________________________________________________
_ It is a sad commentary on all save the most chemic unions--those
dark red flowers of romance that bloom most often only for a tragic
end--that they cannot endure the storms of disaster that are wont
to overtake them. A woman like Rita Sohlberg, with a seemingly
urgent feeling for Cowperwood, was yet not so charmed by him but
that this shock to her pride was a marked sedative. The crushing
weight of such an exposure as this, the Homeric laughter inherent,
if not indicated in the faulty planning, the failure to take into
account beforehand all the possibilities which might lead to such
a disaster, was too much for her to endure. She was stung almost
to desperation, maddened, at the thought of the gay, idle way in
which she had walked into Mrs. Cowperwood's clutches and been made
into a spectacle and a laughing-stock by her. What a brute she
was--what a demon! Her own physical weakness under the circumstances
was no grief to her--rather a salve to her superior disposition;
but just the same she had been badly beaten, her beauty turned
into a ragamuffin show, and that was enough. This evening, in the
Lake Shore Sanitarium, where she had been taken, she had but one
thought--to get away when it should all be over and rest her wearied
brain. She did not want to see Sohlberg any more; she did not
want to see Cowperwood any more. Already Harold, suspicious and
determined to get at the truth, was beginning to question her as
to the strangeness of Aileen's attack--her probable reason. When
Cowperwood was announced, Sohlberg's manner modified somewhat, for
whatever his suspicions were, he was not prepared to quarrel with
this singular man as yet.
"I am so sorry about this unfortunate business," said Cowperwood,
coming in with brisk assurance. "I never knew my wife to become
so strangely unbalanced before. It was most fortunate that I
arrived when I did. I certainly owe you both every amend that can
be made. I sincerely hope, Mrs. Sohlberg, that you are not seriously
injured. If there is anything I can possibly do--anything either
of you can suggest"--he looked around solicitously at Sohlberg--"I
shall only be too glad to do it. How would it do for you to take
Mrs. Sohlberg away for a little while for a rest? I shall so gladly
pay all expenses in connection with her recovery."
Sohlberg, brooding and heavy, remained unresponsive, smoldering;
Rita, cheered by Cowperwood's presence, but not wholly relieved
by any means, was questioning and disturbed. She was afraid there
was to be a terrific scene between them. She declared she was
better and would be all right--that she did not need to go away,
but that she preferred to be alone.
"It's very strange," said Sohlberg, sullenly, after a little while.
"I daunt onderstand it! I daunt onderstand it at all. Why should
she do soach a thing? Why should she say soach things? Here we
have been the best of friends opp to now. Then suddenly she attacks
my wife and sais all these strange things."
"But I have assured you, my dear Mr. Sohlberg, that my wife was
not in her right mind. She has been subject to spells of this
kind in the past, though never to anything so violent as this
to-night. Already she has recovered her normal state, and she
does not remember. But, perhaps, if we are going to discuss things
now we had better go out in the hall. Your wife will need all the
rest she can get."
Once outside, Cowperwood continued with brilliant assurance: "Now,
my dear Sohlberg, what is it I can say? What is it you wish me to
do? My wife has made a lot of groundless charges, to say nothing
of injuring your wife most seriously and shamefully. I cannot
tell you, as I have said, how sorry I am. I assure you Mrs.
Cowperwood is suffering from a gross illusion. There is absolutely
nothing to do, nothing to say, so far as I can see, but to let the
whole matter drop. Don't you agree with me?"
Harold was twisting mentally in the coils of a trying situation.
His own position, as he knew, was not formidable. Rita had
reproached him over and over for infidelity. He began to swell
and bluster at once.
"That is all very well for you to say, Mr. Cowperwood," he commented,
defiantly, "but how about me? Where do I come in? I daunt know
what to theenk yet. It ees very strange. Supposing what your
wife sais was true? Supposing my wife has been going around weeth
some one? That ees what I want to find out. Eef she has! Eef eet
is what I theenk it ees I shall--I shall--I daunt know what I shall
do. I am a very violent man."
Cowperwood almost smiled, concerned as he was over avoiding
publicity; he had no fear of Sohlberg physically.
"See here," he exclaimed, suddenly, looking sharply at the musician
and deciding to take the bull by the horns, "you are in quite as
delicate a situation as I am, if you only stop to think. This
affair, if it gets out, will involve not only me and Mrs. Cowperwood,
but yourself and your wife, and if I am not mistaken, I think your
own affairs are not in any too good shape. You cannot blacken
your wife without blackening yourself--that is inevitable. None
of us is exactly perfect. For myself I shall be compelled to prove
insanity, and I can do this easily. If there is anything in your
past which is not precisely what it should be it could not long
be kept a secret. If you are willing to let the matter drop I
will make handsome provision for you both; if, instead, you choose
to make trouble, to force this matter into the daylight, I shall
leave no stone unturned to protect myself, to put as good a face
on this matter as I can."
"What!" exclaimed Sohlberg. "You threaten me? You try to frighten
me after your wife charges that you have been running around weeth
my wife? You talk about my past! I like that. Haw! We shall see
about dis! What is it you knaw about me?"
"Well, Mr. Sohlberg," rejoined Cowperwood, calmly, "I know, for
instance, that for a long while your wife has not loved you, that
you have been living on her as any pensioner might, that you have
been running around with as many as six or seven women in as many
years or less. For months I have been acting as your wife's
financial adviser, and in that time, with the aid of detectives,
I have learned of Anna Stelmak, Jessie Laska, Bertha Reese, Georgia
Du Coin--do I need to say any more? As a matter of fact, I have a
number of your letters in my possession."
"Saw that ees it!" exclaimed Sohlberg, while Cowperwood eyed him
fixedly. "You have been running around weeth my wife? Eet ees
true, then. A fine situation! And you come here now weeth these
threats, these lies to booldoze me. Haw! We weel see about them.
We weel see what I can do. Wait teel I can consult a lawyer first.
Then we weel see!"
Cowperwood surveyed him coldly, angrily. "What an ass!" he thought.
"See here," he said, urging Sohlberg, for privacy's sake, to come
down into the lower hall, and then into the street before the
sanitarium, where two gas-lamps were fluttering fitfully in the
dark and wind, "I see very plainly that you are bent on making
trouble. It is not enough that I have assured you that there is
nothing in this--that I have given you my word. You insist on
going further. Very well, then. Supposing for argument's sake
that Mrs. Cowperwood was not insane; that every word she said was
true; that I had been misconducting myself with your wife? What
of it? What will you do?"
He looked at Sohlberg smoothly, ironically, while the latter flared
up.
"Haw!" he shouted, melodramatically. "Why, I would keel you,
that's what I would do. I would keel her. I weel make a terrible
scene. Just let me knaw that this is so, and then see!"
"Exactly," replied Cowperwood, grimly. "I thought so. I believe
you. For that reason I have come prepared to serve you in just
the way you wish." He reached in his coat and took out two small
revolvers, which he had taken from a drawer at home for this very
purpose. They gleamed in the dark. "Do you see these?" he
continued. "I am going to save you the trouble of further
investigation, Mr. Sohlberg. Every word that Mrs. Cowperwood said
to-night--and I am saying this with a full understanding of what
this means to you and to me--is true. She is no more insane than
I am. Your wife has been living in an apartment with me on the
North Side for months, though you cannot prove that. She does not
love you, but me. Now if you want to kill me here is a gun." He
extended his hand. "Take your choice. If I am to die you might
as well die with me."
He said it so coolly, so firmly, that Sohlberg, who was an innate
coward, and who had no more desire to die than any other healthy
animal, paled. The look of cold steel was too much. The hand
that pressed them on him was hard and firm. He took hold of one,
but his fingers trembled. The steely, metallic voice in his ear
was undermining the little courage that he had. Cowperwood by now
had taken on the proportions of a dangerous man--the lineaments
of a demon. He turned away mortally terrified.
"My God!" he exclaimed, shaking like a leaf. "You want to keel
me, do you? I weel not have anything to do with you! I weel not
talk to you! I weel see my lawyer. I weel talk to my wife first."
"Oh, no you won't," replied Cowperwood, intercepting him as he
turned to go and seizing him firmly by the arm. "I am not going
to have you do anything of the sort. I am not going to kill you
if you are not going to kill me; but I am going to make you listen
to reason for once. Now here is what else I have to say, and then
I am through. I am not unfriendly to you. I want to do you a
good turn, little as I care for you. To begin with, there is
nothing in those charges my wife made, not a thing. I merely said
what I did just now to see if you were in earnest. You do not
love your wife any more. She doesn't love you. You are no good
to her. Now, I have a very friendly proposition to make to you.
If you want to leave Chicago and stay away three years or more, I
will see that you are paid five thousand dollars every year on
January first--on the nail--five thousand dollars! Do you hear?
Or you can stay here in Chicago and hold your tongue and I will
make it three thousand--monthly or yearly, just as you please.
But--and this is what I want you to remember--if you don't get out
of town or hold your tongue, if you make one single rash move
against me, I will kill you, and I will kill you on sight. Now,
I want you to go away from here and behave yourself. Leave your
wife alone. Come and see me in a day or two--the money is ready
for you any time. He paused while Sohlberg stared--his eyes round
and glassy. This was the most astonishing experience of his life.
This man was either devil or prince, or both. "Good God!" he
thought. "He will do that, too. He will really kill me." Then
the astounding alternative--five thousand dollars a year--came to
his mind. Well, why not? His silence gave consent.
"If I were you I wouldn't go up-stairs again to-night," continued
Cowperwood, sternly. "Don't disturb her. She needs rest. Go on
down-town and come and see me to-morrow--or if you want to go back
I will go with you. I want to say to Mrs. Sohlberg what I have
said to you. But remember what I've told you."
"Nau, thank you," replied Sohlberg, feebly. "I will go down-town.
Good night." And he hurried away.
"I'm sorry," said Cowperwood to himself, defensively. "It is too
bad, but it was the only way." _
Read next: chapter XXI - A Matter of Tunnels
Read previous: chapter XIX - "Hell Hath No Fury--"
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