________________________________________________
_ The interested appearance of a man like Polk Lynde at this stage
of Aileen's affairs was a bit of fortuitous or gratuitous humor
on the part of fate, which is involved with that subconscious
chemistry of things of which as yet we know nothing. Here was
Aileen brooding over her fate, meditating over her wrongs, as it
were; and here was Polk Lynde, an interesting, forceful Lothario
of the city, who was perhaps as well suited to her moods and her
tastes at this time as any male outside of Cowperwood could be.
In many respects Lynde was a charming man. He was comparatively
young--not more than Aileen's own age--schooled, if not educated,
at one of the best American colleges, of excellent taste in the
matter of clothes, friends, and the details of living with which
he chose to surround himself, but at heart a rake. He loved, and
had from his youth up, to gamble. He was in one phase of the word
a HARD and yet by no means a self-destructive drinker, for he had
an iron constitution and could consume spirituous waters with the
minimum of ill effect. He had what Gibbon was wont to call "the
most amiable of our vices," a passion for women, and he cared no
more for the cool, patient, almost penitent methods by which his
father had built up the immense reaper business, of which he was
supposedly the heir, than he cared for the mysteries or sacred
rights of the Chaldees. He realized that the business itself was
a splendid thing. He liked on occasion to think of it with all
its extent of ground-space, plain red-brick buildings, tall stacks
and yelling whistles; but he liked in no way to have anything to
do with the rather commonplace routine of its manipulation.
The principal difficulty with Aileen under these circumstances,
of course, was her intense vanity and self-consciousness. Never
was there a vainer or more sex-troubled woman. Why, she asked
herself, should she sit here in loneliness day after day, brooding
about Cowperwood, eating her heart out, while he was flitting about
gathering the sweets of life elsewhere? Why should she not offer
her continued charms as a solace and a delight to other men who
would appreciate them? Would not such a policy have all the
essentials of justice in it? Yet even now, so precious had Cowperwood
been to her hitherto, and so wonderful, that she was scarcely able
to think of senous disloyalty. He was so charming when he was
nice--so splendid. When Lynde sought to hold her to the proposed
luncheon engagement she at first declined. And there, under
slightly differing conditions, the matter might easily have stood.
But it so happened that just at this time Aileen was being almost
daily harassed by additional evidence and reminders of Cowperwood's
infidelity.
For instance, going one day to call on the Haguenins--for she was
perfectly willing to keep up the pretense of amity in so long as
they had not found out the truth--she was informed that Mrs.
Haguenin was "not at home." Shortly thereafter the Press, which
had always been favorable to Cowperwood, and which Aileen regularly
read because of its friendly comment, suddenly veered and began
to attack him. There were solemn suggestions at first that his
policy and intentions might not be in accord with the best interests
of the city. A little later Haguenin printed editorials which
referred to Cowperwood as "the wrecker," "the Philadelphia
adventurer," "a conscienceless promoter," and the like. Aileen
guessed instantly what the trouble was, but she was too disturbed
as to her own position to make any comment. She could not resolve
the threats and menaces of Cowperwood's envious world any more
than she could see her way through her own grim difficulties.
One day, in scanning the columns of that faithful chronicle of
Chicago social doings, the Chicago Saturday Review, she came across
an item which served as a final blow. "For some time in high
social circles," the paragraph ran, "speculation has been rife as
to the amours and liaisons of a certain individual of great wealth
and pseudo social prominence, who once made a serious attempt to
enter Chicago society. It is not necessary to name the man, for
all who are acquainted with recent events in Chicago will know who
is meant. The latest rumor to affect his already nefarious reputation
relates to two women--one the daughter, and the other the wife,
of men of repute and standing in the community. In these latest
instances it is more than likely that he has arrayed influences
of the greatest importance socially and financially against himself,
for the husband in the one case and the father in the other are
men of weight and authority. The suggestion has more than once
been made that Chicago should and eventually would not tolerate
his bucaneering methods in finance and social matters; but thus
far no definite action has been taken to cast him out. The crowning
wonder of all is that the wife, who was brought here from the East,
and who--so rumor has it--made a rather scandalous sacrifice of
her own reputation and another woman's heart and home in order to
obtain the privilege of living with him, should continue so to do."
Aileen understood perfectly what was meant. "The father" of the
so-called "one" was probably Haguenin or Cochrane, more than likely
Haguenin. "The husband of the other"--but who was the husband of
the other? She had not heard of any scandal with the wife of
anybody. It could not be the case of Rita Sohlberg and her
husband--that was too far back. It must be some new affair of
which she had not the least inkling, and so she sat and reflected.
Now, she told herself, if she received another invitation from
Lynde she would accept it.
It was only a few days later that Aileen and Lynde met in the
gold-room of the Richelieu. Strange to relate, for one determined
to be indifferent she had spent much time in making a fetching
toilet. It being February and chill with glittering snow on the
ground, she had chosen a dark-green broadcloth gown, quite new,
with lapis-lazuli buttons that worked a "Y" pattern across her
bosom, a seal turban with an emerald plume which complemented
a sealskin jacket with immense wrought silver buttons, and bronze
shoes. To perfect it all, Aileen had fastened lapis-lazuli ear-rings
of a small flower-form in her ears, and wore a plain, heavy gold
bracelet. Lynde came up with a look of keen approval written on
his handsome brown face. "Will you let me tell you how nice you
look?" he said, sinking into the chair opposite. "You show beautiful
taste in choosing the right colors. Your ear-rings go so well
with your hair."
Although Aileen feared because of his desperateness, she was caught
by his sleek force--that air of iron strength under a parlor mask.
His long, brown, artistic hands, hard and muscular, indicated an
idle force that might be used in many ways. They harmonized with
his teeth and chin.
"So you came, didn't you?" he went on, looking at her steadily,
while she fronted his gaze boldly for a moment, only to look
evasively down.
He still studied her carefully, looking at her chin and mouth and
piquant nose. In her colorful cheeks and strong arms and shoulders,
indicated by her well-tailored suit, he recognized the human vigor
he most craved in a woman. By way of diversion he ordered an
old-fashioned whisky cocktail, urging her to join him. Finding
her obdurate, he drew from his pocket a little box.
We agreed when we played the other night on a memento, didn't we?"
he said. "A sort of souvenir? Guess?"
Aileen looked at it a little nonplussed, recognizing the contents
of the box to be jewelry. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that," she
protested. "The understanding was that we were to win. You lost,
and that ended the bargain. I should have shared the losses. I
haven't forgiven you for that yet, you know."
"How ungallant that would make me!" he said, smilingly, as he
trifled with the long, thin, lacquered case. "You wouldn't want
to make me ungallant, would you? Be a good fellow--a good sport,
as they say. Guess, and it's yours."
Aileen pursed her lips at this ardent entreaty.
"Oh, I don't mind guessing," she commented, superiorly, "though I
sha'n't take it. It might be a pin, it might be a set of ear-rings,
it might be a bracelet--"
He made no comment, but opened it, revealing a necklace of gold
wrought into the form of a grape-vine of the most curious workmanship,
with a cluster of leaves artistically carved and arranged as a
breastpiece, the center of them formed by a black opal, which shone
with an enticing luster. Lynde knew well enough that Aileen was
familiar with many jewels, and that only one of ornate construction
and value would appeal to her sense of what was becoming to her.
He watched her face closely while she studied the details of the
necklace.
"Isn't it exquisite!" she commented. "What a lovely opal--what
an odd design." She went over the separate leaves. "You shouldn't
be so foolish. I couldn't take it. I have too many things as it
is, and besides--" She was thinking of what she would say if
Cowperwood chanced to ask her where she got it. He was so intuitive.
"And besides?" he queried.
"Nothing," she replied, "except that I mustn't take it, really."
"Won't you take it as a souvenir even if--our agreement, you know."
"Even if what?" she queried.
"Even if nothing else comes of it. A memento, then--truly--you
know."
He laid hold of her fingers with his cool, vigorous ones. A year
before, even six months, Aileen would have released her hand
smilingly. Now she hesitated. Why should she be so squeamish
with other men when Cowperwood was so unkind to her?
"Tell me something," Lynde asked, noting the doubt and holding her
fingers gently but firmly, "do you care for me at all?"
"I like you, yes. I can't say that it is anything more than that."
She flushed, though, in spite of herself.
He merely gazed at her with his hard, burning eyes. The materiality
that accompanies romance in so many temperaments awakened in her,
and quite put Cowperwood out of her mind for the moment. It was
an astonishing and revolutionary experience for her. She quite
burned in reply, and Lynde smiled sweetly, encouragingly.
"Why won't you be friends with me, my sweetheart? I know you're
not happy--I can see that. Neither am I. I have a wreckless,
wretched disposition that gets me into all sorts of hell. I need
some one to care for me. Why won't you? You're just my sort. I
feel it. Do you love him so much"--he was referring to Cowperwood
--"that you can't love any one else?"
"Oh, him!" retorted Aileen, irritably, almost disloyally. "He
doesn't care for me any more. He wouldn't mind. It isn't him."
"Well, then, what is it? Why won't you? Am I not interesting enough?
Don't you like me? Don't you feel that I'm really suited to you?"
His hand sought hers softly.
Aileen accepted the caress.
"Oh, it isn't that," she replied, feelingly, running back in her
mind over her long career with Cowperwood, his former love, his
keen protestations. She had expected to make so much out of her
life with him, and here she was sitting in a public restaurant
flirting with and extracting sympathy from a comparative stranger.
It cut her to the quick for the moment and sealed her lips. Hot,
unbidden tears welled to her eyes.
Lynde saw them. He was really very sorry for her, though her
beauty made him wish to take advantage of her distress. "Why
should you cry, dearest?" he asked, softly, looking at her flushed
cheeks and colorful eyes. "You have beauty; you are young; you're
lovely. He's not the only man in the world. Why should you be
faithful when he isn't faithful to you? This Hand affair is all
over town. When you meet some one that really would care for you,
why shouldn't you? If he doesn't want you, there are others."
At the mention of the Hand affair Aileen straightened up. "The
Hand affair?" she asked, curiously. "What is that?"
"Don't you know?" he replied, a little surprised. "I thought you
did, or I certainly wouldn't have mentioned it."
"Oh, I know about what it is," replied Aileen, wisely, and with a
touch of sardonic humor. "There have been so many or the same
kind. I suppose it must be the case the Chicago Review was
referring to--the wife of the prominent financier. Has he been
trifling with Mrs. Hand?"
"Something like that," replied Lynde. "I'm sorry that I spoke,
though? really I am. I didn't mean to be carrying tales."
"Soldiers in a common fight, eh?" taunted Aileen, gaily.
"Oh, not that, exactly. Please don't be mean. I'm not so bad.
It's just a principle with me. We all have our little foibles."
"Yes, I know," replied Aileen; but her mind was running on Mrs.
Hand. So she was the latest. "Well, I admire his taste, anyway,
in this case," she said, archly. "There have been so many, though.
She is just one more.
Lynde smiled. He himself admired Cowperwood's taste. Then he
dropped the subject.
"But let's forget that," he said. "Please don't worry about him
any more. You can't change that. Pull yourself together." He
squeezed her fingers. "Will you?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows
in inquiry.
"Will I what?" replied Aileen, meditatively.
"Oh, you know. The necklace for one thing. Me, too." His eyes
coaxed and laughed and pleaded.
Aileen smiled. "You're a bad boy," she said, evasively. This
revelation in regard to Mrs. Hand had made her singularly retaliatory
in spirit. "Let me think. Don't ask me to take the necklace
to-day. I couldn't. I couldn't wear it, anyhow. Let me see you
another time." She moved her plump hand in an uncertain way, and
he smoothed her wrist.
"I wonder if you wouldn't like to go around to the studio of a
friend of mine here in the tower?" he asked, quite nonchalantly.
"He has such a charming collection of landscapes. You're interested
in pictures, I know. Your husband has some of the finest."
Instantly Aileen understood what was meant--quite by instinct.
The alleged studio must be private bachelor quarters.
"Not this afternoon," she replied, quite wrought up and disturbed.
"Not to-day. Another time. And I must be going now. But I will
see you."
"And this?" he asked, picking up the necklace.
"You keep it until I do come," she replied. "I may take it then."
She relaxed a little, pleased that she was getting safely away;
but her mood was anything but antagonistic, and her spirits were
as shredded as wind-whipped clouds. It was time she wanted--a
little time--that was all. _
Read next: chapter XXXIV - Enter Hosmer
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