Although it was nearly eleven o’clock when he arrived at the
Calligans’, Aileen was not yet in bed. In her bedroom upstairs she was
confiding to Mamie and Mrs. Calligan some of her social experiences
when the bell rang, and Mrs. Calligan went down and opened the door to
Cowperwood.
“Miss Butler is here, I believe,” he said. “Will you tell her that
there is some one here from her father?” Although Aileen had instructed
that her presence here was not to be divulged even to the members of
her family the force of Cowperwood’s presence and the mention of
Butler’s name cost Mrs. Calligan her presence of mind. “Wait a moment,”
she said; “I’ll see.”
She stepped back, and Cowperwood promptly stepped in, taking off his
hat with the air of one who was satisfied that Aileen was there. “Say
to her that I only want to speak to her for a few moments,” he called,
as Mrs. Calligan went up-stairs, raising his voice in the hope that
Aileen might hear. She did, and came down promptly. She was very much
astonished to think that he should come so soon, and fancied, in her
vanity, that there must be great excitement in her home. She would have
greatly grieved if there had not been.
The Calligans would have been pleased to hear, but Cowperwood was
cautious. As she came down the stairs he put his finger to his lips in
sign for silence, and said, “This is Miss Butler, I believe.”
“Yes,” replied Aileen, with a secret smile. Her one desire was to kiss
him. “What’s the trouble darling?” she asked, softly.
“You’ll have to go back, dear, I’m afraid,” whispered Cowperwood.
“You’ll have everything in a turmoil if you don’t. Your mother doesn’t
know yet, it seems, and your father is over at my place now, waiting
for you. It may be a good deal of help to me if you do. Let me tell
you—” He went off into a complete description of his conversation with
Butler and his own views in the matter. Aileen’s expression changed
from time to time as the various phases of the matter were put before
her; but, persuaded by the clearness with which he put the matter, and
by his assurance that they could continue their relations as before
uninterrupted, once this was settled, she decided to return. In a way,
her father’s surrender was a great triumph. She made her farewells to
the Calligans, saying, with a smile, that they could not do without her
at home, and that she would send for her belongings later, and returned
with Cowperwood to his own door. There he asked her to wait in the
runabout while he sent her father down.
“Well?” said Butler, turning on him when he opened the door, and not
seeing Aileen.
“You’ll find her outside in my runabout,” observed Cowperwood. “You may
use that if you choose. I will send my man for it.”
“No, thank you; we’ll walk,” said Butler.
Cowperwood called his servant to take charge of the vehicle, and Butler
stalked solemnly out.
He had to admit to himself that the influence of Cowperwood over his
daughter was deadly, and probably permanent. The best he could do would
be to keep her within the precincts of the home, where she might still,
possibly, be brought to her senses. He held a very guarded conversation
with her on his way home, for fear that she would take additional
offense. Argument was out of the question.
“Ye might have talked with me once more, Aileen,” he said, “before ye
left. Yer mother would be in a terrible state if she knew ye were gone.
She doesn’t know yet. Ye’ll have to say ye stayed somewhere to dinner.”
“I was at the Calligans,” replied Aileen. “That’s easy enough. Mama
won’t think anything about it.”
“It’s a sore heart I have, Aileen. I hope ye’ll think over your ways
and do better. I’ll not say anythin’ more now.”
Aileen returned to her room, decidedly triumphant in her mood for the
moment, and things went on apparently in the Butler household as
before. But those who imagine that this defeat permanently altered the
attitude of Butler toward Cowperwood are mistaken.
In the meanwhile between the day of his temporary release and the
hearing of his appeal which was two months off, Cowperwood was going on
doing his best to repair his shattered forces. He took up his work
where he left off; but the possibility of reorganizing his business was
distinctly modified since his conviction. Because of his action in
trying to protect his largest creditors at the time of his failure, he
fancied that once he was free again, if ever he got free, his credit,
other things being equal, would be good with those who could help him
most—say, Cooke & Co., Clark & Co., Drexel & Co., and the Girard
National Bank—providing his personal reputation had not been too badly
injured by his sentence. Fortunately for his own hopefulness of mind,
he failed fully to realize what a depressing effect a legal decision of
this character, sound or otherwise, had on the minds of even his most
enthusiastic supporters.
His best friends in the financial world were by now convinced that his
was a sinking ship. A student of finance once observed that nothing is
so sensitive as money, and the financial mind partakes largely of the
quality of the thing in which it deals. There was no use trying to do
much for a man who might be going to prison for a term of years.
Something might be done for him possibly in connection with the
governor, providing he lost his case before the Supreme Court and was
actually sentenced to prison; but that was two months off, or more, and
they could not tell what the outcome of that would be. So Cowperwood’s
repeated appeals for assistance, extension of credit, or the acceptance
of some plan he had for his general rehabilitation, were met with the
kindly evasions of those who were doubtful. They would think it over.
They would see about it. Certain things were standing in the way. And
so on, and so forth, through all the endless excuses of those who do
not care to act. In these days he went about the money world in his
customary jaunty way, greeting all those whom he had known there many
years and pretending, when asked, to be very hopeful, to be doing very
well; but they did not believe him, and he really did not care whether
they did or not. His business was to persuade or over-persuade any one
who could really be of assistance to him, and at this task he worked
untiringly, ignoring all others.
“Why, hello, Frank,” his friends would call, on seeing him. “How are
you getting on?”
“Fine! Fine!” he would reply, cheerfully. “Never better,” and he would
explain in a general way how his affairs were being handled. He
conveyed much of his own optimism to all those who knew him and were
interested in his welfare, but of course there were many who were not.
In these days also, he and Steger were constantly to be met with in
courts of law, for he was constantly being reexamined in some petition
in bankruptcy. They were heartbreaking days, but he did not flinch. He
wanted to stay in Philadelphia and fight the thing to a finish—putting
himself where he had been before the fire; rehabilitating himself in
the eyes of the public. He felt that he could do it, too, if he were
not actually sent to prison for a long term; and even then, so
naturally optimistic was his mood, when he got out again. But, in so
far as Philadelphia was concerned, distinctly he was dreaming vain
dreams.
One of the things militating against him was the continued opposition
of Butler and the politicians. Somehow—no one could have said exactly
why—the general political feeling was that the financier and the former
city treasurer would lose their appeals and eventually be sentenced
together. Stener, in spite of his original intention to plead guilty
and take his punishment without comment, had been persuaded by some of
his political friends that it would be better for his future’s sake to
plead not guilty and claim that his offense had been due to custom,
rather than to admit his guilt outright and so seem not to have had any
justification whatsoever. This he did, but he was convicted
nevertheless. For the sake of appearances, a trumped-up appeal was made
which was now before the State Supreme Court.
Then, too, due to one whisper and another, and these originating with
the girl who had written Butler and Cowperwood’s wife, there was at
this time a growing volume of gossip relating to the alleged relations
of Cowperwood with Butler’s daughter, Aileen. There had been a house in
Tenth Street. It had been maintained by Cowperwood for her. No wonder
Butler was so vindictive. This, indeed, explained much. And even in the
practical, financial world, criticism was now rather against Cowperwood
than his enemies. For, was it not a fact, that at the inception of his
career, he had been befriended by Butler? And what a way to reward that
friendship! His oldest and firmest admirers wagged their heads. For
they sensed clearly that this was another illustration of that innate
“I satisfy myself” attitude which so regulated Cowperwood’s conduct. He
was a strong man, surely—and a brilliant one. Never had Third Street
seen a more pyrotechnic, and yet fascinating and financially
aggressive, and at the same time, conservative person. Yet might one
not fairly tempt Nemesis by a too great daring and egotism? Like Death,
it loves a shining mark. He should not, perhaps, have seduced Butler’s
daughter; unquestionably he should not have so boldly taken that check,
especially after his quarrel and break with Stener. He was a little too
aggressive. Was it not questionable whether—with such a record—he could
be restored to his former place here? The bankers and business men who
were closest to him were decidedly dubious.
But in so far as Cowperwood and his own attitude toward life was
concerned, at this time—the feeling he had—“to satisfy myself”—when
combined with his love of beauty and love and women, still made him
ruthless and thoughtless. Even now, the beauty and delight of a girl
like Aileen Butler were far more important to him than the good-will of
fifty million people, if he could evade the necessity of having their
good-will. Previous to the Chicago fire and the panic, his star had
been so rapidly ascending that in the helter-skelter of great and
favorable events he had scarcely taken thought of the social
significance of the thing he was doing. Youth and the joy of life were
in his blood. He felt so young, so vigorous, so like new grass looks
and feels. The freshness of spring evenings was in him, and he did not
care. After the crash, when one might have imagined he would have seen
the wisdom of relinquishing Aileen for the time being, anyhow, he did
not care to. She represented the best of the wonderful days that had
gone before. She was a link between him and the past and a still-to-be
triumphant future.
His worst anxiety was that if he were sent to the penitentiary, or
adjudged a bankrupt, or both, he would probably lose the privilege of a
seat on ’change, and that would close to him the most distinguished
avenue of his prosperity here in Philadelphia for some time, if not
forever. At present, because of his complications, his seat had been
attached as an asset, and he could not act. Edward and Joseph, almost
the only employees he could afford, were still acting for him in a
small way; but the other members on ’change naturally suspected his
brothers as his agents, and any talk that they might raise of going
into business for themselves merely indicated to other brokers and
bankers that Cowperwood was contemplating some concealed move which
would not necessarily be advantageous to his creditors, and against the
law anyhow. Yet he must remain on ’change, whatever happened,
potentially if not actively; and so in his quick mental searchings he
hit upon the idea that in order to forfend against the event of his
being put into prison or thrown into bankruptcy, or both, he ought to
form a subsidiary silent partnership with some man who was or would be
well liked on ’change, and whom he could use as a cat’s-paw and a
dummy.
Finally he hit upon a man who he thought would do. He did not amount to
much—had a small business; but he was honest, and he liked Cowperwood.
His name was Wingate—Stephen Wingate—and he was eking out a not too
robust existence in South Third Street as a broker. He was forty-five
years of age, of medium height, fairly thick-set, not at all
unprepossessing, and rather intelligent and active, but not too
forceful and pushing in spirit. He really needed a man like Cowperwood
to make him into something, if ever he was to be made. He had a seat on
’change, and was well thought of; respected, but not so very
prosperous. In times past he had asked small favors of Cowperwood—the
use of small loans at a moderate rate of interest, tips, and so forth;
and Cowperwood, because he liked him and felt a little sorry for him,
had granted them. Now Wingate was slowly drifting down toward a none
too successful old age, and was as tractable as such a man would
naturally be. No one for the time being would suspect him of being a
hireling of Cowperwood’s, and the latter could depend on him to execute
his orders to the letter. He sent for him and had a long conversation
with him. He told him just what the situation was, what he thought he
could do for him as a partner, how much of his business he would want
for himself, and so on, and found him agreeable.
“I’ll be glad to do anything you say, Mr. Cowperwood,” he assured the
latter. “I know whatever happens that you’ll protect me, and there’s
nobody in the world I would rather work with or have greater respect
for. This storm will all blow over, and you’ll be all right. We can try
it, anyhow. If it don’t work out you can see what you want to do about
it later.”
And so this relationship was tentatively entered into and Cowperwood
began to act in a small way through Wingate.