The Financier a novel by Theodore Dreiser

 
 

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Chapter XLVI 
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 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.