________________________________________________
_ 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--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 "Bevy," 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.
"Don't you think we had best go on a little while longer?" she
suggested to Berenice. "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't matter about me. I can live.
But you--" Mrs. Carter'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.
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--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's-wool he arrived at the door.
"Well, Bevy," he exclaimed, pretending not to know of Mrs. Carter's
absence, "how are you? How's your mother? Is she in?"
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's apron, and a palette of many
colors glistened under her thumb. She was painting and thinking
--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.
"Do come in," she said. "It's cold, isn't it? Well, there's a
nice fire here for you. No, mother isn'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?"
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--convention, ambition, or some
deficiency on his part--that was keeping her from him, keeping her
eternally distant.
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--lovely,
short tunic motives. He looked at her in her interesting and
becoming painter's apron. "Well, Berenice," he said, "always the
artist first. It is your world. You will never escape it. These
things are beautiful." He waved an ungloved hand in the direction
of a choric line. "It wasn'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't you think you are acting rather hastily?"
He spoke now as though there were some reason entirely disassociated
from himself that was impelling him to this interest in her.
Berenice, brush in hand, standing by her picture, gave him a look
that was cool, curious, defiant, equivocal.
"No, I don't think so," she replied, quietly. "You know how things
have been, so I may speak quite frankly. I know that mother's
intentions were always of the best."
Her mouth moved with the faintest touch of sadness. "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--it would be ungenerous of me to
suggest anything else." (Cowperwood's fixed eyes, it seemed to
her, had moved somewhere in their deepest depths.) "Yet I don't
feel we can go on as we have been doing. We have no money of our
own. Why shouldn't I do something? What else can I really do?"
She paused, and Cowperwood gazed at her, quite still. In her
informal, bunchy painter'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.
"Berenice," he said, quietly, "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--from my own point of view--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'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--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--taken when you were about sixteen."
"Yes, I remember," replied Berenice, simply--as quietly as though
she were hearing a confession.
"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's window. I bought
it. It is in my office now--my private office--in Chicago. You
are standing by a mantelpiece."
"I remember," replied Berenice, moved, but uncertain.
"Let me tell you a little something about my life, will you? It
won'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--five or six years. We had two
children--both still living. Then I met my present wife. She was
younger than myself--at least ten years, and very good-looking.
She was in some respects more intelligent than my first wife--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'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'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."
"I should think it would make it rather difficult for any one woman
to discover just which woman you would like to have?" smiled
Berenice, whimsically. Cowperwood was unabashed.
"It would, I presume, unless she should chance to be the very one
woman I am talking about," he replied, impressively.
"I should think she would have her work cut out for her under any
circumstances," added Berenice, lightly, but with a touch of
sympathy in her voice.
"I am making a confession," replied Cowperwood, seriously and a
little heavily. "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."
"And do you think the process has stopped by any means?" she
replied, quaintly, with that air of superior banter which puzzled,
fascinated, defied him.
"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."
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.
"Yes," she replied, "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?"
"I have found it," he answered, wondering at the ingenuity and
complexity of her mind--and of his own, for that matter--of all
mind indeed. Deep below deep it lay, staggering him at times by
its fathomless reaches. "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--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--intensely so. As you stand there now you seem to me amazingly
beautiful--the ideal I have been telling you about. Don't be
disturbed; I sha'n't press any attentions on you." (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.) "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--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.
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--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.
"I suppose you are wondering whether I ever expected to marry you
or not," he went on, getting the thought out of her mind. "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--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--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."
He paused, as if expecting her to say something, though she made
no comment beyond a questioning "Yes?"
"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--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't be happy unless I think you are going to be."
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?
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--the most appealing
ornament of some men to some women--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--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.
Aloud she said: "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--I don'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't talk to me any more now. I want to think. I want to think
over what you have said. I don't know whether I can bring myself
to it or not." (She noticed that his eyes seemed to move somehow
in their deepest depths again.) "But we won't talk about it any
more at present."
"But, Berenice," he added, with a real plea in his voice, "I wonder
if you do understand. I have been so lonely--I am--"
"Yes, I do," she replied, holding out her hand. "We are going to
be friends, whatever happens, from now on, because I really like
you. You mustn't ask me to decide about the other, though, to-day.
I can't do it. I don't want to. I don't care to."
"Not when I would so gladly give you everything--when I need it
so little?"
"Not until I think it out for myself. I don't think so, though.
No," she replied, with an air. "There, Mr. Guardian Father," she
laughed, pushing his hand away.
Cowperwood's heart bounded. He would have given millions to take
her close in his arms. As it was he smiled appealingly.
"Don't you want to jump in and come to New York with me? If your
mother isn't at the apartment you could stop at the Netherland."
"No, not to-day. I expect to be in soon. I will let you know,
or mother will."
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! _
Read next: chapter LIV - Wanted--Fifty-year Franchises
Read previous: chapter LII - Behind the Arras
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