The Net
The storm which burst in connection with Cowperwood's machinations at
Springfield early in 1897, and continued without abating until the
following fall, attracted such general attention that it was largely
reported in the Eastern papers. F. A. Cowperwood versus the state of
Illinois--thus one New York daily phrased the situation. The
magnetizing power of fame is great. Who can resist utterly the luster
that surrounds the individualities of some men, causing them to glow
with a separate and special effulgence? Even in the case of Berenice
this was not without its value. In a Chicago paper which she found
lying one day on a desk which Cowperwood had occupied was an extended
editorial which interested her greatly. After reciting his various
misdeeds, particularly in connection with the present state
legislature, it went on to say: "He has an innate, chronic,
unconquerable contempt for the rank and file. Men are but slaves and
thralls to draw for him the chariot of his greatness. Never in all his
history has he seen fit to go to the people direct for anything. In
Philadelphia, when he wanted public-franchise control, he sought
privily and by chicane to arrange his affairs with a venal city
treasurer. In Chicago he has uniformly sought to buy and convert to
his own use the splendid privileges of the city, which should really
redound to the benefit of all. Frank Algernon Cowperwood does not
believe in the people; he does not trust them. To him they constitute
no more than a field upon which corn is to be sown, and from which it
is to be reaped. They present but a mass of bent backs, their knees
and faces in the mire, over which as over a floor he strides to
superiority. His private and inmost faith is in himself alone. Upon
the majority he shuts the gates of his glory in order that the sight of
their misery and their needs may not disturb nor alloy his selfish
bliss. Frank Algernon Cowperwood does not believe in the people."
This editorial battle-cry, flung aloft during the latter days of the
contest at Springfield and taken up by the Chicago papers generally and
by those elsewhere, interested Berenice greatly. As she thought of
him--waging his terrific contests, hurrying to and fro between New York
and Chicago, building his splendid mansion, collecting his pictures,
quarreling with Aileen--he came by degrees to take on the outlines of a
superman, a half-god or demi-gorgon. How could the ordinary rules of
life or the accustomed paths of men be expected to control him? They
could not and did not. And here he was pursuing her, seeking her out
with his eyes, grateful for a smile, waiting as much as he dared on her
every wish and whim.
Say what one will, the wish buried deep in every woman's heart is that
her lover should be a hero. Some, out of the veriest stick or stone,
fashion the idol before which they kneel, others demand the hard
reality of greatness; but in either case the illusion of
paragon-worship is maintained.
Berenice, by no means ready to look upon Cowperwood as an accepted
lover, was nevertheless gratified that his erring devotion was the
tribute of one able apparently to command thought from the whole world.
Moreover, because the New York papers had taken fire from his great
struggle in the Middle West and were charging him with bribery,
perjury, and intent to thwart the will of the people, Cowperwood now
came forward with an attempt to explain his exact position to Berenice
and to justify himself in her eyes. During visits to the Carter house
or in entr'actes at the opera or the theater, he recounted to her bit
by bit his entire history. He described the characters of Hand,
Schryhart, Arneel, and the motives of jealousy and revenge which had
led to their attack upon him in Chicago. "No human being could get
anything through the Chicago City Council without paying for it," he
declared. "It's simply a question of who's putting up the money." He
told how Truman Leslie MacDonald had once tried to "shake him down" for
fifty thousand dollars, and how the newspapers had since found it
possible to make money, to increase their circulation, by attacking
him. He frankly admitted the fact of his social ostracism, attributing
it partially to Aileen's deficiencies and partially to his own attitude
of Promethean defiance, which had never yet brooked defeat.
"And I will defeat them now," he said, solemnly, to Berenice one day
over a luncheon-table at the Plaza when the room was nearly empty. His
gray eyes were a study in colossal enigmatic spirit. "The governor
hasn't signed my fifty-year franchise bill" (this was before the
closing events at Springfield), "but he will sign it. Then I have one
more fight ahead of me. I'm going to combine all the traffic lines out
there under one general system. I am the logical person to provide it.
Later on, if public ownership ever arrives, the city can buy it."
"And then--" asked Berenice sweetly, flattered by his confidences.
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose I'll live abroad. You don't seem to be
very much interested in me. I'll finish my picture collection--"
"But supposing you should lose?"
"I don't contemplate losing," he remarked, coolly. "Whatever happens,
I'll have enough to live on. I'm a little tired of contest."
He smiled, but Berenice saw that the thought of defeat was a gray one.
With victory was his heart, and only there. Owing to the national
publicity being given to Cowperwood's affairs at this time the effect
upon Berenice of these conversations with him was considerable. At the
same time another and somewhat sinister influence was working in his
favor. By slow degrees she and her mother were coming to learn that
the ultra-conservatives of society were no longer willing to accept
them. Berenice had become at last too individual a figure to be
overlooked. At an important luncheon given by the Harris Haggertys,
some five months after the Beales Chadsey affair, she had been pointed
out to Mrs. Haggerty by a visiting guest from Cincinnati as some one
with whom rumor was concerning itself. Mrs. Haggerty wrote to friends
in Louisville for information, and received it. Shortly after, at the
coming-out party of a certain Geraldine Borga, Berenice, who had been
her sister's schoolmate, was curiously omitted. She took sharp note of
that. Subsequently the Haggertys failed to include her, as they had
always done before, in their generous summer invitations. This was true
also of the Lanman Zeiglers and the Lucas Demmigs. No direct affront
was offered; she was simply no longer invited. Also one morning she
read in the Tribune that Mrs. Corscaden Batjer had sailed for Italy.
No word of this had been sent to Berenice. Yet Mrs. Batjer was
supposedly one of her best friends. A hint to some is of more avail
than an open statement to others. Berenice knew quite well in which
direction the tide was setting.
True, there were a number--the ultra-smart of the smart world--who
protested. Mrs. Patrick Gilbennin, for instance: "No! You don't tell
me? What a shame! Well, I like Bevy and shall always like her. She's
clever, and she can come here just as long as she chooses. It isn't
her fault. She's a lady at heart and always will be. Life is so
cruel." Mrs. Augustus Tabreez: "Is that really true? I can't believe
it. Just the same, she's too charming to be dropped. I for one
propose to ignore these rumors just as long as I dare. She can come
here if she can't go anywhere else." Mrs. Pennington Drury: "That of
Bevy Fleming! Who says so? I don't believe it. I like her anyhow. The
idea of the Haggertys cutting her--dull fools! Well, she can be my
guest, the dear thing, as long as she pleases. As though her mother's
career really affected her!"
Nevertheless, in the world of the dull rich--those who hold their own
by might of possession, conformity, owl-eyed sobriety, and
ignorance--Bevy Fleming had become persona non grata. How did she take
all this? With that air of superior consciousness which knows that no
shift of outer material ill-fortune can detract one jot from an inward
mental superiority. The truly individual know themselves from the
beginning and rarely, if ever, doubt. Life may play fast and loose
about them, running like a racing, destructive tide in and out, but
they themselves are like a rock, still, serene, unmoved. Bevy Fleming
felt herself to be so immensely superior to anything of which she was a
part that she could afford to hold her head high even now Just the
same, in order to remedy the situation she now looked about her with an
eye single to a possible satisfactory marriage. Braxmar had gone for
good. He was somewhere in the East--in China, she heard--his
infatuation for her apparently dead. Kilmer Duelma was gone
also--snapped up--an acquisition on the part of one of those families
who did not now receive her. However, in the drawing-rooms where she
still appeared--and what were they but marriage markets?--one or two
affairs did spring up--tentative approachments on the part of scions of
wealth. They were destined to prove abortive. One of these youths,
Pedro Ricer Marcado, a Brazilian, educated at Oxford, promised much for
sincerity and feeling until he learned that Berenice was poor in her
own right--and what else? Some one had whispered something in his ear.
Again there was a certain William Drake Bowdoin, the son of a famous
old family, who lived on the north side of Washington Square. After a
ball, a morning musicale, and one other affair at which they met
Bowdoin took Berenice to see his mother and sister, who were charmed.
"Oh, you serene divinity!" he said to her, ecstatically, one day.
"Won't you marry me?" Bevy looked at him and wondered. "Let us wait
just a little longer, my dear," she counseled. "I want you to be sure
that you really love me. Shortly thereafter, meeting an old classmate
at a club, Bowdoin was greeted as follows:
"Look here, Bowdoin. You're a friend of mine. I see you with that
Miss Fleming. Now, I don't know how far things have gone, and I don't
want to intrude, but are you sure you are aware of all the aspects of
the case?"
"What do you mean?" demanded Bowdoin. "I want you to speak out."
"Oh, pardon, old man. No offense, really. You know me. I couldn't.
College--and all that. Just this, though, before you go any further.
Inquire about. You may hear things. If they're true you ought to
know. If not, the talking ought to stop. If I'm wrong call on me for
amends. I hear talk, I tell you. Best intentions in the world, old
man. I do assure you."
More inquiries. The tongues of jealousy and envy. Mr. Bowdoin was
sure to inherit three million dollars. Then a very necessary trip to
somewhere, and Berenice stared at herself in the glass. What was it?
What were people saying, if anything? This was strange. Well, she was
young and beautiful. There were others. Still, she might have come to
love Bowdoin. He was so airy, artistic in an unconscious way. Really,
she had thought better of him.
The effect of all this was not wholly depressing. Enigmatic,
disdainful, with a touch of melancholy and a world of gaiety and
courage, Berenice heard at times behind joy the hollow echo of
unreality. Here was a ticklish business, this living. For want of
light and air the finest flowers might die. Her mother's error was not
so inexplicable now. By it had she not, after all, preserved herself
and her family to a certain phase of social superiority? Beauty was of
such substance as dreams are made of, and as fleeting. Not one's self
alone--one's inmost worth, the splendor of one's dreams--but other
things--name, wealth, the presence or absence of rumor, and of
accident--were important. Berenice's lip curled. But life could be
lived. One could lie to the world. Youth is optimistic, and Berenice,
in spite of her splendid mind, was so young. She saw life as a game, a
good chance, that could be played in many ways. Cowperwood's theory of
things began to appeal to her. One must create one's own career, carve
it out, or remain horribly dull or bored, dragged along at the chariot
wheels of others. If society was so finicky, if men were so
dull--well, there was one thing she could do. She must have life,
life--and money would help some to that end.
Besides, Cowperwood by degrees was becoming attractive to her; he
really was. He was so much better than most of the others, so very
powerful. She was preternaturally gay, as one who says, "Victory shall
be mine anyhow."