Theodore Dreiser - The Stoic

In the face of her present resentment toward Cowperwood, she was in no position to decide quickly. For dream as she might about Stane, it was quite obvious that without Cowperwood’s good will, she was not likely to extricate herself from the various complications which confronted her. Sufficiently angered, he could destroy her instantly. Sufficiently indifferent, he might allow Aileen and others to do as much. Also, in turning all this over in her mind she was confronted by the fact that her temperament as well as her general viewpoint appeared to crave Cowperwood and not Stane. She was strongest when supplemented by him. And weighing all that was to be weighed in connection with Stane, there remained the outstanding fact that he did not match Cowperwood in vigor, resourcefulness, naturalness, or the humanness of his approach to life. And it was these things more than anything else that caused her to realize that she desired to be with Cowperwood more than with anyone else, to hear his voice, to observe his gestures, sense his dynamic and seemingly unterrified approach to life. It was when he was with her that she felt her own strength magnified and without his brave support what would her personal reactions to all this now be? It caused her, in the face of Stane’s suggestions, to indulge in no definite comment other than that her guardian could, at times, be strangely perverse and intractable, and that she would be compelled to leave these invitations in abeyance pending his return to England. At the same time, as she smilingly indicated, she was very much in favor of it. And if he were willing to leave it to her, perhaps it could be arranged.

A cheerful, if slightly formal, greeting from Berenice, which gave no least hint of difficulties, was waiting for Cowperwood when he reached his hotel. However, he was one who could not only sense danger but fairly register the vigorous thoughts of others in regard to himself, and he was already aware of inimical moods in her direction. In fact, long before he reached England, he had been fully convinced that his affair with Lorna was known to Berenice. He could feel it in the region of his solar plexus. It put him on his guard and sharpened his wits for any possible emergency. Already he had decided not to attempt evasion in any form, but, rather, feel his way according to Berenice’s mood and manner.

And so, Pryor’s Cove, colored by the mood of autumn, the leaves slightly reddened and yellowed. There were wreaths of mist on the river, even at noon, the hour of his arrival. And as he drew near he was most vividly conscious of all the bright summer days he might have spent here with Berenice. But now the thing to do was to face her frankly; let her once more sense him as he really was. That method had proved so propitious and effective in connection with other difficulties that he was satisfied to think it might prove so now. Besides, was there not Stane to balance Lorna? Guilty or not, Berenice might be made to feel dubious in regard to her own position.

As he drove in, Piggott, the gardener, visible behind a hedge he was trimming, bowed a greeting. In the paddock adjoining Stane’s stables, the horses were warming themselves in the autumn sun, and about the stable doors two of the grooms were busy with the harness. Mrs. Carter walked across the lawn to greet him, apparently unaware of the problems that were troubling him and her daughter, for she was all smiles. From her cheerful welcome, he guessed that Berenice had probably not confided in her.

“Well, how’s everything?” he called out to her, stepping forward and taking her hand.

Berenice, according to her mother, was as well as ever, and now in the music room practicing. Rimski-Korsakov’s “Market Scenes” heard through the open window confirmed this.

For a moment Cowperwood had the feeling that, as in the case of Aileen, he might have to seek her out and begin some sort of irritating explanation, but as he was so thinking, the music suddenly ceased and she appeared in the doorway, as poised and smiling as ever. Oh, he was back! How nice! How had he been? Had he had a pleasant voyage? She was so glad to see him. She ran forward, not kissing him, as he noted, but otherwise acting as though no least ill were troubling her. In fact, she appeared quite enthusiastic as she added that now he was in time for the lovely autumn scenery; every day this place seemed lovelier. And, for the moment, Cowperwood entered upon this play-acting the while he wondered how long it would be before the real storm broke. But since Berenice’s gaiety continued with an invitation to go over to the houseboat for a cocktail, he interrupted with:

“Let’s walk down by the river, do you mind, Bevy?” And taking her by the arm he led her down to the tree-shaded path. “Bevy,” he began, “there’s something I have to say to you before we do anything else.” He fixed her with a hard, cold gaze. And as instantly she modified her manner.

“Will you pardon me just a minute, Frank, while I speak to Mrs. Evans . . .”

“No,” he said, decisively, “don’t go, Bevy. This is something much more important than Mrs. Evans or anything else. I want to tell you about Lorna Maris. You probably know about her, but I want to tell you, anyway.”

As he spoke she remained silent, walking beside him softly and evenly.

“You know of Lorna Maris?” he asked.

“Yes, I know. A clipping and some pictures were sent me from New York. She is very beautiful.”

He noted her reserve. No complaint. No request for information. At the same time, all the more urgent was it that he should discover her true mood.

“Quite a sudden turnabout from all I’ve been saying to you, isn’t it, Bevy?”

“Yes, I think it is. But you’re not going to tell me you’re sorry, I hope.” The corners of her mouth suggested the least trace of irony.

“No, Bevy, I’m not going to tell you anything except what happened. Then you can judge for yourself. Do you wish to hear about it?”

“Not so much. But if you really want to talk about it, all right. I think I understand how it happened.”

“Bevy!” he exclaimed, pausing and looking at her, admiration and genuine affection in his every line. “We can’t—at least, I can’t—get anywhere this way. The only reason I want to tell you is because whatever you’re thinking, I want you to know that I still care deeply for you. That may sound shallow and false after all that has happened since I last saw you, but I believe you know it’s true. You know and I know that there are personality values that are not to be measured by physical beauty or sexual sensations alone. As between one attractive woman and another, and one man and another judging them, there are always other modifying things: character, understanding, extreme congeniality of purpose and ideals, and . . .”

He paused as she interrupted rather icily: “Really? Of sufficient weight to make a difference in one’s conduct, loyalty, or constancy?”

The semisubmerged flash in her eyes warned him that tergiversation in her case was of no least value.

“Enough to make a very great difference, Bevy. You see me here, don’t you? Ten days ago in New York . . .”

Berenice interrupted him. “Yes, I know. You left her after a delightful summer in her company. You had enough of her for the time being. And so London, your plans to re-establish yourself . . .” Her pretty mouth curled scornfully. “But really, Frank, you need not clarify all this to me. I am very much like yourself, you know. I can explain as cleverly as you can; only being obligated to you for many things, and perhaps willing to sacrifice to a degree if I continue to need them, I must be more careful than you, much more careful. Or . . .” She paused and gazed at him, and he felt as though he had received a body blow.