“If I were single now, and you were not in love or married, would you consider me at all?”
His eyes pleaded as never had they pleaded before.
She started, looked concerned, severe, then relaxed as suddenly.
“Let me see,” she said, with a slight brightening of the eyes and a toss of her head.
“That is a second cousin to a proposal, isn’t it?
You have no right to make it.
You aren’t single, and aren’t likely to be.
Why should I try to read the future?”
She walked indifferently out of the room, and Cowperwood stayed a moment to think.
Obviously he had triumphed in a way.
She had not taken great offense.
She must like him and would marry him if only. . . . Only Aileen.
And now he wished more definitely and forcefully than ever that he were really and truly free.
He felt that if ever he wished to attain Berenice he must persuade Aileen to divorce him.
Chapter LVII. Aileen’s Last Card
It was not until some little time after they were established in the new house that Aileen first came upon any evidence of the existence of Berenice Fleming.
In a general way she assumed that there were women—possibly some of whom she had known—Stephanie, Mrs. Hand, Florence Cochrane, or later arrivals—yet so long as they were not obtruded on her she permitted herself the semi-comforting thought that things were not as bad as they might be.
So long, indeed, as Cowperwood was genuinely promiscuous, so long as he trotted here and there, not snared by any particular siren, she could not despair, for, after all, she had ensnared him and held him deliciously—without variation, she believed, for all of ten years—a feat which no other woman had achieved before or after.
Rita Sohlberg might have succeeded—the beast!
How she hated the thought of Rita!
By this time, however, Cowperwood was getting on in years.
The day must come when he would be less keen for variability, or, at least, would think it no longer worth while to change.
If only he did not find some one woman, some Circe, who would bind and enslave him in these Later years as she had herself done in his earlier ones all might yet be well.
At the same time she lived in daily terror of a discovery which was soon to follow.
She had gone out one day to pay a call on some one to whom Rhees Grier, the Chicago sculptor, had given her an introduction.
Crossing Central Park in one of the new French machines which Cowperwood had purchased for her indulgence, her glance wandered down a branch road to where another automobile similar to her own was stalled.
It was early in the afternoon, at which time Cowperwood was presumably engaged in Wall Street.
Yet there he was, and with him two women, neither of whom, in the speed of passing, could Aileen quite make out.
She had her car halted and driven to within seeing-distance behind a clump of bushes.
A chauffeur whom she did not know was tinkering at a handsome machine, while on the grass near by stood Cowperwood and a tall, slender girl with red hair somewhat like Aileen’s own. Her expression was aloof, poetic, rhapsodical. Aileen could not analyze it, but it fixed her attention completely.
In the tonneau sat an elderly lady, whom Aileen at once assumed to be the girl’s mother.
Who were they?
What was Cowperwood doing here in the Park at this hour?
Where were they going?
With a horrible retch of envy she noted upon Cowperwood’s face a smile the like and import of which she well knew.
How often she had seen it years and years before!
Having escaped detection, she ordered her chauffeur to follow the car, which soon started, at a safe distance.
She saw Cowperwood and the two ladies put down at one of the great hotels, and followed them into the dining-room, where, from behind a screen, after the most careful manoeuvering, she had an opportunity of studying them at her leisure.
She drank in every detail of Berenice’s face—the delicately pointed chin, the clear, fixed blue eyes, the straight, sensitive nose and tawny hair.
Calling the head waiter, she inquired the names of the two women, and in return for a liberal tip was informed at once.
“Mrs. Ira Carter, I believe, and her daughter, Miss Fleming, Miss Berenice Fleming.
Mrs. Carter was Mrs. Fleming once.”
Aileen followed them out eventually, and in her own car pursued them to their door, into which Cowperwood also disappeared.
The next day, by telephoning the apartment to make inquiry, she learned that they actually lived there.
After a few days of brooding she employed a detective, and learned that Cowperwood was a constant visitor at the Carters’, that the machine in which they rode was his maintained at a separate garage, and that they were of society truly.
Aileen would never have followed the clue so vigorously had it not been for the look she had seen Cowperwood fix on the girl in the Park and in the restaurant—an air of soul-hunger which could not be gainsaid.
Let no one ridicule the terrors of unrequited love.
Its tentacles are cancerous, its grip is of icy death.
Sitting in her boudoir immediately after these events, driving, walking, shopping, calling on the few with whom she had managed to scrape an acquaintance, Aileen thought morning, noon, and night of this new woman.
The pale, delicate face haunted her.