The Financier a novel by Theodore Dreiser

 
 

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Chapter XXXVII 
In spite of Butler's rage and his determination to do many things to the 
financier, if he could, he was so wrought up and shocked by the attitude of 
Aileen that he could scarcely believe he was the same man he had been 
twenty-four hours before. She was so nonchalant, so defiant. He had 
expected to see her wilt completely when confronted with her guilt. Instead, 
he found, to his despair, after they were once safely out of the house, that 
he had aroused a fighting quality in the girl which was not incomparable to 
his own. She had some of his own and Owen's grit. She sat beside him in 
the little runabout—not his own—in which he was driving her home, her 
face coloring and blanching by turns, as different waves of thought swept 
over her, determined to stand her ground now that her father had so plainly 
trapped her, to declare for Cowperwood and her love and her position in 
general. What did she care, she asked herself, what her father thought now? 
She was in this thing. She loved Cowperwood; she was permanently 
disgraced in her father's eyes. What difference could it all make now? He 
had fallen so low in his parental feeling as to spy on her and expose her 
before other men—strangers, detectives, Cowperwood. What real affection 
could she have for him after this? He had made a mistake, according to her. 
He had done a foolish and a contemptible thing, which was not warranted 
however bad her actions might have been. What could he hope to 
accomplish by rushing in on her in this way and ripping the veil from her 
very soul before these other men—these crude detectives? Oh, the agony of 
that walk from the bedroom to the reception-room! She would never forgive 
her father for this—never, never, never! He had now killed her love for him—
that was what she felt. It was to be a battle royal between them from now 
on. As they rode—in complete silence for a while—her hands clasped and 
unclasped defiantly, her nails cutting her palms, and her mouth hardened. 
It is an open question whether raw opposition ever accomplishes anything of 
value in this world. It seems so inherent in this mortal scheme of things that 
it appears to have a vast validity. It is more than likely that we owe this 
spectacle called life to it, and that this can be demonstrated scientifically; 
but when that is said and done, what is the value? What is the value of the 
spectacle? And what the value of a scene such as this enacted between 
Aileen and her father? 
The old man saw nothing for it, as they rode on, save a grim contest between 
them which could end in what? What could he do with her? They were 
riding away fresh from this awful catastrophe, and she was not saying a 
word! She had even asked him why he had come there! How was he to 
subdue her, when the very act of trapping her had failed to do so? His ruse, 
while so successful materially, had failed so utterly spiritually. They reached 
the house, and Aileen got out. The old man, too nonplussed to wish to go 

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further at this time, drove back to his office. He then went out and walked—
a peculiar thing for him to do; he had done nothing like that in years and 
years—walking to think. Coming to an open Catholic church, he went in and 
prayed for enlightenment, the growing dusk of the interior, the single 
everlasting lamp before the repository of the chalice, and the high, white 
altar set with candles soothing his troubled feelings. 
He came out of the church after a time and returned home. Aileen did not 
appear at dinner, and he could not eat. He went into his private room and 
shut the door—thinking, thinking, thinking. The dreadful spectacle of Aileen 
in a house of ill repute burned in his brain. To think that Cowperwood 
should have taken her to such a place—his Aileen, his and his wife's pet. In 
spite of his prayers, his uncertainty, her opposition, the puzzling nature of 
the situation, she must be got out of this. She must go away for a while, give 
the man up, and then the law should run its course with him. In all 
likelihood Cowperwood would go to the penitentiary—if ever a man richly 
deserved to go, it was he. Butler would see that no stone was left unturned. 
He would make it a personal issue, if necessary. All he had to do was to let it 
be known in judicial circles that he wanted it so. He could not suborn a 
jury, that would be criminal; but he could see that the case was properly 
and forcefully presented; and if Cowperwood were convicted, Heaven help 
him. The appeal of his financial friends would not save him. The judges of 
the lower and superior courts knew on which side their bread was buttered. 
They would strain a point in favor of the highest political opinion of the day, 
and he certainly could influence that. Aileen meanwhile was contemplating 
the peculiar nature of her situation. In spite of their silence on the way 
home, she knew that a conversation was coming with her father. It had to 
be. He would want her to go somewhere. Most likely he would revive the 
European trip in some form—she now suspected the invitation of Mrs. 
Mollenhauer as a trick; and she had to decide whether she would go. Would 
she leave Cowperwood just when he was about to be tried? She was 
determined she would not. She wanted to see what was going to happen to 
him. She would leave home first—run to some relative, some friend, some 
stranger, if necessary, and ask to be taken in. She had some money—a little. 
Her father had always been very liberal with her. She could take a few 
clothes and disappear. They would be glad enough to send for her after she 
had been gone awhile. Her mother would be frantic; Norah and Callum and 
Owen would be beside themselves with wonder and worry; her father—she 
could see him. Maybe that would bring him to his senses. In spite of all her 
emotional vagaries, she was the pride and interest of this home, and she 
knew it. 
It was in this direction that her mind was running when her father, a few 
days after the dreadful exposure in the Sixth Street house, sent for her to 

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come to him in his room. He had come home from his office very early in the 
afternoon, hoping to find Aileen there, in order that he might have a private 
interview with her, and by good luck found her in. She had had no desire to 
go out into the world these last few days—she was too expectant of trouble 
to come. She had just written Cowperwood asking for a rendezvous out on 
the Wissahickon the following afternoon, in spite of the detectives. She must 
see him. Her father, she said, had done nothing; but she was sure he would 
attempt to do something. She wanted to talk to Cowperwood about that. 
"I've been thinkin' about ye, Aileen, and what ought to be done in this case," 
began her father without preliminaries of any kind once they were in his 
"office room" in the house together. "You're on the road to ruin if any one 
ever was. I tremble when I think of your immortal soul. I want to do 
somethin' for ye, my child, before it's too late. I've been reproachin' myself 
for the last month and more, thinkin', perhaps, it was somethin' I had done, 
or maybe had failed to do, aither me or your mother, that has brought ye to 
the place where ye are to-day. Needless to say, it's on me conscience, me 
child. It's a heartbroken man you're lookin' at this day. I'll never be able to 
hold me head up again. Oh, the shame—the shame! That I should have lived 
to see it!" 
"But father," protested Aileen, who was a little distraught at the thought of 
having to listen to a long preachment which would relate to her duty to God 
and the Church and her family and her mother and him. She realized that 
all these were important in their way; but Cowperwood and his point of view 
had given her another outlook on life. They had discussed this matter of 
families—parents, children, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters—from almost 
every point of view. Cowperwood's laissez-faire attitude had permeated and 
colored her mind completely. She saw things through his cold, direct "I 
satisfy myself" attitude. He was sorry for all the little differences of 
personality that sprang up between people, causing quarrels, bickerings, 
oppositions, and separation; but they could not be helped. People outgrew 
each other. Their points of view altered at varying ratios—hence changes. 
Morals—those who had them had them; those who hadn't, hadn't. There 
was no explaining. As for him, he saw nothing wrong in the sex relationship. 
Between those who were mutually compatible it was innocent and delicious. 
Aileen in his arms, unmarried, but loved by him, and he by her, was as good 
and pure as any living woman—a great deal purer than most. One found 
oneself in a given social order, theory, or scheme of things. For purposes of 
social success, in order not to offend, to smooth one's path, make things 
easy, avoid useless criticism, and the like, it was necessary to create an 
outward seeming—ostensibly conform. Beyond that it was not necessary to 
do anything. Never fail, never get caught. If you did, fight your way out 
silently and say nothing. That was what he was doing in connection with his 

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present financial troubles; that was what he had been ready to do the other 
day when they were caught. It was something of all this that was coloring 
Aileen's mood as she listened at present. 
"But father," she protested, "I love Mr. Cowperwood. It's almost the same as 
if I were married to him. He will marry me some day when he gets a divorce 
from Mrs. Cowperwood. You don't understand how it is. He's very fond of 
me, and I love him. He needs me." 
Butler looked at her with strange, non-understanding eyes. "Divorce, did 
you say," he began, thinking of the Catholic Church and its dogma in regard 
to that. "He'll divorce his own wife and children—and for you, will he? He 
needs you, does he?" he added, sarcastically. "What about his wife and 
children? I don't suppose they need him, do they? What talk have ye?" 
Aileen flung her head back defiantly. "It's true, nevertheless," she reiterated. 
"You just don't understand." 
Butler could scarcely believe his ears. He had never heard such talk before 
in his life from any one. It amazed and shocked him. He was quite aware of 
all the subtleties of politics and business, but these of romance were too 
much for him. He knew nothing about them. To think a daughter of his 
should be talking like this, and she a Catholic! He could not understand 
where she got such notions unless it was from the Machiavellian, corrupting 
brain of Cowperwood himself. 
"How long have ye had these notions, my child?" he suddenly asked, calmly 
and soberly. "Where did ye get them? Ye certainly never heard anything like 
that in this house, I warrant. Ye talk as though ye had gone out of yer 
mind." 
"Oh, don't talk nonsense, father," flared Aileen, angrily, thinking how 
hopeless it was to talk to her father about such things anyhow. "I'm not a 
child any more. I'm twenty-four years of age. You just don't understand. Mr. 
Cowperwood doesn't like his wife. He's going to get a divorce when he can, 
and will marry me. I love him, and he loves me, and that's all there is to it." 
"Is it, though?" asked Butler, grimly determined by hook or by crook, to 
bring this girl to her senses. "Ye'll be takin' no thought of his wife and 
children then? The fact that he's goin' to jail, besides, is nawthin' to ye, I 
suppose. Ye'd love him just as much in convict stripes, I suppose—more, 
maybe." (The old man was at his best, humanly speaking, when he was a 
little sarcastic.) "Ye'll have him that way, likely, if at all." 
Aileen blazed at once to a furious heat. "Yes, I know," she sneered. "That's 
what you would like. I know what you've been doing. Frank does, too. You're 
trying to railroad him to prison for something he didn't do—and all on 
account of me. Oh, I know. But you won't hurt him. You can't! He's bigger 

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and finer than you think he is and you won't hurt him in the long run. He'll 
get out again. You want to punish him on my account; but he doesn't care. 
I'll marry him anyhow. I love him, and I'll wait for him and marry him, and 
you can do what you please. So there!" 
"Ye'll marry him, will you?" asked Butler, nonplussed and further 
astounded. "So ye'll wait for him and marry him? Ye'll take him away from 
his wife and children, where, if he were half a man, he'd be stayin' this 
minute instead of gallivantin' around with you. And marry him? Ye'd 
disgrace your father and yer mother and yer family? Ye'll stand here and say 
this to me, I that have raised ye, cared for ye, and made somethin' of ye? 
Where would you be if it weren't for me and your poor, hard-workin' mother, 
schemin' and plannin' for you year in and year out? Ye're smarter than I am, 
I suppose. Ye know more about the world than I do, or any one else that 
might want to say anythin' to ye. I've raised ye to be a fine lady, and this is 
what I get. Talk about me not bein' able to understand, and ye lovin' a 
convict-to-be, a robber, an embezzler, a bankrupt, a lyin', thavin'—" 
"Father!" exclaimed Aileen, determinedly. "I'll not listen to you talking that 
way. He's not any of the things that you say. I'll not stay here." She moved 
toward the door; but Butler jumped up now and stopped her. His face for 
the moment was flushed and swollen with anger. 
"But I'm not through with him yet," he went on, ignoring her desire to leave, 
and addressing her direct—confident now that she was as capable as 
another of understanding him. "I'll get him as sure as I have a name. There's 
law in this land, and I'll have it on him. I'll show him whether he'll come 
sneakin' into dacent homes and robbin' parents of their children." 
He paused after a time for want of breath and Aileen stared, her face tense 
and white. Her father could be so ridiculous. He was, contrasted with 
Cowperwood and his views, so old-fashioned. To think he could be talking of 
some one coming into their home and stealing her away from him, when she 
had been so willing to go. What silliness! And yet, why argue? What good 
could be accomplished, arguing with him here in this way? And so for the 
moment, she said nothing more—merely looked. But Butler was by no 
means done. His mood was too stormy even though he was doing his best 
now to subdue himself. 
"It's too bad, daughter," he resumed quietly, once he was satisfied that she 
was going to have little, if anything, to say. "I'm lettin' my anger get the best 
of me. It wasn't that I intended talkin' to ye about when I ast ye to come in. 
It's somethin' else I have on me mind. I was thinkin', perhaps, ye'd like to go 
to Europe for the time bein' to study music. Ye're not quite yourself just at 
present. Ye're needin' a rest. It would be good for ye to go away for a while. 
Ye could have a nice time over there. Norah could go along with ye, if you 

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would, and Sister Constantia that taught you. Ye wouldn't object to havin' 
her, I suppose?" 
At the mention of this idea of a trip of Europe again, with Sister Constantia 
and music thrown in to give it a slightly new form, Aileen bridled, and yet 
half-smiled to herself now. It was so ridiculous—so tactless, really, for her 
father to bring up this now, and especially after denouncing Cowperwood 
and her, and threatening all the things he had. Had he no diplomacy at all 
where she was concerned? It was really too funny! But she restrained herself 
here again, because she felt as well as saw, that argument of this kind was 
all futile now. 
"I wish you wouldn't talk about that, father," she began, having softened 
under his explanation. "I don't want to go to Europe now. I don't want to 
leave Philadelphia. I know you want me to go; but I don't want to think of 
going now. I can't." 
Butler's brow darkened again. What was the use of all this opposition on her