So Tollifer, gayly afloat off the North Cape with Marigold and a party of her friends, and greatly disappointed by his recall, was obliged to state that financial affairs required his immediate return to New York. And soon after his return, and doing his best to amuse himself as well as Aileen, he heard rumours of Lorna and Cowperwood, and was, of course, interested. Yet, although envying Cowperwood his luck, he was careful at every point to belittle and deny all gossip that he heard, and in particular to shield him from any suspicion on the part of Aileen.
Unfortunately, he arrived too late to forestall an inevitable article in Town Topics, which presently fell into Aileen’s hands. It produced on her the usual effect, the old bitter contemplation of her husband’s besetting vice. No matter how great his standing before the world, how marvelous his power of achievement, he must allow these petty vagrants, infinitely beneath him, to tarnish and becloud what would otherwise have been a tremendous and untarnished public position.
There was one consolation. If she were once again to be humiliated in this way, there was Berenice Fleming to be humiliated also. For Aileen had long been consciously irritated by the unseen presence of Berenice ever in the background. And observing Berenice’s New York house to be closed, she assumed that Cowperwood must be neglecting her also. For most certainly he was showing no desire to leave the city.
One of the excuses which he gave for remaining in New York related to the nomination and possible election of William Jennings Bryan, a political firebrand, who, with economic and social theories somewhat at variance with the current capitalistic views of how money should be managed and divided, was seeking to bridge the then unbridgeable gulf between the rich and the poor. And, in consequence, in the United States there was at that time a genuine commercial fear, bordering almost on panic, lest this man actually win the presidency. This permitted Cowperwood to say to Aileen that it would be dangerous for him to leave the country at this time, since on Bryan’s stabilizing defeat depended his own financial success. And he wrote Berenice to the same effect. That ultimately she was not permitted to believe him was due to the fact that Aileen had mailed a copy of Town Topics to her New York address, and in due time, it arrived at Pryor’s Cove.
Chapter 42
Among all the men Berenice had met thus far, Cowperwood alone, with his strength and achievements, supplied the most glamor. But, apart from men, even Cowperwood and the elements of satisfaction and fulfilment which he offered, there was the color of life itself at Pryor’s Cove. Here, for the first time in her life, her social problems, if not settled, were at least temporarily disposed of and she was free to indulge her extreme egoism and yield to her narcissistic impulse to pose and play.
Life at Pryor’s Cove was a pleasurably solitary and idle process. In the morning, after hours in her bath and before her mirror, she loved to pick and choose costumes suitable to her mood: this hat did this, this ribbon did that, these earrings, this belt, these slippers; so it went. Sometimes, chin in hand, her elbows resting on the gold-stained marble of her dressing-table, she would gaze into the mirror studying her hair, her lips, her eyes, her breasts, her arms. And it was with the greatest care that she selected the silver, the china, the linen, the flowers, for the table, always with a view to the resulting effect. And although usually only her mother; Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper; and Rose, the maid, were there to see, it was herself who was the chief spectator. And, in the lovely walled garden off her bedroom, when the moon was up, she strolled and dreamed, thinking of Cowperwood, and frequently wishing for him intensely. Yet with the compensating thought that a brief absence would bring an exquisitely satisfying reunion.
Mrs. Carter frequently marveled at her daughter’s self-absorption, wondering why she so often sought to be alone when there was a social world steadily unfolding before her. Yet in due course, into the midst of this, came Lord Stane. It was some three weeks after Cowperwood’s departure, and he was motoring from Tregasal to London, dropping in ostensibly to look after his horses and bid his new tenants welcome. He was especially curious because he had been informed that the girl was the ward of Frank Cowperwood.
After all that had passed between herself and Cowperwood concerning this man, Berenice was at once interested and not a little amused, remembering the hairpins and brushes and the unknown Miss Hathaway. Nevertheless, she appeared smiling and confident as she greeted him. The effect of her white dress, blue slippers, blue ribbon around her waist and blue velvet band encircling her foaming red hair, was not lost on Stane. As he bowed over her slim hand, he said to himself that here was one to whom every moment of life was an occasion, and certainly a fitting ward for the ambitious and powerful Cowperwood. His eyes concealed inquiry but not admiration.
“I hope you will pardon the intrusion of your landlord,” he began. “I have several horses here that I am about to send to France, and I find it necessary to look them over.”
“Ever since we have been living here,” said Berenice, “Mother and I have been hoping to meet the owner of this adorable place. It is too lovely for words. And my guardian, Mr. Cowperwood, has spoken of you.”
“Decidedly, I am obligated to him for that,” said Stane, fascinated by her poise. “As for Pryor’s Cove, that I can’t claim credit for. It’s really an heirloom, one of the family treasures.”
Invited to stay for tea, he accepted. He asked whether they were to be long in England. Berenice, determined at once to be cautious in regard to him, replied that she could not say; it depended on how much she and her mother liked England. Meanwhile, his gaze returned again and again to meet her still blue eyes, and because of his manner she now ventured upon innocent liberties which otherwise she would not have taken. Since he was going to look at his horses, might she not look at them, too?
Stane was delighted, and together they proceeded to the paddock beyond the stables. He asked whether everything was being looked after to her satisfaction. Would she and her mother accept the use of the horses for riding or driving? Would she prefer that the gardener or farmer make any changes or rearrangements? There were, perhaps, too many sheep. He had been thinking of selling some of them. Berenice protested that she adored the sheep, that she wanted nothing changed. Well, in two or three weeks he would be returning from France and going to Tregasal, and if they were still here, he might stop in again to see them. Perhaps Mr. Cowperwood would be here. If so, it would be a pleasure to meet him again.
Plainly, here was a proffer of friendship, and she decided that she would make the most of it. Here was the possible beginning of a flirtation which somehow had been a possibility in the back of her mind ever since she had learned that Stane was her landlord and possibly Cowperwood’s future partner. After he had gone, she recalled to her mind, dreamily, his long, lean figure, his perfect country tweeds, his handsome face, his hands, his eyes. He had an air, a walk, a manner, in which charm was implicit.
But there was Cowperwood’s business with him, as well as the anomaly of her own and her mother’s position. Would he not guess? He was no Colonel Hawkesberry or Arthur Tavistock to be deceived, along with all these country curates and spinsters. She knew better, just as she knew that neither she nor Cowperwood would have been deceived. And if now she made any least move in the way of a flirtation, would he not immediately proceed upon the basis that she was no better than she should be, one whom he could add to his list of experiences without thought of permanency? Considering her affection for Cowperwood as well as her great interest in his future, she was not willing to even approximate a betrayal of this sort. It would mean too much to him. And it was possible that there would be an angry reprisal on his part. She even debated the wisdom of consenting to see Stane again.
However, early one morning in August, while she was posing Narcissus-like before her mirror, she did receive a message from Stane. He was leaving Paris, preceded by a groom with two of his horses en route to Pryor’s Cove, and would like, with her permission, to accompany them. She wrote him a note, saying t
hat she and her mother would be delighted to receive him. And she was thereupon so thrilled that she began to question herself, thinking also of Cowperwood—who, at the moment, was delighting in the charms of Lorna Maris.
Stane, though less keen than Cowperwood in the realm of finance, was a worthy rival in that of affection. When greatly interested, he was aggressive and resourceful. He loved beautiful women, and whatever his other labors, was forever pursuing some new quest. On sight of Berenice he had conceived an emotional passion for her. He thought of her in that lovely setting, alone with her mother, as a fair target for his affections, but, because of Cowperwood, realized that he would have to step carefully. However, considering that Cowperwood had not even mentioned his ward, and she was his tenant, why should he not continue to call on her, at least until he knew more? And so, when the time came, he packed with real gusto, determined to make as much of the occasion as possible.
And on her part, Berenice was ready also. She was wearing her favorite gown of pale green and was less formal and more playful than before. Had he had a good time in France? Which horse had won, the bay with the white circle around his eye, or the tall black one with the white stockings? It was the tall black one, and he had won a 12,000 franc prize as well as some side bets, as much as 35,000 francs all told.
“Enough to turn some poor French family into aristocrats, I suppose,” commented Berenice, lightly.
“Well, the French are rather thrifty, you know,” said Stane. “It would certainly make an aristocrat of some of their villagers, and, of ours, too, for that matter. Up in Scotland, where some of my father’s ancestors come from, it seems to have laid the foundation for an earldom.” He smiled reflectively. “The first earl of my family,” he added, “began with less than that.”
“And the present one ends with winning as much in a single race!”
“Well, this time, yes, but not always. My last venture at the Derby cost me almost twice that.”
They were sitting on the deck of the houseboat, waiting for tea to be served. A punt, filled with idlers, went by, and he asked Berenice if she had made use of either the canoes or punts in the houseboat.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Mr. Tavistock and I, and also Colonel Hawkesberry, who lives over near Wimbledon, have explored the river to Windsor in that direction and far beyond Marlow in this. We’ve talked of going as far as Oxford.”
“In a punt?” queried Stane.
“Well, two or three of them. Colonel Hawkesberry has been talking of arranging a party.”
“The dear old colonel! So you know him? We knew each other as boys. But I haven’t seen him in a year. He’s been in India, I believe.”
“Yes, so he told me.”
“But there’s far more interesting country around Tregasal,” said Stane, ignoring Hawkesberry and Tavistock. “We have the sea on all sides, and the rockiest coast in England, quite impressive; besides moors and fens and tin and copper mines and old churches, if you care for them. And the climate is delightful, particularly now. I do wish you and your mother would come to Tregasal. There’s quite a good small harbor there, where I keep my yacht. We could sail over to the Scilly Isles; they’re only about thirty miles away.”
“Why, how delightful! And how kind of you,” said Berenice, yet thinking of Cowperwood and what he might say, if he knew. “Mother, how would you like a yachting trip to the Scilly Isles?” she called through the open window. “Lord Stane has a yacht and a harbor of his own at Tregasal, and he thinks we would enjoy it.”
She rattled it off with an air of good humour, yet touched at the same time with the slightest trace of condescension. Stane was amused by her airy insouciance, the casual regard for an invitation which, in so many other quarters, would actually be prayed for.
Mrs. Carter appeared at the window. “You’ll have to excuse my daughter, Lord Stane,” she said. “She’s a very wilful girl. I have never had any control over her, nor has anyone else that I know of. Just the same, if I may speak for myself,”—and here she looked at Berenice as if asking permission—“it sounds delightful. And I’m sure Bevy thinks so, too.”
“So now, tea,” ran on Berenice. “And then you can come and pole me on the river, although I believe I like the canoe better. Or perhaps we could walk, or we could play a game of squash before dinner. I’ve been practicing, and I might be good at it.”
“I say, it’s too warm for squash now, isn’t it?” protested Stane.
“Lazy! I thought all Englishmen preferred hard work on a tennis court to quite anything else. The Empire must be decaying!”
But there was no squash that evening; instead, a canoe trip on the Thames, and afterward a leisurely dinner by candlelight, Stane dwelling on the charms of Tregasal, which, as he insisted, while not so modern or so handsome as many another good house in England, commanded a view of the sea and the rocky coast that was strangely, almost eerily, impressive.
But Berenice was still afraid to accept the invitation just then, although she was fascinated by his description of the place.
Chapter 43
Between Berenice and Stane there was almost a similarity of temperament. Like her, he was less rugged than Cowperwood and, to a degree, less practical. On the other hand, Stane being proportionately excluded from the practical realm in which Cowperwood shone, was more effectively radiant in that atmosphere which Berenice most enjoyed, that of an aesthetically controlled luxury. His taste and philosophy she absorbed in a few moments on their evening walk, during which Stane talked to her freely of himself. Like Cowperwood, he was inclined to accept and even rejoice in his lot as he found it. He was wealthy. He was, after a fashion, gifted. He was titled.
“But I have done nothing to earn or deserve anything that I have,” he admitted at one point.
“I can believe that,” said Berenice, laughing.
“But here I am,” he went on, pretending to ignore her interruption. “The world is like that, unfair, full of gifts for some and nothing for others.”
“I do agree with you there,” said Berenice, suddenly serious. “Life seems to be shot through with crazy predestinations, some beautiful and some terrible or shameful or brutal.”
Stane had then gone on to discuss his life. His father, he said, had wanted him to marry the daughter of a friend of his, also an earl. But, as Stane expressed it, there was not enough attraction between them. And later, at Cambridge, he had decided to delay marriage on any terms until he had seen more of the world.
“But the trouble is,” he said, “I seem to have fallen into the habit of travel. And, in between, there’s London, Paris, Tregasal, and Pryor’s Cove, when it is unoccupied.”
“But what troubles me,” said Berenice, “is what a lone bachelor can do with all those places.”
“They cater to my principal diversion, which is partying,” he answered. “There’s a great deal of that here, as you must have seen for yourself. You can hardly escape it. But also I work, you know, sometimes very strenuously.”
“For the pleasure of it?”
“Yes, I think so. At least, it keeps me in countenance with myself, establishes a balance that I find to be healthy.”
And he went on to develop his pet theory that the significance of a title unaccompanied by personal achievement was little. Besides, the world’s interest was turning to men who worked in the realm of science and economics, and it was economics which most interested him.
“But that’s not what I want to talk about,” he concluded, “but rather of Tregasal. It’s a little too distant and too bare for ordinary partying, thank goodness, so when I want a real crowd I have to do a little planning. Contrasted with all that goes around London, it’s very different, and I frequently use it as an escape.”
Immediately Berenice sensed that he was pressing for a better understanding between them. It might be best, she thought, to end the matter at once, to make sure here and now that there would be no further development. Yet she resented the necessity for such action in th
e case of someone whose view of life seemed as broad as her own. She even speculated, looking at Stane as they walked, as to whether, in case she told him of her true relation to Cowperwood, he might not be inclined to let his natural interest dominate and sustain his social courtesies. For, after all, he was now associated with Cowperwood financially and might respect him sufficiently to respect her also.
At the same time, there was this very real attraction toward him. She decided to postpone the conversation for that evening. But the following morning, and shortly after sunrise, it began again when they met for an early breakfast and horseback ride. For he insisted that he was running off to Tregasal not only to get a few days’ rest but also to be able to think clearly concerning some important financial matters which were requiring his attention.
“You see, I have let myself in for a lot of work in connection with your guardian’s underground plans,” he confided. “Perhaps you may know that he has a very complicated program, for which he seems to think he needs my help. And I am trying to decide whether I can be of any real use to him.” He paused as if waiting to see whether she had anything to say.
But Berenice, jogging close beside him, was strongly determined not to express herself in any way. And so now she said.
“Mr. Cowperwood happens to be my guardian, but his financial goings-on are a mystery to me. I am more interested in the lovely things money can accomplish than I am in how it is made.” She gave him a wavering smile.
Stane checked his horse for a moment, and turning to look at her, exclaimed: “My word, you think precisely as I do! I often wonder, loving beauty as I do, why I bother with practical matters in any form. I am often at war with myself over this point.”
And now once more Berenice began contrasting Stane with her aggressive and ruthless lover. Cowperwood’s financial genius and lust for power were tempered, to a degree, by his love of art and beauty. But Stane’s strongly developed aesthetic sense was dominant, and, besides, he likewise possessed wealth and personality, plus something Cowperwood could never achieve: the world’s acceptance of the significance of a distinguished title. The contrast was intriguing, since so obviously she was making a marked impression on Stane. English nobility as opposed to Frank Cowperwood, American financier and street railway magnate!
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