I had been guarded and petted too much.
And I’m not blaming you, or Frank, either.
But there’s no future for me in a social way, not in this country.
The best I can do, I’m sure, is to join my life with Frank’s, for he’s the one person who can really help me.”
Mrs. Carter nodded in agreement and smiled wistfully.
She knew that she must do whatever Berenice wished.
She had no life of her own, no way of living outside of dependence on Cowperwood and her daughter.
Chapter 12
And it was following this general understanding that Cowperwood, Berenice, and her mother left for New York, the women going first and Cowperwood following later.
His purpose was to investigate the American investment situation and also to find some international brokerage house through which he might have the original proposition in regard to the Charing Cross line redirected to him for his consideration; that is, without his appearing to be interested.
Of course, there were his own New York and London brokers, Jarkins, Kloorfain & Randolph, but in such a portentous business as this he did not wholly trust them.
Jarkins, the principal figure in the American branch of the concern, though cunning and in some ways useful, was still too self-interested and also at times talked too much.
Yet to go to a strange brokerage firm would be no better.
It might even be worse.
He finally decided to have someone whom he could trust suggest to Jarkins that it might be wise for Greaves and Henshaw to approach him again.
In this connection, he recalled that one of the letters of introduction presented to him by Greaves and Henshaw on their first call was from a certain Raphael Cole, a retired New York banker of considerable wealth, who some years before had tried to interest him in New York transit. Though Cowperwood had been too engrossed at the time with his Chicago affairs to consider Cole’s proposition, the conversation had resulted in a friendship, and later Cole had invested in some of Cowperwood’s Chicago properties.
His present idea in regard to Cole was not only to prime him for a possible investment in this London venture but to get him to suggest, through Jarkins, that Greaves and Henshaw approach him again.
He decided to invite Cole to dinner at his Fifth Avenue home, with Aileen as hostess.
Thus he would begin the placation of Aileen and at the same time give Cole the impression that he was a contented husband, for Cole led a more or less conventional life.
And this London plan would certainly require some such conventional background in order to forestall public criticism.
In fact, Berenice had said to him, just before leaving for New York:
“Now, remember, Frank, the more attention you show Aileen publicly, the better it will be for all of us.”
And with that she had given him a still, blue look, which in force and suggestiveness seemed to embody all the subtlety of the ages.
And in consequence, en route to New York, thinking over the wisdom of Berenice’s words, he wired Aileen of his coming.
And, incidentally, too, he now planned to get in touch with a certain Edward Bingham, a bond salesman of the social type who came to see him quite frequently, and who would probably be able to supply information in regard to this man Tollifer.
And it was with this full program that he telephoned Berenice at the Park Avenue home which he had recently given her.
After arranging for a meeting with her later in the day, he telephoned Cole. He also learned, after calling his office in the Netherlands Hotel, that among other messages there happened to be one from Bingham asking when it would be agreeable for Cowperwood to see him.
Finally, he proceeded to his home, a man very different in mood from the one Aileen had seen some months before.
In fact, seeing him enter her bedroom this morning, she sensed at once that something agreeable was afoot, since his look and his stride so indicated.
“Well, how are you, my dear,” he began at once, in the genial manner he had not seen fit to display before her for a long time.
“I suppose you got my telegram.”
“Yes,” returned Aileen, calmly and a little dubiously.
At the same time, she watched him interestedly, since in her feeling for him there was affection as well as resentment.
“Ah, reading a detective story!” he said, observing the book on her bedside table and at the same time contrasting in his mind her mental resources with those of Berenice.
“Yes,” she replied, crossly.
“What would you have me read—the Bible, or one of your monthly balance sheets, or your art catalogues?”
She was sad and hurt because of the fact that throughout his Chicago troubles he had neglected to write to her.
“The truth is, my dear,” he went on, placatingly and graciously, “I’ve been intending to write you, but I’ve been rushed to death.
I really have.
Besides, I knew you were probably reading the papers.
It’s been in all of them.
But I did get your wire, and it was nice of you, very!
I thought I answered it.
I should have, I know.”
He referred to an encouraging telegram Aileen had sent him just after his much publicized defeat in the Chicago City Council.
“Oh, all right!” snapped Aileen, who at eleven o’clock in the morning was still idling over her dressing. “I’ll assume that you did. What else?”
He noticed her snowy, flouncy, white dressing gown, the kind she always favored, since it tended to show off her red hair, which at one time he had so greatly admired.
He also noticed that her face was heavily powdered.
The necessity for it weighed on his mind, as it was probably weighing on hers.
Time! Time! Time!