“Look here, Bowdoin. You’re a friend of mine.
I see you with that Miss Fleming.
Now, I don’t know how far things have gone, and I don’t want to intrude, but are you sure you are aware of all the aspects of the case?”
“What do you mean?” demanded Bowdoin.
“I want you to speak out.”
“Oh, pardon, old man.
No offense, really.
You know me. I couldn’t. College—and all that. Just this, though, before you go any further. Inquire about.
You may hear things.
If they’re true you ought to know.
If not, the talking ought to stop.
If I’m wrong call on me for amends.
I hear talk, I tell you.
Best intentions in the world, old man. I do assure you.”
More inquiries.
The tongues of jealousy and envy.
Mr. Bowdoin was sure to inherit three million dollars.
Then a very necessary trip to somewhere, and Berenice stared at herself in the glass. What was it?
What were people saying, if anything?
This was strange.
Well, she was young and beautiful.
There were others.
Still, she might have come to love Bowdoin.
He was so airy, artistic in an unconscious way. Really, she had thought better of him.
The effect of all this was not wholly depressing.
Enigmatic, disdainful, with a touch of melancholy and a world of gaiety and courage, Berenice heard at times behind joy the hollow echo of unreality.
Here was a ticklish business, this living.
For want of light and air the finest flowers might die.
Her mother’s error was not so inexplicable now.
By it had she not, after all, preserved herself and her family to a certain phase of social superiority?
Beauty was of such substance as dreams are made of, and as fleeting. Not one’s self alone—one’s inmost worth, the splendor of one’s dreams—but other things—name, wealth, the presence or absence of rumor, and of accident—were important.
Berenice’s lip curled.
But life could be lived.
One could lie to the world.
Youth is optimistic, and Berenice, in spite of her splendid mind, was so young.
She saw life as a game, a good chance, that could be played in many ways.
Cowperwood’s theory of things began to appeal to her.
One must create one’s own career, carve it out, or remain horribly dull or bored, dragged along at the chariot wheels of others.
If society was so finicky, if men were so dull—well, there was one thing she could do.
She must have life, life—and money would help some to that end.
Besides, Cowperwood by degrees was becoming attractive to her; he really was.
He was so much better than most of the others, so very powerful.
She was preternaturally gay, as one who says,
“Victory shall be mine anyhow.”
Chapter LXI. The Cataclysm
And now at last Chicago is really facing the thing which it has most feared.
A giant monopoly is really reaching out to enfold it with an octopus-like grip. And Cowperwood is its eyes, its tentacles, its force!
Embedded in the giant strength and good will of Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb & Co., he is like a monument based on a rock of great strength.
A fifty-year franchise, to be delivered to him by a majority of forty-eight out of a total of sixty-eight aldermen (in case the ordinance has to be passed over the mayor’s veto), is all that now stands between him and the realization of his dreams.
What a triumph for his iron policy of courage in the face of all obstacles!