by Theodore Dreiser 26 страница

genial smile. Long contact with the police and the brutalities of sex in

her early life had made her wary, a little afraid of how the world would

use her. This particular method of making a living being illicit, and

she having no other practical knowledge at her command, she was as

anxious to get along peacefully with the police and the public generally

as any struggling tradesman in any walk of life might have been. She had

on a loose, blue-flowered peignoir, or dressing-gown, open at the front,

tied with blue ribbons and showing a little of her expensive underwear

beneath. A large opal ring graced her left middle finger, and turquoises

of vivid blue were pendent from her ears. She wore yellow silk slippers

with bronze buckles; and altogether her appearance was not out of

keeping with the character of the reception-room itself, which was a

composite of gold-flowered wall-paper, blue and cream-colored Brussels

carpet, heavily gold-framed engravings of reclining nudes, and a

gilt-framed pier-glass, which rose from the floor to the ceiling.

Needless to say, Butler was shocked to the soul of him by this

suggestive atmosphere which was supposed to include his daughter in its

destructive reaches.

Alderson motioned one of his detectives to get behind the woman--between

her and the door--which he did.

"Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Davis," he said, "but we are looking for a

couple who are in your house here. We're after a runaway girl. We don't

want to make any disturbance--merely to get her and take her away." Mrs.

Davis paled and opened her mouth. "Now don't make any noise or try to

scream, or we'll have to stop you. My men are all around the house.

Nobody can get out. Do you know anybody by the name of Cowperwood?"

Mrs. Davis, fortunately from one point of view, was not of a

particularly nervous nor yet contentious type. She was more or less

philosophic. She was not in touch with the police here in Philadelphia,

hence subject to exposure. What good would it do to cry out? she

thought. The place was surrounded. There was no one in the house at the

time to save Cowperwood and Aileen. She did not know Cowperwood by his

name, nor Aileen by hers. They were a Mr. and Mrs. Montague to her.

"I don't know anybody by that name," she replied nervously.

"Isn't there a girl here with red hair?" asked one of Alderson's

assistants. "And a man with a gray suit and a light-brown mustache? They

came in here half an hour ago. You remember them, don't you?"

"There's just one couple in the house, but I'm not sure whether they're

the ones you want. I'll ask them to come down if you wish. Oh, I wish

you wouldn't make any disturbance. This is terrible."

"We'll not make any disturbance," replied Alderson, "if you don't. Just

you be quiet. We merely want to see the girl and take her away. Now, you

stay where you are. What room are they in?"

"In the second one in the rear up-stairs. Won't you let me go, though?

It will be so much better. I'll just tap and ask them to come out."

"No. We'll tend to that. You stay where you are. You're not going to get

into any trouble. You just stay where you are," insisted Alderson.

He motioned to Butler, who, however, now that he had embarked on his

grim task, was thinking that he had made a mistake. What good would it

do him to force his way in and make her come out, unless he intended

to kill Cowperwood? If she were made to come down here, that would be

enough. She would then know that he knew all. He did not care to quarrel

with Cowperwood, in any public way, he now decided. He was afraid to. He

was afraid of himself.

"Let her go," he said grimly, doggedly referring to Mrs. Davis, "But

watch her. Tell the girl to come down-stairs to me."

Mrs. Davis, realizing on the moment that this was some family tragedy,

and hoping in an agonized way that she could slip out of it peacefully,

started upstairs at once with Alderson and his assistants who were close

at his heels. Reaching the door of the room occupied by Cowperwood

and Aileen, she tapped lightly. At the time Aileen and Cowperwood were

sitting in a big arm-chair. At the first knock Aileen blanched and

leaped to her feet. Usually not nervous, to-day, for some reason, she

anticipated trouble. Cowperwood's eyes instantly hardened.

"Don't be nervous," he said, "no doubt it's only the servant. I'll go."

He started, but Aileen interfered. "Wait," she said. Somewhat reassured,

she went to the closet, and taking down a dressing-gown, slipped it on.

Meanwhile the tap came again. Then she went to the door and opened it

the least bit.

"Mrs. Montague," exclaimed Mrs. Davis, in an obviously nervous, forced

voice, "there's a gentleman downstairs who wishes to see you."

"A gentleman to see me!" exclaimed Aileen, astonished and paling. "Are

you sure?"

"Yes; he says he wants to see you. There are several other men with him.

I think it's some one who belongs to you, maybe."

Aileen realized on the instant, as did Cowperwood, what had in all

likelihood happened. Butler or Mrs. Cowperwood had trailed them--in all

probability her father. He wondered now what he should do to protect

her, not himself. He was in no way deeply concerned for himself, even

here. Where any woman was concerned he was too chivalrous to permit

fear. It was not at all improbable that Butler might want to kill him;

but that did not disturb him. He really did not pay any attention to

that thought, and he was not armed.

"I'll dress and go down," he said, when he saw Aileen's pale face.

"You stay here. And don't you worry in any way for I'll get you out of

this--now, don't worry. This is my affair. I got you in it and I'll get

you out of it." He went for his hat and coat and added, as he did so,

"You go ahead and dress; but let me go first."

Aileen, the moment the door closed, had begun to put on her clothes

swiftly and nervously. Her mind was working like a rapidly moving

machine. She was wondering whether this really could be her father.

Perhaps it was not. Might there be some other Mrs. Montague--a real one?

Supposing it was her father--he had been so nice to her in not telling

the family, in keeping her secret thus far. He loved her--she knew that.

It makes all the difference in the world in a child's attitude on an

occasion like this whether she has been loved and petted and spoiled, or

the reverse. Aileen had been loved and petted and spoiled. She could not

think of her father doing anything terrible physically to her or to any

one else. But it was so hard to confront him--to look into his eyes.

When she had attained a proper memory of him, her fluttering wits told

her what to do.

"No, Frank," she whispered, excitedly; "if it's father, you'd better let

me go. I know how to talk to him. He won't say anything to me. You stay

here. I'm not afraid--really, I'm not. If I want you, I'll call you."

He had come over and taken her pretty chin in his hands, and was looking

solemnly into her eyes.

"You mustn't be afraid," he said. "I'll go down. If it's your father,

you can go away with him. I don't think he'll do anything either to you

or to me. If it is he, write me something at the office. I'll be there.

If I can help you in any way, I will. We can fix up something. There's

no use trying to explain this. Say nothing at all."

He had on his coat and overcoat, and was standing with his hat in

his hand. Aileen was nearly dressed, struggling with the row of red

current-colored buttons which fastened her dress in the back. Cowperwood

helped her. When she was ready--hat, gloves, and all--he said:

"Now let me go first. I want to see."

"No; please, Frank," she begged, courageously. "Let me, I know it's

father. Who else could it be?" She wondered at the moment whether her

father had brought her two brothers but would not now believe it. He

would not do that, she knew. "You can come if I call." She went on.

"Nothing's going to happen, though. I understand him. He won't do

anything to me. If you go it will only make him angry. Let me go. You

stand in the door here. If I don't call, it's all right. Will you?"

She put her two pretty hands on his shoulders, and he weighed the matter

very carefully. "Very well," he said, "only I'll go to the foot of the

stairs with you."

They went to the door and he opened it. Outside were Alderson with two

other detectives and Mrs. Davis, standing perhaps five feet away.

"Well," said Cowperwood, commandingly, looking at Alderson.

"There's a gentleman down-stairs wishes to see the lady," said Alderson.

"It's her father, I think," he added quietly.

Cowperwood made way for Aileen, who swept by, furious at the presence of

men and this exposure. Her courage had entirely returned. She was angry

now to think her father would make a public spectacle of her. Cowperwood

started to follow.

"I'd advise you not to go down there right away," cautioned Alderson,

sagely. "That's her father. Butler's her name, isn't it? He don't want

you so much as he wants her."

Cowperwood nevertheless walked slowly toward the head of the stairs,

listening.

"What made you come here, father?" he heard Aileen ask.

Butler's reply he could not hear, but he was now at ease for he knew how

much Butler loved his daughter.

Confronted by her father, Aileen was now attempting to stare defiantly,

to look reproachful, but Butler's deep gray eyes beneath their shaggy

brows revealed such a weight of weariness and despair as even she, in

her anger and defiance, could not openly flaunt. It was all too sad.

"I never expected to find you in a place like this, daughter," he said.

"I should have thought you would have thought better of yourself." His

voice choked and he stopped.

"I know who you're here with," he continued, shaking his head sadly.

"The dog! I'll get him yet. I've had men watchin' you all the time. Oh,

the shame of this day! The shame of this day! You'll be comin' home with

me now."

"That's just it, father," began Aileen. "You've had men watching me.

I should have thought--" She stopped, because he put up his hand in a

strange, agonized, and yet dominating way.

"None of that! none of that!" he said, glowering under his strange, sad,

gray brows. "I can't stand it! Don't tempt me! We're not out of this

place yet. He's not! You'll come home with me now."

Aileen understood. It was Cowperwood he was referring to. That

frightened her.

"I'm ready," she replied, nervously.

The old man led the way broken-heartedly. He felt he would never live to

forget the agony of this hour.

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 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 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 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 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

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