Theodore Dreiser - The Stoic

Of course, since he did not wish to reach down into his own hoardings for the preliminary cost of all this, he would probably have to return to the United States in the near future, and, by cannily outlining the possibilities of the situation, secure from certain banks, trust companies, and individual financiers with whose methods and cupidity he was thoroughly acquainted, subscriptions to an underlying holding company. And this in turn would take over these London properties and then later prorate these acquired holdings to the various subscribers on a basis of two or three dollars for every dollar invested.

But the thing to do now was to refresh himself by a vacation with Berenice. When that was over, he would consult with Johnson and arrange for a meeting with Lord Stane, for upon the attitude of these two, much depended.

Throughout this turmoil of business affairs—which had been punctuated by the departure of Aileen for Paris and Berenice’s activities in connection with Pryor’s Cove—Cowperwood had had to content himself with mere glimpses of his loved one. She was so busy, apparently, shopping and arranging things. The graceful trivialities with which she amused herself, however, only served to make her more of an intriguing personality in his eyes. She is so alive, he often said to himself. She desires things and enjoys them intensely, and makes me do so. She appears to be interested in everything, and therefore people are naturally interested in her.

And now, on his first visit to Pryor’s Cove, he found the place completely equipped: cook, maids, housekeeper, butler, to say nothing of the outdoor staff maintained by Stane. And Berenice herself affecting an interest—or pose, he could not say which—in regard to the charms of this rustic life. So often her love of nature appeared to be genuine, and even affecting: a bird, a tree, a flower, a butterfly—she was ecstatic. Marie Antoinette could have played the part no better. When he arrived, she was out with the shepherd, who had assembled the sheep and lambs for her inspection. As his carriage rolled into the drive, she gathered into her arms one of the smallest and wooliest of the new lambs. She made a picture which delighted but in no way deceived him. Acting, and for my benefit, was his thought.

“The shepherdess and her sheep!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and touching the head of the lamb in her arms. “These charming creatures! They come and go like the spring flowers.”

His glance acknowledged the artistry of her dress, although he said nothing. He understood clearly that for her to effect an unusual costume was natural. She would pretend to be unconscious of the significance of her poses, considering them natural to herself, a privilege as well as an obligation that was a part of her physical gifts.

“You should have come a little earlier,” she said. “You might have met our neighbor, Arthur Tavistock. He’s been helping me arrange things. He had to go to London, but he’s coming tomorrow to do some more work.”

“Really! What a practical chatelaine! Employing her guests! Is this a place where work is to be the chief form of entertainment? What am I to do?”

“Run errands. And lots of them, too.”

“But I began life that way.”

“Be careful that you don’t end it that way.” She took his arm. “Come along with me, dear. Here, Dobson!” she called to the shepherd, who came forward and took the lamb from her arms.

They walked across the smooth green lawn to the houseboat. There, on the awninged veranda, a table was spread. Inside, at one of the boat’s open windows, Mrs. Carter was reading. After Cowperwood had greeted her cordially, Berenice led him over to the table.

“Now, you’re to sit here and contemplate nature,” she ordered. “Just relax and forget all about London.” Then she put before him his favorite drink, a mint julep. “There! Now let me tell you some of the things I have in mind that we could do, if you’re going to have any time. Are you?”

“All the time in the world, sweet,” he said. “I’ve arranged things. We are free. Aileen has gone to Paris,” he added confidentially, “and from what she said, I don’t expect her back under ten days. Now, what’s on your mind?”

“A tour of some of the English cathedrals for mother, daughter, and guardian!” she replied, promptly. “I have always wanted to see Canterbury and York and Wells. Don’t you think we might take the time to do that, since we can’t very well go to the Continent?”

“I think it would be ideal. I have never seen much of England, and it will be a treat for me. We can be alone.” He took her hand in his, while she touched his hair with her lips.

“I don’t think I’m not keeping up with all this noise about you in the papers,” she said. “Already, the fact that the great Cowperwood is my guardian has gotten around. My furniture mover wanted to know if my guardian and the American millionaire talked of in the Chronicle were the same person. I had to admit it. But Arthur Tavistock seems to think it natural enough for me to have so distinguished a mentor.”

Cowperwood smiled.

“I suppose you’ve considered the servants and what they are likely to think.”

“I certainly have, dearest! Troublesome, but necessary. That is the reason I want us to take the trip. Now, if you’re rested I want to show you something interesting.” And she smiled as she signaled Cowperwood to follow her.

She led the way to a bedroom which was beyond the central hall, opened a bureau drawer and extracted from it a pair of hairbrushes, with the coat of arms of the Earl of Stane engraved on the silver backs; also a stray collar button, and several hairpins.

“If hairpins could be identified as easily as hairbrushes, these things might prove a romance,” she said, mischievously. “But the noble lord’s secret is going to be kept by me.”

At that moment, from under the trees surrounding the cottage, came the sound of a sheep bell.

“There!” she exclaimed, as it ceased. “When you hear that, wherever you are, you’re to come to dinner. It’s going to take the place of a bowing butler.”

The trip, as Berenice planned it, was to start south from London, with perhaps a stop at Rochester, and then on to Canterbury. After paying homage to that exquisite poem in stone, they were to motor to some modest streamside inn on the river Stour—no great hotel or resort to break the aesthetic simplicity of this tour—where they would enjoy a room with a fire and the simplest of English fare. For Berenice had been reading Chaucer and books on these English cathedrals, and she hoped to recapture the spirit in which they were conceived. From Canterbury they would go to Winchester, and from there to Salisbury, and from Salisbury to Stonehenge; from thence to Wells, Glastonbury, Bath, Oxford, Peterborough, York, Cambridge, and then home again. But always, as she insisted, the purely conventional was to be avoided. They were to seek the smallest of inns and the simplest of villages.

“It will be good for us,” she insisted. “We pamper ourselves too much. If you study all these lovely things, you may build better subways.”

“And you ought to be content with simple cotton dresses!” said Cowperwood.

For Cowperwood, the real charm of their vacation trip was not the cathedrals or the village cottages and inns. It was the changeful vividness of Berenice’s temperament and tastes that held him. There was not a single woman of his acquaintance who, given a choice of Paris and the Continent in early May, would have selected the cathedral towns of England. But Berenice was apart from others in that she seemed to find within herself the pleasures and fulfilments which she most craved.