by Theodore Dreiser 42 страница

no chance of being practically insulting to her father, ignoring him on

every occasion, refusing as often as possible to eat at the same table,

and when she did, sitting next her mother in the place of Norah, with

whom she managed to exchange. She refused to sing or play any more

when he was present, and persistently ignored the large number of young

political aspirants who came to the house, and whose presence in a way

had been encouraged for her benefit. Old Butler realized, of course,

what it was all about. He said nothing. He could not placate her.

Her mother and brothers did not understand it at all at first. (Mrs.

Butler never understood.) But not long after Cowperwood's incarceration

Callum and Owen became aware of what the trouble was. Once, when Owen

was coming away from a reception at one of the houses where his growing

financial importance made him welcome, he heard one of two men whom he

knew casually, say to the other, as they stood at the door adjusting

their coats, "You saw where this fellow Cowperwood got four years,

didn't you?"

"Yes," replied the other. "A clever devil that--wasn't he? I knew that

girl he was in with, too--you know who I mean. Miss Butler--wasn't that

her name?"

Owen was not sure that he had heard right. He did not get the connection

until the other guest, opening the door and stepping out, remarked:

"Well, old Butler got even, apparently. They say he sent him up."

Owen's brow clouded. A hard, contentious look came into his eyes. He had

much of his father's force. What in the devil were they talking about?

What Miss Butler did they have in mind? Could this be Aileen or Norah,

and how could Cowperwood come to be in with either of them? It could

not possibly be Norah, he reflected; she was very much infatuated with a

young man whom he knew, and was going to marry him. Aileen had been

most friendly with the Cowperwoods, and had often spoken well of the

financier. Could it be she? He could not believe it. He thought once of

overtaking the two acquaintances and demanding to know what they meant,

but when he came out on the step they were already some distance down

the street and in the opposite direction from that in which he wished to

go. He decided to ask his father about this.

On demand, old Butler confessed at once, but insisted that his son keep

silent about it.

"I wish I'd have known," said Owen, grimly. "I'd have shot the dirty

dog."

"Aisy, aisy," said Butler. "Yer own life's worth more than his, and ye'd

only be draggin' the rest of yer family in the dirt with him. He's had

somethin' to pay him for his dirty trick, and he'll have more. Just ye

say nothin' to no one. Wait. He'll be wantin' to get out in a year or

two. Say nothin' to her aither. Talkin' won't help there. She'll come

to her sinses when he's been away long enough, I'm thinkin'." Owen had

tried to be civil to his sister after that, but since he was a stickler

for social perfection and advancement, and so eager to get up in the

world himself, he could not understand how she could possibly have done

any such thing. He resented bitterly the stumbling-block she had put in

his path. Now, among other things, his enemies would have this to throw

in his face if they wanted to--and they would want to, trust life for

that.

Callum reached his knowledge of the matter in quite another manner, but

at about the same time. He was a member of an athletic club which had an

attractive building in the city, and a fine country club, where he went

occasionally to enjoy the swimming-pool and the Turkish bath connected

with it. One of his friends approached him there in the billiard-room

one evening and said, "Say, Butler, you know I'm a good friend of yours,

don't you?"

"Why, certainly, I know it," replied Callum. "What's the matter?"

"Well, you know," said the young individual, whose name was Richard

Pethick, looking at Callum with a look of almost strained affection,

"I wouldn't come to you with any story that I thought would hurt your

feelings or that you oughtn't to know about, but I do think you ought to

know about this." He pulled at a high white collar which was choking his

neck.

"I know you wouldn't, Pethick," replied Callum; very much interested.

"What is it? What's the point?"

"Well, I don't like to say anything," replied Pethick, "but that fellow

Hibbs is saying things around here about your sister."

"What's that?" exclaimed Callum, straightening up in the most dynamic

way and bethinking him of the approved social procedure in all such

cases. He should be very angry. He should demand and exact proper

satisfaction in some form or other--by blows very likely if his honor

had been in any way impugned. "What is it he says about my sister? What

right has he to mention her name here, anyhow? He doesn't know her."

Pethick affected to be greatly concerned lest he cause trouble between

Callum and Hibbs. He protested that he did not want to, when, in

reality, he was dying to tell. At last he came out with, "Why, he's

circulated the yarn that your sister had something to do with this man

Cowperwood, who was tried here recently, and that that's why he's just

gone to prison."

"What's that?" exclaimed Callum, losing the make-believe of the

unimportant, and taking on the serious mien of some one who feels

desperately. "He says that, does he? Where is he? I want to see if he'll

say that to me."

Some of the stern fighting ability of his father showed in his slender,

rather refined young face.

"Now, Callum," insisted Pethick, realizing the genuine storm he had

raised, and being a little fearful of the result, "do be careful what

you say. You mustn't have a row in here. You know it's against the

rules. Besides he may be drunk. It's just some foolish talk he's heard,

I'm sure. Now, for goodness' sake, don't get so excited." Pethick,

having evoked the storm, was not a little nervous as to its results in

his own case. He, too, as well as Callum, himself as the tale-bearer,

might now be involved.

But Callum by now was not so easily restrained. His face was quite

pale, and he was moving toward the old English grill-room, where Hibbs

happened to be, consuming a brandy-and-soda with a friend of about his

own age. Callum entered and called him.

"Oh, Hibbs!" he said.

Hibbs, hearing his voice and seeing him in the door, arose and came

over. He was an interesting youth of the collegiate type, educated

at Princeton. He had heard the rumor concerning Aileen from various

sources--other members of the club, for one--and had ventured to repeat

it in Pethick's presence.

"What's that you were just saying about my sister?" asked Callum,

grimly, looking Hibbs in the eye.

"Why--I--" hesitated Hibbs, who sensed trouble and was eager to

avoid it. He was not exceptionally brave and looked it. His hair was

straw-colored, his eyes blue, and his cheeks pink. "Why--nothing in

particular. Who said I was talking about her?" He looked at Pethick,

whom he knew to be the tale-bearer, and the latter exclaimed, excitedly:

"Now don't you try to deny it, Hibbs. You know I heard you?"

"Well, what did I say?" asked Hibbs, defiantly.

"Well, what did you say?" interrupted Callum, grimly, transferring the

conversation to himself. "That's just what I want to know."

"Why," stammered Hibbs, nervously, "I don't think I've said anything

that anybody else hasn't said. I just repeated that some one said that

your sister had been very friendly with Mr. Cowperwood. I didn't say any

more than I have heard other people say around here."

"Oh, you didn't, did you?" exclaimed Callum, withdrawing his hand from

his pocket and slapping Hibbs in the face. He repeated the blow with his

left hand, fiercely. "Perhaps that'll teach you to keep my sister's name

out of your mouth, you pup!"

Hibbs's arms flew up. He was not without pugilistic training, and he

struck back vigorously, striking Callum once in the chest and once in

the neck. In an instant the two rooms of this suite were in an uproar.

Tables and chairs were overturned by the energy of men attempting to get

to the scene of action. The two combatants were quickly separated; sides

were taken by the friends of each, excited explanations attempted and

defied. Callum was examining the knuckles of his left hand, which were

cut from the blow he had delivered. He maintained a gentlemanly calm.

Hibbs, very much flustered and excited, insisted that he had been most

unreasonably used. The idea of attacking him here. And, anyhow, as he

maintained now, Pethick had been both eavesdropping and lying about him.

Incidentally, the latter was protesting to others that he had done

the only thing which an honorable friend could do. It was a nine days'

wonder in the club, and was only kept out of the newspapers by the most

strenuous efforts on the part of the friends of both parties. Callum was

so outraged on discovering that there was some foundation for the rumor

at the club in a general rumor which prevailed that he tendered his

resignation, and never went there again.

"I wish to heaven you hadn't struck that fellow," counseled Owen, when

the incident was related to him. "It will only make more talk. She ought

to leave this place; but she won't. She's struck on that fellow yet, and

we can't tell Norah and mother. We will never hear the last of this, you

and I--believe me."

"Damn it, she ought to be made to go," exclaimed Callum.

"Well, she won't," replied Owen. "Father has tried making her, and

she won't go. Just let things stand. He's in the penitentiary now, and

that's probably the end of him. The public seem to think that father put

him there, and that's something. Maybe we can persuade her to go after

a while. I wish to God we had never had sight of that fellow. If ever he

comes out, I've a good notion to kill him."

"Oh, I wouldn't do anything like that," replied Callum. "It's useless.

It would only stir things up afresh. He's done for, anyhow."

They planned to urge Norah to marry as soon as possible. And as for

their feelings toward Aileen, it was a very chilly atmosphere which

Mrs. Butler contemplated from now on, much to her confusion, grief, and

astonishment.

In this divided world it was that Butler eventually found himself, all

at sea as to what to think or what to do. He had brooded so long now,

for months, and as yet had found no solution. And finally, in a form of

religious despair, sitting at his desk, in his business chair, he had

collapsed--a weary and disconsolate man of seventy. A lesion of the

left ventricle was the immediate physical cause, although brooding over

Aileen was in part the mental one. His death could not have been laid to

his grief over Aileen exactly, for he was a very large man--apoplectic

and with sclerotic veins and arteries. For a great many years now he

had taken very little exercise, and his digestion had been considerably

impaired thereby. He was past seventy, and his time had been reached.

They found him there the next morning, his hands folded in his lap, his

head on his bosom, quite cold.

He was buried with honors out of St. Timothy's Church, the funeral

attended by a large body of politicians and city officials, who

discussed secretly among themselves whether his grief over his daughter

had anything to do with his end. All his good deeds were remembered,

of course, and Mollenhauer and Simpson sent great floral emblems in

remembrance. They were very sorry that he was gone, for they had been

a cordial three. But gone he was, and that ended their interest in the

matter. He left all of his property to his wife in one of the shortest

wills ever recorded locally.

"I give and bequeath to my beloved wife, Norah, all my property of

whatsoever kind to be disposed of as she may see fit."

There was no misconstruing this. A private paper drawn secretly for her

sometime before by Butler, explained how the property should be disposed

of by her at her death. It was Butler's real will masquerading as hers,

and she would not have changed it for worlds; but he wanted her left

in undisturbed possession of everything until she should die. Aileen's

originally assigned portion had never been changed. According to her

father's will, which no power under the sun could have made Mrs. Butler

alter, she was left $250,000 to be paid at Mrs. Butler's death. Neither

this fact nor any of the others contained in the paper were communicated

by Mrs. Butler, who retained it to be left as her will. Aileen often

wondered, but never sought to know, what had been left her. Nothing she

fancied--but felt that she could not help this.

Butler's death led at once to a great change in the temper of the

home. After the funeral the family settled down to a seemingly peaceful

continuance of the old life; but it was a matter of seeming merely. The

situation stood with Callum and Owen manifesting a certain degree of

contempt for Aileen, which she, understanding, reciprocated. She was

very haughty. Owen had plans of forcing her to leave after Butler's

death, but he finally asked himself what was the use. Mrs. Butler, who

did not want to leave the old home, was very fond of Aileen, so therein

lay a reason for letting her remain. Besides, any move to force her out

would have entailed an explanation to her mother, which was not deemed

advisable. Owen himself was interested in Caroline Mollenhauer, whom he

hoped some day to marry--as much for her prospective wealth as for any

other reason, though he was quite fond of her. In the January following

Butler's death, which occurred in August, Norah was married very

quietly, and the following spring Callum embarked on a similar venture.

In the meanwhile, with Butler's death, the control of the political

situation had shifted considerably. A certain Tom Collins, formerly one

of Butler's henchmen, but latterly a power in the First, Second, Third,

and Fourth Wards, where he had numerous saloons and control of other

forms of vice, appeared as a claimant for political recognition.

Mollenhauer and Simpson had to consult him, as he could make very

uncertain the disposition of some hundred and fifteen thousand votes,

a large number of which were fraudulent, but which fact did not modify

their deadly character on occasion. Butler's sons disappeared as

possible political factors, and were compelled to confine themselves to

the street-railway and contracting business. The pardon of Cowperwood

and Stener, which Butler would have opposed, because by keeping Stener

in he kept Cowperwood in, became a much easier matter. The scandal of

the treasury defalcation was gradually dying down; the newspapers had

ceased to refer to it in any way. Through Steger and Wingate, a large

petition signed by all important financiers and brokers had been sent

to the Governor pointing out that Cowperwood's trial and conviction had

been most unfair, and asking that he be pardoned. There was no need

of any such effort, so far as Stener was concerned; whenever the time

seemed ripe the politicians were quite ready to say to the Governor

that he ought to let him go. It was only because Butler had opposed

Cowperwood's release that they had hesitated. It was really not possible

to let out the one and ignore the other; and this petition, coupled with

Butler's death, cleared the way very nicely.

Nevertheless, nothing was done until the March following Butler's death,

when both Stener and Cowperwood had been incarcerated thirteen months--a

length of time which seemed quite sufficient to appease the anger of

the public at large. In this period Stener had undergone a considerable

change physically and mentally. In spite of the fact that a number of

the minor aldermen, who had profited in various ways by his largess,

called to see him occasionally, and that he had been given, as it

were, almost the liberty of the place, and that his family had not

been allowed to suffer, nevertheless he realized that his political and

social days were over. Somebody might now occasionally send him a basket

of fruit and assure him that he would not be compelled to suffer much

longer; but when he did get out, he knew that he had nothing to depend

on save his experience as an insurance agent and real-estate dealer.

That had been precarious enough in the days when he was trying to get

some small political foothold. How would it be when he was known only as

the man who had looted the treasury of five hundred thousand dollars

and been sent to the penitentiary for five years? Who would lend him

the money wherewith to get a little start, even so much as four or five

thousand dollars? The people who were calling to pay their respects now

and then, and to assure him that he had been badly treated? Never. All

of them could honestly claim that they had not so much to spare. If he

had good security to offer--yes; but if he had good security he would

not need to go to them at all. The man who would have actually helped

him if he had only known was Frank A. Cowperwood. Stener could have

confessed his mistake, as Cowperwood saw it, and Cowperwood would have

given him the money gladly, without any thought of return. But by his

poor understanding of human nature, Stener considered that Cowperwood

must be an enemy of his, and he would not have had either the courage or

the business judgment to approach him.

During his incarceration Cowperwood had been slowly accumulating a

little money through Wingate. He had paid Steger considerable sums from

time to time, until that worthy finally decided that it would not be

fair to take any more.

"If ever you get on your feet, Frank," he said, "you can remember me

if you want to, but I don't think you'll want to. It's been nothing

but lose, lose, lose for you through me. I'll undertake this matter

of getting that appeal to the Governor without any charge on my part.

Anything I can do for you from now on is free gratis for nothing."

"Oh, don't talk nonsense, Harper," replied Cowperwood. "I don't know of

anybody that could have done better with my case. Certainly there isn't

anybody that I would have trusted as much. I don't like lawyers you

know."

"Yes--well," said Steger, "they've got nothing on financiers, so we'll

call it even." And they shook hands.

So when it was finally decided to pardon Stener, which was in the early

part of March, 1873--Cowperwood's pardon was necessarily but gingerly

included. A delegation, consisting of Strobik, Harmon, and Winpenny,

representing, as it was intended to appear, the unanimous wishes of the

council and the city administration, and speaking for Mollenhauer and

Simpson, who had given their consent, visited the Governor at Harrisburg

and made the necessary formal representations which were intended to

impress the public. At the same time, through the agency of Steger,

Davison, and Walter Leigh, the appeal in behalf of Cowperwood was made.

The Governor, who had had instructions beforehand from sources quite

superior to this committee, was very solemn about the whole procedure.

He would take the matter under advisement. He would look into the

history of the crimes and the records of the two men. He could make no

promises--he would see. But in ten days, after allowing the petitions to

gather considerable dust in one of his pigeonholes and doing absolutely

nothing toward investigating anything, he issued two separate pardons in

writing. One, as a matter of courtesy, he gave into the hands of Messrs.

Strobik, Harmon, and Winpenny, to bear personally to Mr. Stener, as they

desired that he should. The other, on Steger's request, he gave to him.

The two committees which had called to receive them then departed; and

the afternoon of that same day saw Strobik, Harmon, and Winpenny arrive

in one group, and Steger, Wingate, and Walter Leigh in another, at the

prison gate, but at different hours.

Chapter LVIII

This matter of the pardon of Cowperwood, the exact time of it, was kept

a secret from him, though the fact that he was to be pardoned soon,

or that he had a very excellent chance of being, had not been

denied--rather had been made much of from time to time. Wingate had kept

him accurately informed as to the progress being made, as had Steger;

but when it was actually ascertained, from the Governor's private

secretary, that a certain day would see the pardon handed over to them,

Steger, Wingate, and Walter Leigh had agreed between themselves that

they would say nothing, taking Cowperwood by surprise. They even went so

far--that is, Steger and Wingate did--as to indicate to Cowperwood that

there was some hitch to the proceedings and that he might not now get

out so soon. Cowperwood was somewhat depressed, but properly stoical;

he assured himself that he could wait, and that he would be all right

sometime. He was rather surprised therefore, one Friday afternoon, to

see Wingate, Steger, and Leigh appear at his cell door, accompanied by

Warden Desmas.

The warden was quite pleased to think that Cowperwood should finally

be going out--he admired him so much--and decided to come along to

the cell, to see how he would take his liberation. On the way Desmas

commented on the fact that he had always been a model prisoner. "He kept

a little garden out there in that yard of his," he confided to Walter

Leigh. "He had violets and pansies and geraniums out there, and they did

very well, too."

Leigh smiled. It was like Cowperwood to be industrious and tasteful,

even in prison. Such a man could not be conquered. "A very remarkable

man, that," he remarked to Desmas.

"Very," replied the warden. "You can tell that by looking at him."

The four looked in through the barred door where he was working, without

being observed, having come up quite silently.

"Hard at it, Frank?" asked Steger.

Cowperwood glanced over his shoulder and got up. He had been thinking,

as always these days, of what he would do when he did get out.

"What is this," he asked--"a political delegation?" He suspected

something on the instant. All four smiled cheeringly, and Bonhag

unlocked the door for the warden.

"Nothing very much, Frank," replied Stager, gleefully, "only you're

a free man. You can gather up your traps and come right along, if you

wish."

Cowperwood surveyed his friends with a level gaze. He had not expected

this so soon after what had been told him. He was not one to be very

much interested in the practical joke or the surprise, but this pleased

him--the sudden realization that he was free. Still, he had anticipated

it so long that the charm of it had been discounted to a certain extent.

He had been unhappy here, and he had not. The shame and humiliation of

it, to begin with, had been much. Latterly, as he had become inured to

it all, the sense of narrowness and humiliation had worn off. Only the

consciousness of incarceration and delay irked him. Barring his intense

desire for certain things--success and vindication, principally--he

found that he could live in his narrow cell and be fairly comfortable.

He had long since become used to the limy smell (used to defeat a

more sickening one), and to the numerous rats which he quite regularly

trapped. He had learned to take an interest in chair-caning, having

become so proficient that he could seat twenty in a day if he chose,

and in working in the little garden in spring, summer, and fall. Every

evening he had studied the sky from his narrow yard, which resulted

curiously in the gift in later years of a great reflecting telescope

to a famous university. He had not looked upon himself as an ordinary

prisoner, by any means--had not felt himself to be sufficiently punished

if a real crime had been involved. From Bonhag he had learned the

history of many criminals here incarcerated, from murderers up and down,

and many had been pointed out to him from time to time. He had been

escorted into the general yard by Bonhag, had seen the general food of

the place being prepared, had heard of Stener's modified life here, and

so forth. It had finally struck him that it was not so bad, only that

the delay to an individual like himself was wasteful. He could do so

much now if he were out and did not have to fight court proceedings.

Courts and jails! He shook his head when he thought of the waste

involved in them.

"That's all right," he said, looking around him in an uncertain way.

"I'm ready."

He stepped out into the hall, with scarcely a farewell glance, and

to Bonhag, who was grieving greatly over the loss of so profitable a

customer, he said: "I wish you would see that some of these things are

sent over to my house, Walter. You're welcome to the chair, that clock,

this mirror, those pictures--all of these things in fact, except my

linen, razors, and so forth."

The last little act of beneficence soothed Bonhag's lacerated soul

a little. They went out into the receiving overseer's office, where

Cowperwood laid aside his prison suit and the soft shirt with a

considerable sense of relief. The clog shoes had long since been

replaced by a better pair of his own. He put on the derby hat and gray

overcoat he had worn the year before, on entering, and expressed himself

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