“Yes, sir,” said Jarkins, who was fat and forty, a very model of sartorial excellence, and, at the moment, because of nervousness, wet with perspiration. He was a flabby, waxlike man, with black, acquisitive eyes, below which a small, pointed nose stuck out, and below that a soft, puffy mouth. He was forever dreaming of some speculative coup which would make him a multimillionaire, and a well-known figure at first nights at the theater, polo games, dog shows, and other society functions. In London he had as many friends as he had in New York.
In consequence, Cowperwood had the feeling that he might have some use for him, and yet, at the moment, he was not willing to do more than throw out vague hints, knowing that they would, in all probability, cause him to go tearing after Greaves and Henshaw to set himself right with them, and, who knows, he might even go over to London, where . . . well, what better press agent could he have than Mr. Jarkins?
Chapter 15
And true enough, it was not many days after Greaves and Henshaw had departed for London that Jarkins also sailed, all aquiver with the expectation of becoming a part of an enormous adventure which might lead to those dreamed-of millions.
And while this preliminary move in connection with Greaves and Henshaw and their Charing Cross line appeared to have ended less definitely than Cowperwood had hoped, it made no change in his determination to proceed. For there was the information provided by Sippens, and because of that he was determined to get control of some underground line, if not the Charing Cross. And so there were not only consultations, but a number of dinners at his home, from which latter Aileen took the impression that her husband was at least a little interested in the old life which had made her early days in Chicago with him her most colorful and happy memory. She was beginning to wonder whether, by some strange turn of fate, the Chicago failure might not have sobered him, so that he had decided to accept, if not necessarily relish, the old-time outward relationship, which, little as it meant to him, could still be so comforting to her.
But the truth was that Cowperwood was becoming more and more intrigued by the temperament of Berenice. There was about her a certain playful and inventive whimsy, which, combined with her practical as well as poetic and rhapsodic moods, delighted him. In fact, he was never weary of studying her, and in the comparatively short period since she had arrived in Chicago, he had come to experience and relish the equivalent of a mental fever in regard to her.
One of Berenice’s fancies, and one which had affected Cowperwood most profoundly, had occurred more recently in Chicago. One late afternoon they had driven out for dinner to the inn where they had dined a couple of evenings previously. But before entering, she had led him to the nearby woods, where in a snow-flecked patch of scrub oak and pine stood a snow figure in his own image, part caricature and part an arresting likeness. She had driven out alone early that very morning and shaped it. For the eyes she had used two bright gray-blue stones, and for the mouth and nose, small pine cones of different sizes. She had even brought out one of his hats and placed it jauntily atop the snowman’s head, thus serving to emphasize the likeness. Suddenly confronted with this figure at dusk, a wintry wind whispering among the trees and the last rays of a blood-red sun spearing through, Cowperwood was startled.
“Why, Bevy! Of all the odd things to do! When did you do this, you pixie?” And he laughed at the touch of the comic, for she had placed one eye the least bit askew, and the nose was a little exaggerated.
“I did it this morning. I drove out here alone and made my lovely snowman!”
“It does look like me, by Jove!” he said, amazedly. “But, Bevy, how long did it take you to do it?”
“Oh, perhaps an hour,” and she stepped back and eyed it appraisingly. Then, taking his cane from him, she placed it against one of the snowman’s pockets, which were indicated by small stones. “Now, see how perfect you are! All snow and cones and stone buttons!” and she reached up and kissed the mouth.
“Bevy! If you’re going to do that, come here!” and he seized her in his arms, feeling that there was something here that was eerie, elfin. “Berenice, dear, I swear you puzzle me. Have I a real flesh-and-blood girl, or a sprite, a witch?”
“Didn’t you know?” and she turned and spread out her fingers at him. “I’m a witch, and I can turn you into snow and ice,” and she came eerily toward him.
“Berenice, for heaven’s sake! What nonsense! Sometimes I think you are the one who is bewitched. But you may witch me all you care to, only don’t leave me,” and he kissed her and held her tight in his arms.
But she drew away and turned back to the snowman. “There, now!” she exclaimed, “you’ve gone and spoiled it all. He’s not real, after all, darling. And I made him so real. He was so big and cold, and needed me so much out here. And now I’ll have to destroy him, my poor snowman, so that no one will have ever truly known him but me.” And all of a sudden she dashed the figure apart with Cowperwood’s cane. “See, I made you, and now I’m unmaking you!” And as she talked she powdered the snow through her gloved fingers, while he gazed at her wonderingly.
“Come, come, Bevy, sweet. What are you saying? And as for making and unmaking, do both, but don’t leave me. You are taking me into strange places, new and strange moods, a wonder world of your own, and I am happy to go. Do you believe that?”
“Of course, dear, of course,” she now replied as brightly and as differently as though no such scene as this had ever been. “It’s meant to be so. It must be.” And she slipped her arm under his. She appeared to have come out of some trance or illusion of her own, concerning which he would have liked to question her, but he felt that he should not. Yet, and more at this moment than ever before, there was that about her which thrilled him, as he realized that he could come and see and touch her, without let or hindrance, and that now, as never before, he was allowed to walk and talk and be with her. This was the substance quite, of all real earthly good and delight. Truly, he would never wish to part from her, for never before had he encountered anyone so varied, so different, so reasoning and practical and yet at the same time so unreal and whimsical as this. Histrionic, yes, and yet the most resourceful and colorful of all the women he had known!
And on the purely sensual side, there was something about her which from the beginning not only surprised but enticed him. She refused to permit herself either to be lost in or wholly ravished by the male. No mere commonplace fleshly instrument for the satisfaction of the lust of himself or any other was she. On the contrary, and always, however amorous or fevered she might be, still she was quite definitely conscious of her charms: the swirl of her red-gold hair about her face, the magnetism and implication of her inciting and compelling blue eyes, the sweetness of her mouth, with its enchanting and enigmatic smile.