Things had changed greatly since last Cowperwood had talked with
Butler. Although most friendly at the time the proposition was made
that he should combine with Mollenhauer and Simpson to sustain the
market, alas, now on this Monday morning at nine o’clock, an additional
complication had been added to the already tangled situation which had
changed Butler’s attitude completely. As he was leaving his home to
enter his runabout, at nine o’clock in the morning of this same day in
which Cowperwood was seeking Stener’s aid, the postman, coming up, had
handed Butler four letters, all of which he paused for a moment to
glance at. One was from a sub-contractor by the name of O’Higgins, the
second was from Father Michel, his confessor, of St. Timothy’s,
thanking him for a contribution to the parish poor fund; a third was
from Drexel & Co. relating to a deposit, and the fourth was an
anonymous communication, on cheap stationery from some one who was
apparently not very literate—a woman most likely—written in a scrawling
hand, which read:
DEAR SIR—This is to warn you that your daughter Aileen is running
around with a man that she shouldn’t, Frank A. Cowperwood, the banker.
If you don’t believe it, watch the house at 931 North Tenth Street.
Then you can see for yourself.
There was neither signature nor mark of any kind to indicate from
whence it might have come. Butler got the impression strongly that it
might have been written by some one living in the vicinity of the
number indicated. His intuitions were keen at times. As a matter of
fact, it was written by a girl, a member of St. Timothy’s Church, who
did live in the vicinity of the house indicated, and who knew Aileen by
sight and was jealous of her airs and her position. She was a thin,
anemic, dissatisfied creature who had the type of brain which can
reconcile the gratification of personal spite with a comforting sense
of having fulfilled a moral duty. Her home was some five doors north of
the unregistered Cowperwood domicile on the opposite side of the
street, and by degrees, in the course of time, she made out, or
imagined that she had, the significance of this institution, piecing
fact to fancy and fusing all with that keen intuition which is so
closely related to fact. The result was eventually this letter which
now spread clear and grim before Butler’s eyes.
The Irish are a philosophic as well as a practical race. Their first
and strongest impulse is to make the best of a bad situation—to put a
better face on evil than it normally wears. On first reading these
lines the intelligence they conveyed sent a peculiar chill over
Butler’s sturdy frame. His jaw instinctively closed, and his gray eyes
narrowed. Could this be true? If it were not, would the author of the
letter say so practically, “If you don’t believe it, watch the house at
931 North Tenth Street”? Wasn’t that in itself proof positive—the hard,
matter-of-fact realism of it? And this was the man who had come to him
the night before seeking aid—whom he had done so much to assist. There
forced itself into his naturally slow-moving but rather accurate mind a
sense of the distinction and charm of his daughter—a considerably
sharper picture than he had ever had before, and at the same time a
keener understanding of the personality of Frank Algernon Cowperwood.
How was it he had failed to detect the real subtlety of this man? How
was it he had never seen any sign of it, if there had been anything
between Cowperwood and Aileen?
Parents are frequently inclined, because of a time-flattered sense of
security, to take their children for granted. Nothing ever has
happened, so nothing ever will happen. They see their children every
day, and through the eyes of affection; and despite their natural charm
and their own strong parental love, the children are apt to become not
only commonplaces, but ineffably secure against evil. Mary is naturally
a good girl—a little wild, but what harm can befall her? John is a
straight-forward, steady-going boy—how could he get into trouble? The
astonishment of most parents at the sudden accidental revelation of
evil in connection with any of their children is almost invariably
pathetic. “My John! My Mary! Impossible!” But it is possible. Very
possible. Decidedly likely. Some, through lack of experience or
understanding, or both, grow hard and bitter on the instant. They feel
themselves astonishingly abased in the face of notable tenderness and
sacrifice. Others collapse before the grave manifestation of the
insecurity and uncertainty of life—the mystic chemistry of our being.
Still others, taught roughly by life, or endowed with understanding or
intuition, or both, see in this the latest manifestation of that
incomprehensible chemistry which we call _life_ and personality, and,
knowing that it is quite vain to hope to gainsay it, save by greater
subtlety, put the best face they can upon the matter and call a truce
until they can think. We all know that life is unsolvable—we who think.
The remainder imagine a vain thing, and are full of sound and fury
signifying nothing.
So Edward Butler, being a man of much wit and hard, grim experience,
stood there on his doorstep holding in his big, rough hand his thin
slip of cheap paper which contained such a terrific indictment of his
daughter. There came to him now a picture of her as she was when she
was a very little girl—she was his first baby girl—and how keenly he
had felt about her all these years. She had been a beautiful child—her
red-gold hair had been pillowed on his breast many a time, and his
hard, rough fingers had stroked her soft cheeks, lo, these thousands of
times. Aileen, his lovely, dashing daughter of twenty-three! He was
lost in dark, strange, unhappy speculations, without any present
ability to think or say or do the right thing. He did not know what the
right thing was, he finally confessed to himself. Aileen! Aileen! His
Aileen! If her mother knew this it would break her heart. She mustn’t!
She mustn’t! And yet mustn’t she?
The heart of a father! The world wanders into many strange by-paths of
affection. The love of a mother for her children is dominant, leonine,
selfish, and unselfish. It is concentric. The love of a husband for his
wife, or of a lover for his sweetheart, is a sweet bond of agreement
and exchange trade in a lovely contest. The love of a father for his
son or daughter, where it is love at all, is a broad, generous, sad,
contemplative giving without thought of return, a hail and farewell to
a troubled traveler whom he would do much to guard, a balanced judgment
of weakness and strength, with pity for failure and pride in
achievement. It is a lovely, generous, philosophic blossom which rarely
asks too much, and seeks only to give wisely and plentifully. “That my
boy may succeed! That my daughter may be happy!” Who has not heard and
dwelt upon these twin fervors of fatherly wisdom and tenderness?
As Butler drove downtown his huge, slow-moving, in some respects
chaotic mind turned over as rapidly as he could all of the
possibilities in connection with this unexpected, sad, and disturbing
revelation. Why had Cowperwood not been satisfied with his wife? Why
should he enter into his (Butler’s) home, of all places, to establish a
clandestine relationship of this character? Was Aileen in any way to
blame? She was not without mental resources of her own. She must have
known what she was doing. She was a good Catholic, or, at least, had
been raised so. All these years she had been going regularly to
confession and communion. True, of late Butler had noticed that she did
not care so much about going to church, would sometimes make excuses
and stay at home on Sundays; but she had gone, as a rule. And now,
now—his thoughts would come to the end of a blind alley, and then he
would start back, as it were, mentally, to the center of things, and
begin all over again.
He went up the stairs to his own office slowly. He went in and sat
down, and thought and thought. Ten o’clock came, and eleven. His son
bothered him with an occasional matter of interest, but, finding him
moody, finally abandoned him to his own speculations. It was twelve,
and then one, and he was still sitting there thinking, when the
presence of Cowperwood was announced.
Cowperwood, on finding Butler not at home, and not encountering Aileen,
had hurried up to the office of the Edward Butler Contracting Company,
which was also the center of some of Butler’s street-railway interests.
The floor space controlled by the company was divided into the usual
official compartments, with sections for the bookkeepers, the
road-managers, the treasurer, and so on. Owen Butler, and his father
had small but attractively furnished offices in the rear, where they
transacted all the important business of the company.
During this drive, curiously, by reason of one of those strange
psychologic intuitions which so often precede a human difficulty of one
sort or another, he had been thinking of Aileen. He was thinking of the
peculiarity of his relationship with her, and of the fact that now he
was running to her father for assistance. As he mounted the stairs he
had a peculiar sense of the untoward; but he could not, in his view of
life, give it countenance. One glance at Butler showed him that
something had gone amiss. He was not so friendly; his glance was dark,
and there was a certain sternness to his countenance which had never
previously been manifested there in Cowperwood’s memory. He perceived
at once that here was something different from a mere intention to
refuse him aid and call his loan. What was it? Aileen? It must be that.
Somebody had suggested something. They had been seen together. Well,
even so, nothing could be proved. Butler would obtain no sign from him.
But his loan—that was to be called, surely. And as for an additional
loan, he could see now, before a word had been said, that that thought
was useless.
“I came to see you about that loan of yours, Mr. Butler,” he observed,
briskly, with an old-time, jaunty air. You could not have told from his
manner or his face that he had observed anything out of the ordinary.
Butler, who was alone in the room—Owen having gone into an adjoining
room—merely stared at him from under his shaggy brows.
“I’ll have to have that money,” he said, brusquely, darkly.
An old-time Irish rage suddenly welled up in his bosom as he
contemplated this jaunty, sophisticated undoer of his daughter’s
virtue. He fairly glared at him as he thought of him and her.
“I judged from the way things were going this morning that you might
want it,” Cowperwood replied, quietly, without sign of tremor. “The
bottom’s out, I see.”
“The bottom’s out, and it’ll not be put back soon, I’m thinkin’. I’ll
have to have what’s belongin’ to me to-day. I haven’t any time to
spare.”
“Very well,” replied Cowperwood, who saw clearly how treacherous the
situation was. The old man was in a dour mood. His presence was an
irritation to him, for some reason—a deadly provocation. Cowperwood
felt clearly that it must be Aileen, that he must know or suspect
something.
He must pretend business hurry and end this. “I’m sorry. I thought I
might get an extension; but that’s all right. I can get the money,
though. I’ll send it right over.”
He turned and walked quickly to the door.
Butler got up. He had thought to manage this differently.
He had thought to denounce or even assault this man. He was about to
make some insinuating remark which would compel an answer, some direct
charge; but Cowperwood was out and away as jaunty as ever.
The old man was flustered, enraged, disappointed. He opened the small
office door which led into the adjoining room, and called, “Owen!”
“Yes, father.”
“Send over to Cowperwood’s office and get that money.”
“You decided to call it, eh?”
“I have.”
Owen was puzzled by the old man’s angry mood. He wondered what it all
meant, but thought he and Cowperwood might have had a few words. He
went out to his desk to write a note and call a clerk. Butler went to
the window and stared out. He was angry, bitter, brutal in his vein.
“The dirty dog!” he suddenly exclaimed to himself, in a low voice.
“I’ll take every dollar he’s got before I’m through with him. I’ll send
him to jail, I will. I’ll break him, I will. Wait!”
He clinched his big fists and his teeth.
“I’ll fix him. I’ll show him. The dog! The damned scoundrel!”
Never in his life before had he been so bitter, so cruel, so relentless
in his mood.
He walked his office floor thinking what he could do. Question
Aileen—that was what he would do. If her face, or her lips, told him
that his suspicion was true, he would deal with Cowperwood later. This
city treasurer business, now. It was not a crime in so far as
Cowperwood was concerned; but it might be made to be.
So now, telling the clerk to say to Owen that he had gone down the
street for a few moments, he boarded a street-car and rode out to his
home, where he found his elder daughter just getting ready to go out.
She wore a purple-velvet street dress edged with narrow, flat gilt
braid, and a striking gold-and-purple turban. She had on dainty new
boots of bronze kid and long gloves of lavender suede. In her ears was
one of her latest affectations, a pair of long jet earrings. The old
Irishman realized on this occasion, when he saw her, perhaps more
clearly than he ever had in his life, that he had grown a bird of rare
plumage.
“Where are you going, daughter?” he asked, with a rather unsuccessful
attempt to conceal his fear, distress, and smoldering anger.
“To the library,” she said easily, and yet with a sudden realization
that all was not right with her father. His face was too heavy and
gray. He looked tired and gloomy.
“Come up to my office a minute,” he said. “I want to see you before you
go.”
Aileen heard this with a strange feeling of curiosity and wonder. It
was not customary for her father to want to see her in his office just
when she was going out; and his manner indicated, in this instance,
that the exceptional procedure portended a strange revelation of some
kind. Aileen, like every other person who offends against a rigid
convention of the time, was conscious of and sensitive to the possible
disastrous results which would follow exposure. She had often thought
about what her family would think if they knew what she was doing; she
had never been able to satisfy herself in her mind as to what they
would do. Her father was a very vigorous man. But she had never known
him to be cruel or cold in his attitude toward her or any other member
of the family, and especially not toward her. Always he seemed too fond
of her to be completely alienated by anything that might happen; yet
she could not be sure.
Butler led the way, planting his big feet solemnly on the steps as he
went up. Aileen followed with a single glance at herself in the tall
pier-mirror which stood in the hall, realizing at once how charming she
looked and how uncertain she was feeling about what was to follow. What
could her father want? It made the color leave her cheeks for the
moment, as she thought what he might want.
Butler strolled into his stuffy room and sat down in the big leather
chair, disproportioned to everything else in the chamber, but which,
nevertheless, accompanied his desk. Before him, against the light, was
the visitor’s chair, in which he liked to have those sit whose faces he
was anxious to study. When Aileen entered he motioned her to it, which
was also ominous to her, and said, “Sit down there.”
She took the seat, not knowing what to make of his procedure. On the
instant her promise to Cowperwood to deny everything, whatever
happened, came back to her. If her father was about to attack her on
that score, he would get no satisfaction, she thought. She owed it to
Frank. Her pretty face strengthened and hardened on the instant. Her
small, white teeth set themselves in two even rows; and her father saw
quite plainly that she was consciously bracing herself for an attack of
some kind. He feared by this that she was guilty, and he was all the
more distressed, ashamed, outraged, made wholly unhappy. He fumbled in
the left-hand pocket of his coat and drew forth from among the various
papers the fatal communication so cheap in its physical texture. His
big fingers fumbled almost tremulously as he fished the letter-sheet
out of the small envelope and unfolded it without saying a word. Aileen
watched his face and his hands, wondering what it could be that he had
here. He handed the paper over, small in his big fist, and said, “Read
that.”
Aileen took it, and for a second was relieved to be able to lower her
eyes to the paper. Her relief vanished in a second, when she realized
how in a moment she would have to raise them again and look him in the
face.
DEAR SIR—This is to warn you that your daughter Aileen is running
around with a man that she shouldn’t, Frank A. Cowperwood, the banker.
If you don’t believe it, watch the house at 931 North Tenth Street.
Then you can see for yourself.
In spite of herself the color fled from her cheeks instantly, only to
come back in a hot, defiant wave.
“Why, what a lie!” she said, lifting her eyes to her father’s. “To
think that any one should write such a thing of me! How dare they! I
think it’s a shame!”
Old Butler looked at her narrowly, solemnly. He was not deceived to any
extent by her bravado. If she were really innocent, he knew she would
have jumped to her feet in her defiant way. Protest would have been
written all over her. As it was, she only stared haughtily. He read
through her eager defiance to the guilty truth.
“How do ye know, daughter, that I haven’t had the house watched?” he
said, quizzically. “How do ye know that ye haven’t been seen goin’ in
there?”
Only Aileen’s solemn promise to her lover could have saved her from
this subtle thrust. As it was, she paled nervously; but she saw Frank
Cowperwood, solemn and distinguished, asking her what she would say if
she were caught.
“It’s a lie!” she said, catching her breath. “I wasn’t at any house at
that number, and no one saw me going in there. How can you ask me that,
father?”
In spite of his mixed feelings of uncertainty and yet unshakable belief
that his daughter was guilty, he could not help admiring her
courage—she was so defiant, as she sat there, so set in her
determination to lie and thus defend herself. Her beauty helped her in
his mood, raised her in his esteem. After all, what could you do with a
woman of this kind? She was not a ten-year-old girl any more, as in a
way he sometimes continued to fancy her.
“Ye oughtn’t to say that if it isn’t true, Aileen,” he said. “Ye
oughtn’t to lie. It’s against your faith. Why would anybody write a
letter like that if it wasn’t so?”
“But it’s not so,” insisted Aileen, pretending anger and outraged
feeling, “and I don’t think you have any right to sit there and say
that to me. I haven’t been there, and I’m not running around with Mr.
Cowperwood. Why, I hardly know the man except in a social way.”
Butler shook his head solemnly.
“It’s a great blow to me, daughter. It’s a great blow to me,” he said.
“I’m willing to take your word if ye say so; but I can’t help thinkin’
what a sad thing it would be if ye were lyin’ to me. I haven’t had the
house watched. I only got this this mornin’. And what’s written here
may not be so. I hope it isn’t. But we’ll not say any more about that
now. If there is anythin’ in it, and ye haven’t gone too far yet to
save yourself, I want ye to think of your mother and your sister and
your brothers, and be a good girl. Think of the church ye was raised
in, and the name we’ve got to stand up for in the world. Why, if ye
were doin’ anything wrong, and the people of Philadelphy got a hold of
it, the city, big as it is, wouldn’t be big enough to hold us. Your
brothers have got a reputation to make, their work to do here. You and
your sister want to get married sometime. How could ye expect to look
the world in the face and do anythin’ at all if ye are doin’ what this
letter says ye are, and it was told about ye?”
The old man’s voice was thick with a strange, sad, alien emotion. He
did not want to believe that his daughter was guilty, even though he
knew she was. He did not want to face what he considered in his
vigorous, religious way to be his duty, that of reproaching her
sternly. There were some fathers who would have turned her out, he
fancied. There were others who might possibly kill Cowperwood after a
subtle investigation. That course was not for him. If vengeance he was
to have, it must be through politics and finance—he must drive him out.
But as for doing anything desperate in connection with Aileen, he could
not think of it.
“Oh, father,” returned Aileen, with considerable histrionic ability in
her assumption of pettishness, “how can you talk like this when you
know I’m not guilty? When I tell you so?”
The old Irishman saw through her make-believe with profound sadness—the
feeling that one of his dearest hopes had been shattered. He had
expected so much of her socially and matrimonially. Why, any one of a
dozen remarkable young men might have married her, and she would have
had lovely children to comfort him in his old age.
“Well, we’ll not talk any more about it now, daughter,” he said,
wearily. “Ye’ve been so much to me during all these years that I can
scarcely belave anythin’ wrong of ye. I don’t want to, God knows. Ye’re
a grown woman, though, now; and if ye are doin’ anythin’ wrong I don’t
suppose I could do so much to stop ye. I might turn ye out, of course,
as many a father would; but I wouldn’t like to do anythin’ like that.
But if ye are doin’ anythin’ wrong”—and he put up his hand to stop a
proposed protest on the part of Aileen—“remember, I’m certain to find
it out in the long run, and Philadelphy won’t be big enough to hold me
and the man that’s done this thing to me. I’ll get him,” he said,
getting up dramatically. “I’ll get him, and when I do—” He turned a
livid face to the wall, and Aileen saw clearly that Cowperwood, in
addition to any other troubles which might beset him, had her father to
deal with. Was this why Frank had looked so sternly at her the night
before?
“Why, your mother would die of a broken heart if she thought there was
anybody could say the least word against ye,” pursued Butler, in a
shaken voice. “This man has a family—a wife and children, Ye oughtn’t
to want to do anythin’ to hurt them. They’ll have trouble enough, if
I’m not mistaken—facin’ what’s comin’ to them in the future,” and
Butler’s jaw hardened just a little. “Ye’re a beautiful girl. Ye’re
young. Ye have money. There’s dozens of young men’d be proud to make ye
their wife. Whatever ye may be thinkin’ or doin’, don’t throw away your
life. Don’t destroy your immortal soul. Don’t break my heart entirely.”
Aileen, not ungenerous—fool of mingled affection and passion—could now
have cried. She pitied her father from her heart; but her allegiance
was to Cowperwood, her loyalty unshaken. She wanted to say something,
to protest much more; but she knew that it was useless. Her father knew
that she was lying.
“Well, there’s no use of my saying anything more, father,” she said,
getting up. The light of day was fading in the windows. The downstairs
door closed with a light slam, indicating that one of the boys had come
in. Her proposed trip to the library was now without interest to her.
“You won’t believe me, anyhow. I tell you, though, that I’m innocent
just the same.”
Butler lifted his big, brown hand to command silence. She saw that this
shameful relationship, as far as her father was concerned, had been
made quite clear, and that this trying conference was now at an end.
She turned and walked shamefacedly out. He waited until he heard her
steps fading into faint nothings down the hall toward her room. Then he
arose. Once more he clinched his big fists.
“The scoundrel!” he said. “The scoundrel! I’ll drive him out of
Philadelphy, if it takes the last dollar I have in the world.”