doors two of the grooms were busy with the harness. Mrs. Carter walked across the lawn to greet him, apparently unaware of the problems that were troubling him and her daughter, for she was all smiles. From her cheerful welcome, he guessed that Berenice had probably not confided in her.
“Well, how’s everything?” he called out to her, stepping forward and taking her hand.
Berenice, according to her mother, was as well as ever, and now in the music room practicing. Rimski- Korsakov’s “Market Scenes” heard through the open window confirmed this.
For a moment Cowperwood had the feeling that, as in the case of Aileen, he might have to seek her out and begin some sort of irritating explanation, but as he was so thinking, the music suddenly ceased and she appeared in the doorway, as poised and smiling as ever. Oh, he was back! How nice! How had he been? Had he had a pleasant voyage? She was so glad to see him. She ran forward, not kissing him, as he noted, but otherwise acting as though no least ill were troubling her. In fact, she appeared quite enthusiastic as she added that now he was in time for the lovely autumn scenery; every day this place seemed lovelier. And, for the moment, Cowperwood entered upon this play-acting the while he wondered how long it would be before the real storm broke. But since Berenice’s gaiety continued with an invitation to go over to the houseboat for a cocktail, he interrupted with:
“Let’s walk down by the river, do you mind, Bevy?” And taking her by the arm he led her down to the tree- shaded path. “Bevy,” he began, “there’s something I have to say to you before we do anything else.” He fixed her with a hard, cold gaze. And as instantly she modified her manner.
“Will you pardon me just a minute, Frank, while I speak to Mrs. Evans . . .”
“No,” he said, decisively, “don’t go, Bevy. This is something much more important than Mrs. Evans or anything else. I want to tell you about Lorna Maris. You probably know about her, but I want to tell you, anyway.”
As he spoke she remained silent, walking beside him softly and evenly.
“You know of Lorna Maris?” he asked.
“Yes, I know. A clipping and some pictures were sent me from New York. She is very beautiful.”
He noted her reserve. No complaint. No request for information. At the same time, all the more urgent was it that he should discover her true mood.
“Quite a sudden turnabout from all I’ve been saying to you, isn’t it, Bevy?”
“Yes, I think it is. But you’re not going to tell me you’re sorry, I hope.” The corners of her mouth suggested the least trace of irony.
“No, Bevy, I’m not going to tell you anything except what happened. Then you can judge for yourself. Do you wish to hear about it?”
“Not so much. But if you really want to talk about it, all right. I think I understand how it happened.”
“Bevy!” he exclaimed, pausing and looking at her, admiration and genuine affection in his every line. “We can’t—at least, I can’t—get anywhere this way. The only reason I want to tell you is because whatever you’re thinking, I want you to know that I still care deeply for you. That may sound shallow and false after all that has happened since I last saw you, but I believe you know it’s true. You know and I know that there are personality values that are not to be measured by physical beauty or sexual sensations alone. As between one attractive woman and another, and one man and another judging them, there are always other modifying things: character, understanding, extreme congeniality of purpose and ideals, and . . .”
He paused as she interrupted rather icily: “Really? Of sufficient weight to make a difference in one’s conduct, loyalty, or constancy?”
The semisubmerged flash in her eyes warned him that tergiversation in her case was of no least value.
“Enough to make a very great difference, Bevy. You see me here, don’t you? Ten days ago in New York . . .”
Berenice interrupted him. “Yes, I know. You left her after a delightful summer in her company. You had enough of her for the time being. And so London, your plans to re-establish yourself . . .” Her pretty mouth curled scornfully. “But really, Frank, you need not clarify all this to me. I am very much like yourself, you know. I can explain as cleverly as you can; only being obligated to you for many things, and perhaps willing to sacrifice to a degree if I continue to need them, I must be more careful than you, much more careful. Or . . .” She paused and gazed at him, and he felt as though he had received a body blow.
“But, Berenice, those things are true. I did leave her. I have returned to you. I am willing to explain or not, just as you please. But one thing I do want to do, and that is to make up with you, get your forgiveness, go on and on with you alone. You won’t believe it, but I promise you there won’t be any more of this. Can’t you sense that? Won’t you help me get back to some fair and equitable relation with you? Think what we mean to each other! I can help you, want to, will, whether you choose to break with me or not! Won’t you believe that, Bevy?”
They were standing on a small green lawn bordering the Thames, under old trees, with the low thatches of a distant hamlet in view and curls of blue smoke rising from cottage chimneys. All was peaceful about them. But he was thinking that for all this sufficiency and the plain intention to make as little as possible of the provocation that had been given her, Berenice’s mood was not forgiving. At the same time, he could not help contrasting her with other women under related circumstances, Aileen in particular. Here was no brooding, weeping, quarreling woman. Although, as he now also thought, and for the first time in his life, real love, true love, however destructive to the lover, might truly brood, weep, quarrel, and be forgiven for it, into the bargain.
On the other hand, here was certainly a type of affection which carried with it values which could not be denied or belittled. Plainly, he had dulled them, and on the instant he became the shrewd, watchful, resourceful, and dynamic Cowperwood of the financial meeting room and parley.
“Listen to me, Bevy!” he said, firmly. “About June twentieth I went down to Baltimore on a business matter . . .” And from there on he related exactly what had happened. The midnight return to his room. Lorna’s knock. All. He told exactly how fascinated he had been; how and where he had entertained Lorna; the comments of the critics. He persisted in the excuse that, like Berenice, Lorna had cast a spell. He had intended no unfaithfulness. It was something that had come over him, and, to make himself perfectly plain, he advanced the theory which had come to him because of this and other related affairs in the past: that there was something in sensual desire which superseded and therefore must be superior to reason and will. For, in his case, it undermined and washed away any predetermined course.
“If I want to be honest,” he added at this point, “I must say that perhaps the only way to avoid lapses of this kind is to avoid any close contact with attractive women. And that is not always possible, of course.”
“Of course not,” said Berenice.
“As you know,” he went on, determined to continue, “once you are close to a person like Lorna Maris, you have to be pretty tame to escape her. And that’s a mighty strong admission from me.”
“Quite,” said Berenice. “But I agree with you. She is very attractive. But how about me in connection with other men? Are you ready to grant me the same privilege?” She gazed at him inquiringly, while he stared at her in return.
“Theoretically, yes,” he replied. “Because I care for you, I would have to stand for it emotionally as long as I could, as long as it was necessary for me to do so. After that, I would probably let you go, just as you will let me go if you don’t care enough to keep me. But what I want to know now is, knowing what you do, do you care, my dear? And that is very important, because I still care a great deal.”
“Well, Frank, you are asking me something which just at the moment I cannot really answer, because I don’t know.”
“But, as you see,” he persisted, “in this case her influence has not lasted, or I wouldn’t be here now. And I am not offering this as an excuse, but as a fact.”
“In other words,” said Berenice, “she did not come on the same boat.”
“She is dancing in New York the whole winter. And any American paper will tell you that. I maintain, Bevy, that the attraction you have for me is not only stronger but superior, I need you, Bevy. We are two minds and temperaments that think and work alike. That’s why I’m back here now, and want to stay here. This other affair was less valuable. I felt it all the time. When you stopped writing, I realized how much less I cared for Lorna. There, that’s the sum of it. Now what, Bevy?”
In the growing dusk he had drawn nearer and nearer. Now he seized her, pressed his lips to hers, and held her tightly. As he did so, she felt herself yielding, mentally and emotionally. But at the same time she felt impelled to make plain her position.
“I do care for you, Frank, yes. But this is only a sensual pull in your case. When it is over . . . when it is
