Cowperwood’s world at this time was of roseate hue. He was in love and
had money of his own to start his new business venture. He could take
his street-car stocks, which were steadily increasing in value, and
raise seventy per cent. of their market value. He could put a mortgage
on his lots and get money there, if necessary. He had established
financial relations with the Girard National Bank—President Davison
there having taken a fancy to him—and he proposed to borrow from that
institution some day. All he wanted was suitable investments—things in
which he could realize surely, quickly. He saw fine prospective profits
in the street-car lines, which were rapidly developing into local
ramifications.
He purchased a horse and buggy about this time—the most
attractive-looking animal and vehicle he could find—the combination
cost him five hundred dollars—and invited Mrs. Semple to drive with
him. She refused at first, but later consented. He had told her of his
success, his prospects, his windfall of fifteen thousand dollars, his
intention of going into the note-brokerage business. She knew his
father was likely to succeed to the position of vice-president in the
Third National Bank, and she liked the Cowperwoods. Now she began to
realize that there was something more than mere friendship here. This
erstwhile boy was a man, and he was calling on her. It was almost
ridiculous in the face of things—her seniority, her widowhood, her
placid, retiring disposition—but the sheer, quiet, determined force of
this young man made it plain that he was not to be balked by her sense
of convention.
Cowperwood did not delude himself with any noble theories of conduct in
regard to her. She was beautiful, with a mental and physical lure for
him that was irresistible, and that was all he desired to know. No
other woman was holding him like that. It never occurred to him that he
could not or should not like other women at the same time. There was a
great deal of palaver about the sanctity of the home. It rolled off his
mental sphere like water off the feathers of a duck. He was not eager
for her money, though he was well aware of it. He felt that he could
use it to her advantage. He wanted her physically. He felt a keen,
primitive interest in the children they would have. He wanted to find
out if he could make her love him vigorously and could rout out the
memory of her former life. Strange ambition. Strange perversion, one
might almost say.
In spite of her fears and her uncertainty, Lillian Semple accepted his
attentions and interest because, equally in spite of herself, she was
drawn to him. One night, when she was going to bed, she stopped in
front of her dressing table and looked at her face and her bare neck
and arms. They were very pretty. A subtle something came over her as
she surveyed her long, peculiarly shaded hair. She thought of young
Cowperwood, and then was chilled and shamed by the vision of the late
Mr. Semple and the force and quality of public opinion.
“Why do you come to see me so often?” she asked him when he called the
following evening.
“Oh, don’t you know?” he replied, looking at her in an interpretive
way.
“No.”
“Sure you don’t?”
“Well, I know you liked Mr. Semple, and I always thought you liked me
as his wife. He’s gone, though, now.”
“And you’re here,” he replied.
“And I’m here?”
“Yes. I like you. I like to be with you. Don’t you like me that way?”
“Why, I’ve never thought of it. You’re so much younger. I’m five years
older than you are.”
“In years,” he said, “certainly. That’s nothing. I’m fifteen years
older than you are in other ways. I know more about life in some ways
than you can ever hope to learn—don’t you think so?” he added, softly,
persuasively.
“Well, that’s true. But I know a lot of things you don’t know.” She
laughed softly, showing her pretty teeth.
It was evening. They were on the side porch. The river was before them.
“Yes, but that’s only because you’re a woman. A man can’t hope to get a
woman’s point of view exactly. But I’m talking about practical affairs
of this world. You’re not as old that way as I am.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Nothing. You asked why I came to see you. That’s why. Partly.”
He relapsed into silence and stared at the water.
She looked at him. His handsome body, slowly broadening, was nearly
full grown. His face, because of its full, clear, big, inscrutable
eyes, had an expression which was almost babyish. She could not have
guessed the depths it veiled. His cheeks were pink, his hands not
large, but sinewy and strong. Her pale, uncertain, lymphatic body
extracted a form of dynamic energy from him even at this range.
“I don’t think you ought to come to see me so often. People won’t think
well of it.” She ventured to take a distant, matronly air—the air she
had originally held toward him.
“People,” he said, “don’t worry about people. People think what you
want them to think. I wish you wouldn’t take that distant air toward
me.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“But you mustn’t like me. It’s wrong. I can’t ever marry you. You’re
too young. I’m too old.”
“Don’t say that!” he said, imperiously. “There’s nothing to it. I want
you to marry me. You know I do. Now, when will it be?”
“Why, how silly! I never heard of such a thing!” she exclaimed. “It
will never be, Frank. It can’t be!”
“Why can’t it?” he asked.
“Because—well, because I’m older. People would think it strange. I’m
not long enough free.”
“Oh, long enough nothing!” he exclaimed, irritably. “That’s the one
thing I have against you—you are so worried about what people think.
They don’t make your life. They certainly don’t make mine. Think of
yourself first. You have your own life to make. Are you going to let
what other people think stand in the way of what you want to do?”
“But I don’t want to,” she smiled.
He arose and came over to her, looking into her eyes.
“Well?” she asked, nervously, quizzically.
He merely looked at her.
“Well?” she queried, more flustered.
He stooped down to take her arms, but she got up.
“Now you must not come near me,” she pleaded, determinedly. “I’ll go in
the house, and I’ll not let you come any more. It’s terrible! You’re
silly! You mustn’t interest yourself in me.”
She did show a good deal of determination, and he desisted. But for the
time being only. He called again and again. Then one night, when they
had gone inside because of the mosquitoes, and when she had insisted
that he must stop coming to see her, that his attentions were
noticeable to others, and that she would be disgraced, he caught her,
under desperate protest, in his arms.
“Now, see here!” she exclaimed. “I told you! It’s silly! You mustn’t
kiss me! How dare you! Oh! oh! oh!—”
She broke away and ran up the near-by stairway to her room. Cowperwood
followed her swiftly. As she pushed the door to he forced it open and
recaptured her. He lifted her bodily from her feet and held her
crosswise, lying in his arms.
“Oh, how could you!” she exclaimed. “I will never speak to you any
more. I will never let you come here any more if you don’t put me down
this minute. Put me down!”
“I’ll put you down, sweet,” he said. “I’ll take you down,” at the same
time pulling her face to him and kissing her. He was very much aroused,
excited.
While she was twisting and protesting, he carried her down the stairs
again into the living-room, and seated himself in the great armchair,
still holding her tight in his arms.
“Oh!” she sighed, falling limp on his shoulder when he refused to let
her go. Then, because of the set determination of his face, some
intense pull in him, she smiled. “How would I ever explain if I did
marry you?” she asked, weakly. “Your father! Your mother!”
“You don’t need to explain. I’ll do that. And you needn’t worry about
my family. They won’t care.”
“But mine,” she recoiled.
“Don’t worry about yours. I’m not marrying your family. I’m marrying
you. We have independent means.”
She relapsed into additional protests; but he kissed her the more.
There was a deadly persuasion to his caresses. Mr. Semple had never
displayed any such fire. He aroused a force of feeling in her which had
not previously been there. She was afraid of it and ashamed.
“Will you marry me in a month?” he asked, cheerfully, when she paused.
“You know I won’t!” she exclaimed, nervously. “The idea! Why do you
ask?”
“What difference does it make? We’re going to get married eventually.”
He was thinking how attractive he could make her look in other
surroundings. Neither she nor his family knew how to live.
“Well, not in a month. Wait a little while. I will marry you after a
while—after you see whether you want me.”
He caught her tight. “I’ll show you,” he said.
“Please stop. You hurt me.”
“How about it? Two months?”
“Certainly not.”
“Three?”
“Well, maybe.”
“No maybe in that case. We marry.”
“But you’re only a boy.”
“Don’t worry about me. You’ll find out how much of a boy I am.”
He seemed of a sudden to open up a new world to her, and she realized
that she had never really lived before. This man represented something
bigger and stronger than ever her husband had dreamed of. In his young
way he was terrible, irresistible.
“Well, in three months then,” she whispered, while he rocked her cozily
in his arms.