Considering the case of Caroline, he pondered over the idea of taking her at her word, explaining as she had suggested, and then departing. Nevertheless, much as he cared for Berenice, that seemed a little unnecessary. He might be able to explain to both of them. At any rate, nothing should be allowed to mar his relationship with Berenice, to whom he promised to be as faithful as it was possible for him to be.
But his mind returned continually to the problem presented by Aileen. He could not avoid recalling the various happenings that had drawn them together. That first intense and dramatic fever that had bound her to him in Philadelphia, and which had contributed to, if it had not wholly brought about, his first financial ruin! The gay, unreasoning, emotional Aileen of those days, giving all of herself so feverishly and expecting in return that perfect security which love, in all its destructive history, had never yielded to anyone! And even now, after all these years, after what liaisons in his life and hers, she had not changed, she still loved him.
“You know, dear,” he said to Berenice, “I feel really sorry for Aileen. There she is, in that big house in New York, without any connections that are worth while, sought after by a lot of bounders who do nothing but persuade her to drink and carouse and then try to get money from her to pay the bills. I know that from the servants, who are still loyal to me.”
“It certainly is pathetic,” commented Berenice, “but understandable, too.”
“I don’t want to be hard on her,” continued Cowperwood. “As a matter of fact, I take all the blame. What I’d like to do would be to find some attractive fellow in New York society, or on the edge of it, who, for a given sum of money, would undertake the job of socially managing and entertaining her. I don’t mean that too literally, of course.” And here he smiled ruefully at Berenice.
But she pretended to take no notice of it, unless a blank and brief stare, coupled with faint twitchings at the corners of her mouth, could be construed to convey the sense of satisfaction with which she received the news that he was so much in accord with her own idea.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, cautiously. “Maybe there are such people.”
“There must be scores of them,” said Cowperwood, practically. “Of course, he’d have to be an American. Aileen doesn’t like foreigners, male foreigners, I mean. But one thing is sure, this problem should be settled soon if we’re going to have any peace and be able to move about freely.”
“I think I know of a man who might do,” interjected Berenice, thoughtfully. “His name is Bruce Tollifer. Of the Virginia and South Carolina Tollifers. Perhaps you know him.”
“No. Is he anything like the type I have in mind?”
“Well, he’s young, and very good-looking, if that’s what you mean,” went on Berenice. “I don’t know him personally. The only time I ever saw him was at the Dania Moores, in New Jersey, at the tennis matches. Edgar Boncille was telling me that day what a sponger the fellow was, and how he made his living out of rich women, Mrs. Dania Moore, for one.” Here she laughed, and added: “I think Edgar was a little afraid I might become interested in him, and I did like his looks.” She smiled elusively, as though she knew scarcely anything about this person.
“Sounds interesting,” said Cowperwood. “No doubt, he’s pretty well known around New York.”
“Yes. I remember Edgar said he played around Wall Street. Wasn’t really in it; just pretense for the sake of impressing people.”
“Indeed!” said Cowperwood, looking quite pleased. “Well, I dare say I’d have no trouble locating him, although there are plenty of his type. I’ve met quite a few in my time.”
“It’s a little shameful, I feel,” mused Berenice. “I wish we needn’t talk of it. And I think you should make sure that Aileen doesn’t get into any trouble through anyone you decide to use in this way.”
“I mean only the best for her in every sense, Bevy. You must know that. I simply would like to find someone who could do some of the things for her that neither she nor I, singly or together, could achieve.” And here he paused and gazed speculatively at Berenice, and she a little darkly and ruefully at him. “I want someone who can be of service to her in the way of entertainment, and I am willing to pay for it, and pay well.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Berenice, and then, as if wishing to change an unpleasant subject: “I’m expecting Mother around one o’clock tomorrow. I have arranged for rooms at the Brandingham. But now I want to ask you about Rolfe.”
“What about him?”
“Oh, he’s so impractical. He’s never had any training. I wish I could find something for him to do.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll have one of my men here take care of him. He can come out here as secretary to one of them. I’ll have Kitteredge write him.”
Berenice looked at him, not a little affected by the ease with which he solved everything, and by his generosity to her.
“I want you to know that I’m not ungrateful, Frank. You’re so good to me.”
Chapter 8
At the very time Berenice was speaking of him, Bruce Tollifer, the handsome ne’er-do-well was resting his considerably abused body, as well as his varied and colorful mind, in one of the lesser bedrooms of Mrs. Selma Hall’s rooming house on East Fifty-third Street, a once semi-fashionable but now rather déclassé New York “brownstone front” neighborhood. In his mouth was a sickly taste, the aftermath of late hours the night before; but at his elbow, just the same on a rather time-eaten taboret, were a bottle of whiskey, a siphon of seltzer, and cigarettes. And lying at his side, in the folding wall-bed, was a decidedly attractive young actress, whose salary, room, and other possessions he shared.
Both were half-dozing at a little before eleven in the morning. But a few moments later Rosalie Harrigan opened her eyes, and surveying the none too attractive room, with its wallpaper once cream-colored but now a faded brown, its low, triple-mirrored dressing table, and chest of drawers, decided that she must get up and remove the unsightly array of clothing strewn around the room. There was also an improvised kitchen and bathroom, and just to the right of the taboret was a writing table upon which Rosalie served such meals as were eaten in the apartment.
Even en déshabillé, Rosalie was an enticing creature. Curly, tousled black hair, a small white face, with small, searching black eyes, red lips, a slightly turned-up nose, a figure gracefully and sensually rounded, all combined to hold, for a time, anyhow, the rakish, restless, handsome Tollifer. She was also thinking that she would mix a drink for Tollifer and hand him a cigarette. Then, if he were interested, she would make some coffee and boil a couple of eggs. Or if he chose not to stir or pay any attention to her, she would dress and leave for rehearsal, which was called for twelve o’clock, and then return to his side to await his eventual wakefulness. For Rosalie was in love.
Essentially a squire of dames, Tollifer was never more than lukewarm in return for all such favors. For why should he be? A Tollifer, of the Virginia and South Carolina Tollifers! He was entitled to go with the best people anywhere! The one trouble was that except for Rosalie or any girl of her type, he was usually without a dime, and worse, drunk and in debt. Nevertheless and notwithstanding, he was a magnet where women were concerned. However, after some twenty-odd years of trifling, he had failed to make an important social connection with any of them, and so was now inclined to be brief, sarcastic, and dictatorial with anyone he might choose to favor.
Tollifer was of a good southern family, one that had once been wealthy and socially prominent. In Charleston, at that very time, was still standing an old and charming residence in which was housed what was left of a branch of the family that had endured since before the Civil War. In their possession were thousands of dollars’ worth of Confederate bonds made worthless by the outcome of that conflict. And in the Army at this time was a brother, Captain Wexford Tollifer, no less, who considered Bruce a waster and a social loafer.
And in San Antonio, Texas, was another brother
, a successful rancher, who had gone west, married, had children, and settled down, and now looked on Bruce’s ambitions in connection with New York society as the limit of folly. For if he were ever going to do anything—bag an heiress, for instance—why hadn’t he done so years before? True, his name had been in the papers from time to time, and once it had been rumored that he was about to marry a wealthy New York débutante. But that was ten years before, when he was twenty-eight, and nothing had come of it. Neither of his brothers nor any other relative had by now the least faith in him. He was through. Most of his one-time friends in New York society were inclined to agree. He was too much a victim of his desires. He had too little respect for his social worth or position. And so they had long since reached the point where they would lend him nothing more.
Yet there were still others, men and women, old and young, who, on meeting him occasionally when he was sober and perfectly groomed, could not help regretting that he had not married a fortune and so restored himself to the groups which he could so well adorn. His warm southern accent, when he chose to employ it, was so delightful, and his smile so winsome.
The present affair with Rosalie Harrigan was but eight weeks old, yet bidding fair not to endure much longer. She was merely a chorus girl, earning thirty-five dollars a week. She was gay and sweet and affectionate, but, as he felt, not forceful enough to get anywhere. It was her body, her lust, and her love that held him for the time being.
And now, on this particular morning, Rosalie surveyed his ruffled black hair and his finely modeled mouth and chin with a delight that was wholly pathetic, since it was tinged by the all too desperate fear that he would be taken from her by another. It might be, as she well knew, that he would awaken with growls and savage oaths and orders. Just the same, she wished that she might remain with him for hours, if only to touch his hair.
On the other hand, the mind of Tollifer, half in dreams and half in wakefulness, was contemplating the ills with which his daily life was streaked. For at present, other than the money he took from Rosalie, he had nothing. And now his interest in her was already dulled. If only he could find a woman of wealth, with whom he might splurge financially, even marry, and so show a lot of these local upstarts who now looked down on him what it meant to be a Tollifer, and a rich Tollifer!
Soon after he had come to New York, he had attempted to elope with a lovesick heiress, but her parents had spirited her abroad. And he found himself denounced in the public press as a fortune-hunter, one who should and would be guarded against by all respectable families of wealth who wished their daughters to marry happily and well. And that failure, or mistake, along with drink, lust, gambling, had closed to him for all of these years the doors he wished to enter.
On fully awakening this morning, and while dressing, he began growling at Rosalie about a party of the night before into which she had inveigled him, and at which he had become intoxicated and belittled and ridiculed those around him until they were heartily glad to be rid of him.
“Such people! Such bounders!” he cried. “Why didn’t you tell me those newspapermen were going to be there? Actors are bad enough, God knows, but those newspaper snoops, and those publicity hounds who came with your actress friends! Bah!”
“But I didn’t know they were coming, Bruce,” pleaded Rosalie, who, pale and picturesque, was doing her best to toast a slice of bread over a gas jet. “I thought it was just for the stars of the show.”
“Stars! You call those people stars! If they’re stars, then I’m a whole sidereal system!” (A comparison entirely lost on Rosalie, who had no notion of what he was talking about.) “Those bums! You wouldn’t know a star from an oil lamp!”
Then he yawned, wondering how long before he would find nerve enough to brace up and quit this. How low was he going to fall? Sharing with girls who earned no more than enough for themselves, and then drinking and gambling with men with whom he couldn’t share and share alike!
“God, I can’t stand this!” he cried. “I’ll have to quit. I just can’t hang around here any longer. It’s too damned degrading!”
He walked the length of the room and back again, his hands thrust angrily into his pockets, while Rosalie stood silently near him. Fear would not permit her to speak.
“Well, do you hear me?” he demanded. “Are you going to stand there like a dummy? Oh, you women! You either fight like cats, or lie down and say nothing! God, if I could find one woman, just one, with a little sense in her nut, I’d . . . I’d . . .”
Rosalie looked up at him, her mouth twisted into a tortured smile. “Well, what would you do?” she said, quietly.
“I’d hang on to her! I might even love her! But, my God, what’s the use? Here I am, fiddling around in this hole, and accomplishing what? I belong to another world, and I’m going to get back into it! You and I are going to have to separate. It can’t be otherwise. I can’t go on like this a day longer!”
And so saying he went to the closet, and taking out his hat and overcoat, moved toward the door. Rosalie, however, edged in before him, throwing her arms around him and pressing her face to his. She was weeping.
“Oh, Bruce, oh, please! What have I done? Don’t you love me any more? Isn’t it enough that I’ll do anything you want? I don’t ask anything of you, do I? Please, Bruce, you won’t leave me, will you, Bruce?”
But Tollifer, pushing her aside, broke away.
“Don’t, Rosalie, don’t,” he went on. “I won’t stand for it! You can’t hold me this way. I’m getting out because I have to!”
He opened the door, but as he moved, Rosalie threw herself between him and the stairs.
“Oh, Bruce,” she cried, “for God’s sake, you can’t go! Listen, you can’t leave me this way! I’ll do anything, anything at all, I tell you! Oh, Bruce, I’ll get more money, I’ll get a better job. I know I can. We can move to another apartment. I’ll fix it all. Bruce, please sit down, and don’t carry on this way. I’ll kill myself if you leave me!”
But Tollifer was adamant by this time. “Oh, cut that, Rosie! Don’t be a damn fool! I know you’re not going to kill yourself, and you know it, too. Brace up! Just be calm, and I’ll see you tonight or tomorrow, maybe, but I’ve got to make a new deal, that’s all there is to it. Do you get that?”
Rosalie weakened under his gaze. She realized now that the inevitable was not to be avoided. She knew she could not hold him if he wished to go.
“Oh, Bruce,” she pleaded once more, pressing close to him. “I won’t let you go! I won’t! I won’t! You can’t go this way!”
“Can’t I?” he demanded. “Well, just watch me!” And he pulled her away from the door and went out, hurrying down the stairs. Rosalie, breathless and filled with terror, stood staring as the house door slammed, then turned wearily and re-entered the room, closing the door and leaning against it.
It was nearly time to go to rehearsal, but she shuddered as she thought of it. She didn’t care now. There was nothing . . . unless, maybe, he would come back . . . he would have to come back for his clothes . . .
Chapter 9
The thought which Tollifer was cherishing at this time was that he might get a job in a brokerage house or trust company dealing with the affairs, or, more particularly, the fortunes, of widows or daughters of men of wealth. His difficulty, however, was that he had passed out of the group of society handy men that flourished not only on the fringe, but in the very heart, of New York society of that day. Such men were not only useful, but at times absolutely essential, to those with money but no background who sought to enter society, as well as to passé débutantes who, because of encroaching years, wished to maintain a conspicuous place.
The qualifications were considerable, including the best American descent, appearance, social flair, and a sophisticated interest in yachting, racing, polo, tennis, riding, driving—especially the four-in-hand coach—the opera, the theater, the sporting ring. These men followed the wealthy to Paris, Biarritz, Monte Carlo, Nice, Switzerland, Newp
ort, Palm Beach; the duck blinds of the south and the country clubs everywhere. In New York their principal haunts were the smart restaurants, the “Diamond Horseshoe” of the opera, and the theaters. It was necessary that they dress well and appropriately for any occasion; be of service and skill in obtaining the best seats for a horse show, a tennis match, a football game, or the current popular play. It helped if they were able to take a hand at cards and explain the finer points of the game, or, on occasion, give advice or make suggestions as to clothes, jewels, or the decoration of a room. But, above all, they must see that the names of their patrons appeared with comparative frequency in Town Topics or the newspaper society colums.
To work at this sort of thing continuously, however, meant that in some not too discreditable way, the handy man must be rewarded for the efforts, and sometimes sacrifices, he had to make, particularly the sacrifice of the zest and thrill which otherwise would come to him through his companionship with youth and beauty. For principally his attentions must be devoted to the middle-aged, those like Aileen, who feared the dreadful hour of social or emotional boredom.
Well, Tollifer had been through all that, years of it, and at about thirty-one or -two, had begun to tire of it. And, from sheer boredom and sometimes sickness of heart over the whole thing, he would disappear, to drink and amuse himself with a beauty of the stage world who had fire and love and devotion to offer him. Just the same, at this time he was once more entertaining the thought of visiting such restaurants, bars, hotels, and other places as were frequented by the people who could do him the most good. He was going to brace up, stay sober, get a little money from somewhere—from Rosalie, maybe—and with it make such a sartorial and financial display as would cause him to be looked upon again as a possibility in the social sense. And then . . . well, watch him this time!
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