The Financier a novel by Theodore Dreiser

 
 

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Chapter XX 
This definite and final understanding having been reached, it was but 
natural that this liaison should proceed to a closer and closer relationship. 
Despite her religious upbringing, Aileen was decidedly a victim of her 
temperament. Current religious feeling and belief could not control her. For 
the past nine or ten years there had been slowly forming in her mind a 
notion of what her lover should be like. He should be strong, handsome, 
direct, successful, with clear eyes, a ruddy glow of health, and a certain 
native understanding and sympathy—a love of life which matched her own. 
Many young men had approached her. Perhaps the nearest realization of her 
ideal was Father David, of St. Timothy's, and he was, of course, a priest and 
sworn to celibacy. No word had ever passed between them but he had been 
as conscious of her as she of him. Then came Frank Cowperwood, and by 
degrees, because of his presence and contact, he had been slowly built up in 
her mind as the ideal person. She was drawn as planets are drawn to their 
sun. 
It is a question as to what would have happened if antagonistic forces could 
have been introduced just at this time. Emotions and liaisons of this 
character can, of course, occasionally be broken up and destroyed. The 
characters of the individuals can be modified or changed to a certain extent, 
but the force must be quite sufficient. Fear is a great deterrent—fear of 
material loss where there is no spiritual dread—but wealth and position so 
often tend to destroy this dread. It is so easy to scheme with means. Aileen 
had no spiritual dread whatever. Cowperwood was without spiritual or 
religious feeling. He looked at this girl, and his one thought was how could 
he so deceive the world that he could enjoy her love and leave his present 
state undisturbed. Love her he did surely. 
Business necessitated his calling at the Butlers' quite frequently, and on 
each occasion he saw Aileen. She managed to slip forward and squeeze his 
hand the first time he came—to steal a quick, vivid kiss; and another time, 
as he was going out, she suddenly appeared from behind the curtains 
hanging at the parlor door. 
"Honey!" 
The voice was soft and coaxing. He turned, giving her a warning nod in the 
direction of her father's room upstairs. 
She stood there, holding out one hand, and he stepped forward for a second. 
Instantly her arms were about his neck, as he slipped his about her waist. 
"I long to see you so." 
"I, too. I'll fix some way. I'm thinking." 

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He released her arms, and went out, and she ran to the window and looked 
out after him. He was walking west on the street, for his house was only a 
few blocks away, and she looked at the breadth of his shoulders, the 
balance of his form. He stepped so briskly, so incisively. Ah, this was a man! 
He was her Frank. She thought of him in that light already. Then she sat 
down at the piano and played pensively until dinner. 
And it was so easy for the resourceful mind of Frank Cowperwood, wealthy 
as he was, to suggest ways and means. In his younger gallivantings about 
places of ill repute, and his subsequent occasional variations from the 
straight and narrow path, he had learned much of the curious resources of 
immorality. Being a city of five hundred thousand and more at this time, 
Philadelphia had its nondescript hotels, where one might go, cautiously and 
fairly protected from observation; and there were houses of a conservative, 
residential character, where appointments might be made, for a 
consideration. And as for safeguards against the production of new life—
they were not mysteries to him any longer. He knew all about them. Care 
was the point of caution. He had to be cautious, for he was so rapidly 
coming to be an influential and a distinguished man. Aileen, of course, was 
not conscious, except in a vague way, of the drift of her passion; the 
ultimate destiny to which this affection might lead was not clear to her. Her 
craving was for love—to be fondled and caressed—and she really did not 
think so much further. Further thoughts along this line were like rats that 
showed their heads out of dark holes in shadowy corners and scuttled back 
at the least sound. And, anyhow, all that was to be connected with 
Cowperwood would be beautiful. She really did not think that he loved her 
yet as he should; but he would. She did not know that she wanted to 
interfere with the claims of his wife. She did not think she did. But it would 
not hurt Mrs. Cowperwood if Frank loved her—Aileen—also. 
How shall we explain these subtleties of temperament and desire? Life has 
to deal with them at every turn. They will not down, and the large, placid 
movements of nature outside of man's little organisms would indicate that 
she is not greatly concerned. We see much punishment in the form of jails, 
diseases, failures, and wrecks; but we also see that the old tendency is not 
visibly lessened. Is there no law outside of the subtle will and power of the 
individual to achieve? If not, it is surely high time that we knew it—one and 
all. We might then agree to do as we do; but there would be no silly illusion 
as to divine regulation. Vox populi, vox Dei. 
So there were other meetings, lovely hours which they soon began to spend 
the moment her passion waxed warm enough to assure compliance, without 
great fear and without thought of the deadly risk involved. From odd 
moments in his own home, stolen when there was no one about to see, they 
advanced to clandestine meetings beyond the confines of the city. 

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Cowperwood was not one who was temperamentally inclined to lose his head 
and neglect his business. As a matter of fact, the more he thought of this 
rather unexpected affectional development, the more certain he was that he 
must not let it interfere with his business time and judgment. His office 
required his full attention from nine until three, anyhow. He could give it 
until five-thirty with profit; but he could take several afternoons off, from 
three-thirty until five-thirty or six, and no one would be the wiser. It was 
customary for Aileen to drive alone almost every afternoon a spirited pair of 
bays, or to ride a mount, bought by her father for her from a noted horse-
dealer in Baltimore. Since Cowperwood also drove and rode, it was not 
difficult to arrange meeting-places far out on the Wissahickon or the 
Schuylkill road. There were many spots in the newly laid-out park, which 
were as free from interruption as the depths of a forest. It was always 
possible that they might encounter some one; but it was also always 
possible to make a rather plausible explanation, or none at all, since even in 
case of such an encounter nothing, ordinarily, would be suspected. 
So, for the time being there was love-making, the usual billing and cooing of 
lovers in a simple and much less than final fashion; and the lovely 
horseback rides together under the green trees of the approaching spring 
were idyllic. Cowperwood awakened to a sense of joy in life such as he 
fancied, in the blush of this new desire, he had never experienced before. 
Lillian had been lovely in those early days in which he had first called on her 
in North Front Street, and he had fancied himself unspeakably happy at 
that time; but that was nearly ten years since, and he had forgotten. Since 
then he had had no great passion, no notable liaison; and then, all at once, 
in the midst of his new, great business prosperity, Aileen. Her young body 
and soul, her passionate illusions. He could see always, for all her daring, 
that she knew so little of the calculating, brutal world with which he was 
connected. Her father had given her all the toys she wanted without stint; 
her mother and brothers had coddled her, particularly her mother. Her 
young sister thought she was adorable. No one imagined for one moment 
that Aileen would ever do anything wrong. She was too sensible, after all, 
too eager to get up in the world. Why should she, when her life lay open and 
happy before her—a delightful love-match, some day soon, with some very 
eligible and satisfactory lover? 
"When you marry, Aileen," her mother used to say to her, "we'll have a grand 
time here. Sure we'll do the house over then, if we don't do it before. Eddie 
will have to fix it up, or I'll do it meself. Never fear." 
"Yes—well, I'd rather you'd fix it now," was her reply. 

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Butler himself used to strike her jovially on the shoulder in a rough, loving 
way, and ask, "Well, have you found him yet?" or "Is he hanging around the 
outside watchin' for ye?" 
If she said, "No," he would reply: "Well, he will be, never fear—worse luck. I'll 
hate to see ye go, girlie! You can stay here as long as ye want to, and ye 
want to remember that you can always come back." 
Aileen paid very little attention to this bantering. She loved her father, but it 
was all such a matter of course. It was the commonplace of her existence, 
and not so very significant, though delightful enough. 
But how eagerly she yielded herself to Cowperwood under the spring trees 
these days! She had no sense of that ultimate yielding that was coming, for 
now he merely caressed and talked to her. He was a little doubtful about 
himself. His growing liberties for himself seemed natural enough, but in a 
sense of fairness to her he began to talk to her about what their love might 
involve. Would she? Did she understand? This phase of it puzzled and 
frightened Aileen a little at first. She stood before him one afternoon in her 
black riding-habit and high silk riding-hat perched jauntily on her red-gold 
hair; and striking her riding-skirt with her short whip, pondering doubtfully 
as she listened. He had asked her whether she knew what she was doing? 
Whither they were drifting? If she loved him truly enough? The two horses 
were tethered in a thicket a score of yards away from the main road and 
from the bank of a tumbling stream, which they had approached. She was 
trying to discover if she could see them. It was pretense. There was no 
interest in her glance. She was thinking of him and the smartness of his 
habit, and the exquisiteness of this moment. He had such a charming calico 
pony. The leaves were just enough developed to make a diaphanous 
lacework of green. It was like looking through a green-spangled arras to peer 
into the woods beyond or behind. The gray stones were already faintly messy 
where the water rippled and sparkled, and early birds were calling—robins 
and blackbirds and wrens. 
"Baby mine," he said, "do you understand all about this? Do you know 
exactly what you're doing when you come with me this way?" 
"I think I do." 
She struck her boot and looked at the ground, and then up through the 
trees at the blue sky. 
"Look at me, honey." 
"I don't want to." 
"But look at me, sweet. I want to ask you something." 
"Don't make me, Frank, please. I can't." 

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"Oh yes, you can look at me." 
"No." 
She backed away as he took her hands, but came forward again, easily 
enough. 
"Now look in my eyes." 
"I can't." 
"See here." 
"I can't. Don't ask me. I'll answer you, but don't make me look at you." 
His hand stole to her cheek and fondled it. He petted her shoulder, and she 
leaned her head against him. 
"Sweet, you're so beautiful," he said finally, "I can't give you up. I know what 
I ought to do. You know, too, I suppose; but I can't. I must have you. If this 
should end in exposure, it would be quite bad for you and me. Do you 
understand?" 
"Yes." 
"I don't know your brothers very well; but from looking at them I judge 
they're pretty determined people. They think a great deal of you." 
"Indeed, they do." Her vanity prinked slightly at this. 
"They would probably want to kill me, and very promptly, for just this much. 
What do you think they would want to do if—well, if anything should 
happen, some time?" 
He waited, watching her pretty face. 
"But nothing need happen. We needn't go any further." 
"Aileen!" 
"I won't look at you. You needn't ask. I can't." 
"Aileen! Do you mean that?" 
"I don't know. Don't ask me, Frank." 
"You know it can't stop this way, don't you? You know it. This isn't the end. 
Now, if—" He explained the whole theory of illicit meetings, calmly, 
dispassionately. "You are perfectly safe, except for one thing, chance 
exposure. It might just so happen; and then, of course, there would be a 
great deal to settle for. Mrs. Cowperwood would never give me a divorce; she 
has no reason to. If I should clean up in the way I hope to—if I should make 
a million—I wouldn't mind knocking off now. I don't expect to work all my 
days. I have always planned to knock off at thirty-five. I'll have enough by 
that time. Then I want to travel. It will only be a few more years now. If you 

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were free—if your father and mother were dead"—curiously she did not 
wince at this practical reference—"it would be a different matter." 
He paused. She still gazed thoughtfully at the water below, her mind 
running out to a yacht on the sea with him, a palace somewhere—just they 
two. Her eyes, half closed, saw this happy world; and, listening to him, she 
was fascinated. 
"Hanged if I see the way out of this, exactly. But I love you!" He caught her 
to him. "I love you—love you!" 
"Oh, yes," she replied intensely, "I want you to. I'm not afraid." 
"I've taken a house in North Tenth Street," he said finally, as they walked 
over to the horses and mounted them. "It isn't furnished yet; but it will be 
soon. I know a woman who will take charge." 
"Who is she?" 
"An interesting widow of nearly fifty. Very intelligent—she is attractive, and 
knows a good deal of life. I found her through an advertisement. You might 
call on her some afternoon when things are arranged, and look the place 
over. You needn't meet her except in a casual way. Will you?" 
She rode on, thinking, making no reply. He was so direct and practical in 
his calculations. 
"Will you? It will be all right. You might know her. She isn't objectionable in 
any way. Will you?" 
"Let me know when it is ready," was all she said finally.