Meanwhile, in the Butler home the family was assembling for dinner.
Mrs. Butler was sitting in rotund complacency at the foot of the table,
her gray hair combed straight back from her round, shiny forehead. She
had on a dark-gray silk dress, trimmed with gray-and-white striped
ribbon. It suited her florid temperament admirably. Aileen had dictated
her mother’s choice, and had seen that it had been properly made. Norah
was refreshingly youthful in a pale-green dress, with red-velvet cuffs
and collar. She looked young, slender, gay. Her eyes, complexion and
hair were fresh and healthy. She was trifling with a string of coral
beads which her mother had just given her.
“Oh, look, Callum,” she said to her brother opposite her, who was
drumming idly on the table with his knife and fork. “Aren’t they
lovely? Mama gave them to me.”
“Mama does more for you than I would. You know what you’d get from me,
don’t you?”
“What?”
He looked at her teasingly. For answer Norah made a face at him. Just
then Owen came in and took his place at the table. Mrs. Butler saw
Norah’s grimace.
“Well, that’ll win no love from your brother, ye can depend on that,”
she commented.
“Lord, what a day!” observed Owen, wearily, unfolding his napkin. “I’ve
had my fill of work for once.”
“What’s the trouble?” queried his mother, feelingly.
“No real trouble, mother,” he replied. “Just everything—ducks and
drakes, that’s all.”
“Well, ye must ate a good, hearty meal now, and that’ll refresh ye,”
observed his mother, genially and feelingly. “Thompson”—she was
referring to the family grocer—“brought us the last of his beans. You
must have some of those.”
“Sure, beans’ll fix it, whatever it is, Owen,” joked Callum. “Mother’s
got the answer.”
“They’re fine, I’d have ye know,” replied Mrs. Butler, quite
unconscious of the joke.
“No doubt of it, mother,” replied Callum. “Real brain-food. Let’s feed
some to Norah.”
“You’d better eat some yourself, smarty. My, but you’re gay! I suppose
you’re going out to see somebody. That’s why.”
“Right you are, Norah. Smart girl, you. Five or six. Ten to fifteen
minutes each. I’d call on you if you were nicer.”
“You would if you got the chance,” mocked Norah. “I’d have you know I
wouldn’t let you. I’d feel very bad if I couldn’t get somebody better
than you.”
“As good as, you mean,” corrected Callum.
“Children, children!” interpolated Mrs. Butler, calmly, looking about
for old John, the servant. “You’ll be losin’ your tempers in a minute.
Hush now. Here comes your father. Where’s Aileen?”
Butler walked heavily in and took his seat.
John, the servant, appeared bearing a platter of beans among other
things, and Mrs. Butler asked him to send some one to call Aileen.
“It’s gettin’ colder, I’m thinkin’,” said Butler, by way of
conversation, and eyeing Aileen’s empty chair. She would come soon
now—his heavy problem. He had been very tactful these last two
months—avoiding any reference to Cowperwood in so far as he could help
in her presence.
“It’s colder,” remarked Owen, “much colder. We’ll soon see real winter
now.”
Old John began to offer the various dishes in order; but when all had
been served Aileen had not yet come.
“See where Aileen is, John,” observed Mrs. Butler, interestedly. “The
meal will be gettin’ cold.”
Old John returned with the news that Aileen was not in her room.
“Sure she must be somewhere,” commented Mrs. Butler, only slightly
perplexed. “She’ll be comin’, though, never mind, if she wants to. She
knows it’s meal-time.”
The conversation drifted from a new water-works that was being planned
to the new city hall, then nearing completion; Cowperwood’s financial
and social troubles, and the state of the stock market generally; a new
gold-mine in Arizona; the departure of Mrs. Mollenhauer the following
Tuesday for Europe, with appropriate comments by Norah and Callum; and
a Christmas ball that was going to be given for charity.
“Aileen’ll be wantin’ to go to that,” commented Mrs. Butler.
“I’m going, you bet,” put in Norah.
“Who’s going to take you?” asked Callum.
“That’s my affair, mister,” she replied, smartly.
The meal was over, and Mrs. Butler strolled up to Aileen’s room to see
why she had not come down to dinner. Butler entered his den, wishing so
much that he could take his wife into his confidence concerning all
that was worrying him. On his desk, as he sat down and turned up the
light, he saw the note. He recognized Aileen’s handwriting at once.
What could she mean by writing him? A sense of the untoward came to
him, and he tore it open slowly, and, putting on his glasses,
contemplated it solemnly.
So Aileen was gone. The old man stared at each word as if it had been
written in fire. She said she had not gone with Cowperwood. It was
possible, just the same, that he had run away from Philadelphia and
taken her with him. This was the last straw. This ended it. Aileen
lured away from home—to where—to what? Butler could scarcely believe,
though, that Cowperwood had tempted her to do this. He had too much at
stake; it would involve his own and Butler’s families. The papers would
be certain to get it quickly. He got up, crumpling the paper in his
hand, and turned about at a noise. His wife was coming in. He pulled
himself together and shoved the letter in his pocket.
“Aileen’s not in her room,” she said, curiously. “She didn’t say
anything to you about going out, did she?”
“No,” he replied, truthfully, wondering how soon he should have to tell
his wife.
“That’s odd,” observed Mrs. Butler, doubtfully. “She must have gone out
after somethin’. It’s a wonder she wouldn’t tell somebody.”
Butler gave no sign. He dared not. “She’ll be back,” he said, more in
order to gain time than anything else. He was sorry to have to pretend.
Mrs. Butler went out, and he closed the door. Then he took out the
letter and read it again. The girl was crazy. She was doing an
absolutely wild, inhuman, senseless thing. Where could she go, except
to Cowperwood? She was on the verge of a public scandal, and this would
produce it. There was just one thing to do as far as he could see.
Cowperwood, if he were still in Philadelphia, would know. He would go
to him—threaten, cajole, actually destroy him, if necessary. Aileen
must come back. She need not go to Europe, perhaps, but she must come
back and behave herself at least until Cowperwood could legitimately
marry her. That was all he could expect now. She would have to wait,
and some day perhaps he could bring himself to accept her wretched
proposition. Horrible thought! It would kill her mother, disgrace her
sister. He got up, took down his hat, put on his overcoat, and started
out.
Arriving at the Cowperwood home he was shown into the reception-room.
Cowperwood at the time was in his den looking over some private papers.
When the name of Butler was announced he immediately went down-stairs.
It was characteristic of the man that the announcement of Butler’s
presence created no stir in him whatsoever. So Butler had come. That
meant, of course, that Aileen had gone. Now for a battle, not of words,
but of weights of personalities. He felt himself to be intellectually,
socially, and in every other way the more powerful man of the two. That
spiritual content of him which we call life hardened to the texture of
steel. He recalled that although he had told his wife and his father
that the politicians, of whom Butler was one, were trying to make a
scapegoat of him, Butler, nevertheless, was not considered to be wholly
alienated as a friend, and civility must prevail. He would like very
much to placate him if he could, to talk out the hard facts of life in
a quiet and friendly way. But this matter of Aileen had to be adjusted
now once and for all. And with that thought in his mind he walked
quickly into Butler’s presence.
The old man, when he learned that Cowperwood was in and would see him,
determined to make his contact with the financier as short and
effective as possible. He moved the least bit when he heard
Cowperwood’s step, as light and springy as ever.
“Good evening, Mr. Butler,” said Cowperwood, cheerfully, when he saw
him, extending his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Ye can take that away from in front of me, for one thing,” said
Butler, grimly referring to his hand. “I have no need of it. It’s my
daughter I’ve come to talk to ye about, and I want plain answers. Where
is she?”
“You mean Aileen?” said Cowperwood, looking at him with steady,
curious, unrevealing eyes, and merely interpolating this to obtain a
moment for reflection. “What can I tell you about her?”
“Ye can tell me where she is, that I know. And ye can make her come
back to her home, where she belongs. It was bad fortune that ever
brought ye across my doorstep; but I’ll not bandy words with ye here.
Ye’ll tell me where my daughter is, and ye’ll leave her alone from now,
or I’ll—” The old man’s fists closed like a vise, and his chest heaved
with suppressed rage. “Ye’ll not be drivin’ me too far, man, if ye’re
wise,” he added, after a time, recovering his equanimity in part. “I
want no truck with ye. I want my daughter.”
“Listen, Mr. Butler,” said Cowperwood, quite calmly, relishing the
situation for the sheer sense of superiority it gave him. “I want to be
perfectly frank with you, if you will let me. I may know where your
daughter is, and I may not. I may wish to tell you, and I may not. She
may not wish me to. But unless you wish to talk with me in a civil way
there is no need of our going on any further. You are privileged to do
what you like. Won’t you come up-stairs to my room? We can talk more
comfortably there.”
Butler looked at his former protege in utter astonishment. He had never
before in all his experience come up against a more ruthless
type—suave, bland, forceful, unterrified. This man had certainly come
to him as a sheep, and had turned out to be a ravening wolf. His
incarceration had not put him in the least awe.
“I’ll not come up to your room,” Butler said, “and ye’ll not get out of
Philadelphy with her if that’s what ye’re plannin’. I can see to that.
Ye think ye have the upper hand of me, I see, and ye’re anxious to make
something of it. Well, ye’re not. It wasn’t enough that ye come to me
as a beggar, cravin’ the help of me, and that I took ye in and helped
ye all I could—ye had to steal my daughter from me in the bargain. If
it wasn’t for the girl’s mother and her sister and her
brothers—dacenter men than ever ye’ll know how to be—I’d brain ye where
ye stand. Takin’ a young, innocent girl and makin’ an evil woman out of
her, and ye a married man! It’s a God’s blessin’ for ye that it’s me,
and not one of me sons, that’s here talkin’ to ye, or ye wouldn’t be
alive to say what ye’d do.”
The old man was grim but impotent in his rage.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Butler,” replied Cowperwood, quietly. “I’m willing to
explain, but you won’t let me. I’m not planning to run away with your
daughter, nor to leave Philadelphia. You ought to know me well enough
to know that I’m not contemplating anything of that kind; my interests
are too large. You and I are practical men. We ought to be able to talk
this matter over together and reach an understanding. I thought once of
coming to you and explaining this; but I was quite sure you wouldn’t
listen to me. Now that you are here I would like to talk to you. If you
will come up to my room I will be glad to—otherwise not. Won’t you come
up?”
Butler saw that Cowperwood had the advantage. He might as well go up.
Otherwise it was plain he would get no information.
“Very well,” he said.
Cowperwood led the way quite amicably, and, having entered his private
office, closed the door behind him.
“We ought to be able to talk this matter over and reach an
understanding,” he said again, when they were in the room and he had
closed the door. “I am not as bad as you think, though I know I appear
very bad.” Butler stared at him in contempt. “I love your daughter, and
she loves me. I know you are asking yourself how I can do this while I
am still married; but I assure you I can, and that I do. I am not
happily married. I had expected, if this panic hadn’t come along, to
arrange with my wife for a divorce and marry Aileen. My intentions are
perfectly good. The situation which you can complain of, of course, is
the one you encountered a few weeks ago. It was indiscreet, but it was
entirely human. Your daughter does not complain—she understands.” At
the mention of his daughter in this connection Butler flushed with rage
and shame, but he controlled himself.
“And ye think because she doesn’t complain that it’s all right, do ye?”
he asked, sarcastically.
“From my point of view, yes; from yours no. You have one view of life,
Mr. Butler, and I have another.”
“Ye’re right there,” put in Butler, “for once, anyhow.”
“That doesn’t prove that either of us is right or wrong. In my judgment
the present end justifies the means. The end I have in view is to marry
Aileen. If I can possibly pull myself out of this financial scrape that
I am in I will do so. Of course, I would like to have your consent for
that—so would Aileen; but if we can’t, we can’t.” (Cowperwood was
thinking that while this might not have a very soothing effect on the
old contractor’s point of view, nevertheless it must make some appeal
to his sense of the possible or necessary. Aileen’s present situation
was quite unsatisfactory without marriage in view. And even if he,
Cowperwood, was a convicted embezzler in the eyes of the public, that
did not make him so. He might get free and restore himself—would
certainly—and Aileen ought to be glad to marry him if she could under
the circumstances. He did not quite grasp the depth of Butler’s
religious and moral prejudices.) “Lately,” he went on, “you have been
doing all you can, as I understand it, to pull me down, on account of
Aileen, I suppose; but that is simply delaying what I want to do.”
“Ye’d like me to help ye do that, I suppose?” suggested Butler, with
infinite disgust and patience.
“I want to marry Aileen,” Cowperwood repeated, for emphasis’ sake. “She
wants to marry me. Under the circumstances, however you may feel, you
can have no real objection to my doing that, I am sure; yet you go on
fighting me—making it hard for me to do what you really know ought to
be done.”
“Ye’re a scoundrel,” said Butler, seeing through his motives quite
clearly. “Ye’re a sharper, to my way of thinkin’, and it’s no child of
mine I want connected with ye. I’m not sayin’, seein’ that things are
as they are, that if ye were a free man it wouldn’t be better that she
should marry ye. It’s the one dacent thing ye could do—if ye would,
which I doubt. But that’s nayther here nor there now. What can ye want
with her hid away somewhere? Ye can’t marry her. Ye can’t get a
divorce. Ye’ve got your hands full fightin’ your lawsuits and kapin’
yourself out of jail. She’ll only be an added expense to ye, and ye’ll
be wantin’ all the money ye have for other things, I’m thinkin’. Why
should ye want to be takin’ her away from a dacent home and makin’
something out of her that ye’d be ashamed to marry if you could? The
laist ye could do, if ye were any kind of a man at all, and had any of
that thing that ye’re plased to call love, would be to lave her at home
and keep her as respectable as possible. Mind ye, I’m not thinkin’ she
isn’t ten thousand times too good for ye, whatever ye’ve made of her.
But if ye had any sinse of dacency left, ye wouldn’t let her shame her
family and break her old mother’s heart, and that for no purpose except
to make her worse than she is already. What good can ye get out of it,
now? What good can ye expect to come of it? Be hivins, if ye had any
sinse at all I should think ye could see that for yerself. Ye’re only
addin’ to your troubles, not takin’ away from them—and she’ll not thank
ye for that later on.”
He stopped, rather astonished that he should have been drawn into an
argument. His contempt for this man was so great that he could scarcely
look at him, but his duty and his need was to get Aileen back.
Cowperwood looked at him as one who gives serious attention to another.
He seemed to be thinking deeply over what Butler had said.
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Butler,” he said, “I did not want Aileen to
leave your home at all; and she will tell you so, if you ever talk to
her about it. I did my best to persuade her not to, and when she
insisted on going the only thing I could do was to be sure she would be
comfortable wherever she went. She was greatly outraged to think you
should have put detectives on her trail. That, and the fact that you
wanted to send her away somewhere against her will, was the principal
reasons for her leaving. I assure you I did not want her to go. I think
you forget sometimes, Mr. Butler, that Aileen is a grown woman, and
that she has a will of her own. You think I control her to her great
disadvantage. As a matter of fact, I am very much in love with her, and
have been for three or four years; and if you know anything about love
you know that it doesn’t always mean control. I’m not doing Aileen any
injustice when I say that she has had as much influence on me as I have
had on her. I love her, and that’s the cause of all the trouble. You
come and insist that I shall return your daughter to you. As a matter
of fact, I don’t know whether I can or not. I don’t know that she would
go if I wanted her to. She might turn on me and say that I didn’t care
for her any more. That is not true, and I would not want her to feel
that way. She is greatly hurt, as I told you, by what you did to her,
and the fact that you want her to leave Philadelphia. You can do as
much to remedy that as I can. I could tell you where she is, but I do
not know that I want to. Certainly not until I know what your attitude
toward her and this whole proposition is to be.”
He paused and looked calmly at the old contractor, who eyed him grimly
in return.
“What proposition are ye talkin’ about?” asked Butler, interested by
the peculiar developments of this argument. In spite of himself he was
getting a slightly different angle on the whole situation. The scene
was shifting to a certain extent. Cowperwood appeared to be reasonably
sincere in the matter. His promises might all be wrong, but perhaps he
did love Aileen; and it was possible that he did intend to get a
divorce from his wife some time and marry her. Divorce, as Butler knew,
was against the rules of the Catholic Church, which he so much revered.
The laws of God and any sense of decency commanded that Cowperwood
should not desert his wife and children and take up with another
woman—not even Aileen, in order to save her. It was a criminal thing to
plan, sociologically speaking, and showed what a villain Cowperwood
inherently was; but, nevertheless, Cowperwood was not a Catholic, his
views of life were not the same as his own, Butler’s, and besides and
worst of all (no doubt due in part to Aileen’s own temperament), he had
compromised her situation very materially. She might not easily be
restored to a sense of the normal and decent, and so the matter was
worth taking into thought. Butler knew that ultimately he could not
countenance any such thing—certainly not, and keep his faith with the
Church—but he was human enough none the less to consider it. Besides,
he wanted Aileen to come back; and Aileen from now on, he knew, would
have some say as to what her future should be.
“Well, it’s simple enough,” replied Cowperwood. “I should like to have
you withdraw your opposition to Aileen’s remaining in Philadelphia, for
one thing; and for another, I should like you to stop your attacks on
me.” Cowperwood smiled in an ingratiating way. He hoped really to
placate Butler in part by his generous attitude throughout this
procedure. “I can’t make you do that, of course, unless you want to. I
merely bring it up, Mr. Butler, because I am sure that if it hadn’t
been for Aileen you would not have taken the course you have taken
toward me. I understood you received an anonymous letter, and that
afternoon you called your loan with me. Since then I have heard from
one source and another that you were strongly against me, and I merely
wish to say that I wish you wouldn’t be. I am not guilty of embezzling
any sixty thousand dollars, and you know it. My intentions were of the
best. I did not think I was going to fail at the time I used those
certificates, and if it hadn’t been for several other loans that were
called I would have gone on to the end of the month and put them back
in time, as I always had. I have always valued your friendship very
highly, and I am very sorry to lose it. Now I have said all I am going
to say.”
Butler looked at Cowperwood with shrewd, calculating eyes. The man had
some merit, but much unconscionable evil in him. Butler knew very well
how he had taken the check, and a good many other things in connection
with it. The manner in which he had played his cards to-night was on a
par with the way he had run to him on the night of the fire. He was
just shrewd and calculating and heartless.
“I’ll make ye no promise,” he said. “Tell me where my daughter is, and
I’ll think the matter over. Ye have no claim on me now, and I owe ye no
good turn. But I’ll think it over, anyhow.”
“That’s quite all right,” replied Cowperwood. “That’s all I can expect.
But what about Aileen? Do you expect her to leave Philadelphia?”
“Not if she settles down and behaves herself: but there must be an end
of this between you and her. She’s disgracin’ her family and ruinin’
her soul in the bargain. And that’s what you are doin’ with yours.
It’ll be time enough to talk about anything else when you’re a free
man. More than that I’ll not promise.”
Cowperwood, satisfied that this move on Aileen’s part had done her a
real service if it had not aided him especially, was convinced that it
would be a good move for her to return to her home at once. He could
not tell how his appeal to the State Supreme Court would eventuate. His
motion for a new trial which was now to be made under the privilege of
the certificate of reasonable doubt might not be granted, in which case
he would have to serve a term in the penitentiary. If he were compelled
to go to the penitentiary she would be safer—better off in the bosom of
her family. His own hands were going to be exceedingly full for the
next two months until he knew how his appeal was coming out. And after
that—well, after that he would fight on, whatever happened.
During all the time that Cowperwood had been arguing his case in this
fashion he had been thinking how he could adjust this compromise so as
to retain the affection of Aileen and not offend her sensibilities by
urging her to return. He knew that she would not agree to give up
seeing him, and he was not willing that she should. Unless he had a
good and sufficient reason, he would be playing a wretched part by
telling Butler where she was. He did not intend to do so until he saw
exactly how to do it—the way that would make it most acceptable to
Aileen. He knew that she would not long be happy where she was. Her
flight was due in part to Butler’s intense opposition to himself and in
part to his determination to make her leave Philadelphia and behave;
but this last was now in part obviated. Butler, in spite of his words,
was no longer a stern Nemesis. He was a melting man—very anxious to
find his daughter, very willing to forgive her. He was whipped,
literally beaten, at his own game, and Cowperwood could see it in the
old man’s eyes. If he himself could talk to Aileen personally and
explain just how things were, he felt sure he could make her see that
it would be to their mutual advantage, for the present at least, to
have the matter amicably settled. The thing to do was to make Butler
wait somewhere—here, possibly—while he went and talked to her. When she
learned how things were she would probably acquiesce.
“The best thing that I can do under the circumstances,” he said, after
a time, “would be to see Aileen in two or three days, and ask her what
she wishes to do. I can explain the matter to her, and if she wants to
go back, she can. I will promise to tell her anything that you say.”
“Two or three days!” exclaimed Butler, irritably. “Two or three
fiddlesticks! She must come home to-night. Her mother doesn’t know
she’s left the place yet. To-night is the time! I’ll go and fetch her
meself to-night.”
“No, that won’t do,” said Cowperwood. “I shall have to go myself. If
you wish to wait here I will see what can be done, and let you know.”
“Very well,” grunted Butler, who was now walking up and down with his
hands behind his back. “But for Heaven’s sake be quick about it.
There’s no time to lose.” He was thinking of Mrs. Butler. Cowperwood
called the servant, ordered his runabout, and told George to see that
his private office was not disturbed. Then, as Butler strolled to and
fro in this, to him, objectionable room, Cowperwood drove rapidly away.