The Stoic tod-3

by Theodore Dreiser

  “Well, yes,” she said slowly. “I can’t see any other way. But that London matter will have to be thought out very carefully. And I am not thinking of myself alone.”

  “I’m sure of it,” replied Cowperwood, “but with a little luck, we should get by. One of the things we must do is to avoid being seen together too much, I suppose. But first of all, we must think of a way to distract the attention of Aileen. For, of course, she knows all about you. Because of my contact with you and your mother in New York, she has suspected for a long time that there was an intrigue between us. I was never in a position to tell you that; you didn’t seem to like me well enough.”

  “Didn’t really know you well enough,” corrected Berenice. “You were too much of an enigma.”

  “And now . . .?”

  “Just as much so as ever, I fear.”

  “I doubt that. In regard to Aileen, though, I have no solution. She is so suspicious. As long as I am here in this country, and appear in New York occasionally, she doesn’t seem to mind. But if I left, and appeared to be settling in London, and the newspapers discussed it . . .” he paused, meditating.

  “You’re afraid she will talk, or follow you and make a scene—something of that sort?”

  “It’s hard to say what she might or might not do. With a little diversion of some sort, she might not do anything. On the other hand, and particularly since she’s taken to drinking in the last few years, she might do anything. Several years ago, in one of her brooding fits, and when she was drinking, she tried to kill herself.” (Berenice frowned.) “I prevented that by breaking in and talking rather forcibly to her.” He described the scene, but did not picture himself as uncompromising as he had been.

  Berenice listened, convinced at last of Aileen’s undying love, and feeling that now she was adding one more thorn to her inescapable crown. Only, as she reasoned, nothing that she could do would change Cowperwood. As for herself, and her desire for some sort of revenge on society . . . well, she cared for him, too. She really did. He was like a strong drug. His mental as well as his physical charm was enormous, really irresistible. The important thing was to achieve this constructive relationship without doing any additional harm to Aileen.

  She paused, thinking, and then said: “It is a real problem, isn’t it? But we have a little time to consider it. Let it go for a day or two. She is certainly on my mind, all of the time . . .” She looked at Cowperwood, wide-eyed, thoughtfully and affectionately, a faint and yet cheering smile playing about her mouth. “Together we’ll manage, I know.”

  She rose from her chair by the fire, walked over to sit on his lap, began to rumple his hair.

  “All problems are not financial, are they?” she said, quizzically, touching his forehead with her lips.

  “They certainly are not,” he replied lightly, cheered by her affectionate sympathy and encouragement.

  And then, for diversion, he suggested that since there had been a heavy snowfall the previous day, a sleigh ride would be a delightful way to end the day. He knew of a charming inn on the North Shore, where they might have dinner beside the lake under a winter moon.

  Returning late that night, Berenice sat alone in her room before the fire, thinking and planning. She had already telegraphed her mother to come to Chicago at once. She would have her go to a certain North Side hotel and register for both of them. With her mother there, she could outline the course which she and Cowperwood had in mind.

  What troubled her most, however, was Aileen, alone in that great house in New York, with youth, if not beauty, gone forever, and recently, as Berenice had noticed, suffering the handicap of too much flesh, which apparently she had not troubled to overcome. Her clothes, too, ran more to richness and show than to real taste. Years, physical appearance, and lack of a gifted mentality: all of them made it impossible for Aileen to contend against one like Berenice. But never, as she told herself, would she be cruel, however vengeful Aileen might be. Rather, she proposed to be as generous as possible, and also she would not countenance the least cruelty or even thoughtlessness on Cowperwood’s part, if she could detect it in time. Actually, she felt sorry for Aileen, very sorry, realizing how she must be feeling in her torn and discarded heart, for already, as young as she was, she herself had suffered, and her mother also. Their wounds were still all too fresh.

  Hence, the thing to do, as she now decided, was to play as subdued and inconspicuous a role as possible in Cowperwood’s life, going about with him, true enough, since that was his greatest desire and need, but without being identified too clearly. If only there were some way of diverting Aileen’s mind from her present ills, and so keep her from hating Cowperwood, and, once she knew all, Berenice herself.

  At first she thought of religion, or rather, wondered if there were not a priest or minister whose religious counsel might be of benefit to Aileen. There were always such well-disposed, if politic, souls, who for a bequest, or the hope of it, at her death, might gladly minister to her. Back in New York, as she recalled, was such a person: the Reverend Willis Steele, Rector of St. Swithin’s of the Episcopal Diocese of New York. She had occasionally visited his church, more to dream over the simple architecture and agreeable service than to plead with God. The Reverend Willis was middle-aged, airy, bland, attractive, but without much money, although possessed of a high degree of social polish. She recalled him as once having approached her, but further thought of him only caused her to smile, and she dismissed the idea. But surely Aileen needed to be looked after by someone.

  Suddenly she bethought herself at this point of one of those affable social ne’er-do-wells so common in New York society, who, for enough cash or entertainment, might be relied upon to create a fairly gay, if not exactly conventional, social scene about Aileen, and thus divert her, for the time being, anyhow. But how to go about reaching and influencing such a person to that end?

  Berenice decided that this idea was really too shrewd and too cunning to come from her as a suggestion to Cowperwood. She did feel, however, that it was too valuable to be neglected. Her mother, perhaps, might throw out the hint to him. Once the bare thought of it was flicked before him, he could be counted on to react in a practical manner.

  Chapter 6

  Henry de Sota Sippens was the man whom Cowperwood thought of at once to send to London to spy out the physical aspects and financial possibilities of the London underground system.

  Years before, he had discovered Sippens, who had been invaluable in the negotiations to secure the contract for Chicago gas. And with the money made from that venture, Cowperwood had invaded the Chicago street railway field, and had included Sippens, because, as he had learned, the man had a genuine talent for spying out and aiding in the development of any public utility or service. He was inclined to be nervous and irritable, easily set jangling, therefore not always diplomatic; but on the other hand, he was wholly loyal, though possessed of an uncompromising midwestern “Americanism” which often proved as irritating as it was valuable.

  In the opinion of Sippens, at the present moment, Cowperwood had received an almost fatal body blow in the defeat in connection with his local franchises. He could not see how the man could ever restore himself with the local financiers who had invested with him and were now likely to lose some of their money. Since the night of the defeat, Sippens had been nervous about meeting him again. What was he to say? How sympathize with a man who up to a week ago had been one of the world’s seemingly unconquerable financial giants?

  Yet now, only the third day after that defeat, there came to Sippens a telegram from one of Cowperwood’s secretaries requesting him to call on his former employer. Meeting him and finding him cheerful, sparkling, vibrating with good humor, Sippens could scarcely believe his eyes.

  “Well, how’s the Chief? I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

  “I never felt better, De Sota. And how are you? Ready for any fate?”

  “Well, you ought to know, Chief. I’ve been standing by. It’s whate
ver you say with me.”

  “I know that, De Sota,” replied Cowperwood, smiling. For in truth, because of his compensating success with Berenice, he was feeling that the greatest pages of his life’s history were about to be opened and written upon, and he felt not only hopeful but kindly toward all. “I have something I want you to undertake for me. I sent for you, De Sota, because I need reliability and secrecy, and I know you’re the man!”

  And for the moment his lips stiffened, and his eyes took on that hard, fixed, metallic, inscrutable luster which those who mistrusted and feared him hated. Sippens threw out his chest and chin and stood at attention. He was a little man, not more than five feet four, but heightened by high-heeled shoes and a top hat that he never doffed to anyone but Cowperwood. He wore a long double-breasted and skirted coat, which he thought gave him height and dignity.

  “Thanks, Chief,” he said, “you know I’d go to hell for you any time.” His lips almost trembled, so wrought-up was he, not only by Cowperwood’s combined faith and flattery but by all that he had been compelled to endure during the past few months as well as throughout the years of their association.

  “But it’s nothing like going through hell this time, De Sota,” said Cowperwood, relaxing and smiling. “We’ve just done that here in Chicago, and we won’t have to do it again. And I’m going to show you why. What I want to talk to you about now, De Sota, is London and its underground system, and the possibility of my doing something over there.”

  And here he paused and motioned blandly and easily to Sippens to take the chair closest to him, while Sippens, thoroughly aroused by the bare possibilities of something so different and interesting, fairly gasped.

  “London! You don’t say, Chief. Great! I knew you’d do something, Chief! I knew it! Oh, I can’t tell you how this makes me feel, Chief!” As he spoke, his face brightened as with a light turned on within, and his fingers twitched. He half rose and then sat down again, a sure sign of excitement within him. He pulled at his fierce and rather top-heavy mustache, while he contemplated Cowperwood with brooding and wholly reassured admiration.

  “Thanks, De Sota,” commented Cowperwood at this point. “I thought it might interest you.”

  “Interest me, Chief!” returned Sippens, excitedly. “Why, Chief, you’re one of the wonders of the world! Why, here you are, scarcely through with these Chicago bastards and you’re ready to tackle a thing like this! It’s marvelous! I always knew no one could put you down, but after this last thing, I confess I was prepared to see you sag a little. But not you, Chief! It just isn’t in you to wilt. You’re too big, that’s all. I’d break under a thing like that myself. I know I would. I’d quit, I admit it. But not you! Well, all I want to know is what you want me to do, Chief, and I’ll do it! And no one will know a thing, if that’s what you want, Chief.”

  “Well, that’s one of the things, De Sota,” said Cowperwood. “Secrecy and that good hard-boiled traction sense of yours! It’ll come in handy in connection with this idea of mine, if I go through with it. And neither one of us is going to be any the worse off for it, either.”

  “Don’t mention it, Chief, don’t mention it,” went on De Sota, tense almost to the breaking point. “I’ve had enough out of you if I never get another cent between now and the time we pass out. Just you tell me what you want and I’ll do it to the best of my ability, or I’ll come back and tell you that I can’t do it.”

  “You never told me that yet, De Sota, and I don’t believe you ever will. But here it is, in a nutshell. About a year ago, when we were all busy with this extension business here, there were two Englishmen here from London, representing a London syndicate of some kind. I’ll give you the details later, but this is a rough idea . . .”

  And he outlined all that Greaves and Henshaw had said to him, concluding with the thought which was in his own mind at the time.

  “It’s all too top-heavy with money already expended, as you see, De Sota. Nearly $500,000 and nothing to show for it except that act or franchise for a line four or five miles long. And that has to be connected in some way by track rights over these two other systems before it can really come to anything. They admitted that themselves. But what I’m interested in now, De Sota, is to find out not only all about this whole London underground system as it stands now, but the possibility of a much bigger system, if such a thing is possible. You know what I mean, of course—with lines that would pay, say, if pushed into territories not yet reached by any other. You understand?”

  “Perfectly, Chief!”

  “Besides that,” he went on, “I want maps of the general layout and character of the city, its traction lines, surface or underground, where they start from and where they end, together with the geological formation, if we can find that out. Also the neighborhoods or districts they reach, the sort of people living in them now or who are likely to live there. You understand?”

  “Perfectly, Chief, perfectly!”

  “Then, too, I want to know all about the franchises covering those lines as they exist now—those acts, I believe they call them—their duration, the length of the lines, who owns them, their biggest stockholders, how they’re operated, how much their shares pay—everything, in fact, that you can find out without attracting too much attention to yourself, and certainly no attention to me. You understand that, of course, and why?”

  “Perfectly, Chief, perfectly!”

  “Then, De Sota, I’d like to know all about wages, as well as operational costs, in connection with the existing lines.”

  “Right, Chief,” echoed Sippens, already in his own mind planning his work.

  “Then there’s the matter of digging and equipment costs, the losses and new costs in connection with changing lines which are now in existence from steam—which is what I understand they use over there—to electricity, the new third-rail idea they’re talking about using in New York in that new subway. You know, the English do differently and feel differently about these things, and I want all you can tell me about that. Lastly, maybe you can find out something about the land values that are likely to be made by what we do, and whether it might be worth while to buy in advance in any direction, as we have done here in Lakeview and other places. You remember?”

  “Certainly, Chief, certainly,” replied Sippens. “I understand everything, and I’ll get you everything you want, and maybe more. Why, this thing’s wonderful! And I can’t tell you how proud and happy I am that you’ve called on me to do it. When do you suppose you’ll be wanting me to go?”

  “At once,” replied Cowperwood; “that is, just as soon as you can arrange your affairs in connection with your present work out there in the suburbs.” He was referring to his rural Union Traction system, of which Sippens was then president. “Better have Kitteredge take over, and you give it out that you’re going to take the winter off somewhere: England, or the Continent. If you can keep any mention of your presence out of the papers, so much the better. If you can’t, make it look as though you were interested in anything but traction. And if you hear of any railroad men over there who appear to be alive and who would be good to take over along with such lines as they are connected with, let me know of them. For, of course, this is going to have to be an English, not an American, enterprise from start to finish, De Sota, if we take it over. You know that. These English don’t like Americans, and I don’t want any anti-American war.”

  “Right, Chief, I understand. All I ask, though, is that if I can be useful to you anywhere over there afterward, I hope you’ll keep me in mind. I’ve worked with you so long, Chief, and so close, it would be hard on me if after all this time . . .” he paused and stared at Cowperwood almost pleadingly, and Cowperwood returned his look blandly but at the same time inscrutably.

  “That’s right, that’s right, De Sota. I know, and I understand. When the time comes, I’ll do whatever I can. I won’t forget you.”

  Chapter 7

  Having instructed Sippens as to his duties and also ascertai
ned that insofar as Chicago was concerned he would have to go east to consult with certain financiers if he were to extract any immediate sums from his holdings, Cowperwood’s mind naturally reverted to Berenice and the matter of traveling and living in such a way as to attract as little attention as possible.

  Of course it was all so much clearer in his own mind than in that of Berenice—the long chain of facts and association connecting him with Aileen and with no one else so intimately. It was something which Berenice could not fully realize, particularly because of his ardent pursuit of her. But he himself was compelled to doubt the wisdom of any action in regard to Aileen other than something decidedly diplomatic and placative. It would be too great a risk, particularly if London were invaded, and so soon after this hue and cry in connection with his corporations and his social methods in Chicago. He had been accused of bribery and anti-social methods in general. And now to provoke public complaints as well as possibly some form of public action on the part of Aileen—tips to the newspapers about his relationship with Berenice—that would never do.

  And then there was another problem, quite capable of causing trouble between himself and Berenice. And that was his relationship with other women. Several of these affairs were by no means closed. Arlette Wayne was temporarily disposed of, and there were others which had no more than a casual life, but there was still Caroline Hand, the wife of Hosmer Hand, wealthy Chicago investor in railways and packing houses. Caroline had been a mere girl-wife when Cowperwood first met her. She had since been divorced by Hand because of him, but with a handsome settlement. And she was still devoted to Cowperwood. He had given her a house in Chicago, and throughout the Chicago fight he had spent quite a lot of time in her company, for he had become convinced that Berenice would never come to him.

  And now Caroline was thinking of going to New York in order to be near him when he finally decided to leave Chicago. She was a clever woman, not jealous—or openly so, at least—beautiful, though a bit unconventional in her style of dress, and witty to a degree which unvariably succeeded in diverting him. She was now thirty, but looked twenty-five, and retained to the full the spirit of twenty. Up to the very hour of Berenice’s arrival, and since—although Berenice did not know of this—Caroline Hand kept open house for Cowperwood, inviting whomsoever he wished to receive there. It was her establishment on the North Side to which the Chicago newspapers had referred in their bitterest attacks on him. She always protested that when he no longer cared for her, he should say so and she would not seek to hold him.