood was entitled, no doubt, to be dissatisfied. His wife had
not kept pace with him, or, rather, had not eluded him in his onward
flight&mdash;had not run swiftly before, like a winged victory. Berenice
reflected that if she were dealing with such a man he should never know her
truly&mdash;he should be made to wonder and to doubt. Lines of care and
disappointment should never mar her face. She would scheme and dream and
conceal and evade. He should dance attendance, whoever he was.
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless, here she herself was, at twenty-two, unmarried, her background
insecure, the very ground on which she walked treacherous. Braxmar knew, and
Beales Chadsey, and Cowperwood. At least three or four of her acquaintances
must have been at the Waldorf on that fatal night. How long would it be before
others became aware? She tried eluding her mother, Cowperwood, and the
situation generally by freely accepting more extended invitations and by trying
to see whether there was not some opening for her in the field of art. She
thought of painting and essayed several canvases which she took to dealers. The
work was subtle, remote, fanciful&mdash;a snow scene with purple edges; a
thinking satyr, iron-like in his heaviness, brooding over a cloudy valley; a
lurking devil peering at a praying Marguerite; a Dutch interior inspired by
Mrs. Batjer, and various dancing figures. Phlegmatic dealers of somber mien
admitted some promise, but pointed out the difficulty of sales. Beginners were
numerous. Art was long. If she went on, of course.... Let them see other
things. She turned her thoughts to dancing.
</p>

<p>
This art in its interpretative sense was just being introduced into America, a
certain Althea Baker having created a good deal of stir in society by this
means. With the idea of duplicating or surpassing the success of this woman
Berenice conceived a dance series of her own. One was to be &ldquo;The
Terror&rdquo;&mdash;a nymph dancing in the spring woods, but eventually pursued
and terrorized by a faun; another, &ldquo;The Peacock,&rdquo; a fantasy
illustrative of proud self-adulation; another, &ldquo;The Vestal,&rdquo; a
study from Roman choric worship. After spending considerable time at Pocono
evolving costumes, poses, and the like, Berenice finally hinted at the plan to
Mrs. Batjer, declaring that she would enjoy the artistic outlet it would
afford, and indicating at the same time that it might provide the necessary
solution of a problem of ways and means.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Bevy, how you talk!&rdquo; commented Mrs. Batjer. &ldquo;And with
your possibilities. Why don&rsquo;t you marry first, and do your dancing
afterward? You might compel a certain amount of attention that way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because of hubby? How droll! Whom would you suggest that I marry at
once?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, when it comes to that&mdash;&rdquo; replied Mrs. Batjer, with a
slight reproachful lift in her voice, and thinking of Kilmer Duelma. &ldquo;But
surely your need isn&rsquo;t so pressing. If you were to take up professional
dancing I might have to cut you afterward&mdash;particularly if any one else
did.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She smiled the sweetest, most sensible smile. Mrs. Batjer accompanied her
suggestions nearly always with a slight sniff and cough. Berenice could see
that the mere fact of this conversation made a slight difference. In Mrs.
Batjer&rsquo;s world poverty was a dangerous topic. The mere odor of it
suggested a kind of horror&mdash;perhaps the equivalent of error or sin.
Others, Berenice now suspected, would take affright even more swiftly.
</p>

<p>
Subsequent to this, however, she made one slight investigation of those realms
that govern professional theatrical engagements. It was a most disturbing
experience. The mere color and odor of the stuffy offices, the gauche, material
attendants, the impossible aspirants and participants in this make-believe
world! The crudeness! The effrontery! The materiality! The sensuality! It came
to her as a sickening breath and for the moment frightened her. What would
become of refinement there? What of delicacy? How could one rise and sustain an
individual dignity and control in such a world as this?
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood was now suggesting as a binding link that he should buy a home for
them in Park Avenue, where such social functions as would be of advantage to
Berenice and in some measure to himself as an occasional guest might be
indulged in. Mrs. Carter, a fool of comfort, was pleased to welcome this idea.
It promised to give her absolute financial security for the future.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know how it is with you, Frank,&rdquo; she declared. &ldquo;I know you
need some place that you can call a home. The whole difficulty will be with
Bevy. Ever since that miserable puppy made those charges against me I
haven&rsquo;t been able to talk to her at all. She doesn&rsquo;t seem to want
to do anything I suggest. You have much more influence with her than I have. If
you explain, it may be all right.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Instantly Cowperwood saw an opportunity. Intensely pleased with this confession
of weakness on the part of the mother, he went to Berenice, but by his usual
method of indirect direction.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know, Bevy,&rdquo; he said, one afternoon when he found her alone,
&ldquo;I have been wondering if it wouldn&rsquo;t be better if I bought a large
house for you and your mother here in New York, where you and she could do
entertaining on a large scale. Since I can&rsquo;t spend my money on myself, I
might as well spend it on some one who would make an interesting use of it. You
might include me as an uncle or father&rsquo;s cousin or something of that
sort,&rdquo; he added, lightly.
</p>

<p>
Berenice, who saw quite clearly the trap he was setting for her, was
nonplussed. At the same time she could not help seeing that a house, if it were
beautifully furnished, would be an interesting asset. People in society loved
fixed, notable dwellings; she had observed that. What functions could not be
held if only her mother&rsquo;s past were not charged against her! That was the
great difficulty. It was almost an Arabian situation, heightened by the glitter
of gold. And Cowperwood was always so diplomatic. He came forward with such a
bland, engaging smile. His hands were so shapely and seeking.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A house such as you speak of would enlarge the debt beyond payment, I
presume,&rdquo; she remarked, sardonically and with a sad, almost contemptuous
gesture. Cowperwood realized how her piercing intellect was following his
shifty trail, and winced. She must see that her fate was in his hands, but oh!
if she would only surrender, how swiftly every dollar of his vast fortune
should be piled humbly at her feet. She should have her heart&rsquo;s desire,
if money would buy it. She could say to him go, and he would go; come, and he
would come.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice,&rdquo; he said, getting up, &ldquo;I know what you think. You
fancy I am trying to further my own interests in this way, but I&rsquo;m not. I
wouldn&rsquo;t compromise you ultimately for all the wealth of India. I have
told you where I stand. Every dollar that I have is yours to do with as you
choose on any basis that you may care to name. I have no future outside of you,
none except art. I do not expect you to marry me. Take all that I have. Wipe
society under your feet. Don&rsquo;t think that I will ever charge it up as a
debt. I won&rsquo;t. I want you to hold your own. Just answer me one question;
I won&rsquo;t ever ask another.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If I were single now, and you were not in love or married, would you
consider me at all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
His eyes pleaded as never had they pleaded before.
</p>

<p>
She started, looked concerned, severe, then relaxed as suddenly. &ldquo;Let me
see,&rdquo; she said, with a slight brightening of the eyes and a toss of her
head. &ldquo;That is a second cousin to a proposal, isn&rsquo;t it? You have no
right to make it. You aren&rsquo;t single, and aren&rsquo;t likely to be. Why
should I try to read the future?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She walked indifferently out of the room, and Cowperwood stayed a moment to
think. Obviously he had triumphed in a way. She had not taken great offense.
She must like him and would marry him if only...
</p>

<p>
Only Aileen.
</p>

<p>
And now he wished more definitely and forcefully than ever that he were really
and truly free. He felt that if ever he wished to attain Berenice he must
persuade Aileen to divorce him.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap57"></a>CHAPTER LVII.<br/>
Aileen&rsquo;s Last Card</h2>

<p>
It was not until some little time after they were established in the new house
that Aileen first came upon any evidence of the existence of Berenice Fleming.
In a general way she assumed that there were women&mdash;possibly some of whom
she had known&mdash;Stephanie, Mrs. Hand, Florence Cochrane, or later
arrivals&mdash;yet so long as they were not obtruded on her she permitted
herself the semi-comforting thought that things were not as bad as they might
be. So long, indeed, as Cowperwood was genuinely promiscuous, so long as he
trotted here and there, not snared by any particular siren, she could not
despair, for, after all, she had ensnared him and held him
deliciously&mdash;without variation, she believed, for all of ten years&mdash;a
feat which no other woman had achieved before or after. Rita Sohlberg might
have succeeded&mdash;the beast! How she hated the thought of Rita! By this
time, however, Cowperwood was getting on in years. The day must come when he
would be less keen for variability, or, at least, would think it no longer
worth while to change. If only he did not find some one woman, some Circe, who
would bind and enslave him in these Later years as she had herself done in his
earlier ones all might yet be well. At the same time she lived in daily terror
of a discovery which was soon to follow.
</p>

<p>
She had gone out one day to pay a call on some one to whom Rhees Grier, the
Chicago sculptor, had given her an introduction. Crossing Central Park in one
of the new French machines which Cowperwood had purchased for her indulgence,
her glance wandered down a branch road to where another automobile similar to
her own was stalled. It was early in the afternoon, at which time Cowperwood
was presumably engaged in Wall Street. Yet there he was, and with him two
women, neither of whom, in the speed of passing, could Aileen quite make out.
She had her car halted and driven to within seeing-distance behind a clump of
bushes. A chauffeur whom she did not know was tinkering at a handsome machine,
while on the grass near by stood Cowperwood and a tall, slender girl with red
hair somewhat like Aileen&rsquo;s own. Her expression was aloof, poetic,
rhapsodical. Aileen could not analyze it, but it fixed her attention
completely. In the tonneau sat an elderly lady, whom Aileen at once assumed to
be the girl&rsquo;s mother. Who were they? What was Cowperwood doing here in
the Park at this hour? Where were they going? With a horrible retch of envy she
noted upon Cowperwood&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
face&mdash;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. &ldquo;Mrs. Ira Carter, I believe, and her daughter, Miss Fleming, Miss
Berenice Fleming. Mrs. Carter was Mrs. Fleming once.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;, 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&mdash;an air of soul-hunger which could not be gainsaid.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;never,
never, never! When Cowperwood returned she snarled at him without vouchsafing
an explanation.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&mdash;helpful,
advisory&mdash;if she would permit it.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;a thing no longer vital and soul-controlling. To-night he was
sitting in the court of orchids, reading a book&mdash;the diary of Cellini,
which some one had recommended to him&mdash;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&mdash;the
Park opposite a Corot-like shadow. Aileen was in the music-room strumming
indifferently. She was thinking of times past&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What an awful night!&rdquo; she observed once, strolling to a window to
peer out from behind a brocaded valance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is bad, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; replied Cowperwood, as she returned.
&ldquo;Hadn&rsquo;t you thought of going anywhere this evening?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;oh no,&rdquo; replied Aileen, indifferently. She rose
restlessly from the piano, and strolled on into the great picture-gallery.
Stopping before one of Raphael Sanzio&rsquo;s Holy Families, only recently
hung, she paused to contemplate the serene face&mdash;medieval, Madonnaesque,
Italian.
</p>

<p>
The lady seemed fragile, colorless, spineless&mdash;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&mdash;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:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re bored, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh no; I&rsquo;m used to lonely evenings,&rdquo; she replied, quietly
and without any attempt at sarcasm.
</p>

<p>
Relentless as he was in hewing life to his theory&mdash;hammering substance to
the form of his thought&mdash;yet he was tender, too, in the manner of a
rainbow dancing over an abyss. For the moment he wanted to say, &ldquo;Poor
girlie, you do have a hard time, don&rsquo;t you, with me?&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;re really not happy in this state, any more, are you?&rdquo;
he inquired. &ldquo;Would you feel any more comfortable if I stayed away
entirely?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
His mind had turned of a sudden to the one problem that was fretting him and to
the opportunities of this hour.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You would,&rdquo; she replied, for her boredom merely concealed her
unhappiness in no longer being able to command in the least his interest or his
sentiment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why do you say that in just that way?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because I know you would. I know why you ask. You know well enough that
it isn&rsquo;t anything I want to do that is concerned. It&rsquo;s what you
want to do. You&rsquo;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&rsquo;t wonder
you&rsquo;re a multimillionaire. If you could live long enough you would eat up
the whole world. Don&rsquo;t you think for one moment that I don&rsquo;t know
of Berenice Fleming here in New York, and how you&rsquo;re dancing attendance
on her&mdash;because I do. I know how you have been hanging about her for
months and months&mdash;ever since we have been here, and for long before. You
think she&rsquo;s wonderful now because she&rsquo;s young and in society.
I&rsquo;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&rsquo;s face, can wind you
right around her finger. Rita Sohlberg did it; Stephanie Platow did it;
Florence Cochrane did it; Cecily Haguenin&mdash;and Heaven knows how many more
that I never heard of. I suppose Mrs. Hand still lives with you in
Chicago&mdash;the cheap strumpet! Now it&rsquo;s Berenice Fleming and her frump
of a mother. From all I can learn you haven&rsquo;t been able to get her
yet&mdash;because her mother&rsquo;s too shrewd, perhaps&mdash;but you probably
will in the end. It isn&rsquo;t you so much as your money that they&rsquo;re
after. Pah! Well, I&rsquo;m unhappy enough, but it isn&rsquo;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&rsquo;t deceive me at any time in any way
any more. I can&rsquo;t do anything about it. I can&rsquo;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&rsquo;re running after Berenice Fleming. Her name will soon be as sweet as
those of the others you&rsquo;ve had. She might as well give herself to you. If
she ever had a decent reputation it&rsquo;s gone by now, you can depend upon
that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
These remarks irritated Cowperwood greatly&mdash;enraged him&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, coolly, at the end of her speech, &ldquo;you
talk too much. You rave. You&rsquo;re growing vulgar, I believe. Now let me
tell you something.&rdquo; And he fixed her with a hard, quieting eye. &ldquo;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&rsquo;re any kind of a woman at all. I
don&rsquo;t care for you any more. If you want to put it another
way&mdash;I&rsquo;m tired of you. I have been for a long while. That&rsquo;s
why I&rsquo;ve run with other women. If I hadn&rsquo;t been tired of you I
wouldn&rsquo;t have done it. What&rsquo;s more, I&rsquo;m in love with somebody
else&mdash;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&rsquo;t really care for me any more. You can&rsquo;t.
I&rsquo;ll admit I have treated you badly; but if I had really loved you I
wouldn&rsquo;t have done it, would I? It isn&rsquo;t my fault that love died in
me, is it? It isn&rsquo;t your fault. I&rsquo;m not blaming you. Love
isn&rsquo;t a bunch of coals that can be blown by an artificial bellows into a
flame at any time. It&rsquo;s out, and that&rsquo;s an end of it. Since I
don&rsquo;t love you and can&rsquo;t, why should you want me to stay near you?
Why shouldn&rsquo;t you let me go and give me a divorce? You&rsquo;ll be just
as happy or unhappy away from me as with me. Why not? I want to be free again.
I&rsquo;m miserable here, and have been for a long time. I&rsquo;ll make any
arrangement that seems fair and right to you. I&rsquo;ll give you this
house&mdash;these pictures, though I really don&rsquo;t see what you&rsquo;d
want with them.&rdquo; (Cowperwood had no intention of giving up the gallery if
he could help it.) &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll settle on you for life any income you
desire, or I&rsquo;ll give you a fixed sum outright. I want to be free, and I
want you to let me be. Now why won&rsquo;t you be sensible and let me do
this?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
During this harangue Cowperwood had first sat and then stood. At the statement
that his love was really dead&mdash;the first time he had ever baldly and
squarely announced it&mdash;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&mdash;that in his heart was no least feeling for all that had gone
before&mdash;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&rsquo;t be
true.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Frank,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You really don&rsquo;t mean that, do you?
Love isn&rsquo;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&mdash;O God, how bad I have felt! Frank, you
don&rsquo;t know it&mdash;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&mdash;plain, raw whisky&mdash;because something hurt me and I wanted to
kill the pain. I have gone with other men, one after another&mdash;you know
that&mdash;but, oh! Frank, Frank, you know that I didn&rsquo;t want to, that I
didn&rsquo;t mean to! I have always despised the thought of them afterward. It
was only because I was lonely and because you wouldn&rsquo;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&mdash;one night, one day! There are women who could suffer in
silence, but I can&rsquo;t. My mind won&rsquo;t let me alone, Frank&mdash;my
thoughts won&rsquo;t. I can&rsquo;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&mdash;how she must have suffered! But I was just a
silly girl then, and I didn&rsquo;t know. Don&rsquo;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&rsquo;t you love me any more&mdash;just a little?
Is it really true that your love is dead? Am I so old, so changed? Oh, Frank,
please don&rsquo;t say that&mdash;please don&rsquo;t&mdash;please, please
please! I beg of you!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;the spirit, for instance, that was in Berenice
Fleming. He was sorry&mdash;in his way. He felt sympathy, but it was like the
tinkling of a far-off sheep-bell&mdash;the moaning of a whistling buoy heard
over the thrash of night-black waves on a stormy sea.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand how it is, Aileen,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I
can&rsquo;t help myself. My love is dead. It is gone. I can&rsquo;t recall it.
I can&rsquo;t feel it. I wish I could, but I can&rsquo;t; you must understand
that. Some things are possible and some are not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked at her, but with no relenting. Aileen, for her part, saw in his eyes
nothing, as she believed, save cold philosophic logic&mdash;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&mdash;not quite
sane.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t say that!&rdquo; she pleaded, foolishly. &ldquo;Please
don&rsquo;t. Please don&rsquo;t say that. It might come back a little
if&mdash;if&mdash;you would only believe in it. Don&rsquo;t you see how I feel?
Don&rsquo;t you see how it is?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She dropped to her knees and clasped him about the waist. &ldquo;Oh, Frank! Oh,
Frank! Oh, Frank!&rdquo; she began to call, crying. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t stand
it! I can&rsquo;t! I can&rsquo;t! I can&rsquo;t! I shall die.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t give way like that, Aileen,&rdquo; he pleaded. &ldquo;It
doesn&rsquo;t do any good. I can&rsquo;t lie to myself. I don&rsquo;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&rsquo;t. I don&rsquo;t love you. Why
should I say that I do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In the content of Aileen&rsquo;s nature was a portion that was purely
histrionic, a portion that was childish&mdash;petted and spoiled&mdash;a
portion that was sheer unreason, and a portion that was splendid
emotion&mdash;deep, dark, involved. At this statement of Cowperwood&rsquo;s
which seemed to throw her back on herself for ever and ever to be alone, she
first pleaded willingness to compromise&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;a little, still.
Couldn&rsquo;t he find a place for her yet in his life? Wasn&rsquo;t there room
for both?
</p>

<p>
At this expression of humiliation and defeat Cowperwood was sad, sick, almost
nauseated. How could one argue? How make her understand?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish it were possible, Aileen,&rdquo; he concluded, finally and
heavily, &ldquo;but it isn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
All at once she arose, her eyes red but dry.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t love me, then, at all, do you? Not a bit?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, Aileen, I don&rsquo;t. I don&rsquo;t mean by that that I dislike
you. I don&rsquo;t mean to say that you aren&rsquo;t interesting in your way as
a woman and that I don&rsquo;t sympathize with you. I do. But I don&rsquo;t
love you any more. I can&rsquo;t. The thing I used to feel I can&rsquo;t feel
any more.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;nothing,
nothing!
</p>

<p>
A fine light of conviction, intensity, intention lit her eye for the moment.
&ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; she said, coolly, tensely. &ldquo;I know what
I&rsquo;ll do. I&rsquo;ll not live this way. I&rsquo;ll not live beyond
to-night. I want to die, anyhow, and I will.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;ripped it for
inches&mdash;and sat there to bleed. Now she would see whether she could die,
whether he would let her.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;the tantrums
of women were common&mdash;and yet&mdash; 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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;it was
locked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he called. &ldquo;Aileen! Are you in there?&rdquo; No
answer. He listened. Still no answer. &ldquo;Aileen!&rdquo; he repeated.
&ldquo;Are you in there? What damned nonsense is this, anyhow?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;George!&rdquo; he thought to himself, stepping back; &ldquo;she might do
it, too&mdash;perhaps she has.&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if you don&rsquo;t open the door this
instant I will see that it is opened. It can be opened quick enough.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Still no sound.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Damn it!&rdquo; he exclaimed, becoming wretched, horrified. A servant
brought the keys. The right one would not enter. A second was on the other
side. &ldquo;There is a bigger hammer somewhere,&rdquo; Cowperwood said.
&ldquo;Get it! Get me a chair!&rdquo; Meantime, with terrific energy, using a
large chisel, he forced the door.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;her
left&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood paused&mdash;amazed. He hurried forward, seized her arm, made a
bandage of a torn handkerchief above the wound, sent for a surgeon, saying the
while: &ldquo;How could you, Aileen? How impossible! To try to take your life!
This isn&rsquo;t love. It isn&rsquo;t even madness. It&rsquo;s foolish
acting.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you really care?&rdquo; she asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How can you ask? How could you really do this?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was angry, hurt, glad that she was alive, shamed&mdash;many things.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you really care?&rdquo; she repeated, wearily.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aileen, this is nonsense. I will not talk to you about it now. Have you
cut yourself anywhere else?&rdquo; he asked, feeling about her bosom and sides.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then why not let me die?&rdquo; she replied, in the same manner.
&ldquo;I will some day. I want to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, you may, some day,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;but not to-night. I
scarcely think you want to now. This is too much, Aileen&mdash;really
impossible.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He drew himself up and looked at her&mdash;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&mdash;to
make the old effort. Very good. He would see her safely in bed and in a
nurse&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap58"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.<br/>
A Marauder Upon the Commonwealth</h2>

<p>
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&mdash;particularly Haeckelheimer,
Gotloeb &amp; Co. and all the subsurface forces they represented&mdash;he had
attempted to influence the incoming governor, and had in part succeeded.
</p>

<p>
The new governor in this instance&mdash;one Corporal A. E. Archer&mdash;or
ex-Congressman Archer, as he was sometimes called&mdash;was, unlike Swanson, a
curious mixture of the commonplace and the ideal&mdash;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&rsquo;s estimate of public
morality&mdash;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&mdash;and one with noteworthy political ambitions. Other Grand
Army men had been conspicuous in the lists for Presidential nominations. Why
not he? An excellent orator in a high falsetto way, and popular because of
good-fellowship, presence, force, he was by nature materially and commercially
minded&mdash;therefore without basic appeal to the higher ranks of
intelligence. In seeking the nomination for governorship he had made the usual
overtures and had in turn been sounded by Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb, and various
other corporate interests who were in league with Cowperwood as to his attitude
in regard to a proposed public-service commission. At first he had refused to
commit himself. Later, finding that the C. W. &amp; I. and the Chicago &amp;
Pacific (very powerful railroads both) were interested, and that other
candidates were running him a tight chase in the gubernatorial contest, he
succumbed in a measure, declaring privately that in case the legislature proved
to be strongly in favor of the idea and the newspapers not too crushingly
opposed he might be willing to stand as its advocate. Other candidates
expressed similar views, but Corporal Archer proved to have the greater
following, and was eventually nominated and comfortably elected.
</p>

<p>
Shortly after the new legislature had convened, it so chanced that a certain A.
S. Rotherhite, publisher of the South Chicago Journal, was one day accidentally
sitting as a visitor in the seat of a state representative by the name of
Clarence Mulligan. While so occupied Rotherhite was familiarly slapped on the
back by a certain Senator Ladrigo, of Menard, and was invited to come out into
the rotunda, where, posing as Representative Mulligan, he was introduced by
Senator Ladrigo to a stranger by the name of Gerard. The latter, with but few
preliminary remarks, began as follows:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Mulligan, I want to fix it with you in regard to this Southack bill
which is soon to come up in the house. We have seventy votes, but we want
ninety. The fact that the bill has gone to a second reading in the senate shows
our strength. I am authorized to come to terms with you this morning if you
would like. Your vote is worth two thousand dollars to you the moment the bill
is signed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Rotherhite, who happened to be a newly recruited member of the Opposition
press, proved very canny in this situation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; he stammered, &ldquo;I did not understand your
name?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Gerard. G-er-ard. Henry A. Gerard,&rdquo; replied this other.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thank you. I will think it over,&rdquo; was the response of the presumed
Representative Mulligan.
</p>

<p>
Strange to state, at this very instant the authentic Mulligan actually
appeared&mdash;heralded aloud by several of his colleagues who happened to be
lingering near by in the lobby. Whereupon the anomalous Mr. Gerard and the
crafty Senator Ladrigo discreetly withdrew. Needless to say that Mr. Rotherhite
hurried at once to the forces of righteousness. The press should spread this
little story broadcast. It was a very meaty incident; and it brought the whole
matter once more into the fatal, poisonous field of press discussion.
</p>

<p>
At once the Chicago papers flew to arms. The cry was raised that the same old
sinister Cowperwoodian forces were at work. The members of the senate and the
house were solemnly warned. The sterling attitude of ex-Governor Swanson was
held up as an example to the present Governor Archer. &ldquo;The whole
idea,&rdquo; observed an editorial in Truman Leslie MacDonald&rsquo;s <i>Inquirer</i>,
&ldquo;smacks of chicane, political subtlety, and political jugglery. Well do
the citizens of Chicago and the people of Illinois know who and what particular
organization would prove the true beneficiaries. We do not want a
public-service commission at the behest of a private street-railway
corporation. Are the tentacles of Frank A. Cowperwood to envelop this
legislature as they did the last?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This broadside, coming in conjunction with various hostile rumblings in other
papers, aroused Cowperwood to emphatic language.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They can all go to the devil,&rdquo; he said to Addison, one day at
lunch. &ldquo;I have a right to an extension of my franchises for fifty years,
and I am going to get it. Look at New York and Philadelphia. Why, the Eastern
houses laugh. They don&rsquo;t understand such a situation. It&rsquo;s all the
inside work of this Hand-Schryhart crowd. I know what they&rsquo;re doing and
who&rsquo;s pulling the strings. The newspapers yap-yap every time they give an
order. Hyssop waltzes every time Arneel moves. Little MacDonald is a
stool-pigeon for Hand. It&rsquo;s got down so low now that it&rsquo;s anything
to beat Cowperwood. Well, they won&rsquo;t beat me. I&rsquo;ll find a way out.
The legislature will pass a bill allowing for a fifty-year franchise, and the
governor will sign it. I&rsquo;ll see to that personally. I have at least
eighteen thousand stockholders who want a decent run for their money, and I
propose to give it to them. Aren&rsquo;t other men getting rich? Aren&rsquo;t
other corporations earning ten and twelve per cent? Why shouldn&rsquo;t I? Is
Chicago any the worse? Don&rsquo;t I employ twenty thousand men and pay them
well? All this palaver about the rights of the people and the duty to the
public&mdash;rats! Does Mr. Hand acknowledge any duty to the public where his
special interests are concerned? Or Mr. Schryhart? Or Mr. Arneel? The
newspapers be damned! I know my rights. An honest legislature will give me a
decent franchise to save me from the local political sharks.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By this time, however, the newspapers had become as subtle and powerful as the
politicians themselves. Under the great dome of the capitol at Springfield, in
the halls and conference chambers of the senate and house, in the hotels, and
in the rural districts wherever any least information was to be gathered, were
their representatives&mdash;to see, to listen, to pry. Out of this contest they
were gaining prestige and cash. By them were the reform aldermen persuaded to
call mass-meetings in their respective districts. Property-owners were urged to
organize; a committee of one hundred prominent citizens led by Hand and
Schryhart was formed. It was not long before the halls, chambers, and
committee-rooms of the capitol at Springfield and the corridors of the one
principal hotel were being tramped over almost daily by rampant delegations of
ministers, reform aldermen, and civil committeemen, who arrived speechifying,
threatening, and haranguing, and departed, only to make room for another relay.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Say, what do you think of these delegations, Senator?&rdquo; inquired a
certain Representative Greenough of Senator George Christian, of Grundy, one
morning, the while a group of Chicago clergymen accompanied by the mayor and
several distinguished private citizens passed through the rotunda on their way
to the committee on railroads, where the house bill was privily being
discussed. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think they speak well for our civic pride and
moral upbringing?&rdquo; He raised his eyes and crossed his fingers over his
waistcoat in the most sanctimonious and reverential attitude.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, dear Pastor,&rdquo; replied the irreverent Christian, without the
shadow of a smile. He was a little sallow, wiry man with eyes like a ferret, a
small mustache and goatee ornamenting his face. &ldquo;But do not forget that
the Lord has called us also to this work.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; acquiesced Greenough. &ldquo;We must not weary in well
doing. The harvest is truly plenteous and the laborers are few.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tut, tut, Pastor. Don&rsquo;t overdo it. You might make me larf,&rdquo;
replied Christian; and the twain parted with knowing and yet weary smiles.
</p>

<p>
Yet how little did the accommodating attitude of these gentlemen avail in
silencing the newspapers. The damnable newspapers! They were here, there, and
everywhere reporting each least fragment of rumor, conversation, or imaginary
programme. Never did the citizens of Chicago receive so keen a drilling in
statecraft&mdash;its subtleties and ramifications. The president of the senate
and the speaker of the house were singled out and warned separately as to their
duty. A page a day devoted to legislative proceeding in this quarter was
practically the custom of the situation. Cowperwood was here personally on the
scene, brazen, defiant, logical, the courage of his convictions in his eyes,
the power of his magnetism fairly enslaving men. Throwing off the mask of
disinterestedness&mdash;if any might be said to have covered him&mdash;he now
frankly came out in the open and, journeying to Springfield, took quarters at
the principal hotel. Like a general in time of battle, he marshaled his forces
about him. In the warm, moonlit atmosphere of June nights when the streets of
Springfield were quiet, the great plain of Illinois bathed for hundreds of
miles from north to south in a sweet effulgence and the rurals slumbering in
their simple homes, he sat conferring with his lawyers and legislative agents.
</p>

<p>
Pity in such a crisis the poor country-jake legislator torn between his desire
for a justifiable and expedient gain and his fear lest he should be assailed as
a betrayer of the people&rsquo;s interests. To some of these small-town
legislators, who had never seen as much as two thousand dollars in cash in all
their days, the problem was soul-racking. Men gathered in private rooms and
hotel parlors to discuss it. They stood in their rooms at night and thought
about it alone. The sight of big business compelling its desires the while the
people went begging was destructive. Many a romantic, illusioned, idealistic
young country editor, lawyer, or statesman was here made over into a minor
cynic or bribe-taker. Men were robbed of every vestige of faith or even of
charity; they came to feel, perforce, that there was nothing outside the
capacity for taking and keeping. The surface might appear
commonplace&mdash;ordinary men of the state of Illinois going here and
there&mdash;simple farmers and small-town senators and representatives
conferring and meditating and wondering what they could do&mdash;yet a
jungle-like complexity was present, a dark, rank growth of horrific but avid
life&mdash;life at the full, life knife in hand, life blazing with courage and
dripping at the jaws with hunger.
</p>

<p>
However, because of the terrific uproar the more cautious legislators were by
degrees becoming fearful. Friends in their home towns, at the instigation of
the papers, were beginning to write them. Political enemies were taking heart.
It meant too much of a sacrifice on the part of everybody. In spite of the fact
that the bait was apparently within easy reach, many became evasive and
disturbed. When a certain Representative Sparks, cocked and primed, with the
bill in his pocket, arose upon the floor of the house, asking leave to have it
spread upon the minutes, there was an instant explosion. The privilege of the
floor was requested by a hundred. Another representative, Disback, being in
charge of the opposition to Cowperwood, had made a count of noses and was
satisfied in spite of all subtlety on the part of the enemy that he had at
least one hundred and two votes, the necessary two-thirds wherewith to crush
any measure which might originate on the floor. Nevertheless, his followers,
because of caution, voted it to a second and a third reading. All sorts of
amendments were made&mdash;one for a three-cent fare during the rush-hours,
another for a 20 per cent. tax on gross receipts. In amended form the measure
was sent to the senate, where the changes were stricken out and the bill once
more returned to the house. Here, to Cowperwood&rsquo;s chagrin, signs were
made manifest that it could not be passed. &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be done,
Frank,&rdquo; said Judge Dickensheets. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s too grilling a game.
Their home papers are after them. They can&rsquo;t live.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Consequently a second measure was devised&mdash;more soothing and lulling to
the newspapers, but far less satisfactory to Cowperwood. It conferred upon the
Chicago City Council, by a trick of revising the old Horse and Dummy Act of
1865, the right to grant a franchise for fifty instead of for twenty years.
This meant that Cowperwood would have to return to Chicago and fight out his
battle there. It was a severe blow, yet better than nothing. Providing that he
could win one more franchise battle within the walls of the city council in
Chicago, it would give him all that he desired. But could he? Had he not come
here to the legislature especially to evade such a risk? His motives were
enduring such a blistering exposure. Yet perhaps, after all, if the price were
large enough the Chicago councilmen would have more real courage than these
country legislators&mdash;would dare more. They would have to.
</p>

<p>
So, after Heaven knows what desperate whisperings, conferences, arguments, and
heartening of members, there was originated a second measure which&mdash;after
the defeat of the first bill, 104 to 49&mdash;was introduced, by way of a very
complicated path, through the judiciary committee. It was passed; and Governor
Archer, after heavy hours of contemplation and self-examination, signed it. A
little man mentally, he failed to estimate an aroused popular fury at its true
import to him. At his elbow was Cowperwood in the clear light of day, snapping
his fingers in the face of his enemies, showing by the hard, cheerful glint in
his eye that he was still master of the situation, giving all assurance that he
would yet live to whip the Chicago papers into submission. Besides, in the
event of the passage of the bill, Cowperwood had promised to make Archer
independently rich&mdash;a cash reward of five hundred thousand dollars.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap59"></a>CHAPTER LIX.<br/>
Capital and Public Rights</h2>

<p>
Between the passage on June 5, 1897, of the Mears bill&mdash;so christened
after the doughty representative who had received a small fortune for
introducing it&mdash;and its presentation to the Chicago City Council in
December of the same year, what broodings, plottings, politickings, and
editorializings on the part of all and sundry! In spite of the intense feeling
of opposition to Cowperwood there was at the same time in local public life one
stratum of commercial and phlegmatic substance that could not view him in an
altogether unfavorable light. They were in business themselves. His lines
passed their doors and served them. They could not see wherein his
street-railway service differed so much from that which others might give. Here
was the type of materialist who in Cowperwood&rsquo;s defiance saw a
justification of his own material point of view and was not afraid to say so.
But as against these there were the preachers&mdash;poor wind-blown sticks of
unreason who saw only what the current palaver seemed to indicate. Again there
were the anarchists, socialists, single-taxers, and public-ownership advocates.
There were the very poor who saw in Cowperwood&rsquo;s wealth and in the
fabulous stories of his New York home and of his art-collection a heartless
exploitation of their needs. At this time the feeling was spreading broadcast
in America that great political and economic changes were at hand&mdash;that
the tyranny of iron masters at the top was to give way to a richer, freer,
happier life for the rank and file. A national eight-hour-day law was being
advocated, and the public ownership of public franchises. And here now was a
great street-railway corporation, serving a population of a million and a half,
occupying streets which the people themselves created by their presence, taking
toll from all these humble citizens to the amount of sixteen or eighteen
millions of dollars in the year and giving in return, so the papers said, poor
service, shabby cars, no seats at rush-hours, no universal transfers (as a
matter of fact, there were in operation three hundred and sixty-two separate
transfer points) and no adequate tax on the immense sums earned. The workingman
who read this by gas or lamp light in the kitchen or parlor of his shabby flat
or cottage, and who read also in other sections of his paper of the free,
reckless, glorious lives of the rich, felt himself to be defrauded of a portion
of his rightful inheritance. It was all a question of compelling Frank A.
Cowperwood to do his duty by Chicago. He must not again be allowed to bribe the
aldermen; he must not be allowed to have a fifty-year franchise, the privilege
of granting which he had already bought from the state legislature by the
degradation of honest men. He must be made to succumb, to yield to the forces
of law and order. It was claimed&mdash;and with a justice of which those who
made the charge were by no means fully aware&mdash;that the Mears bill had been
put through the house and senate by the use of cold cash, proffered even to the
governor himself. No legal proof of this was obtainable, but Cowperwood was
assumed to be a briber on a giant scale. By the newspaper cartoons he was
represented as a pirate commander ordering his men to scuttle another
vessel&mdash;the ship of Public Rights. He was pictured as a thief, a black
mask over his eyes, and as a seducer, throttling Chicago, the fair maiden,
while he stole her purse. The fame of this battle was by now becoming
world-wide. In Montreal, in Cape Town, in Buenos Ayres and Melbourne, in London
and Paris, men were reading of this singular struggle. At last, and truly, he
was a national and international figure. His original dream, however, modified
by circumstances, had literally been fulfilled.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile be it admitted that the local elements in finance which had brought
about this terrific onslaught on Cowperwood were not a little disturbed as to
the eventual character of the child of their own creation. Here at last was a
public opinion definitely inimical to Cowperwood; but here also were they
themselves, tremendous profit-holders, with a desire for just such favors as
Cowperwood himself had exacted, deliberately setting out to kill the goose that
could lay the golden egg. Men such as Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb, Fishel,
tremendous capitalists in the East and foremost in the directorates of huge
transcontinental lines, international banking-houses, and the like, were amazed
that the newspapers and the anti-Cowperwood element should have gone so far in
Chicago. Had they no respect for capital? Did they not know that long-time
franchises were practically the basis of all modern capitalistic prosperity?
Such theories as were now being advocated here would spread to other cities
unless checked. America might readily become
anti-capitalistic&mdash;socialistic. Public ownership might appear as a
workable theory&mdash;and then what?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Those men out there are very foolish,&rdquo; observed Mr. Haeckelheimer
at one time to Mr. Fishel, of Fishel, Stone &amp; Symons. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t
see that Mr. Cowperwood is different from any other organizer of his day. He
seems to me perfectly sound and able. All his companies pay. There are no
better investments than the North and West Chicago railways. It would be
advisable, in my judgment, that all the lines out there should be consolidated
and be put in his charge. He would make money for the stockholders. He seems to
know how to run street-railways.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; replied Mr. Fishel, as smug and white as Mr.
Haeckelheimer, and in thorough sympathy with his point of view, &ldquo;I have
been thinking of something like that myself. All this quarreling should be
hushed up. It&rsquo;s very bad for business&mdash;very. Once they get that
public-ownership nonsense started, it will be hard to stop. There has been too
much of it already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Fishel was stout and round like Mr. Haeckelheimer, but much smaller. He was
little more than a walking mathematical formula. In his cranium were financial
theorems and syllogisms of the second, third, and fourth power only.
</p>

<p>
And now behold a new trend of affairs. Mr. Timothy Arneel, attacked by
pneumonia, dies and leaves his holdings in Chicago City to his eldest son,
Edward Arneel. Mr. Fishel and Mr. Haeckelheimer, through agents and then
direct, approach Mr. Merrill in behalf of Cowperwood. There is much talk of
profits&mdash;how much more profitable has been the Cowperwood regime over
street-railway lines than that of Mr. Schryhart. Mr. Fishel is interested in
allaying socialistic excitement. So, by this time, is Mr. Merrill. Directly
hereafter Mr. Haeckelheimer approaches Mr. Edward Arneel, who is not nearly so
forceful as his father, though he would like to be so. He, strange to relate,
has come rather to admire Cowperwood and sees no advantage in a policy that can
only tend to municipalize local lines. Mr. Merrill, for Mr. Fishel, approaches
Mr. Hand. &ldquo;Never! never! never!&rdquo; says Hand. Mr. Haeckelheimer
approaches Mr. Hand. &ldquo;Never! never! never! To the devil with Mr.
Cowperwood!&rdquo; But as a final emissary for Mr. Haeckelheimer and Mr. Fishel
there now appears Mr. Morgan Frankhauser, the partner of Mr. Hand in a
seven-million-dollar traction scheme in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Why will Mr.
Hand be so persistent? Why pursue a scheme of revenge which only stirs up the
masses and makes municipal ownership a valid political idea, thus disturbing
capital elsewhere? Why not trade his Chicago holdings to him, Frankhauser, for
Pittsburg traction stock&mdash;share and share alike&mdash;and then fight
Cowperwood all he pleases on the outside?
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hand, puzzled, astounded, scratching his round head, slaps a heavy hand on
his desk. &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; he exclaims. &ldquo;Never, by God&mdash;as long
as I am alive and in Chicago!&rdquo; And then he yields. Life does shifty
things, he is forced to reflect in a most puzzled way. Never would he have
believed it! &ldquo;Schryhart,&rdquo; he declared to Frankhauser, &ldquo;will
never come in. He will die first. Poor old Timothy&mdash;if he were
alive&mdash;he wouldn&rsquo;t either.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Leave Mr. Schryhart out of it, for Heaven&rsquo;s sake,&rdquo; pleaded
Mr. Frankhauser, a genial American German. &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t I troubles
enough?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Schryhart is enraged. Never! never! never! He will sell out first&mdash;but
he is in a minority, and Mr. Frankhauser, for Mr. Fishel or Mr. Haeckelheimer,
will gladly take his holdings.
</p>

<p>
Now behold in the autumn of 1897 all rival Chicago street-railway lines brought
to Mr. Cowperwood on a platter, as it were&mdash;a golden platter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ve haff it fixed,&rdquo; confidentially declared Mr. Gotloeb to Mr.
Cowperwood, over an excellent dinner in the sacred precincts of the
Metropolitan Club in New York. Time, 8.30 P.M. Wine&mdash;sparkling burgundy.
&ldquo;A telegram come shusst to-day from Frankhauser. A nice man dot. You
shouldt meet him sometime. Hant&mdash;he sells out his stock to Frankhauser.
Merrill unt Edward Arneel vork vit us. Ve hantle efferyt&rsquo;ing for dem. Mr.
Fishel vill haff his friends pick up all de local shares he can, unt mit dees
tree ve control de board. Schryhart iss out. He sess he vill resign. Very goot.
I don&rsquo;t subbose dot vill make you veep any. It all hintges now on vether
you can get dot fifty-year-franchise ordinance troo de city council or not.
Haeckelheimer sess he prefers you to all utters to run t&rsquo;ings. He vill
leef everytink positifely in your hands. Frankhauser sess de same. Vot
Haeckelheimer sess he doess. Now dere you are. It&rsquo;s up to you. I vish you
much choy. It is no small chop you haff, beating de newspapers, unt you still
haff Hant unt Schryhart against you. Mr. Haeckelheimer askt me to pay his
complimends to you unt to say vill you dine vit him next veek, or may he dine
vit you&mdash;vicheffer iss most conveniend. So.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
In the mayor&rsquo;s chair of Chicago at this time sat a man named Walden H.
Lucas. Aged thirty-eight, he was politically ambitious. He had the elements of
popularity&mdash;the knack or luck of fixing public attention. A fine,
upstanding, healthy young buck he was, subtle, vigorous, a cool, direct,
practical thinker and speaker, an eager enigmatic dreamer of great political
honors to come, anxious to play his cards just right, to make friends, to be
the pride of the righteous, and yet the not too uncompromising foe of the
wicked. In short, a youthful, hopeful Western Machiavelli, and one who could,
if he chose, serve the cause of the anti-Cowperwood struggle exceedingly well
indeed.
</p>

<p>
Cowperwood, disturbed, visits the mayor in his office.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Lucas, what is it you personally want? What can I do for you? Is it
future political preferment you are after?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Cowperwood, there isn&rsquo;t anything you can do for me. You do not
understand me, and I do not understand you. You cannot understand me because I
am an honest man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ye gods!&rdquo; replied Cowperwood. &ldquo;This is certainly a case of
self-esteem and great knowledge. Good afternoon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Shortly thereafter the mayor was approached by one Mr. Carker, who was the
shrewd, cold, and yet magnetic leader of Democracy in the state of New York.
Said Carker:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You see, Mr. Lucas, the great money houses of the East are interested in
this local contest here in Chicago. For example, Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb &amp;
Co. would like to see a consolidation of all the lines on a basis that will
make them an attractive investment for buyers generally and will at the same
time be fair and right to the city. A twenty-year contract is much too short a
term in their eyes. Fifty is the least they could comfortably contemplate, and
they would prefer a hundred. It is little enough for so great an outlay. The
policy now being pursued here can lead only to the public ownership of public
utilities, and that is something which the national Democratic party at large
can certainly not afford to advocate at present. It would antagonize the money
element from coast to coast. Any man whose political record was definitely
identified with such a movement would have no possible chance at even a state
nomination, let alone a national one. He could never be elected. I make myself
clear, do I not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A man can just as easily be taken from the mayor&rsquo;s office in
Chicago as from the governor&rsquo;s office at Springfield,&rdquo; pursued Mr.
Carker. &ldquo;Mr. Haeckelheimer and Mr. Fishel have personally asked me to
call on you. If you want to be mayor of Chicago again for two years or governor
next year, until the time for picking a candidate for the Presidency arrives,
suit yourself. In the mean time you will be unwise, in my judgment, to saddle
yourself with this public-ownership idea. The newspapers in fighting Mr.
Cowperwood have raised an issue which never should have been raised.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After Mr. Carker&rsquo;s departure, arrived Mr. Edward Arneel, of local renown,
and then Mr. Jacob Bethal, the Democratic leader in San Francisco, both
offering suggestions which if followed might result in mutual support. There
were in addition delegations of powerful Republicans from Minneapolis and from
Philadelphia. Even the president of the Lake City Bank and the president of the
Prairie National&mdash;once anti-Cowperwood&mdash;arrived to say what had
already been said. So it went. Mr. Lucas was greatly nonplussed. A political
career was surely a difficult thing to effect. Would it pay to harry Mr.
Cowperwood as he had set out to do? Would a steadfast policy advocating the
cause of the people get him anywhere? Would they be grateful? Would they
remember? Suppose the current policy of the newspapers should be modified, as
Mr. Carker had suggested that it might be. What a mess and tangle politics
really were!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Bessie,&rdquo; he inquired of his handsome, healthy, semi-blonde
wife, one evening, &ldquo;what would you do if you were I?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She was gray-eyed, gay, practical, vain, substantially connected in so far as
family went, and proud of her husband&rsquo;s position and future. He had
formed the habit of talking over his various difficulties with her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll tell you, Wally,&rdquo; she replied.
&ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to stick to something. It looks to me as though the
winning side was with the people this time. I don&rsquo;t see how the
newspapers can change now after all they&rsquo;ve done. You don&rsquo;t have to
advocate public ownership or anything unfair to the money element, but just the
same I&rsquo;d stick to my point that the fifty-year franchise is too much. You
ought to make them pay the city something and get their franchise without
bribery. They can&rsquo;t do less than that. I&rsquo;d stick to the course
you&rsquo;ve begun on. You can&rsquo;t get along without the people, Wally. You
just must have them. If you lose their good will the politicians can&rsquo;t
help you much, nor anybody else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Plainly there were times when the people had to be considered. They just had to
be!
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap60"></a>CHAPTER LX.<br/>
The Net</h2>

<p>
The storm which burst in connection with Cowperwood&rsquo;s machinations at
Springfield early in 1897, and continued without abating until the following
fall, attracted such general attention that it was largely reported in the
Eastern papers. F. A. Cowperwood versus the state of Illinois&mdash;thus one
New York daily phrased the situation. The magnetizing power of fame is great.
Who can resist utterly the luster that surrounds the individualities of some
men, causing them to glow with a separate and special effulgence? Even in the
case of Berenice this was not without its value. In a Chicago paper which she
found lying one day on a desk which Cowperwood had occupied was an extended
editorial which interested her greatly. After reciting his various misdeeds,
particularly in connection with the present state legislature, it went on to
say: &ldquo;He has an innate, chronic, unconquerable contempt for the rank and
file. Men are but slaves and thralls to draw for him the chariot of his
greatness. Never in all his history has he seen fit to go to the people direct
for anything. In Philadelphia, when he wanted public-franchise control, he
sought privily and by chicane to arrange his affairs with a venal city
treasurer. In Chicago he has uniformly sought to buy and convert to his own use
the splendid privileges of the city, which should really redound to the benefit
of all. Frank Algernon Cowperwood does not believe in the people; he does not
trust them. To him they constitute no more than a field upon which corn is to
be sown, and from which it is to be reaped. They present but a mass of bent
backs, their knees and faces in the mire, over which as over a floor he strides
to superiority. His private and inmost faith is in himself alone. Upon the
majority he shuts the gates of his glory in order that the sight of their
misery and their needs may not disturb nor alloy his selfish bliss. Frank
Algernon Cowperwood does not believe in the people.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This editorial battle-cry, flung aloft during the latter days of the contest at
Springfield and taken up by the Chicago papers generally and by those
elsewhere, interested Berenice greatly. As she thought of him&mdash;waging his
terrific contests, hurrying to and fro between New York and Chicago, building
his splendid mansion, collecting his pictures, quarreling with Aileen&mdash;he
came by degrees to take on the outlines of a superman, a half-god or
demi-gorgon. How could the ordinary rules of life or the accustomed paths of
men be expected to control him? They could not and did not. And here he was
pursuing her, seeking her out with his eyes, grateful for a smile, waiting as
much as he dared on her every wish and whim.
</p>

<p>
Say what one will, the wish buried deep in every woman&rsquo;s heart is that
her lover should be a hero. Some, out of the veriest stick or stone, fashion
the idol before which they kneel, others demand the hard reality of greatness;
but in either case the illusion of paragon-worship is maintained.
</p>

<p>
Berenice, by no means ready to look upon Cowperwood as an accepted lover, was
nevertheless gratified that his erring devotion was the tribute of one able
apparently to command thought from the whole world. Moreover, because the New
York papers had taken fire from his great struggle in the Middle West and were
charging him with bribery, perjury, and intent to thwart the will of the
people, Cowperwood now came forward with an attempt to explain his exact
position to Berenice and to justify himself in her eyes. During visits to the
Carter house or in entr&rsquo;actes at the opera or the theater, he recounted
to her bit by bit his entire history. He described the characters of Hand,
Schryhart, Arneel, and the motives of jealousy and revenge which had led to
their attack upon him in Chicago. &ldquo;No human being could get anything
through the Chicago City Council without paying for it,&rdquo; he declared.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s simply a question of who&rsquo;s putting up the money.&rdquo;
He told how Truman Leslie MacDonald had once tried to &ldquo;shake him
down&rdquo; for fifty thousand dollars, and how the newspapers had since found
it possible to make money, to increase their circulation, by attacking him. He
frankly admitted the fact of his social ostracism, attributing it partially to
Aileen&rsquo;s deficiencies and partially to his own attitude of Promethean
defiance, which had never yet brooked defeat.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And I will defeat them now,&rdquo; he said, solemnly, to Berenice one
day over a luncheon-table at the Plaza when the room was nearly empty. His gray
eyes were a study in colossal enigmatic spirit. &ldquo;The governor
hasn&rsquo;t signed my fifty-year franchise bill&rdquo; (this was before the
closing events at Springfield), &ldquo;but he will sign it. Then I have one
more fight ahead of me. I&rsquo;m going to combine all the traffic lines out
there under one general system. I am the logical person to provide it. Later
on, if public ownership ever arrives, the city can buy it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And then&mdash;&rdquo; asked Berenice sweetly, flattered by his
confidences.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know. I suppose I&rsquo;ll live abroad. You
don&rsquo;t seem to be very much interested in me. I&rsquo;ll finish my picture
collection&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But supposing you should lose?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t contemplate losing,&rdquo; he remarked, coolly.
&ldquo;Whatever happens, I&rsquo;ll have enough to live on. I&rsquo;m a little
tired of contest.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He smiled, but Berenice saw that the thought of defeat was a gray one. With
victory was his heart, and only there. Owing to the national publicity being
given to Cowperwood&rsquo;s affairs at this time the effect upon Berenice of
these conversations with him was considerable. At the same time another and
somewhat sinister influence was working in his favor. By slow degrees she and
her mother were coming to learn that the ultra-conservatives of society were no
longer willing to accept them. Berenice had become at last too individual a
figure to be overlooked. At an important luncheon given by the Harris
Haggertys, some five months after the Beales Chadsey affair, she had been
pointed out to Mrs. Haggerty by a visiting guest from Cincinnati as some one
with whom rumor was concerning itself. Mrs. Haggerty wrote to friends in
Louisville for information, and received it. Shortly after, at the coming-out
party of a certain Geraldine Borga, Berenice, who had been her sister&rsquo;s
schoolmate, was curiously omitted. She took sharp note of that. Subsequently
the Haggertys failed to include her, as they had always done before, in their
generous summer invitations. This was true also of the Lanman Zeiglers and the
Lucas Demmigs. No direct affront was offered; she was simply no longer invited.
Also one morning she read in the Tribune that Mrs. Corscaden Batjer had sailed
for Italy. No word of this had been sent to Berenice. Yet Mrs. Batjer was
supposedly one of her best friends. A hint to some is of more avail than an
open statement to others. Berenice knew quite well in which direction the tide
was setting.
</p>

<p>
True, there were a number&mdash;the ultra-smart of the smart world&mdash;who
protested. Mrs. Patrick Gilbennin, for instance: &ldquo;No! You don&rsquo;t
tell me? What a shame! Well, I like Bevy and shall always like her. She&rsquo;s
clever, and she can come here just as long as she chooses. It isn&rsquo;t her
fault. She&rsquo;s a lady at heart and always will be. Life is so cruel.&rdquo;
Mrs. Augustus Tabreez: &ldquo;Is that really true? I can&rsquo;t believe it.
Just the same, she&rsquo;s too charming to be dropped. I for one propose to
ignore these rumors just as long as I dare. She can come here if she
can&rsquo;t go anywhere else.&rdquo; Mrs. Pennington Drury: &ldquo;That of Bevy
Fleming! Who says so? I don&rsquo;t believe it. I like her anyhow. The idea of
the Haggertys cutting her&mdash;dull fools! Well, she can be my guest, the dear
thing, as long as she pleases. As though her mother&rsquo;s career really
affected her!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless, in the world of the dull rich&mdash;those who hold their own by
might of possession, conformity, owl-eyed sobriety, and ignorance&mdash;Bevy
Fleming had become persona non grata. How did she take all this? With that air
of superior consciousness which knows that no shift of outer material
ill-fortune can detract one jot from an inward mental superiority. The truly
individual know themselves from the beginning and rarely, if ever, doubt. Life
may play fast and loose about them, running like a racing, destructive tide in
and out, but they themselves are like a rock, still, serene, unmoved. Bevy
Fleming felt herself to be so immensely superior to anything of which she was a
part that she could afford to hold her head high even now Just the same, in
order to remedy the situation she now looked about her with an eye single to a
possible satisfactory marriage. Braxmar had gone for good. He was somewhere in
the East&mdash;in China, she heard&mdash;his infatuation for her apparently
dead. Kilmer Duelma was gone also&mdash;snapped up&mdash;an acquisition on the
part of one of those families who did not now receive her. However, in the
drawing-rooms where she still appeared&mdash;and what were they but marriage
markets?&mdash;one or two affairs did spring up&mdash;tentative approachments
on the part of scions of wealth. They were destined to prove abortive. One of
these youths, Pedro Ricer Marcado, a Brazilian, educated at Oxford, promised
much for sincerity and feeling until he learned that Berenice was poor in her
own right&mdash;and what else? Some one had whispered something in his ear.
Again there was a certain William Drake Bowdoin, the son of a famous old
family, who lived on the north side of Washington Square. After a ball, a
morning musicale, and one other affair at which they met Bowdoin took Berenice
to see his mother and sister, who were charmed. &ldquo;Oh, you serene
divinity!&rdquo; he said to her, ecstatically, one day. &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you
marry me?&rdquo; Bevy looked at him and wondered. &ldquo;Let us wait just a
little longer, my dear,&rdquo; she counseled. &ldquo;I want you to be sure that
you really love me. Shortly thereafter, meeting an old classmate at a club,
Bowdoin was greeted as follows:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Look here, Bowdoin. You&rsquo;re a friend of mine. I see you with that
Miss Fleming. Now, I don&rsquo;t know how far things have gone, and I
don&rsquo;t want to intrude, but are you sure you are aware of all the aspects
of the case?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; demanded Bowdoin. &ldquo;I want you to speak
out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, pardon, old man. No offense, really. You know me. I couldn&rsquo;t.
College&mdash;and all that. Just this, though, before you go any further.
Inquire about. You may hear things. If they&rsquo;re true you ought to know. If
not, the talking ought to stop. If I&rsquo;m wrong call on me for amends. I
hear talk, I tell you. Best intentions in the world, old man. I do assure
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
More inquiries. The tongues of jealousy and envy. Mr. Bowdoin was sure to
inherit three million dollars. Then a very necessary trip to somewhere, and
Berenice stared at herself in the glass. What was it? What were people saying,
if anything? This was strange. Well, she was young and beautiful. There were
others. Still, she might have come to love Bowdoin. He was so airy, artistic in
an unconscious way. Really, she had thought better of him.
</p>

<p>
The effect of all this was not wholly depressing. Enigmatic, disdainful, with a
touch of melancholy and a world of gaiety and courage, Berenice heard at times
behind joy the hollow echo of unreality. Here was a ticklish business, this
living. For want of light and air the finest flowers might die. Her
mother&rsquo;s error was not so inexplicable now. By it had she not, after all,
preserved herself and her family to a certain phase of social superiority?
Beauty was of such substance as dreams are made of, and as fleeting. Not
one&rsquo;s self alone&mdash;one&rsquo;s inmost worth, the splendor of
one&rsquo;s dreams&mdash;but other things&mdash;name, wealth, the presence or
absence of rumor, and of accident&mdash;were important. Berenice&rsquo;s lip
curled. But life could be lived. One could lie to the world. Youth is
optimistic, and Berenice, in spite of her splendid mind, was so young. She saw
life as a game, a good chance, that could be played in many ways.
Cowperwood&rsquo;s theory of things began to appeal to her. One must create
one&rsquo;s own career, carve it out, or remain horribly dull or bored, dragged
along at the chariot wheels of others. If society was so finicky, if men were
so dull&mdash;well, there was one thing she could do. She must have life,
life&mdash;and money would help some to that end.
</p>

<p>
Besides, Cowperwood by degrees was becoming attractive to her; he really was.
He was so much better than most of the others, so very powerful. She was
preternaturally gay, as one who says, &ldquo;Victory shall be mine
anyhow.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap61"></a>CHAPTER LXI.<br/>
The Cataclysm</h2>

<p>
And now at last Chicago is really facing the thing which it has most feared. A
giant monopoly is really reaching out to enfold it with an octopus-like grip.
And Cowperwood is its eyes, its tentacles, its force! Embedded in the giant
strength and good will of Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb &amp; Co., he is like a
monument based on a rock of great strength. A fifty-year franchise, to be
delivered to him by a majority of forty-eight out of a total of sixty-eight
aldermen (in case the ordinance has to be passed over the mayor&rsquo;s veto),
is all that now stands between him and the realization of his dreams. What a
triumph for his iron policy of courage in the face of all obstacles! What a
tribute to his ability not to flinch in the face of storm and stress! Other men
might have abandoned the game long before, but not he. What a splendid windfall
of chance that the money element should of its own accord take fright at the
Chicago idea of the municipalization of public privilege and should hand him
this giant South Side system as a reward for his stern opposition to fol-de-rol
theories.
</p>

<p>
Through the influence of these powerful advocates he was invited to speak
before various local commercial bodies&mdash;the Board of Real Estate Dealers,
the Property Owners&rsquo; Association, the Merchants&rsquo; League, the
Bankers&rsquo; Union, and so forth, where he had an opportunity to present his
case and justify his cause. But the effect of his suave speechifyings in these
quarters was largely neutralized by newspaper denunciation. &ldquo;Can any good
come out of Nazareth?&rdquo; was the regular inquiry. That section of the press
formerly beholden to Hand and Schryhart stood out as bitterly as ever; and most
of the other newspapers, being under no obligation to Eastern capital, felt it
the part of wisdom to support the rank and file. The most searching and
elaborate mathematical examinations were conducted with a view to showing the
fabulous profits of the streetcar trust in future years. The fine hand of
Eastern banking-houses was detected and their sinister motives noised abroad.
&ldquo;Millions for everybody in the trust, but not one cent for
Chicago,&rdquo; was the <i>Inquirer</i>&rsquo;s way of putting it. Certain altruists
of the community were by now so aroused that in the destruction of Cowperwood
they saw their duty to God, to humanity, and to democracy straight and clear.
The heavens had once more opened, and they saw a great light. On the other hand
the politicians&mdash;those in office outside the mayor&mdash;constituted a
petty band of guerrillas or free-booters who, like hungry swine shut in a pen,
were ready to fall upon any and all propositions brought to their attention
with but one end in view: that they might eat, and eat heartily. In times of
great opportunity and contest for privilege life always sinks to its lowest
depths of materialism and rises at the same time to its highest reaches of the
ideal. When the waves of the sea are most towering its hollows are most
awesome.
</p>

<p>
Finally the summer passed, the council assembled, and with the first breath of
autumn chill the very air of the city was touched by a premonition of contest.
Cowperwood, disappointed by the outcome of his various ingratiatory efforts,
decided to fall back on his old reliable method of bribery. He fixed on his
price&mdash;twenty thousand dollars for each favorable vote, to begin with.
Later, if necessary, he would raise it to twenty-five thousand, or even thirty
thousand, making the total cost in the neighborhood of a million and a half.
Yet it was a small price indeed when the ultimate return was considered. He
planned to have his ordinance introduced by an alderman named Ballenberg, a
trusted lieutenant, and handed thereafter to the clerk, who would read it,
whereupon another henchman would rise to move that it be referred to the joint
committee on streets and alleys, consisting of thirty-four members drawn from
all the standing committees. By this committee it would be considered for one
week in the general council-chamber, where public hearings would be held. By
keeping up a bold front Cowperwood thought the necessary iron could be put into
his followers to enable them to go through with the scorching ordeal which was
sure to follow. Already aldermen were being besieged at their homes and in the
precincts of the ward clubs and meeting-places. Their mail was being packed
with importuning or threatening letters. Their very children were being
derided, their neighbors urged to chastise them. Ministers wrote them in
appealing or denunciatory vein. They were spied upon and abused daily in the
public prints. The mayor, shrewd son of battle that he was, realizing that he
had a whip of terror in his hands, excited by the long contest waged, and by
the smell of battle, was not backward in urging the most drastic remedies.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wait till the thing comes up,&rdquo; he said to his friends, in a great
central music-hall conference in which thousands participated, and when the
matter of ways and means to defeat the venal aldermen was being discussed.
&ldquo;We have Mr. Cowperwood in a corner, I think. He cannot do anything for
two weeks, once his ordinance is in, and by that time we shall be able to
organize a vigilance committee, ward meetings, marching clubs, and the like. We
ought to organize a great central mass-meeting for the Sunday night before the
Monday when the bill comes up for final hearing. We want overflow meetings in
every ward at the same time. I tell you, gentlemen, that, while I believe there
are enough honest voters in the city council to prevent the Cowperwood crowd
from passing this bill over my veto, yet I don&rsquo;t think the matter ought
to be allowed to go that far. You never can tell what these rascals will do
once they see an actual cash bid of twenty or thirty thousand dollars before
them. Most of them, even if they were lucky, would never make the half of that
in a lifetime. They don&rsquo;t expect to be returned to the Chicago City
Council. Once is enough. There are too many others behind them waiting to get
their noses in the trough. Go into your respective wards and districts and
organize meetings. Call your particular alderman before you. Don&rsquo;t let
him evade you or quibble or stand on his rights as a private citizen or a
public officer. Threaten&mdash;don&rsquo;t cajole. Soft or kind words
won&rsquo;t go with that type of man. Threaten, and when you have managed to
extract a promise be on hand with ropes to see that he keeps his word. I
don&rsquo;t like to advise arbitrary methods, but what else is to be done? The
enemy is armed and ready for action right now. They&rsquo;re just waiting for a
peaceful moment. Don&rsquo;t let them find it. Be ready. Fight. I&rsquo;m your
mayor, and ready to do all I can, but I stand alone with a mere pitiful veto
right. You help me and I&rsquo;ll help you. You fight for me and I&rsquo;ll
fight for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Witness hereafter the discomfiting situation of Mr. Simon Pinski at 9 P.M. on
the second evening following the introduction of the ordinance, in the ward
house of the Fourteenth Ward Democratic Club. Rotund, flaccid, red-faced, his
costume a long black frock-coat and silk hat, Mr. Pinski was being heckled by
his neighbors and business associates. He had been called here by threats to
answer for his prospective high crimes and misdemeanors. By now it was pretty
well understood that nearly all the present aldermen were criminal and venal,
and in consequence party enmities were practically wiped out. There were no
longer for the time being Democrats and Republicans, but only pro or anti
Cowperwoods&mdash;principally anti. Mr. Pinski, unfortunately, had been singled
out by the Transcript, the <i>Inquirer</i>, and the Chronicle as one of those open to
advance questioning by his constituents. Of mixed Jewish and American
extraction, he had been born and raised in the Fourteenth and spoke with a
decidedly American accent. He was neither small nor large&mdash;sandy-haired,
shifty-eyed, cunning, and on most occasions amiable. Just now he was decidedly
nervous, wrathy, and perplexed, for he had been brought here against his will.
His slightly oleaginous eye&mdash;not unlike that of a small pig&mdash;had been
fixed definitely and finally on the munificent sum of thirty thousand dollars,
no less, and this local agitation threatened to deprive him of his almost
unalienable right to the same. His ordeal took place in a large, low-ceiled
room illuminated by five very plain, thin, two-armed gas-jets suspended from
the ceiling and adorned by posters of prizefights, raffles, games, and the
&ldquo;Simon Pinski Pleasure Association&rdquo; plastered here and there freely
against dirty, long-unwhitewashed walls. He stood on the low raised platform at
the back of the room, surrounded by a score or more of his ward henchmen, all
more or less reliable, all black-frocked, or at least in their Sunday clothes;
all scowling, nervous, defensive, red-faced, and fearing trouble. Mr. Pinski
has come armed. This talk of the mayor&rsquo;s concerning guns, ropes, drums,
marching clubs, and the like has been given very wide publicity, and the public
seems rather eager for a Chicago holiday in which the slaughter of an alderman
or so might furnish the leading and most acceptable feature.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hey, Pinski!&rdquo; yells some one out of a small sea of new and
decidedly unfriendly faces. (This is no meeting of Pinski followers, but a
conglomerate outpouring of all those elements of a distrait populace bent on
enforcing for once the principles of aldermanic decency. There are even women
here&mdash;local church-members, and one or two advanced civic reformers and W.
C. T. U. bar-room smashers. Mr. Pinski has been summoned to their presence by
the threat that if he didn&rsquo;t come the noble company would seek him out
later at his own house.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hey, Pinski! You old boodler! How much do you expect to get out of this
traction business?&rdquo; (This from a voice somewhere in the rear.)
</p>

<p>
<i>Mr. Pinski</i> (turning to one side as if pinched in the neck). &ldquo;The man that
says I am a boodler is a liar! I never took a dishonest dollar in my life, and
everybody in the Fourteenth Ward knows it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Five Hundred People Assembled</i>. &ldquo;Ha! ha! ha! Pinski never took a
dollar! Ho! ho! ho! Whoop-ee!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Mr. Pinski</i> (very red-faced, rising). &ldquo;It is so. Why should I talk to a
lot of loafers that come here because the papers tell them to call me names? I
have been an alderman for six years now. Everybody knows me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;You call us loafers. You crook!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Another Voice</i> (referring to his statement of being known). &ldquo;You bet they
do!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Another Voice</i> (this from a small, bony plumber in workclothes). &ldquo;Hey, you
old grafter! Which way do you expect to vote? For or against this franchise?
Which way?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Still Another Voice</i> (an insurance clerk). &ldquo;Yes, which way?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Mr. Pinski</i> (rising once more, for in his nervousness he is constantly rising or
starting to rise, and then sitting down again). &ldquo;I have a right to my own
mind, ain&rsquo;t I? I got a right to think. What for am I an alderman, then?
The constitution...&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>An Anti-Pinski Republican</i> (a young law clerk). &ldquo;To hell with the
constitution! No fine words now, Pinski. Which way do you expect to vote? For
or against? Yes or no?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i> (that of a bricklayer, anti-Pinski). &ldquo;He daresn&rsquo;t say.
He&rsquo;s got some of that bastard&rsquo;s money in his jeans now, I&rsquo;ll
bet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice from Behind</i> (one of Pinski&rsquo;s henchmen&mdash;a heavy, pugilistic
Irishman). &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let them frighten you, Sim. Stand your ground.
They can&rsquo;t hurt you. We&rsquo;re here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Pinski</i> (getting up once more). &ldquo;This is an outrage, I say. Ain&rsquo;t I
gon&rsquo; to be allowed to say what I think? There are two sides to every
question. Now, I think whatever the newspapers say that
Cowperwood&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Journeyman Carpenter</i> (a reader of the <i>Inquirer</i>). &ldquo;You&rsquo;re bribed,
you thief! You&rsquo;re beating about the bush. You want to sell out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Bony Plumber</i>. &ldquo;Yes, you crook! You want to get away with thirty
thousand dollars, that&rsquo;s what you want, you boodler!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Mr. Pinski</i> (defiantly, egged on by voices from behind). &ldquo;I want to be
fair&mdash;that&rsquo;s what. I want to keep my own mind. The constitution
gives everybody the right of free speech&mdash;even me. I insist that the
street-car companies have some rights; at the same time the people have rights
too.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;What are those rights?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Another Voice</i>. &ldquo;He don&rsquo;t know. He wouldn&rsquo;t know the
people&rsquo;s rights from a sawmill.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Another Voice</i>. &ldquo;Or a load of hay.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Pinski</i> (continuing very defiantly now, since he has not yet been slain).
&ldquo;I say the people have their rights. The companies ought to be made to
pay a fair tax. But this twenty-year-franchise idea is too little, I think. The
Mears bill now gives them fifty years, and I think all told&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Five Hundred</i> (in chorus). &ldquo;Ho, you robber! You thief! You boodler!
Hang him! Ho! ho! ho! Get a rope!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Pinski</i> (retreating within a defensive circle as various citizens approach him,
their eyes blazing, their teeth showing, their fists clenched). &ldquo;My
friends, wait! Ain&rsquo;t I goin&rsquo; to be allowed to finish?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll finish you, you stiff!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Citizen</i> (advancing; a bearded Pole). &ldquo;How will you vote, hey? Tell us
that! How? Hey?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Second Citizen</i> (a Jew). &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a no-good, you robber. I know you
for ten years now already. You cheated me when you were in the grocery
business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Third Citizen</i> (a Swede. In a sing-song voice). &ldquo;Answer me this, Mr.
Pinski. If a majority of the citizens of the Fourteenth Ward don&rsquo;t want
you to vote for it, will you still vote for it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Pinski</i> (hesitating).
</p>

<p>
<i>The Five Hundred</i>. &ldquo;Ho! look at the scoundrel! He&rsquo;s afraid to say.
He don&rsquo;t know whether he&rsquo;ll do what the people of this ward want
him to do. Kill him! Brain him!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice from Behind</i>. &ldquo;Aw, stand up, Pinski. Don&rsquo;t be afraid.&rdquo;
Pinski (terrorized as the five hundred make a rush for the stage). &ldquo;If
the people don&rsquo;t want me to do it, of course I won&rsquo;t do it. Why
should I? Ain&rsquo;t I their representative?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;Yes, when you think you&rsquo;re going to get the wadding
kicked out of you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Another Voice</i>. &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t be honest with your mother, you
bastard. You couldn&rsquo;t be!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Pinski</i>. &ldquo;If one-half the voters should ask me not to do it I
wouldn&rsquo;t do it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;Well, we&rsquo;ll get the voters to ask you, all right.
We&rsquo;ll get nine-tenths of them to sign before to-morrow night.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>An Irish-American</i> (aged twenty-six; a gas collector; coming close to Pinski).
&ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t vote right we&rsquo;ll hang you, and I&rsquo;ll be
there to help pull the rope myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>One of Pinski&rsquo;s Lieutenants</i>. &ldquo;Say, who is that freshie? We want to
lay for him. One good kick in the right place will just about finish
him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Gas Collector</i>. &ldquo;Not from you, you carrot-faced terrier. Come outside
and see.&rdquo; (Business of friends interfering).
</p>

<p>
The meeting becomes disorderly. Pinski is escorted out by
friends&mdash;completely surrounded&mdash;amid shrieks and hisses, cat-calls,
cries of &ldquo;Boodler!&rdquo; &ldquo;Thief!&rdquo; &ldquo;Robber!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There were many such little dramatic incidents after the ordinance had been
introduced.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Henceforth on the streets, in the wards and outlying sections, and even, on
occasion, in the business heart, behold the marching clubs&mdash;those
sinister, ephemeral organizations which on demand of the mayor had cropped out
into existence&mdash;great companies of the unheralded, the dull, the
undistinguished&mdash;clerks, working-men, small business men, and minor scions
of religion or morality; all tramping to and fro of an evening, after
working-hours, assembling in cheap halls and party club-houses, and drilling
themselves to what end? That they might march to the city hall on the fateful
Monday night when the street-railway ordinances should be up for passage and
demand of unregenerate lawmakers that they do their duty. Cowperwood, coming
down to his office one morning on his own elevated lines, was the observer of a
button or badge worn upon the coat lapel of stolid, inconsequential citizens
who sat reading their papers, unconscious of that presence which epitomized the
terror and the power they all feared. One of these badges had for its device a
gallows with a free noose suspended; another was blazoned with the query:
&ldquo;Are we going to be robbed?&rdquo; On sign-boards, fences, and dead walls
huge posters, four by six feet in dimension, were displayed.
</p>

<h4>WALDEN H. LUCAS<br/>
<br/>
against the<br/>
<br/>
BOODLERS<br/>
===========================<br/>
Every citizen of Chicago should<br/>
come down to the City Hall<br/>
<br/>
TO-NIGHT<br/>
MONDAY, DEC. 12<br/>
===========================<br/>
and every Monday night<br/>
thereafter while the Street-car<br/>
Franchises are under consideration,<br/>
and see that the interests<br/>
of the city are protected against<br/>
<br/>
BOODLEISM<br/>
=========<br/>
<i>Citizens, Arouse and Defeat the Boodlers!</i><br/>
</h4>

<p>
In the papers were flaring head-lines; in the clubs, halls, and churches fiery
speeches could nightly be heard. Men were drunk now with a kind of fury of
contest. They would not succumb to this Titan who was bent on undoing them.
They would not be devoured by this gorgon of the East. He should be made to pay
an honest return to the city or get out. No fifty-year franchise should be
granted him. The Mears law must be repealed, and he must come into the city
council humble and with clean hands. No alderman who received as much as a
dollar for his vote should in this instance be safe with his life.
</p>

<p>
Needless to say that in the face of such a campaign of intimidation only great
courage could win. The aldermen were only human. In the council
committee-chamber Cowperwood went freely among them, explaining as he best
could the justice of his course and making it plain that, although willing to
buy his rights, he looked on them as no more than his due. The rule of the
council was barter, and he accepted it. His unshaken and unconquerable defiance
heartened his followers greatly, and the thought of thirty thousand dollars was
as a buttress against many terrors. At the same time many an alderman
speculated solemnly as to what he would do afterward and where he would go once
he had sold out.
</p>

<p>
At last the Monday night arrived which was to bring the final test of strength.
Picture the large, ponderous structure of black granite&mdash;erected at the
expense of millions and suggesting somewhat the somnolent architecture of
ancient Egypt&mdash;which served as the city hall and county court-house
combined. On this evening the four streets surrounding it were packed with
thousands of people. To this throng Cowperwood has become an astounding figure:
his wealth fabulous, his heart iron, his intentions sinister&mdash;the acme of
cruel, plotting deviltry. Only this day, the Chronicle, calculating well the
hour and the occasion, has completely covered one of its pages with an
intimate, though exaggerated, description of Cowperwood&rsquo;s house in New
York: his court of orchids, his sunrise room, the baths of pink and blue
alabaster, the finishings of marble and intaglio. Here Cowperwood was
represented as seated in a swinging divan, his various books, art treasures,
and comforts piled about him. The idea was vaguely suggested that in his
sybaritic hours odalesques danced before him and unnamable indulgences and
excesses were perpetrated.
</p>

<p>
At this same hour in the council-chamber itself were assembling as hungry and
bold a company of gray wolves as was ever gathered under one roof. The room was
large, ornamented to the south by tall windows, its ceiling supporting a heavy,
intricate chandelier, its sixty-six aldermanic desks arranged in half-circles,
one behind the other; its woodwork of black oak carved and highly polished; its
walls a dark blue-gray decorated with arabesques in gold&mdash;thus giving to
all proceedings an air of dignity and stateliness. Above the speaker&rsquo;s
head was an immense portrait in oil of a former mayor&mdash;poorly done, dusty,
and yet impressive. The size and character of the place gave on ordinary
occasions a sort of resonance to the voices of the speakers. To-night through
the closed windows could be heard the sound of distant drums and marching feet.
In the hall outside the council door were packed at least a thousand men with
ropes, sticks, a fife-and-drum corps which occasionally struck up &ldquo;Hail!
Columbia, Happy Land,&rdquo; &ldquo;My Country, &rsquo;Tis of Thee,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;Dixie.&rdquo; Alderman Schlumbohm, heckled to within an inch of his
life, followed to the council door by three hundred of his fellow-citizens, was
there left with the admonition that they would be waiting for him when he
should make his exit. He was at last seriously impressed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is this?&rdquo; he asked of his neighbor and nearest associate,
Alderman Gavegan, when he gained the safety of his seat. &ldquo;A free
country?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Search me!&rdquo; replied his compatriot, wearily. &ldquo;I never seen
such a band as I have to deal with out in the Twentieth. Why, my God! a man
can&rsquo;t call his name his own any more out here. It&rsquo;s got so now the
newspapers tell everybody what to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Alderman Pinski and Alderman Hoherkorn, conferring together in one corner, were
both very dour. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you what, Joe,&rdquo; said Pinski to his
confrere; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s this fellow Lucas that has got the people so
stirred up. I didn&rsquo;t go home last night because I didn&rsquo;t want those
fellows to follow me down there. Me and my wife stayed down-town. But one of
the boys was over here at Jake&rsquo;s a little while ago, and he says there
must &rsquo;a&rsquo; been five hundred people around my house at six
o&rsquo;clock, already. Whad ye think o&rsquo; that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Same here. I don&rsquo;t take much stock in this lynching idea. Still,
you can&rsquo;t tell. I don&rsquo;t know whether the police could help us much
or not. It&rsquo;s a damned outrage. Cowperwood has a fair proposition.
What&rsquo;s the matter with them, anyhow?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Renewed sounds of &ldquo;Marching Through Georgia&rdquo; from without.
</p>

<p>
Enter at this time Aldermen Ziner, Knudson, Revere, Rogers, Tiernan, and
Kerrigan. Of all the aldermen perhaps Messrs. Tiernan and Kerrigan were as cool
as any. Still the spectacle of streets blocked with people who carried torches
and wore badges showing slip-nooses attached to a gallows was rather serious.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you, Pat,&rdquo; said &ldquo;Smiling Mike,&rdquo; as
they eventually made the door through throngs of jeering citizens; &ldquo;it
does look a little rough. Whad ye think?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To hell with them!&rdquo; replied Kerrigan, angry, waspish, determined.
&ldquo;They don&rsquo;t run me or my ward. I&rsquo;ll vote as I damn
please.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Same here,&rdquo; replied Tiernan, with a great show of courage.
&ldquo;That goes for me. But it&rsquo;s putty warm, anyhow, eh?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s warm, all right,&rdquo; replied Kerrigan, suspicious
lest his companion in arms might be weakening, &ldquo;but that&rsquo;ll never
make a quitter out of me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nor me, either,&rdquo; replied the Smiling One.
</p>

<p>
Enter now the mayor, accompanied by a fife-and-drum corps rendering &ldquo;Hail
to the Chief.&rdquo; He ascends the rostrum. Outside in the halls the huzzas of
the populace. In the gallery overhead a picked audience. As the various
aldermen look up they contemplate a sea of unfriendly faces. &ldquo;Get on to
the mayor&rsquo;s guests,&rdquo; commented one alderman to another, cynically.
</p>

<p>
A little sparring for time while minor matters are considered, and the gallery
is given opportunity for comment on the various communal lights, identifying
for itself first one local celebrity and then another. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
Johnnie Dowling, that big blond fellow with the round head; there&rsquo;s
Pinski&mdash;look at the little rat; there&rsquo;s Kerrigan. Get on to the
emerald. Eh, Pat, how&rsquo;s the jewelry? You won&rsquo;t get any chance to do
any grafting to-night, Pat. You won&rsquo;t pass no ordinance to-night.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Winkler</i> (pro-Cowperwood). &ldquo;If the chair pleases, I think
something ought to be done to restore order in the gallery and keep these
proceedings from being disturbed. It seems to me an outrage, that, on an
occasion of this kind, when the interests of the people require the most
careful attention&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;The interests of the people!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Another Voice</i>. &ldquo;Sit down. You&rsquo;re bought!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Winkler</i>. &ldquo;If the chair pleases&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Mayor</i>. &ldquo;I shall have to ask the audience in the gallery to keep quiet
in order that the business in hand may be considered.&rdquo; (Applause, and the
gallery lapses into silence.)
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Guigler</i> (to Alderman Sumulsky). &ldquo;Well trained, eh?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Ballenberg</i> (pro-Cowperwood, getting up&mdash;large, brown, florid,
smooth-faced). &ldquo;Before calling up an ordinance which bears my name I
should like to ask permission of the council to make a statement. When I
introduced this ordinance last week I said&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;We know what you said.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Ballenberg</i>. &ldquo;I said that I did so by request. I want to explain
that it was at the request of a number of gentlemen who have since appeared
before the committee of this council that now has this ordinance&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right, Ballenberg. We know by whose request
you introduced it. You&rsquo;ve said your little say.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Ballenberg</i>. &ldquo;If the chair pleases&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;Sit down, Ballenberg. Give some other boodler a chance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Mayor</i>. &ldquo;Will the gallery please stop interrupting.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Horanek</i> (jumping to his feet). &ldquo;This is an outrage. The gallery
is packed with people come here to intimidate us. Here is a great public
corporation that has served this city for years, and served it well, and when
it comes to this body with a sensible proposition we ain&rsquo;t even allowed
to consider it. The mayor packs the gallery with his friends, and the papers
stir up people to come down here by thousands and try to frighten us. I for
one&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter, Billy? Haven&rsquo;t you got your
money yet?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Hvranek</i> (Polish-American, intelligent, even artistic looking, shaking
his fist at the gallery). &ldquo;You dare not come down here and say that, you
coward!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Chorus of Fifty Voices</i>. &ldquo;Rats!&rdquo; (also) &ldquo;Billy, you ought to
have wings.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i> (rising). &ldquo;I say now, Mr. Mayor, don&rsquo;t you think
we&rsquo;ve had enough of this?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;Well, look who&rsquo;s here. If it ain&rsquo;t Smiling
Mike.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Another Voice</i>. &ldquo;How much do you expect to get, Mike?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i> (turning to gallery). &ldquo;I want to say I can lick any man
that wants to come down here and talk to me to my face. I&rsquo;m not afraid of
no ropes and no guns. These corporations have done everything for the
city&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;Aw!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i>. &ldquo;If it wasn&rsquo;t for the street-car companies we
wouldn&rsquo;t have any city.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Ten Voices</i>. &ldquo;Aw!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i> (bravely). &ldquo;My mind ain&rsquo;t the mind of some
people.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;I should say not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i>. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m talking for compensation for the privileges
we expect to give.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re talking for your pocket-book.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i>. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t give a damn for these cheap skates and
cowards in the gallery. I say treat these corporations right. They have helped
make the city.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Chorus of Fifty Voices</i>. &ldquo;Aw! You want to treat yourself right,
that&rsquo;s what you want. You vote right to-night or you&rsquo;ll be
sorry.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By now the various aldermen outside of the most hardened characters were more
or less terrified by the grilling contest. It could do no good to battle with
this gallery or the crowd outside. Above them sat the mayor, before them
reporters, ticking in shorthand every phrase and word. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see
what we can do,&rdquo; said Alderman Pinski to Alderman Hvranek, his neighbor.
&ldquo;It looks to me as if we might just as well not try.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At this point arose Alderman Gilleran, small, pale, intelligent,
anti-Cowperwood. By prearrangement he had been scheduled to bring the second,
and as it proved, the final test of strength to the issue. &ldquo;If the chair
pleases,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I move that the vote by which the Ballenberg
fifty-year ordinance was referred to the joint committee of streets and alleys
be reconsidered, and that instead it be referred to the committee on city
hall.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This was a committee that hitherto had always been considered by members of
council as of the least importance. Its principal duties consisted in devising
new names for streets and regulating the hours of city-hall servants. There
were no perquisites, no graft. In a spirit of ribald defiance at the
organization of the present session all the mayor&rsquo;s friends&mdash;the
reformers&mdash;those who could not be trusted&mdash;had been relegated to this
committee. Now it was proposed to take this ordinance out of the hands of
friends and send it here, from whence unquestionably it would never reappear.
The great test had come.
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Hoberkorn</i> (mouthpiece for his gang because the most skilful in a
parliamentary sense). &ldquo;The vote cannot be reconsidered.&rdquo; He begins
a long explanation amid hisses.
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;How much have you got?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Second Voice</i>. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been a boodler all your life.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Hoberkorn</i> (turning to the gallery, a light of defiance in his eye).
&ldquo;You come here to intimidate us, but you can&rsquo;t do it. You&rsquo;re
too contemptible to notice.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;You hear the drums, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Second Voice</i>. &ldquo;Vote wrong, Hoberkorn, and see. We know you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i> (to himself). &ldquo;Say, that&rsquo;s pretty rough,
ain&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Mayor</i>. &ldquo;Motion overruled. The point is not well taken.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Guigler</i> (rising a little puzzled). &ldquo;Do we vote now on the
Gilleran resolution?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>A Voice</i>. &ldquo;You bet you do, and you vote right.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Mayor</i>. &ldquo;Yes. The clerk will call the roll.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>The Clerk</i> (reading the names, beginning with the A&rsquo;s).
&ldquo;Altvast?&rdquo; (pro-Cowperwood).
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Altvast</i>. &ldquo;Yea.&rdquo; Fear had conquered him.
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i> (to Alderman Kerrigan). &ldquo;Well, there&rsquo;s one baby
down.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Kerrigan</i>. &ldquo;Yep.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ballenberg?&rdquo; (Pro-Cowperwood; the man who had introduced the
ordinance.)
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yea.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i>. &ldquo;Say, has Ballenberg weakened?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Kerrigan</i>. &ldquo;It looks that way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Canna?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yea.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fogarty?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yea.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan </i>(nervously). &ldquo;There goes Fogarty.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hvranek?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yea.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Tiernan</i>. &ldquo;And Hvranek!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Alderman Kerrigan</i> (referring to the courage of his colleagues).
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s coming out of their hair.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In exactly eighty seconds the roll-call was in and Cowperwood had lost&mdash;41
to 25. It was plain that the ordinance could never be revived.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap62"></a>CHAPTER LXII.<br/>
The Recompense</h2>

<p>
You have seen, perhaps, a man whose heart was weighted by a great woe. You have
seen the eye darken, the soul fag, and the spirit congeal under the breath of
an icy disaster. At ten-thirty of this particular evening Cowperwood, sitting
alone in the library of his Michigan Avenue house, was brought face to face
with the fact that he had lost. He had built so much on the cast of this single
die. It was useless to say to himself that he could go into the council a week
later with a modified ordinance or could wait until the storm had died out. He
refused himself these consolations. Already he had battled so long and so
vigorously, by every resource and subtlety which his mind had been able to
devise. All week long on divers occasions he had stood in the council-chamber
where the committee had been conducting its hearings. Small comfort to know
that by suits, injunctions, appeals, and writs to intervene he could tie up
this transit situation and leave it for years and years the prey of lawyers,
the despair of the city, a hopeless muddle which would not be unraveled until
he and his enemies should long be dead. This contest had been so long in the
brewing, he had gone about it with such care years before. And now the enemy
had been heartened by a great victory. His aldermen, powerful, hungry, fighting
men all&mdash;like those picked soldiers of the ancient Roman
emperors&mdash;ruthless, conscienceless, as desperate as himself, had in their
last redoubt of personal privilege fallen, weakened, yielded. How could he
hearten them to another struggle&mdash;how face the blazing wrath of a mighty
populace that had once learned how to win? Others might enter
here&mdash;Haeckelheimer, Fishel, any one of a half-dozen Eastern
giants&mdash;and smooth out the ruffled surface of the angry sea that he had
blown to fury. But as for him, he was tired, sick of Chicago, sick of this
interminable contest. Only recently he had promised himself that if he were to
turn this great trick he would never again attempt anything so desperate or
requiring so much effort. He would not need to. The size of his fortune made it
of little worth. Besides, in spite of his tremendous vigor, he was getting on.
</p>

<p>
Since he had alienated Aileen he was quite alone, out of touch with any one
identified with the earlier years of his life. His all-desired Berenice still
evaded him. True, she had shown lately a kind of warming sympathy; but what was
it? Gracious tolerance, perhaps&mdash;a sense of obligation? Certainly little
more, he felt. He looked into the future, deciding heavily that he must fight
on, whatever happened, and then&mdash;
</p>

<p>
While he sat thus drearily pondering, answering a telephone call now and then,
the door-bell rang and the servant brought a card which he said had been
presented by a young woman who declared that it would bring immediate
recognition. Glancing at it, Cowperwood jumped to his feet and hurried
down-stairs into the one presence he most craved.
</p>

<p class="p2">
There are compromises of the spirit too elusive and subtle to be traced in all
their involute windings. From that earliest day when Berenice Fleming had first
set eyes on Cowperwood she had been moved by a sense of power, an amazing and
fascinating individuality. Since then by degrees he had familiarized her with a
thought of individual freedom of action and a disregard of current social
standards which were destructive to an earlier conventional view of things.
Following him through this Chicago fight, she had been caught by the wonder of
his dreams; he was on the way toward being one of the world&rsquo;s greatest
money giants. During his recent trips East she had sometimes felt that she was
able to read in the cast of his face the intensity of this great ambition,
which had for its ultimate aim&mdash;herself. So he had once assured her.
Always with her he had been so handsome, so pleading, so patient.
</p>

<p>
So here she was in Chicago to-night, the guest of friends at the Richelieu, and
standing in Cowperwood&rsquo;s presence.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, Berenice!&rdquo; he said, extending a cordial hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When did you arrive in town? Whatever brings you here?&rdquo; He had
once tried to make her promise that if ever her feeling toward him changed she
would let him know of it in some way. And here she was to-night&mdash;on what
errand? He noted her costume of brown silk and velvet&mdash;how well it seemed
to suggest her cat-like grace!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You bring me here,&rdquo; she replied, with an indefinable something in
her voice which was at once a challenge and a confession. &ldquo;I thought from
what I had just been reading that you might really need me now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You mean&mdash;?&rdquo; he inquired, looking at her with vivid eyes.
There he paused.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That I have made up my mind. Besides, I ought to pay some time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice!&rdquo; he exclaimed, reproachfully.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t mean that, either,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;I am
sorry now. I think I understand you better. Besides,&rdquo; she added, with a
sudden gaiety that had a touch of self-consolation in it, &ldquo;I want
to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice! Truly?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you tell?&rdquo; she queried.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; he smiled, holding out his hands; and, to his
amazement, she came forward.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t explain myself to myself quite,&rdquo; she added, in a
hurried low, eager tone, &ldquo;but I couldn&rsquo;t stay away any longer. I
had the feeling that you might be going to lose here for the present. But I
want you to go somewhere else if you have to&mdash;London or Paris. The world
won&rsquo;t understand us quite&mdash;but I do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Berenice!&rdquo; He smothered her cheek and hair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not so close, please. And there aren&rsquo;t to be any other ladies,
unless you want me to change my mind.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not another one, as I hope to keep you. You will share everything I
have...&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
For answer&mdash;
</p>

<p>
How strange are realities as opposed to illusion!
</p>

<h3>In Retrospect</h3>

<p>
The world is dosed with too much religion. Life is to be learned from life, and
the professional moralist is at best but a manufacturer of shoddy wares. At the
ultimate remove, God or the life force, if anything, is an equation, and at its
nearest expression for man&mdash;the contract social&mdash;it is that also. Its
method of expression appears to be that of generating the individual, in all
his glittering variety and scope, and through him progressing to the mass with
its problems. In the end a balance is invariably struck wherein the mass
subdues the individual or the individual the mass&mdash;for the time being.
For, behold, the sea is ever dancing or raging.
</p>

<p>
In the mean time there have sprung up social words and phrases expressing a
need of balance&mdash;of equation. These are right, justice, truth, morality,
an honest mind, a pure heart&mdash;all words meaning: a balance must be struck.
The strong must not be too strong; the weak not too weak. But without variation
how could the balance be maintained? Nirvana! Nirvana! The ultimate, still,
equation.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Rushing like a great comet to the zenith, his path a blazing trail, Cowperwood
did for the hour illuminate the terrors and wonders of individuality. But for
him also the eternal equation&mdash;the pathos of the discovery that even
giants are but pygmies, and that an ultimate balance must be struck. Of the
strange, tortured, terrified reflection of those who, caught in his wake, were
swept from the normal and the commonplace, what shall we say? Legislators by
the hundred, who were hounded from politics into their graves; a half-hundred
aldermen of various councils who were driven grumbling or whining into the
limbo of the dull, the useless, the commonplace. A splendid governor dreaming
of an ideal on the one hand, succumbing to material necessity on the other,
traducing the spirit that aided him the while he tortured himself with his own
doubts. A second governor, more amenable, was to be greeted by the hisses of
the populace, to retire brooding and discomfited, and finally to take his own
life. Schryhart and Hand, venomous men both, unable to discover whether they
had really triumphed, were to die eventually, puzzled. A mayor whose greatest
hour was in thwarting one who contemned him, lived to say: &ldquo;It is a great
mystery. He was a strange man.&rdquo; A great city struggled for a score of
years to untangle that which was all but beyond the power of solution&mdash;a
true Gordian knot.
</p>

<p>
And this giant himself, rushing on to new struggles and new difficulties in an
older land, forever suffering the goad of a restless heart&mdash;for him was no
ultimate peace, no real understanding, but only hunger and thirst and wonder.
Wealth, wealth, wealth! A new grasp of a new great problem and its eventual
solution. Anew the old urgent thirst for life, and only its partial quenchment.
In Dresden a palace for one woman, in Rome a second for another. In London a
third for his beloved Berenice, the lure of beauty ever in his eye. The lives
of two women wrecked, a score of victims despoiled; Berenice herself weary, yet
brilliant, turning to others for recompense for her lost youth. And he
resigned, and yet not&mdash;loving, understanding, doubting, caught at last by
the drug of a personality which he could not gainsay.
</p>

<p>
What shall we say of life in the last analysis&mdash;&ldquo;Peace, be
still&rdquo;? Or shall we battle sternly for that equation which we know will
be maintained whether we battle or no, in order that the strong become not too
strong or the weak not too weak? Or perchance shall we say (sick of dullness):
&ldquo;Enough of this. I will have strong meat or die!&rdquo; And die? Or live?
</p>

<p>
Each according to his temperament&mdash;that something which he has not made
and cannot always subdue, and which may not always be subdued by others for
him. Who plans the steps that lead lives on to splendid glories, or twist them
into gnarled sacrifices, or make of them dark, disdainful, contentious
tragedies? The soul within? And whence comes it? Of God?
</p>

<p>
What thought engendered the spirit of Circe, or gave to a Helen the lust of
tragedy? What lit the walls of Troy? Or prepared the woes of an Andromache? By
what demon counsel was the fate of Hamlet prepared? And why did the weird
sisters plan ruin to the murderous Scot?
</p>

<p class="poem">
Double, double toil and trouble,<br/>
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.<br/>
</p>

<p>
In a mulch of darkness are bedded the roots of endless sorrows&mdash;and of
endless joys. Canst thou fix thine eye on the morning? Be glad. And if in the
ultimate it blind thee, be glad also! Thou hast lived.
</p>

<h5>THE END</h5>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<pre>





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