The contrasting pictures presented by Cowperwood and Stener at this
time are well worth a moment’s consideration. Stener’s face was
grayish-white, his lips blue. Cowperwood, despite various solemn
thoughts concerning a possible period of incarceration which this hue
and cry now suggested, and what that meant to his parents, his wife and
children, his business associates, and his friends, was as calm and
collected as one might assume his great mental resources would permit
him to be. During all this whirl of disaster he had never once lost his
head or his courage. That thing conscience, which obsesses and rides
some people to destruction, did not trouble him at all. He had no
consciousness of what is currently known as sin. There were just two
faces to the shield of life from the point of view of his peculiar
mind-strength and weakness. Right and wrong? He did not know about
those. They were bound up in metaphysical abstrusities about which he
did not care to bother. Good and evil? Those were toys of clerics, by
which they made money. And as for social favor or social ostracism
which, on occasion, so quickly followed upon the heels of disaster of
any kind, well, what was social ostracism? Had either he or his parents
been of the best society as yet? And since not, and despite this
present mix-up, might not the future hold social restoration and
position for him? It might. Morality and immorality? He never
considered them. But strength and weakness—oh, yes! If you had strength
you could protect yourself always and be something. If you were
weak—pass quickly to the rear and get out of the range of the guns. He
was strong, and he knew it, and somehow he always believed in his star.
Something—he could not say what—it was the only metaphysics he bothered
about—was doing something for him. It had always helped him. It made
things come out right at times. It put excellent opportunities in his
way. Why had he been given so fine a mind? Why always favored
financially, personally? He had not deserved it—earned it. Accident,
perhaps, but somehow the thought that he would always be
protected—these intuitions, the “hunches” to act which he frequently
had—could not be so easily explained. Life was a dark, insoluble
mystery, but whatever it was, strength and weakness were its two
constituents. Strength would win—weakness lose. He must rely on
swiftness of thought, accuracy, his judgment, and on nothing else. He
was really a brilliant picture of courage and energy—moving about
briskly in a jaunty, dapper way, his mustaches curled, his clothes
pressed, his nails manicured, his face clean-shaven and tinted with
health.
In the meantime, Cowperwood had gone personally to Skelton C. Wheat and
tried to explain his side of the situation, alleging that he had done
no differently from many others before him, but Wheat was dubious. He
did not see how it was that the sixty thousand dollars’ worth of
certificates were not in the sinking-fund. Cowperwood’s explanation of
custom did not avail. Nevertheless, Mr. Wheat saw that others in
politics had been profiting quite as much as Cowperwood in other ways
and he advised Cowperwood to turn state’s evidence. This, however, he
promptly refused to do—he was no “squealer,” and indicated as much to
Mr. Wheat, who only smiled wryly.
Butler, Sr., was delighted (concerned though he was about party success
at the polls), for now he had this villain in the toils and he would
have a fine time getting out of this. The incoming district attorney to
succeed David Pettie if the Republican party won would be, as was now
planned, an appointee of Butler’s—a young Irishman who had done
considerable legal work for him—one Dennis Shannon. The other two party
leaders had already promised Butler that. Shannon was a smart,
athletic, good-looking fellow, all of five feet ten inches in height,
sandy-haired, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed, considerable of an orator and a
fine legal fighter. He was very proud to be in the old man’s favor—to
be promised a place on the ticket by him—and would, he said, if
elected, do his bidding to the best of his knowledge and ability.
There was only one fly in the ointment, so far as some of the
politicians were concerned, and that was that if Cowperwood were
convicted, Stener must needs be also. There was no escape in so far as
any one could see for the city treasurer. If Cowperwood was guilty of
securing by trickery sixty thousand dollars’ worth of the city money,
Stener was guilty of securing five hundred thousand dollars. The prison
term for this was five years. He might plead not guilty, and by
submitting as evidence that what he did was due to custom save himself
from the odious necessity of pleading guilty; but he would be convicted
nevertheless. No jury could get by the fact in regard to him. In spite
of public opinion, when it came to a trial there might be considerable
doubt in Cowperwood’s case. There was none in Stener’s.
The practical manner in which the situation was furthered, after
Cowperwood and Stener were formally charged may be quickly noted.
Steger, Cowperwood’s lawyer, learned privately beforehand that
Cowperwood was to be prosecuted. He arranged at once to have his client
appear before any warrant could be served, and to forestall the
newspaper palaver which would follow it if he had to be searched for.
The mayor issued a warrant for Cowperwood’s arrest, and, in accordance
with Steger’s plan, Cowperwood immediately appeared before Borchardt in
company with his lawyer and gave bail in twenty thousand dollars (W. C.
Davison, president of the Girard National Bank, being his surety), for
his appearance at the central police station on the following Saturday
for a hearing. Marcus Oldslaw, a lawyer, had been employed by Strobik
as president of the common council, to represent him in prosecuting the
case for the city. The mayor looked at Cowperwood curiously, for he,
being comparatively new to the political world of Philadelphia, was not
so familiar with him as others were; and Cowperwood returned the look
pleasantly enough.
“This is a great dumb show, Mr. Mayor,” he observed once to Borchardt,
quietly, and the latter replied, with a smile and a kindly eye, that as
far as he was concerned, it was a form of procedure which was
absolutely unavoidable at this time.
“You know how it is, Mr. Cowperwood,” he observed. The latter smiled.
“I do, indeed,” he said.
Later there followed several more or less perfunctory appearances in a
local police court, known as the Central Court, where when arraigned he
pleaded not guilty, and finally his appearance before the November
grand jury, where, owing to the complicated nature of the charge drawn
up against him by Pettie, he thought it wise to appear. He was properly
indicted by the latter body (Shannon, the newly elected district
attorney, making a demonstration in force), and his trial ordered for
December 5th before a certain Judge Payderson in Part I of Quarter
Sessions, which was the local branch of the State courts dealing with
crimes of this character. His indictment did not occur, however, before
the coming and going of the much-mooted fall election, which resulted,
thanks to the clever political manipulations of Mollenhauer and Simpson
(ballot-box stuffing and personal violence at the polls not barred), in
another victory, by, however, a greatly reduced majority. The Citizens’
Municipal Reform Association, in spite of a resounding defeat at the
polls, which could not have happened except by fraud, continued to fire
courageously away at those whom it considered to be the chief
malefactors.
Aileen Butler, during all this time, was following the trend of
Cowperwood’s outward vicissitudes as heralded by the newspapers and the
local gossip with as much interest and bias and enthusiasm for him as
her powerful physical and affectional nature would permit. She was no
great reasoner where affection entered in, but shrewd enough without
it; and, although she saw him often and he told her much—as much as his
natural caution would permit—she yet gathered from the newspapers and
private conversation, at her own family’s table and elsewhere, that, as
bad as they said he was, he was not as bad as he might be. One item
only, clipped from the Philadelphia Public Ledger soon after Cowperwood
had been publicly accused of embezzlement, comforted and consoled her.
She cut it out and carried it in her bosom; for, somehow, it seemed to
show that her adored Frank was far more sinned against than sinning. It
was a part of one of those very numerous pronunciamientos or reports
issued by the Citizens’ Municipal Reform Association, and it ran:
“The aspects of the case are graver than have yet been allowed to reach
the public. Five hundred thousand dollars of the deficiency arises not
from city bonds sold and not accounted for, but from loans made by the
treasurer to his broker. The committee is also informed, on what it
believes to be good authority, that the loans sold by the broker were
accounted for in the monthly settlements at the lowest prices current
during the month, and that the difference between this rate and that
actually realized was divided between the treasurer and the broker,
thus making it to the interest of both parties to ‘bear’ the market at
some time during the month, so as to obtain a low quotation for
settlement. Nevertheless, the committee can only regard the prosecution
instituted against the broker, Mr. Cowperwood, as an effort to divert
public attention from more guilty parties while those concerned may be
able to ‘fix’ matters to suit themselves.”
“There,” thought Aileen, when she read it, “there you have it.” These
politicians—her father among them as she gathered after his
conversation with her—were trying to put the blame of their own evil
deeds on her Frank. He was not nearly as bad as he was painted. The
report said so. She gloated over the words “an effort to divert public
attention from more guilty parties.” That was just what her Frank had
been telling her in those happy, private hours when they had been
together recently in one place and another, particularly the new
rendezvous in South Sixth Street which he had established, since the
old one had to be abandoned. He had stroked her rich hair, caressed her
body, and told her it was all a prearranged political scheme to cast
the blame as much as possible on him and make it as light as possible
for Stener and the party generally. He would come out of it all right,
he said, but he cautioned her not to talk. He did not deny his long and
profitable relations with Stener. He told her exactly how it was. She
understood, or thought she did. Anyhow, her Frank was telling her, and
that was enough.
As for the two Cowperwood households, so recently and pretentiously
joined in success, now so gloomily tied in failure, the life was going
out of them. Frank Algernon was that life. He was the courage and force
of his father: the spirit and opportunity of his brothers, the hope of
his children, the estate of his wife, the dignity and significance of
the Cowperwood name. All that meant opportunity, force, emolument,
dignity, and happiness to those connected with him, he was. And his
marvelous sun was waning apparently to a black eclipse.
Since the fatal morning, for instance, when Lillian Cowperwood had
received that utterly destructive note, like a cannonball ripping
through her domestic affairs, she had been walking like one in a
trance. Each day now for weeks she had been going about her duties
placidly enough to all outward seeming, but inwardly she was running
with a troubled tide of thought. She was so utterly unhappy. Her
fortieth year had come for her at a time when life ought naturally to
stand fixed and firm on a solid base, and here she was about to be torn
bodily from the domestic soil in which she was growing and blooming,
and thrown out indifferently to wither in the blistering noonday sun of
circumstance.
As for Cowperwood, Senior, his situation at his bank and elsewhere was
rapidly nearing a climax. As has been said, he had had tremendous faith
in his son; but he could not help seeing that an error had been
committed, as he thought, and that Frank was suffering greatly for it
now. He considered, of course, that Frank had been entitled to try to
save himself as he had; but he so regretted that his son should have
put his foot into the trap of any situation which could stir up
discussion of the sort that was now being aroused. Frank was
wonderfully brilliant. He need never have taken up with the city
treasurer or the politicians to have succeeded marvelously. Local
street-railways and speculative politicians were his undoing. The old
man walked the floor all of the days, realizing that his sun was
setting, that with Frank’s failure he failed, and that this
disgrace—these public charges—meant his own undoing. His hair had grown
very gray in but a few weeks, his step slow, his face pallid, his eyes
sunken. His rather showy side-whiskers seemed now like flags or
ornaments of a better day that was gone. His only consolation through
it all was that Frank had actually got out of his relationship with the
Third National Bank without owing it a single dollar. Still as he knew
the directors of that institution could not possibly tolerate the
presence of a man whose son had helped loot the city treasury, and
whose name was now in the public prints in this connection. Besides,
Cowperwood, Sr., was too old. He ought to retire.
The crisis for him therefore came on the day when Frank was arrested on
the embezzlement charge. The old man, through Frank, who had it from
Steger, knew it was coming, still had the courage to go to the bank but
it was like struggling under the weight of a heavy stone to do it. But
before going, and after a sleepless night, he wrote his resignation to
Frewen Kasson, the chairman of the board of directors, in order that he
should be prepared to hand it to him, at once. Kasson, a stocky,
well-built, magnetic man of fifty, breathed an inward sigh of relief at
the sight of it.
“I know it’s hard, Mr. Cowperwood,” he said, sympathetically. “We—and I
can speak for the other members of the board—we feel keenly the
unfortunate nature of your position. We know exactly how it is that
your son has become involved in this matter. He is not the only banker
who has been involved in the city’s affairs. By no means. It is an old
system. We appreciate, all of us, keenly, the services you have
rendered this institution during the past thirty-five years. If there
were any possible way in which we could help to tide you over the
difficulties at this time, we would be glad to do so, but as a banker
yourself you must realize just how impossible that would be. Everything
is in a turmoil. If things were settled—if we knew how soon this would
blow over—” He paused, for he felt that he could not go on and say that
he or the bank was sorry to be forced to lose Mr. Cowperwood in this
way at present. Mr. Cowperwood himself would have to speak.
During all this Cowperwood, Sr., had been doing his best to pull
himself together in order to be able to speak at all. He had gotten out
a large white linen handkerchief and blown his nose, and had
straightened himself in his chair, and laid his hands rather peacefully
on his desk. Still he was intensely wrought up.
“I can’t stand this!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I wish you would leave me
alone now.”
Kasson, very carefully dressed and manicured, arose and walked out of
the room for a few moments. He appreciated keenly the intensity of the
strain he had just witnessed. The moment the door was closed Cowperwood
put his head in his hands and shook convulsively. “I never thought I’d
come to this,” he muttered. “I never thought it.” Then he wiped away
his salty hot tears, and went to the window to look out and to think of
what else to do from now on.