Her end was easily achieved. One night, when they were all out in Bliss8 Bridge’s single-sticker—a fast-sailing saucer—Stephanie and Forbes Gurney sat forward of the mast looking at the silver moon track which was directly ahead. The rest were in the cockpit “cutting up”—laughing and singing. It was very plain to all that Stephanie was becoming interested in Forbes Gurney; and since he was charming and she wilful9, nothing was done to interfere10 with them, except to throw an occasional jest their way. Gurney, new to love and romance, scarcely knew how to take his good fortune, how to begin. He told Stephanie of his home life in the wheat-fields of the Northwest, how his family had moved from Ohio when he was three, and how difficult were the labors11 he had always undergone. He had stopped in his plowing12 many a day to stand under a tree and write a poem—such as it was—or to watch the birds or to wish he could go to college or to Chicago. She looked at him with dreamy eyes, her dark skin turned a copper13 bronze in the moonlight, her black hair irradiated with a strange, luminous14 grayish blue. Forbes Gurney, alive to beauty in all its forms, ventured finally to touch her hand—she of Knowles, Cross, and Cowperwood—and she thrilled from head to toe. This boy was so sweet. His curly brown hair gave him a kind of Greek innocence15 and aspect. She did not move, but waited, hoping he would do more.
She laid one hand on his.
“You dear!” she said.
He realized now that he might. A great ecstasy17 fell upon him. He smoothed her hand, then slipped his arm about her waist, then ventured to kiss the dark cheek turned dreamily from him. Artfully her head sunk to his shoulder, and he murmured wild nothings—how divine she was, how artistic, how wonderful! With her view of things, it could only end one way. She manoeuvered him into calling on her at her home, into studying her books and plays on the top-floor sitting-room19, into hearing her sing. Once fully18 in his arms, the rest was easy by suggestion. He learned she was no longer innocent, and then— In the mean time Cowperwood mingled20 his speculations21 concerning large power-houses, immense reciprocating22 engines, the problem of a wage scale for his now two thousand employees, some of whom were threatening to strike, the problem of securing, bonding, and equipping the La Salle Street tunnel and a down-town loop in La Salle, Munroe, Dearborn, and Randolph streets, with mental inquiries23 and pictures as to what possibly Stephanie Platow might be doing. He could only make appointments with her from time to time. He did not fail to note that, after he began to make use of information she let drop as to her whereabouts from day to day and her free companionship, he heard less of Gardner Knowles, Lane Cross, and Forbes Gurney, and more of Georgia Timberlake and Ethel Tuckerman. Why this sudden reticence24? On one occasion she did say of Forbes Gurney “that he was having such a hard time, and that his clothes weren’t as nice as they should be, poor dear!” Stephanie herself, owing to gifts made to her by Cowperwood, was resplendent these days. She took just enough to complete her wardrobe according to her taste.
“Why not send him to me?” Cowperwood asked. “I might find something to do for him.” He would have been perfectly25 willing to put him in some position where he could keep track of his time. However, Mr. Gurney never sought him for a position, and Stephanie ceased to speak of his poverty. A gift of two hundred dollars, which Cowperwood made her in June, was followed by an accidental meeting with her and Gurney in Washington Street. Mr. Gurney, pale and pleasant, was very well dressed indeed. He wore a pin which Cowperwood knew had once belonged to Stephanie. She was in no way confused. Finally Stephanie let it out that Lane Cross, who had gone to New Hampshire for the summer, had left his studio in her charge. Cowperwood decided26 to have this studio watched.
There was in Cowperwood’s employ at this time a young newspaper man, an ambitious spark aged27 twenty-six, by the name of Francis Kennedy. He had written a very intelligent article for the Sunday Inquirer, describing Cowperwood and his plans, and pointing out what a remarkable28 man he was. This pleased Cowperwood. When Kennedy called one day, announcing smartly that he was anxious to get out of reportorial work, and inquiring whether he couldn’t find something to do in the street-railway world, Cowperwood saw in him a possibly useful tool.
“I’ll try you out as secretary for a while,” he said, pleasantly. “There are a few special things I want done. If you succeed in those, I may find something else for you later.”
Kennedy had been working for him only a little while when he said to him one day: “Francis, did you ever hear of a young man by the name of Forbes Gurney in the newspaper world?”
They were in Cowperwood’s private office.
“No, sir,” replied Francis, briskly.
“You have heard of an organization called the Garrick Players, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Francis, do you suppose you could undertake a little piece of detective work for me, and handle it intelligently and quietly?”
“I think so,” said Francis, who was the pink of perfection this morning in a brown suit, garnet tie, and sard sleeve-links. His shoes were immaculately polished, and his young, healthy face glistened29.
“I’ll tell you what I want you to do. There is a young actress, or amateur actress, by the name of Stephanie Platow, who frequents the studio of an artist named Cross in the New Arts Building. She may even occupy it in his absence—I don’t know. I want you to find out for me what the relations of Mr. Gurney and this woman are. I have certain business reasons for wanting to know.”
Young Kennedy was all attention.
“You couldn’t tell me where I could find out anything about this Mr. Gurney to begin with, could you?” he asked.
“I think he is a friend of a critic here by the name of Gardner Knowles. You might ask him. I need not say that you must never mention me.
“Oh, I understand that thoroughly30, Mr. Cowperwood.” Young Kennedy departed, meditating31. How was he to do this? With true journalistic skill he first sought other newspaper men, from whom he learned—a bit from one and a scrap32 from another—of the character of the Garrick Players, and of the women who belonged to it. He pretended to be writing a one-act play, which he hoped to have produced.
He then visited Lane Cross’s studio, posing as a newspaper interviewer. Mr. Cross was out of town, so the elevator man said. His studio was closed.
“Does any one use his studio during the summer months?” he asked.
“I believe there is a young woman who comes here—yes.”
“You don’t happen to know who it is?”
“Yes, I do. Her name is Platow. What do you want to know for?”
“Looky here,” exclaimed Kennedy, surveying the rather shabby attendant with a cordial and persuasive34 eye, “do you want to make some money—five or ten dollars, and without any trouble to you?”
“I want to know who comes here with this Miss Platow, when they come—all about it. I’ll make it fifteen dollars if I find out what I want, and I’ll give you five right now.”
The elevator factotum36 had just sixty-five cents in his pocket at the time. He looked at Kennedy with some uncertainty37 and much desire.
“Well, what can I do?” he repeated. “I’m not here after six. The janitor38 runs this elevator from six to twelve.”
“There isn’t a room vacant anywhere near this one, is there?” Kennedy asked, speculatively39.
The factotum thought. “Yes, there is. One just across the hall.”
“What time does she come here as a rule?”
“I don’t know anything about nights. In the day she sometimes comes mornings, sometimes in the afternoon.”
“Anybody with her?”
“Sometimes a man, sometimes a girl or two. I haven’t really paid much attention to her, to tell you the truth.”
Kennedy walked away whistling.
From this day on Mr. Kennedy became a watcher over this very unconventional atmosphere. He was in and out, principally observing the comings and goings of Mr. Gurney. He found what he naturally suspected, that Mr. Gurney and Stephanie spent hours here at peculiar40 times—after a company of friends had jollified, for instance, and all had left, including Gurney, when the latter would quietly return, with Stephanie sometimes, if she had left with the others, alone if she had remained behind. The visits were of varying duration, and Kennedy, to be absolutely accurate, kept days, dates, the duration of the hours, which he left noted41 in a sealed envelope for Cowperwood in the morning. Cowperwood was enraged42, but so great was his interest in Stephanie that he was not prepared to act. He wanted to see to what extent her duplicity would go.
The novelty of this atmosphere and its effect on him was astonishing. Although his mind was vigorously employed during the day, nevertheless his thoughts kept returning constantly. Where was she? What was she doing? The bland43 way in which she could lie reminded him of himself. To think that she should prefer any one else to him, especially at this time when he was shining as a great constructive44 factor in the city, was too much. It smacked45 of age, his ultimate displacement46 by youth. It cut and hurt.
One morning, after a peculiarly exasperating47 night of thought concerning her, he said to young Kennedy: “I have a suggestion for you. I wish you would get this elevator man you are working with down there to get you a duplicate key to this studio, and see if there is a bolt on the inside. Let me know when you do. Bring me the key. The next time she is there of an evening with Mr. Gurney step out and telephone me.”
The climax48 came one night several weeks after this discouraging investigation49 began. There was a heavy yellow moon in the sky, and a warm, sweet summer wind was blowing. Stephanie had called on Cowperwood at his office about four to say that instead of staying down-town with him, as they had casually50 planned, she was going to her home on the West Side to attend a garden-party of some kind at Georgia Timberlake’s. Cowperwood looked at her with—for him—a morbid51 eye. He was all cheer, geniality52, pleasant badinage54; but he was thinking all the while what a shameless enigma55 she was, how well she played her part, what a fool she must take him to be. He gave her youth, her passion, her attractiveness, her natural promiscuity56 of soul due credit; but he could not forgive her for not loving him perfectly, as had so many others. She had on a summery black-and-white frock and a fetching brown Leghorn hat, which, with a rich-red poppy ornamenting57 a flare58 over her left ear and a peculiar ruching of white-and-black silk about the crown, made her seem strangely young, debonair59, a study in Hebraic and American origins.
“Going to have a nice time, are you?” he asked, genially60, politically, eying her in his enigmatic and inscrutable way. “Going to shine among that charming company you keep! I suppose all the standbys will be there—Bliss Bridge, Mr. Knowles, Mr. Cross—dancing attendance on you?”
He failed to mention Mr. Gurney.
Stephanie nodded cheerfully. She seemed in an innocent outing mood.
Cowperwood smiled, thinking how one of these days—very shortly, perhaps—he was certain to take a signal revenge. He would catch her in a lie, in a compromising position somewhere—in this studio, perhaps—and dismiss her with contempt. In an elder day, if they had lived in Turkey, he would have had her strangled, sewn in a sack, and thrown into the Bosporus. As it was, he could only dismiss her. He smiled and smiled, smoothing her hand. “Have a good time,” he called, as she left. Later, at his own home—it was nearly midnight—Mr. Kennedy called him up.
“Mr. Cowperwood?”
“Yes.”
“You know the studio in the New Arts Building?”
“Yes.”
“It is occupied now.”
Cowperwood called a servant to bring him his runabout. He had had a down-town locksmith make a round keystem with a bored clutch at the end of it—a hollow which would fit over the end of such a key as he had to the studio and turn it easily from the outside. He felt in his pocket for it, jumped in his runabout, and hurried away. When he reached the New Arts Building he found Kennedy in the hall and dismissed him. “Thanks,” he observed, brusquely. “I will take care of this.”
He hurried up the stairs, avoiding the elevator, to the vacant room opposite, and thence reconnoitered the studio door. It was as Kennedy had reported. Stephanie was there, and with Gurney. The pale poet had been brought there to furnish her an evening of delight. Because of the stillness of the building at this hour he could hear their muffled61 voices speaking alternately, and once Stephanie singing the refrain of a song. He was angry and yet grateful that she had, in her genial53 way, taken the trouble to call and assure him that she was going to a summer lawn-party and dance. He smiled grimly, sarcastically62, as he thought of her surprise. Softly he extracted the clutch-key and inserted it, covering the end of the key on the inside and turning it. It gave solidly without sound. He next tried the knob and turned it, feeling the door spring slightly as he did so. Then inaudibly, because of a gurgled laugh with which he was thoroughly familiar, he opened it and stepped in.
At his rough, firm cough they sprang up—Gurney to a hiding position behind a curtain, Stephanie to one of concealment64 behind draperies on the couch. She could not speak, and could scarcely believe that her eyes did not deceive her. Gurney, masculine and defiant65, but by no means well composed, demanded: “Who are you? What do you want here?” Cowperwood replied very simply and smilingly: “Not very much. Perhaps Miss Platow there will tell you.” He nodded in her direction.
Stephanie, fixed66 by his cold, examining eye, shrank nervously67, ignoring Gurney entirely68. The latter perceived on the instant that he had a previous liaison69 to deal with—an angry and outraged70 lover—and he was not prepared to act either wisely or well.
“Mr. Gurney,” said Cowperwood, complacently71, after staring at Stephanie grimly and scorching72 her with his scorn, “I have no concern with you, and do not propose to do anything to disturb you or Miss Platow after a very few moments. I am not here without reason. This young woman has been steadily73 deceiving me. She has lied to me frequently, and pretended an innocence which I did not believe. To-night she told me she was to be at a lawn-party on the West Side. She has been my mistress for months. I have given her money, jewelry74, whatever she wanted. Those jade75 ear-rings, by the way, are one of my gifts.” He nodded cheerfully in Stephanie’s direction. “I have come here simply to prove to her that she cannot lie to me any more. Heretofore, every time I have accused her of things like this she has cried and lied. I do not know how much you know of her, or how fond you are of her. I merely wish her, not you, to know”—and he turned and stared at Stephanie—“that the day of her lying to me is over.”
During this very peculiar harangue77 Stephanie, who, nervous, fearful, fixed, and yet beautiful, remained curled up in the corner of the suggestive oriental divan78, had been gazing at Cowperwood in a way which plainly attested79, trifle as she might with others, that she was nevertheless fond of him—intensely so. His strong, solid figure, confronting her so ruthlessly, gripped her imagination, of which she had a world. She had managed to conceal63 her body in part, but her brown arms and shoulders, her bosom80, trim knees, and feet were exposed in part. Her black hair and naive81 face were now heavy, distressed82, sad. She was frightened really, for Cowperwood at bottom had always overawed her—a strange, terrible, fascinating man. Now she sat and looked, seeking still to lure him by the pathetic cast of her face and soul, while Cowperwood, scornful of her, and almost openly contemptuous of her lover, and his possible opposition83, merely stood smiling before them. It came over her very swiftly now just what it was she was losing—a grim, wonderful man. Beside him Gurney, the pale poet, was rather thin—a mere76 breath of romance. She wanted to say something, to make a plea; but it was so plain Cowperwood would have none of it, and, besides, here was Gurney. Her throat clogged84, her eyes filled, even here, and a mystical bog-fire state of emotion succeeded the primary one of opposition. Cowperwood knew the look well. It gave him the only sense of triumph he had.
“Stephanie,” he remarked, “I have just one word to say to you now. We will not meet any more, of course. You are a good actress. Stick to your profession. You may shine in it if you do not merge85 it too completely with your loves. As for being a free lover, it isn’t incompatible86 with what you are, perhaps, but it isn’t socially advisable for you. Good night.”
He turned and walked quickly out.
“Oh, Frank,” called Stephanie, in a strange, magnetized, despairing way, even in the face of her astonished lover. Gurney stared with his mouth open.
Cowperwood paid no heed87. Out he went through the dark hall and down the stairs. For once the lure of a beautiful, enigmatic, immoral88, and promiscuous89 woman—poison flower though she was—was haunting him. “D— her!” he exclaimed. “D— the little beast, anyhow! The ——! The ——!” He used terms so hard, so vile90, so sad, all because he knew for once what it was to love and lose—to want ardently91 in his way and not to have—now or ever after. He was determined92 that his path and that of Stephanie Platow should never be allowed to cross again.
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1
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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3
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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recessive
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| adj.退行的，逆行的，后退的，隐性的 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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8
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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10
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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11
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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12
plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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13
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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14
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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15
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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reciprocating
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| adj.往复的；来回的；交替的；摆动的v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的现在分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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31
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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35
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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36
factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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42
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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43
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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44
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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45
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
displacement
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| n.移置，取代，位移，排水量 | |
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47
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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48
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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49
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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50
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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51
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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52
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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53
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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54
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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55
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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56
promiscuity
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| n.混杂，混乱；（男女的）乱交 | |
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57
ornamenting
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| v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的现在分词 ) | |
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58
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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59
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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60
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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61
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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