Mr. Lynde to the Rescue
The interested appearance of a man like Polk Lynde at this stage of
Aileen's affairs was a bit of fortuitous or gratuitous humor on the
part of fate, which is involved with that subconscious chemistry of
things of which as yet we know nothing. Here was Aileen brooding over
her fate, meditating over her wrongs, as it were; and here was Polk
Lynde, an interesting, forceful Lothario of the city, who was perhaps
as well suited to her moods and her tastes at this time as any male
outside of Cowperwood could be.
In many respects Lynde was a charming man. He was comparatively
young--not more than Aileen's own age--schooled, if not educated, at
one of the best American colleges, of excellent taste in the matter of
clothes, friends, and the details of living with which he chose to
surround himself, but at heart a rake. He loved, and had from his
youth up, to gamble. He was in one phase of the word a HARD and yet by
no means a self-destructive drinker, for he had an iron constitution
and could consume spirituous waters with the minimum of ill effect. He
had what Gibbon was wont to call "the most amiable of our vices," a
passion for women, and he cared no more for the cool, patient, almost
penitent methods by which his father had built up the immense reaper
business, of which he was supposedly the heir, than he cared for the
mysteries or sacred rights of the Chaldees. He realized that the
business itself was a splendid thing. He liked on occasion to think of
it with all its extent of ground-space, plain red-brick buildings, tall
stacks and yelling whistles; but he liked in no way to have anything to
do with the rather commonplace routine of its manipulation.
The principal difficulty with Aileen under these circumstances, of
course, was her intense vanity and self-consciousness. Never was there
a vainer or more sex-troubled woman. Why, she asked herself, should
she sit here in loneliness day after day, brooding about Cowperwood,
eating her heart out, while he was flitting about gathering the sweets
of life elsewhere? Why should she not offer her continued charms as a
solace and a delight to other men who would appreciate them? Would not
such a policy have all the essentials of justice in it? Yet even now,
so precious had Cowperwood been to her hitherto, and so wonderful, that
she was scarcely able to think of serious disloyalty. He was so
charming when he was nice--so splendid. When Lynde sought to hold her
to the proposed luncheon engagement she at first declined. And there,
under slightly differing conditions, the matter might easily have
stood. But it so happened that just at this time Aileen was being
almost daily harassed by additional evidence and reminders of
Cowperwood's infidelity.
For instance, going one day to call on the Haguenins--for she was
perfectly willing to keep up the pretense of amity in so long as they
had not found out the truth--she was informed that Mrs. Haguenin was
"not at home." Shortly thereafter the Press, which had always been
favorable to Cowperwood, and which Aileen regularly read because of its
friendly comment, suddenly veered and began to attack him. There were
solemn suggestions at first that his policy and intentions might not be
in accord with the best interests of the city. A little later Haguenin
printed editorials which referred to Cowperwood as "the wrecker," "the
Philadelphia adventurer," "a conscienceless promoter," and the like.
Aileen guessed instantly what the trouble was, but she was too
disturbed as to her own position to make any comment. She could not
resolve the threats and menaces of Cowperwood's envious world any more
than she could see her way through her own grim difficulties.
One day, in scanning the columns of that faithful chronicle of Chicago
social doings, the Chicago Saturday Review, she came across an item
which served as a final blow. "For some time in high social circles,"
the paragraph ran, "speculation has been rife as to the amours and
liaisons of a certain individual of great wealth and pseudo social
prominence, who once made a serious attempt to enter Chicago society.
It is not necessary to name the man, for all who are acquainted with
recent events in Chicago will know who is meant. The latest rumor to
affect his already nefarious reputation relates to two women--one the
daughter, and the other the wife, of men of repute and standing in the
community. In these latest instances it is more than likely that he
has arrayed influences of the greatest importance socially and
financially against himself, for the husband in the one case and the
father in the other are men of weight and authority. The suggestion
has more than once been made that Chicago should and eventually would
not tolerate his bucaneering methods in finance and social matters; but
thus far no definite action has been taken to cast him out. The
crowning wonder of all is that the wife, who was brought here from the
East, and who--so rumor has it--made a rather scandalous sacrifice of
her own reputation and another woman's heart and home in order to
obtain the privilege of living with him, should continue so to do."
Aileen understood perfectly what was meant. "The father" of the
so-called "one" was probably Haguenin or Cochrane, more than likely
Haguenin. "The husband of the other"--but who was the husband of the
other? She had not heard of any scandal with the wife of anybody. It
could not be the case of Rita Sohlberg and her husband--that was too
far back. It must be some new affair of which she had not the least
inkling, and so she sat and reflected. Now, she told herself, if she
received another invitation from Lynde she would accept it.
It was only a few days later that Aileen and Lynde met in the gold-room
of the Richelieu. Strange to relate, for one determined to be
indifferent she had spent much time in making a fetching toilet. It
being February and chill with glittering snow on the ground, she had
chosen a dark-green broadcloth gown, quite new, with lapis-lazuli
buttons that worked a "Y" pattern across her bosom, a seal turban with
an emerald plume which complemented a sealskin jacket with immense
wrought silver buttons, and bronze shoes. To perfect it all, Aileen
had fastened lapis-lazuli ear-rings of a small flower-form in her ears,
and wore a plain, heavy gold bracelet. Lynde came up with a look of
keen approval written on his handsome brown face. "Will you let me
tell you how nice you look?" he said, sinking into the chair opposite.
"You show beautiful taste in choosing the right colors. Your ear-rings
go so well with your hair."
Although Aileen feared because of his desperateness, she was caught by
his sleek force--that air of iron strength under a parlor mask. His
long, brown, artistic hands, hard and muscular, indicated an idle force
that might be used in many ways. They harmonized with his teeth and
chin.
"So you came, didn't you?" he went on, looking at her steadily, while
she fronted his gaze boldly for a moment, only to look evasively down.
He still studied her carefully, looking at her chin and mouth and
piquant nose. In her colorful cheeks and strong arms and shoulders,
indicated by her well-tailored suit, he recognized the human vigor he
most craved in a woman. By way of diversion he ordered an
old-fashioned whisky cocktail, urging her to join him. Finding her
obdurate, he drew from his pocket a little box.
"We agreed when we played the other night on a memento, didn't we?" he
said. "A sort of souvenir? Guess?"
Aileen looked at it a little nonplussed, recognizing the contents of
the box to be jewelry. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that," she
protested. "The understanding was that we were to win. You lost, and
that ended the bargain. I should have shared the losses. I haven't
forgiven you for that yet, you know."
"How ungallant that would make me!" he said, smilingly, as he trifled
with the long, thin, lacquered case. "You wouldn't want to make me
ungallant, would you? Be a good fellow--a good sport, as they say.
Guess, and it's yours."
Aileen pursed her lips at this ardent entreaty.
"Oh, I don't mind guessing," she commented, superiorly, "though I
sha'n't take it. It might be a pin, it might be a set of ear-rings, it
might be a bracelet--"
He made no comment, but opened it, revealing a necklace of gold wrought
into the form of a grape-vine of the most curious workmanship, with a
cluster of leaves artistically carved and arranged as a breastpiece,
the center of them formed by a black opal, which shone with an enticing
luster. Lynde knew well enough that Aileen was familiar with many
jewels, and that only one of ornate construction and value would appeal
to her sense of what was becoming to her. He watched her face closely
while she studied the details of the necklace.
"Isn't it exquisite!" she commented. "What a lovely opal--what an odd
design." She went over the separate leaves. "You shouldn't be so
foolish. I couldn't take it. I have too many things as it is, and
besides--" She was thinking of what she would say if Cowperwood chanced
to ask her where she got it. He was so intuitive.
"And besides?" he queried.
"Nothing," she replied, "except that I mustn't take it, really." "Won't
you take it as a souvenir even if--our agreement, you know."
"Even if what?" she queried.
"Even if nothing else comes of it. A memento, then--truly--you know."
He laid hold of her fingers with his cool, vigorous ones. A year
before, even six months, Aileen would have released her hand smilingly.
Now she hesitated. Why should she be so squeamish with other men when
Cowperwood was so unkind to her?
"Tell me something," Lynde asked, noting the doubt and holding her
fingers gently but firmly, "do you care for me at all?"
"I like you, yes. I can't say that it is anything more than that."
She flushed, though, in spite of herself.
He merely gazed at her with his hard, burning eyes. The materiality
that accompanies romance in so many temperaments awakened in her, and
quite put Cowperwood out of her mind for the moment. It was an
astonishing and revolutionary experience for her. She quite burned in
reply, and Lynde smiled sweetly, encouragingly.
"Why won't you be friends with me, my sweetheart? I know you're not
happy--I can see that. Neither am I. I have a wreckless, wretched
disposition that gets me into all sorts of hell. I need some one to
care for me. Why won't you? You're just my sort. I feel it. Do you
love him so much"--he was referring to Cowperwood--"that you can't love
any one else?"
"Oh, him!" retorted Aileen, irritably, almost disloyally. "He doesn't
care for me any more. He wouldn't mind. It isn't him."
"Well, then, what is it? Why won't you? Am I not interesting enough?
Don't you like me? Don't you feel that I'm really suited to you?" His
hand sought hers softly.
Aileen accepted the caress.
"Oh, it isn't that," she replied, feelingly, running back in her mind
over her long career with Cowperwood, his former love, his keen
protestations. She had expected to make so much out of her life with
him, and here she was sitting in a public restaurant flirting with and
extracting sympathy from a comparative stranger. It cut her to the
quick for the moment and sealed her lips. Hot, unbidden tears welled
to her eyes.
Lynde saw them. He was really very sorry for her, though her beauty
made him wish to take advantage of her distress. "Why should you cry,
dearest?" he asked, softly, looking at her flushed cheeks and colorful
eyes. "You have beauty; you are young; you're lovely. He's not the
only man in the world. Why should you be faithful when he isn't
faithful to you? This Hand affair is all over town. When you meet some
one that really would care for you, why shouldn't you? If he doesn't
want you, there are others."
At the mention of the Hand affair Aileen straightened up. "The Hand
affair?" she asked, curiously. "What is that?"
"Don't you know?" he replied, a little surprised. "I thought you did,
or I certainly wouldn't have mentioned it."
"Oh, I know about what it is," replied Aileen, wisely, and with a touch
of sardonic humor. "There have been so many or the same kind. I
suppose it must be the case the Chicago Review was referring to--the
wife of the prominent financier. Has he been trifling with Mrs. Hand?"
"Something like that," replied Lynde. "I'm sorry that I spoke, though?
really I am. I didn't mean to be carrying tales."
"Soldiers in a common fight, eh?" taunted Aileen, gaily.
"Oh, not that, exactly. Please don't be mean. I'm not so bad. It's
just a principle with me. We all have our little foibles."
"Yes, I know," replied Aileen; but her mind was running on Mrs. Hand.
So she was the latest. "Well, I admire his taste, anyway, in this
case," she said, archly. "There have been so many, though. She is just
one more."
Lynde smiled. He himself admired Cowperwood's taste. Then he dropped
the subject.
"But let's forget that," he said. "Please don't worry about him any
more. You can't change that. Pull yourself together." He squeezed her
fingers. "Will you?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows in inquiry.
"Will I what?" replied Aileen, meditatively.
"Oh, you know. The necklace for one thing. Me, too." His eyes coaxed
and laughed and pleaded.
Aileen smiled. "You're a bad boy," she said, evasively. This
revelation in regard to Mrs. Hand had made her singularly retaliatory
in spirit. "Let me think. Don't ask me to take the necklace to-day.
I couldn't. I couldn't wear it, anyhow. Let me see you another time."
She moved her plump hand in an uncertain way, and he smoothed her wrist.
"I wonder if you wouldn't like to go around to the studio of a friend
of mine here in the tower?" he asked, quite nonchalantly. "He has such
a charming collection of landscapes. You're interested in pictures, I
know. Your husband has some of the finest."
Instantly Aileen understood what was meant--quite by instinct. The
alleged studio must be private bachelor quarters.
"Not this afternoon," she replied, quite wrought up and disturbed. "Not
to-day. Another time. And I must be going now. But I will see you."
"And this?" he asked, picking up the necklace.
"You keep it until I do come," she replied. "I may take it then."
She relaxed a little, pleased that she was getting safely away; but her
mood was anything but antagonistic, and her spirits were as shredded as
wind-whipped clouds. It was time she wanted--a little time--that was
all.