Theodore Dreiser - The Titan

“But I do care, I tell you,” he returned, irritably, almost roughly. “When did you? You can tell me that, at least.” His eyes had a hard, cold look for the moment, dying away, though, into kindly inquiry.

“Oh, not long ago. About a week,” Aileen answered, as though she were compelled.

“How long have you known him?” he asked, curiously.

“Oh, four or five months, now. I met him last winter.”

“And did you do this deliberately—because you were in love with him, or because you wanted to hurt me?”

He could not believe from past scenes between them that she had ceased to love him.

Aileen stirred irritably. “I like that,” she flared. “I did it because I wanted to, and not because of any love for you—I can tell you that. I like your nerve sitting here presuming to question me after the way you have neglected me.” She pushed back her plate, and made as if to get up.

“Wait a minute, Aileen,” he said, simply, putting down his knife and fork and looking across the handsome table where Sevres, silver, fruit, and dainty dishes were spread, and where under silk-shaded lights they sat opposite each other. “I wish you wouldn’t talk that way to me. You know that I am not a petty, fourth-rate fool. You know that, whatever you do, I am not going to quarrel with you. I know what the trouble is with you. I know why you are acting this way, and how you will feel afterward if you go on. It isn’t anything I will do—” He paused, caught by a wave of feeling.

“Oh, isn’t it?” she blazed, trying to overcome the emotion that was rising in herself. The calmness of him stirred up memories of the past. “Well, you keep your sympathy for yourself. I don’t need it. I will get along. I wish you wouldn’t talk to me.”

She shoved her plate away with such force that she upset a glass in which was champagne, the wine making a frayed, yellowish splotch on the white linen, and, rising, hurried toward the door. She was choking with anger, pain, shame, regret.

“Aileen! Aileen!” he called, hurrying after her, regardless of the butler, who, hearing the sound of stirring chairs, had entered. These family woes were an old story to him. “It’s love you want—not revenge. I know—I can tell. You want to be loved by some one completely. I’m sorry. You mustn’t be too hard on me. I sha’n’t be on you.” He seized her by the arm and detained her as they entered the next room. By this time Aileen was too ablaze with emotion to talk sensibly or understand what he was doing.

“Let me go!” she exclaimed, angrily, hot tears in her eyes. “Let me go! I tell you I don’t love you any more. I tell you I hate you!” She flung herself loose and stood erect before him. “I don’t want you to talk to me! I don’t want you to speak to me! You’re the cause of all my troubles. You’re the cause of whatever I do, when I do it, and don’t you dare to deny it! You’ll see! You’ll see! I’ll show you what I’ll do!”

She twisted and turned, but he held her firmly until, in his strong grasp, as usual, she collapsed and began to cry. “Oh, I cry,” she declared, even in her tears, “but it will be just the same. It’s too late! too late!”

The stoic Cowperwood, listening to the blare and excitement that went with the fall campaign, was much more pained to learn of Aileen’s desertion than to know that he had arrayed a whole social element against himself in Chicago. He could not forget the wonder of those first days when Aileen was young, and love and hope had been the substance of her being. The thought ran through all his efforts and cogitations like a distantly orchestrated undertone. In the main, in spite of his activity, he was an introspective man, and art, drama, and the pathos of broken ideals were not beyond him. He harbored in no way any grudge against Aileen—only a kind of sorrow over the inevitable consequences of his own ungovernable disposition, the will to freedom within himself. Change! Change! the inevitable passing of things! Who parts with a perfect thing, even if no more than an unreasoning love, without a touch of self-pity?

But there followed swiftly the sixth of November, with its election, noisy and irrational, and the latter resulted in a resounding defeat. Out of the thirty-two Democratic aldermen nominated only ten were elected, giving the opposition a full two-thirds majority in council, Messrs. Tiernan and Kerrigan, of course, being safely in their places. With them came a Republican mayor and all his Republican associates on the ticket, who were now supposed to carry out the theories of the respectable and the virtuous. Cowperwood knew what it meant and prepared at once to make overtures to the enemy. From McKenty and others he learned by degrees the full story of Tiernan’s and Kerrigan’s treachery, but he did not store it up bitterly against them. Such was life. They must be looked after more carefully in future, or caught in some trap and utterly undone. According to their own accounts, they had barely managed to scrape through.

“Look at meself! I only won by three hundred votes,” archly declared Mr. Kerrigan, on divers and sundry occasions. “By God, I almost lost me own ward!”

Mr. Tiernan was equally emphatic. “The police was no good to me,” he declared, firmly. “They let the other fellows beat up me men. I only polled six thousand when I should have had nine.”

But no one believed them.

While McKenty meditated as to how in two years he should be able to undo this temporary victory, and Cowperwood was deciding that conciliation was the best policy for him, Schryhart, Hand, and Arneel, joining hands with young MacDonald, were wondering how they could make sure that this party victory would cripple Cowperwood and permanently prevent him from returning to power. It was a long, intricate fight that followed, but it involved (before Cowperwood could possibly reach the new aldermen) a proposed reintroduction and passage of the much-opposed General Electric franchise, the granting of rights and privileges in outlying districts to various minor companies, and last and worst—a thing which had not previously dawned on Cowperwood as in any way probable—the projection of an ordinance granting to a certain South Side corporation the privilege of erecting and operating an elevated road. This was as severe a blow as any that had yet been dealt Cowperwood, for it introduced a new factor and complication into the Chicago street-railway situation which had hitherto, for all its troubles, been comparatively simple.

In order to make this plain it should be said that some eighteen or twenty years before in New York there had been devised and erected a series of elevated roads calculated to relieve the congestion of traffic on the lower portion of that long and narrow island, and they had proved an immense success. Cowperwood had been interested in them, along with everything else which pertained to public street traffic, from the very beginning. In his various trips to New York he had made a careful physical inspection of them. He knew all about their incorporation, backers, the expense connected with them, their returns, and so forth. Personally, in so far as New York was concerned, he considered them an ideal solution of traffic on that crowded island. Here in Chicago, where the population was as yet comparatively small—verging now toward a million, and widely scattered over a great area—he did not feel that they would be profitable—certainly not for some years to come. What traffic they gained would be taken from the surface lines, and if he built them he would be merely doubling his expenses to halve his profits. From time to time he had contemplated the possibility of their being built by other men—providing they could secure a franchise, which previous to the late election had not seemed probable—and in this connection he had once said to Addison: “Let them sink their money, and about the time the population is sufficient to support the lines they will have been driven into the hands of receivers. That will simply chase the game into my bag, and I can buy them for a mere song.” With this conclusion Addison had agreed. But since this conversation circumstances made the construction of these elevated roads far less problematic.