“Oh, you! ‘Dry rot’!” interpolated Aileen, looking at him amusedly. “As though dry rot would ever overtake you! More likely you would overtake dry rot and chase it out!” This caused Cowperwood to smile. “At any rate,” he went on, “the only two things I’ve heard of so far that might interest me are a proposed subway scheme in Paris—which doesn’t appeal to me very much—and . . .” here he paused and meditated, the while Aileen studied him, wondering if this were true . . . “or something in London; I think I’d like to look over the underground situation there.”
At these words, and for some reason which she could not have explained—telepathy, psychic osmosis—Aileen brightened and seemed to envision something interesting.
“Really!” she said. “That sounds rather promising. But if you do go into something else, I hope you fix it this time so that there will be no possibility of trouble afterwards. You seem almost to create trouble wherever you go, or it creates itself for you.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” went on Cowperwood, ignoring her last comments, “that if nothing else turned up, I might try to do something in London, although I hear that the English are very unfriendly to American enterprise in any form. If that’s the case, I wouldn’t have a chance to break in there, particularly after my Chicago trouble.”
“Oh, Chicago!” exclaimed Aileen, at once defensive and loyal. “I wouldn’t worry about Chicago. Everyone with any brains knows what a pack of jealous jackals they are! I think London would be a wonderful place for you to start in again. You certainly ought to know how to fix things so as to avoid all the franchise trouble you appear to be having in Chicago. I’ve always felt, Frank,” she ventured here, and this on the strength of the years she had spent with him, and without any particular hope of ingratiating herself, “you’re too indifferent to the opinion of others. Other people—I don’t care who they are—just don’t seem to exist for you. That’s why you stir up all these fights, and you always will, unless you bother to be a little more considerate of other people. Of course, I don’t know what you have in mind, but I’m sure that if today you wanted to start out and be the least bit nice to people, why, with your ideas and your way of getting around people when you want to, there’d be no stopping you, that’s all,” and with that she paused, waiting to see if he would make any comment.
“Thanks,” he said, “you may be right, at that. I don’t know. At any rate, I’m thinking seriously of this London matter.”
Sensing the certainty of action in some direction on his part, she went on: “Of course, as for us, I know you don’t care for me any more, and never will. I can see that now. But at the same time, I feel that I’ve been an influence in your life, and if for nothing more than that—all I went through with you in Philadelphia and Chicago—I shouldn’t be kicked off like an old shoe. It isn’t right. And it can’t bring you any good in the long run. I’ve always felt, and still feel, that you might at least keep up a public pretense as far as I’m concerned; show me at least a little attention and not leave me to sit here alone week after week and month after month, without one word, one letter, anything . . .”
And here once more, as so many times in the past, he saw her throat tighten and her eyes mist with tears. And she turned away, as if unable to say more. At the same time, as he saw, here was exactly the compromise of which he had been thinking ever since Berenice had arrived in Chicago. Plainly, Aileen was ready for it, though to what extent he could not guess as yet.
“The thing I have to do,” he said, “is to find something else and find the cash for it. In the meantime, I want to keep this residence here and make it appear that everything is going on as before. It will make a good impression. There was a time, you know, when I wanted a divorce, but if you can bring yourself to let bygones be bygones and go on with an outward relationship, without quarreling with me over my private life, why, I think we might work out something. In fact, I’m sure we can. I’m not as young as I used to be, and while I reserve the right to regulate my private life to suit my personal needs, I see no reason why we shouldn’t go on as we have been, and even make things look better than they do now. Do you agree with that or not?”
And since Aileen had no other desire than to remain his wife, and also, despite his ill-treatment of her, wanted to see him succeed in anything he undertook, she now replied:
“Well, what else is there for me to do? You hold all the cards in your hands. What have I, really? Exactly what?”
And here it was that Cowperwood suggested that in case he found it necessary to go away and Aileen felt it would look better if she accompanied him, he would have no objection to that, or even to press notices indicating a marital harmony between them, so long as she did not insist on any routine form of contact which might embarrass him in his personal life.
“Well, if you want it that way,” she said as to this. “It is certainly no less than I have now,” but at the same time thinking that there might be another woman behind all this—probably that girl, Berenice Fleming. If such were the case, there would be no compromise on her part. For as to Berenice, never, never, would she allow him to humiliate her with any public relations with that vain and selfish upstart! Never, never, never!
And so, interestingly enough, while Cowperwood was thinking that he had made considerable progress, rather quickly, in the direction of his present dreams, Aileen was thinking that she had made at least some little gain; and that the more public attention she caused Cowperwood to pay her, at whatever cost to her private feeling, the stronger would be the evidence of her holding him, and the greater her public if not private triumph.
Chapter 13
The matter of interesting Cole in having Greaves and Henshaw reapproach him was accomplished by Cowperwood in but a few moments out of an evening of dining and drinking. Indeed, Cole expressed the thought that in London Cowperwood might find a better field for his powers than Chicago had ever offered him, in which case he would be glad to hear further in regard to any investment plans which might be devised.
Equally satisfactory was the talk with Edward Bingham, from whom Cowperwood drew out some interesting information regarding Bruce Tollifer. According to Bingham, Tollifer, at present, was in a sorry state. Although at one time a person of excellent social connections, and having some money, today he was without either. Still handsome, he looked dissipated, shabby. Until recently he had been associating with gamblers and other persons of questionable reputation; most of those who had formerly known and liked him had apparently stricken him from their lists.
On the other hand, as Bingham felt called upon to admit, within the past month Tollifer had been exhibiting attempts at rehabilitation. For he was now living alone at a modest so-called bachelor’s club, the Alcove, in Fifty-third Street, and was seen occasionally dining in the best restaurants. He believed that Tollifer was seeking to do one of two things: either to ingratiate himself with a wealthy woman who would be glad to pay him for such services as he could perform for her, or get himself a job in a brokerage firm where his one-time social connections might be considered worth a salary. This critical conclusion on the part of Bingham caused Cowperwood to smile, since it was exactly in this state that he had hoped to find Tollifer.
He thanked Bingham, and after he left telephoned Tollifer at the Alcove. That gentleman, at the moment, was lying down, half-dressed, rather dismally awaiting the arrival of five o’clock, at which time he intended to venture forth on one of his “cruises,” as he called them—those searchings in clubs, restaurants, theaters, bars, in order to exchange such casual greetings as might reopen old or create new friendships. It was three o’clock now, and a windy February day, when he came down into the main corridor to answer Cowperwood’s call, a half-smoked cigarette in his fingers, his hair ruffled, and his lounging slippers a little the worse for wear.