cowperwood, with his appetite for the wonders of life, his appreciation of the dramas which produce either failure or success, could not help being interested in this spoiled woman who was sailing so vaguely the seas of chance. colonel gillis once said that with some strong man to back her, nannie fleming could be put back into society. she had a pleasant appeal—she and her two children, of whom she never spoke. after a few visits to her home cowperwood spent hours talking with mrs. carter whenever he was in louisville. on one occasion, as they were entering her boudoir, she picked up a photograph of her daughter from the dresser and dropped it into a drawer. cowperwood had never seen this picture before. it was that of a girl of fifteen or sixteen, of whom he obtained but the most fleeting glance. yet, with that instinct for the essential and vital which invariably possessed him, he gained a keen impression of it. it was of a delicately haggard child with a marvelously agreeable smile, a fine, high-poised head upon a thin neck, and an air of bored superiority. combined with this was a touch of weariness about the eyelids which drooped in a lofty way. cowperwood was fascinated. because of the daughter he professed an interest in the mother, which he really did not feel.
a little later cowperwood was moved to definite action by the discovery in a photographer’s window in louisville of a second picture of berenice—a rather large affair which mrs. carter had had enlarged from a print sent her by her daughter some time before. berenice was standing rather indifferently posed at the corner of a colonial mantel, a soft straw outing-hat held negligently in one hand, one hip sunk lower than the other, a faint, elusive smile playing dimly around her mouth. the smile was really not a smile, but only the wraith of one, and the eyes were wide, disingenuous, mock-simple. the picture because of its simplicity, appealed to him. he did not know that mrs. carter had never sanctioned its display. “a personage,” was cowperwood’s comment to himself, and he walked into the photographer’s office to see what could be done about its removal and the destruction of the plates. a half-hundred dollars, he found, would arrange it all—plates, prints, everything. since by this ruse he secured a picture for himself, he promptly had it framed and hung in his chicago rooms, where sometimes of an afternoon when he was hurrying to change his clothes he stopped to look at it. with each succeeding examination his admiration and curiosity grew. here was perhaps, he thought, the true society woman, the high-born lady, the realization of that ideal which mrs. merrill and many another grande dame had suggested.
it was not so long after this again that, chancing to be in louisville, he discovered mrs. carter in a very troubled social condition. her affairs had received a severe setback. a certain major hagenback, a citizen of considerable prominence, had died in her home under peculiar circumstances. he was a man of wealth, married, and nominally living with his wife in lexington. as a matter of fact, he spent very little time there, and at the time of his death of heart failure was leading a pleasurable existence with a miss trent, an actress, whom he had introduced to mrs. carter as his friend. the police, through a talkative deputy coroner, were made aware of all the facts. pictures of miss trent, mrs. carter, major hagenback, his wife, and many curious details concerning mrs. carter’s home were about to appear in the papers when colonel gillis and others who were powerful socially and politically interfered; the affair was hushed up, but mrs. carter was in distress. this was more than she had bargained for.
her quondam friends were frightened away for the nonce. she herself had lost courage. when cowperwood saw her she had been in the very human act of crying, and her eyes were red.
“well, well,” he commented, on seeing her—she was in moody gray in the bargain—“you don’t mean to tell me you’re worrying about anything, are you?”
“oh, mr. cowperwood,” she explained, pathetically, “i have had so much trouble since i saw you. you heard of major hagenback’s death, didn’t you?” cowperwood, who had heard something of the story from colonel gillis, nodded. “well, i have just been notified by the police that i will have to move, and the landlord has given me notice, too. if it just weren’t for my two children—”
she dabbed at her eyes pathetically.
cowperwood meditated interestedly.
“haven’t you any place you can go?” he asked.
“i have a summer place in pennsylvania,” she confessed; “but i can’t go there very well in february. besides, it’s my living i’m worrying about. i have only this to depend on.”
she waved her hand inclusively toward the various rooms. “don’t you own that place in pennsylvania?” he inquired.
“yes, but it isn’t worth much, and i couldn’t sell it. i’ve been trying to do that anyhow for some time, because berenice is getting tired of it.”
“and haven’t you any money laid away?”
“it’s taken all i have to run this place and keep the children in school. i’ve been trying to give berenice and rolfe a chance to do something for themselves.”
at the repetition of berenice’s name cowperwood consulted his own interest or mood in the matter. a little assistance for her would not bother him much. besides, it would probably eventually bring about a meeting with the daughter.
“why don’t you clear out of this?” he observed, finally. “it’s no business to be in, anyhow, if you have any regard for your children. they can’t survive anything like this. you want to put your daughter back in society, don’t you?”
“oh yes,” almost pleaded mrs. carter.
“precisely,” commented cowperwood, who, when he was thinking, almost invariably dropped into a short, cold, curt, business manner. yet he was humanely inclined in this instance.
“well, then, why not live in your pennsylvania place for the present, or, if not that, go to new york? you can’t stay here. ship or sell these things.” he waved a hand toward the rooms.
“i would only too gladly,” replied mrs. carter, “if i knew what to do.”
“take my advice and go to new york for the present. you will get rid of your expenses here, and i will help you with the rest—for the present, anyhow. you can get a start again. it is too bad about these children of yours. i will take care of the boy as soon as he is old enough. as for berenice”—he used her name softly—“if she can stay in her school until she is nineteen or twenty the chances are that she will make social connections which will save her nicely. the thing for you to do is to avoid meeting any of this old crowd out here in the future if you can. it might be advisable to take her abroad for a time after she leaves school.”
“yes, if i just could,” sighed mrs. carter, rather lamely.
“well, do what i suggest now, and we will see,” observed cowperwood. “it would be a pity if your two children were to have their lives ruined by such an accident as this.”
mrs. carter, realizing that here, in the shape of cowperwood, if he chose to be generous, was the open way out of a lowering dungeon of misery, was inclined to give vent to a bit of grateful emotion, but, finding him subtly remote, restrained herself. his manner, while warmly generous at times, was also easily distant, except when he wished it to be otherwise. just now he was thinking of the high soul of berenice fleming and of its possible value to him.
