over . . .”
Both subsided in each other’s arms, letting desire, emotion, blot out for the time being that frail little lamp, the human mind, and submerge for the moment that wholly unreasoning force, the human will.
Chapter 49
Later in her bedroom, on that first night, Cowperwood continued his argument as to the wisdom of going on together in their roles of ward and guardian.
“You see, Bevy,” he said, “the relationship is already established in the minds of Stane and others.”
“Are you trying to discover whether I am planning to leave you?” she queried.
“Well, naturally, I thought you might be considering it. This fellow Stane certainly has everything to offer you.”
He was sitting on the edge of her bed. The room was only slightly illumined by a moon that was shining against the drawn blinds. Berenice was sitting up in bed, leaning against the pillows, smoking a cigarette.
“Not so much as you have,” she said, “if you were ever really interested enough. But if you must know, I am not considering anything except the problem which you yourself have forced on me. We entered into an arrangement and you disarranged it. What do you expect me to do under the circumstances? Give you every liberty and ask nothing for myself?”
“I don’t expect anything which is going to prove distasteful or harmful to you.” His tone was aggressive. “I’m merely suggesting that if you’re going to become interested in Stane, we’ll have to figure out some way to continue this guardian-ward relationship until you are settled in your new state. From one point of view,” he added, honestly enough, “I’d be glad to see you established as the wife of a man like Stane. On the other hand, there’s the program we planned, and without you as a part of it, Bevy, I can tell you frankly that I’m not going to be very much interested. I might go on, and I might not. It will all depend on how I feel. I know you think that because I went with Lorna Maris I could easily make worthwhile conditions for myself. But I don’t see it that way. She was a mere incident, something involved with the passions and not the mind, as I’ve told you. If you had gone to New York with me, it never would have happened. Since it has, the one thing I see to do is to make the best working arrangement I can with you. And you will have to say what that is to be.” He got up and went to look for a cigar.
Thus directly approached, Berenice found herself intensely troubled by all he had said. For she cared for him intensely; his problems, his career, were almost more important to her than her own. And yet opposed to them was her own life, her own future. For once she reached the age of thirty-five or forty, the chances of his being present were slight. She lay there silently thinking, while Cowperwood waited. And in due course she answered, although not without extreme misgivings. Yes, she would continue; of course she would continue, for the present, anyway. For what could either he or she say in regard to his future movements or decisions?
“There’s no one like you, Frank,” she observed at this point, “for me, anyway. I like Lord Stane, of course, but I’ve not really seen enough of him. It’s nonsense to even think of it. Just the same, he is interesting—fascinating, really. And if you’re going to leave me to a sort of half-life with you, it does seem impractical for me to ignore him, assuming that he would really marry me. At the same time, relying on you is not even to be considered. I can stay with you, of course, and do my best to work out with you all the things we planned. But if so, it will be because •I am relying entirely on myself. I will be making you a present of my youth, my ideals, my enthusiasm, and my love, and expecting not one thing in return.”
“Bevy!” he exclaimed, startled by the equity of her statement. “That isn’t true!”
“Well, then, show me where it’s false. Let’s say I go on, as I probably shall; then what?”
“Well,” said Cowperwood, seating himself in a chair opposite the bed, “I will admit you raise a serious question. I’m not as young as you, and if you continue with me, you certainly run a great risk of exposure and social ostracism. There’s no denying that. About all I can leave you is money, and regardless of what we decide on tonight, I can tell you now that I propose to arrange for that at once. You will have enough, if you manage it intelligently, to maintain you in luxury for the rest of your life.”
“Oh, I know,” said Berenice. “No one can deny that where you care for anyone, you are the soul of generosity. I am not even questioning that. What troubles me is the lack of real love on your part, and the reasonable certainty that I’m to be not only left without love but I am to pay for my own love in other ways later on.”
“I see your problem, Bevy, believe me, I do. And I’m in no position to ask you to do more for me than you feel you want to do. You must do what you think is best for yourself. But I promise you, darling, that if you do continue with me, I will try to be faithful to you. And if ever you feel you ought to leave me and marry someone, I promise not to interfere. And that’s final. As I said before, I care for you very much, Bevy. You know that. You are not only my sweetheart but the same as my own child to me.”
“Frank!” She called him over to her side. “You know I cannot leave you. It’s not possible, at least not in spirit.”
“Bevy, darling girl!” And he gathered her up in his arms. “How wonderful it is to have you with me again!”
“But one thing we must settle, Frank,” she put in at this point, calmly smoothing her ruffled hair, “and that’s this yachting invitation. What about that?”
“I don’t know yet, dear, but I guess as long as he’s so very much interested in you, he’s not likely to be particularly antagonistic toward me.”
“Scamp!” cried Berenice, laughing. “If ever there was a deep-dyed villain . . .”
“No, just a young, ambitious American businessman trying to find his way through an English financial jungle! We’ll talk it over tomorrow. It’s you, just you, I want to think about now . . .”
Chapter 50
Like a master chess player, Cowperwood proposed to outwit all of the entirely nationalistic and, of course, humanly selfish elements arrayed against him in his underground project. He had evolved a broad and comprehensive plan, which he hoped to work out as follows:
First, there was the existing Charing Cross line, to which must be added the existing central loop consisting of the District and the Metropolitan Railway, with their utterly impractical and warring factions. If all went well, he, Stane, and Johnson, but principally himself, held the key to this situation.
Next, assuming that he gained control of the District and the Metropolitan—with which he would or would not, as circumstances dictated, join his Railway Equipment & Construction Company—he proposed to organize the Union Traction Underground, Limited, which would control all of these.
Incidentally, however, and unknown to any of his present associates, he proposed to buy from Abington Scarr the charter for the Baker Street and Waterloo Line; also the charter of the Brompton and Piccadilly, a line which he had learned was in about the same conditions as the Charing Cross; and certain other routes and prospects, charters for which he would pick up through others.
With these in his bag, he would be able, he felt, to organize the London Underground General, which would include all of the property of the Union Traction Underground, Limited, as well as the charters and lines which he would privately acquire, thus providing a complete metropolitan system and at the same time, by reason of his holdings, give him personal control. Incidentally, if he could not ultimately take publicly the chairmanship of this enormous property, at least he would be acknowledged as its subsurface control. Also, if he could not put in his own directors, he would arrange so that those who were placed in control could do nothing to injure the property.
And eventually, if all went well, he would quietly dispose of his holdings at an enormous profit, and thereafter leave the company to get along as best it could. He would have established his title as not only promoter but builder, and would have given London a modern and comprehensive metropolitan system which would bear the imprint of his genius, just as Chicago’s downtown loop bore it. And thereafter, with his wealth, he could maintain
