“How is she?” he asked, desperately. “Seriously hurt?”
“No, sir; I think not. I believe she’s just fainted. She’ll be all right in a little while, sir. Can I be of any service, sir?”
Ordinarily Cowperwood would have smiled at such a scene. Now he was cold, sober.
“Not now,” he replied, with a sigh of relief, still holding Aileen firmly. “Go out and close the door. Call a doctor. Wait in the hall. When he comes, call me.”
Aileen, conscious of things being done for Rita, of sympathy being extended to her, tried to get up, to scream again; but she couldn’t; her lord and master held her in an ugly hold. When the door was closed he said again: “Now, Aileen, will you hush? Will you let me get up and talk to you, or must we stay here all night? Do you want me to drop you forever after tonight? I understand all about this, but I am in control now, and I am going to stay so. You will come to your senses and be reasonable, or I will leave you tomorrow as sure as I am here.” His voice rang convincingly. “Now, shall we talk sensibly, or will you go on making a fool of yourself—disgracing me, disgracing the house, making yourself and myself the laughingstock of the servants, the neighborhood, the city? This is a fine showing you’ve made today. Good God! A fine showing, indeed! A brawl in this house, a fight! I thought you had better sense—more self-respect—really I did. You have seriously jeopardized my chances here in Chicago. You have seriously injured and possibly killed a woman. You could even be hanged for that. Do you hear me?”
“Oh, let them hang me,” groaned Aileen. “I want to die.”
He took away his hand from her mouth, loosened his grip upon her arms, and let her get to her feet. She was still torrential, impetuous, ready to upbraid him, but once standing she was confronted by him, cold, commanding, fixing her with a fishy eye. He wore a look now she had never seen on his face before—a hard, wintry, dynamic flare, which no one but his commercial enemies, and only those occasionally, had seen.
“Now stop!” he exclaimed. “Not one more word! Not one! Do you hear me?”
She wavered, quailed, gave way. All the fury of her tempestuous soul fell, as the sea falls under a lapse of wind. She had had it in heart, on her lips, to cry again, “You dog! you brute!” and a hundred other terrible, useless things, but somehow, under the pressure of his gaze, the hardness of his heart, the words on her lips died away. She looked at him uncertainly for a moment, then, turning, she threw herself on the bed near by, clutched her cheeks and mouth and eyes, and, rocking back and forth in an agony of woe, she began to sob:
“Oh, my God! my God! My heart! My life! I want to die! I want to die!”
Standing there watching her, there suddenly came to Cowperwood a keen sense of her soul hurt, her heart hurt, and he was moved.
“Aileen,” he said, after a moment or two, coming over and touching her quite gently, “Aileen! Don’t cry so. I haven’t left you yet. Your life isn’t utterly ruined. Don’t cry. This is bad business, but perhaps it is not without remedy. Come now, pull yourself together, Aileen!”
For answer she merely rocked and moaned, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.
Being anxious about conditions elsewhere, he turned and stepped out into the hall. He must make some show for the benefit of the doctor and the servants; he must look after Rita, and offer some sort of passing explanation to Sohlherg.
“Here,” he called to a passing servant, “shut that door and watch it. If Mrs. Cowperwood comes out call me instantly.”
XIX
“Hell Hath No Fury—”
Rita was not dead by any means—only seriously bruised, scratched, and choked. Her scalp was cut in one place. Aileen had repeatedly beaten her head on the floor, and this might have resulted seriously if Cowperwood had not entered as quickly as he had. Sohlberg for the moment—for some little time, in fact—was under the impression that Aileen had truly lost her mind, had suddenly gone crazy, and that those shameless charges he had heard her making were the emanations of a disordered brain. Nevertheless the things she had said haunted him. He was in a bad state himself—almost a subject for the doctor. His lips were bluish, his cheeks blanched. Rita had been carried into an adjoining bedroom and laid upon a bed; cold water, ointments, a bottle of arnica had been procured; and when Cowperwood appeared she was conscious and somewhat better. But she was still very weak and smarting from her wounds, both mental and physical. When the doctor arrived he had been told that a lady, a guest, had fallen downstairs; when Cowperwood came in the physician was dressing her wounds.
As soon as he had gone Cowperwood said to the maid in attendance, “Go get me some hot water.” As the latter disappeared he bent over and kissed Rita’s bruised lips, putting his finger to his own in warning sign.
“Rita,” he asked, softly, “are you fully conscious?”
She nodded weakly.
“Listen, then,” he said, bending over and speaking slowly. “Listen carefully. Pay strict attention to what I’m saying. You must understand every word, and do as I tell you. You are not seriously injured. You will be all right. This will blow over. I have sent for another doctor to call on you at your studio. Your husband has gone for some fresh clothes. He will come back in a little while. My carriage will take you home when you are a little stronger. You mustn’t worry. Everything will be all right, but you must deny everything, do you hear? Everything! In so far as you
