_ 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--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--the
conviction that he was such a tremendous figure in the world--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.
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.
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--and yet she had come.
But Lynde, meditating Aileen'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's studio
--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. "You're
making things very difficult for your admirers," he suggested,
sweetly.
Aileen fancied she had postponed the struggle diplomatically for
some little time without ending it, when at two o'clock in the
afternoon her door-bell was rung and the name of Lynde brought up.
"He said he was sure you were in," commented the footman, on whom
had been pressed a dollar, "and would you see him for just a moment?
He would not keep you more than a moment."
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.
"Show him into the music-room," 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's power of resistance.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, with an assumption of bravado which she did
not feel. "I didn't expect to see you so soon after your telephone
message. You have never been in our house before, have you? Won't
you put up your coat and hat and come into the gallery? It's brighter
there, and you might be interested in some of the pictures."
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.
"Thought I'd get just one glimpse of you again. Couldn't resist
the temptation to look in. Stunning room, isn't it? Spacious--and
there you are! Who did that? Oh, I see--Van Beers. And a jolly
fine piece of work it is, too, charming."
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--the fiber of her had hardened, as it does with so many
as the years come on; but she was still in full bloom--a little
late in the summer, but in full bloom.
"Oh yes; and this Rembrandt--I'm surprised! I did not know your
husband's collection was so representative. Israels, I see, and
Gerome, and Meissonier! Gad! It is a representative collection,
isn't it?"
"Some of the things are excellent," she commented, with an air,
aping Cowperwood and others, "but a number will be weeded out
eventually--that Paul Potter and this Goy--as better examples come
into the market."
She had heard Cowperwood say as much, over and over.
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:
"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?"
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--that of his
own family being one of the best--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.
"Just wait a moment," said Aileen, as they neared the door of her
own boudoir. "I've forgotten whether mine is in order. I want
you to see that."
She opened it and stepped in.
"Yes, you may come," she called.
He followed. "Oh yes, indeed. Very charming. Very graceful--those
little lacy dancing figures--aren't they? A delightful color scheme.
It harmonizes with you exactly. It is quite like you."
He paused, looking at the spacious rug, which was of warm blues
and creams, and at the gilt ormolu bed. "Well done," 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: "Tell me now why won't you come to the barn-dance to-night?
It would be charming. You will enjoy it."
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.
"Oh, I don't feel in the mood to. I haven't for a number of things
for some time. I--"
She began to move unconcernedly about him toward the door, but he
detained her with his hand. "Don't go just yet," he said. "Let
me talk to you. You always evade me in such a nervous way. Don't
you like me at all?"
"Oh yes, I like you; but can't we talk just as well down in the
music-room as here? Can't I tell you why I evade you down there
just as well as I can here?" She smiled a winning and now fearless
smile.
Lynde showed his even white teeth in two gleaming rows. His eyes
filled with a gay maliciousness. "Surely, surely," he replied;
"but you're so nice in your own room here. I hate to leave it."
"Just the same," replied Aileen, still gay, but now slightly
disturbed also, "I think we might as well. You will find me just
as entertaining downstairs."
She moved, but his strength, quite as Cowperwood's, was much too
great for her. He was a strong man.
"Really, you know," she said, "you mustn'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?"
"What cause?" he asked, bending over her and smoothing her plump
arms with his brown hands. "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't you understand then? I
thought you did."
"Oh, I understood that you liked me, and all that, perhaps. Any
one might do that. But as for anything like--well--taking such
liberties with me--I never dreamed of it. But listen. I think I
hear some one coming." Aileen, making a sudden vigorous effort to
free herself and failing, added: "Please let me go, Mr. Lynde.
It isn't very gallant of you, I must say, restraining a woman
against her will. If I had given you any real cause--I shall be
angry in a moment."
Again the even smiling teeth and dark, wrinkling, malicious eyes.
"Really! How you go on! You would think I was a perfect stranger.
Don't you remember what you said to me at lunch? You didn't keep
your promise. You practically gave me to understand that you would
come. Why didn't you? Are you afraid of me, or don't you like me,
or both? I think you're delicious, splendid, and I want to know."
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. "You care for me, don't you? What did you mean
by saying you might come, if you didn't?"
He held her quite firm, while Aileen struggled. It was a new
sensation this--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--and it was within the
range of possibilities that Cowperwood might return or the servants
enter.
"Oh, but think what you are doing," 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--"here in my own
room! Really, you're not the man I thought you were at all, if you
don't instantly let me go. Mr. Lynde! Mr. Lynde!" (He had bent
over and was kissing her). "Oh, you shouldn't do this! Really!
I--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'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't! Really, I
won't! I mean it! Oh, please let me go! I'll scream, I tell you!
I'll never see you again after this day! Oh--" It was an intense
but useless struggle.
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--quite her avid, seeking self of earlier days.
"Well," he asked, cheerfully, "how have things gone to-day?" 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. "Oh,
very well," she replied. "I stopped in at the Hoecksemas' this
afternoon for a little while. They're going to Mexico in November.
She has the darlingest new basket-carriage--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's receptions, and over to
Merrill's"--she was referring to the great store--"and home. I
saw Taylor Lord and Polk Lynde together in Wabash Avenue."
"Polk Lynde?" commented Cowperwood. "Is he interesting?"
"Yes, he is," replied Aileen. "I never met a man with such perfect
manners. He's so fascinating. He's just like a boy, and yet,
Heaven knows, he seems to have had enough worldly experience."
"So I've heard," commented Cowperwood. "Wasn't he the one that
was mixed up in that Carmen Torriba case here a few years ago?"
Cowperwood was referring to the matter of a Spanish dancer traveling
in America with whom Lynde had been apparently desperately in love.
"Oh yes," replied Aileen, maliciously; "but that oughtn't to make
any difference to you. He's charming, anyhow. I like him."
"I didn't say it did, did I? You don't object to my mentioning a
mere incident?"
"Oh, I know about the incident," replied Aileen, jestingly. "I
know you."
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, studying her face.
"Oh, I know you," she replied, sweetly and yet defensively. "You
think I'll stay here and be content while you run about with other
women--play the sweet and loving wife? Well, I won't. I know why
you say this about Lynde. It'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't want me, so why should you be disturbed as to whether other
men are interested in me or not?"
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.
"Aileen," he cooed, "how you talk! Why do you say that? You know
I care for you. I can't prevent anything you want to do, and I'm
sure you know I don't want to. It's you that I want to see satisfied.
You know that I care."
"Yes, I know how you care," replied Aileen, her mood changing for
the moment. "Don't start that old stuff, please. I'm sick of it.
I know how you're running around. I know about Mrs. Hand. Even
the newspapers make that plain. You've been home just one evening
in the last eight days, long enough for me to get more than a
glimpse of you. Don't talk to me. Don't try to bill and coo.
I've always known. Don't think I don't know who your latest flame
is. But don't begin to whine, and don'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't begin and
complain. It won't do you any good. I'm not going to sit here
and be made a fool of. I've told you that over and over. You
don't believe it, but I'm not. I told you that I'd find some one
one of these days, and I will. As a matter of fact, I have already."
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--so good-looking, so suave a society
rake--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
--in his father's house--out horseback-riding, driving. What a
splendid, loving girl she had been--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.
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--and in spite of himself he could not help admiring her. She
looked very young in her soul, and yet moody--loving (for some
one), eager, and defiant. He reflected for a moment what terrible
things passion and love are--how they make fools of us all. "All
of us are in the grip of a great creative impulse," he said to
himself. He talked of other things for a while--the approaching
election, a poster-wagon he had seen bearing the question, "Shall
Cowperwood own the city?" "Pretty cheap politics, I call that,"
he commented. And then he told of stopping in a so-called Republican
wigwam at State and Sixteenth streets--a great, cheaply erected,
unpainted wooden shack with seats, and of hearing himself bitterly
denounced by the reigning orator. "I was tempted once to ask that
donkey a few questions," he added, "but I decided I wouldn't."
Aileen had to smile. In spite of all his faults he was such a
wonderful man--to set a city thus by the ears. "Yet, what care I
how fair he be, if he be not fair to me."
"Did you meet any one else besides Lynde you liked?" he finally
asked, archly, seeking to gather further data without stirring up
too much feeling.
Aileen, who had been studying him, feeling sure the subject would
come up again, replied: "No, I haven't; but I don't need to. One
is enough."
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, gently.
"Oh, just what I say. One will do."
"You mean you are in love with Lynde?"
"I mean--oh!" She stopped and surveyed him defiantly. "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't make
any difference to you what I do. You don't want me. Why should
you sit there and try to find out, or watch? It hasn't been any
consideration for you that has restrained me so far. Suppose I
am in love? What difference would it make to you?"
"Oh, I care. You know I care. Why do you say that?"
"Yes, you care," she flared. "I know how you care. Well, I'll
just tell you one thing"--rage at his indifference was driving her
on--"I am in love with Lynde, and what's more, I'm his mistress.
And I'll continue to be. But what do you care? Pshaw!"
Her eyes blazed hotly, her color rose high and strong. She breathed
heavily.
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
--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--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--where was she? He had never found
her yet.
"Aileen," he said, quite softly, "I wish you wouldn't feel so
bitterly about this. Why should you? When did you do this? Will
you tell me that?"
"No, I'll not tell you that," she replied, bitterly. "It's none
of your affair, and I'll not tell you. Why should you ask? You
don't care."
"But I do care, I tell you," he returned, irritably, almost roughly.
"When did you? You can tell me that, at least." His eyes had a
hard, cold look for the moment, dying away, though, into kindly
inquiry.
"Oh, not long ago. About a week," Aileen answered, as though she
were compelled.
"How long have you known him?" he asked, curiously.
"Oh, four or five months, now. I met him last winter."
"And did you do this deliberately--because you were in love with
him, or because you wanted to hurt me?"
He could not believe from past scenes between them that she had
ceased to love him.
Aileen stirred irritably. "I like that," she flared. "I did it
because I wanted to, and not because of any love for you--I can
tell you that. I like your nerve sitting here presuming to question
me after the way you have neglected me." She pushed back her plate,
and made as if to get up.
"Wait a minute, Aileen," 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. "I wish you wouldn'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't anything I will do--" He paused, caught by a wave of
feeling.
"Oh, isn't it?" she blazed, trying to overcome the emotion that
was rising in herself. The calmness of him stirred up memories
of the past. "Well, you keep your sympathy for yourself. I don't
need it. I will get along. I wish you wouldn't talk to me."
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.
"Aileen! Aileen!" 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. "It's love you want
--not revenge. I know--I can tell. You want to be loved by some
one completely. I'm sorry. You mustn't be too hard on me. I
sha'n't be on you." 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.
"Let me go!" she exclaimed, angrily, hot tears in her eyes. "Let
me go! I tell you I don't love you any more. I tell you I hate
you!" She flung herself loose and stood erect before him. "I
don't want you to talk to me! I don't want you to speak to me!
You're the cause of all my troubles. You're the cause of whatever
I do, when I do it, and don't you dare to deny it! You'll see!
You'll see! I'll show you what I'll do!"
She twisted and turned, but he held her firmly until, in his strong
grasp, as usual, she collapsed and began to cry. "Oh, I cry," she
declared, even in her tears, "but it will be just the same. It's
too late! too late!" _