_ There was one development in connection with all of this of which
Cowperwood was as yet unaware. The same day that brought Edward
Butler the anonymous communication in regard to his daughter,
brought almost a duplicate of it to Mrs. Frank Algernon Cowperwood,
only in this case the name of Aileen Butler had curiously been
omitted.
Perhaps you don't know that your husband is running with
another woman. If you don't believe it, watch the house at
931 North Tenth Street.
Mrs. Cowperwood was in the conservatory watering some plants when
this letter was brought by her maid Monday morning. She was most
placid in her thoughts, for she did not know what all the conferring
of the night before meant. Frank was occasionally troubled by
financial storms, but they did not see to harm him.
"Lay it on the table in the library, Annie. I'll get it."
She thought it was some social note.
In a little while (such was her deliberate way), she put down
her sprinkling-pot and went into the library. There it was lying
on the green leather sheepskin which constituted a part of the
ornamentation of the large library table. She picked it up,
glanced at it curiously because it was on cheap paper, and then
opened it. Her face paled slightly as she read it; and then her
hand trembled--not much. Hers was not a soul that ever loved
passionately, hence she could not suffer passionately. She was
hurt, disgusted, enraged for the moment, and frightened; but she
was not broken in spirit entirely. Thirteen years of life with
Frank Cowperwood had taught her a number of things. He was selfish,
she knew now, self-centered, and not as much charmed by her as he
had been. The fear she had originally felt as to the effect of
her preponderance of years had been to some extent justified by
the lapse of time. Frank did not love her as he had--he had not
for some time; she had felt it. What was it?--she had asked
herself at times--almost, who was it? Business was engrossing him
so.
Finance was his master. Did this mean the end of her regime,
she queried. Would he cast her off? Where would she go? What
would she do? She was not helpless, of course, for she had money
of her own which he was manipulating for her. Who was this other
woman? Was she young, beautiful, of any social position? Was it--?
Suddenly she stopped. Was it? Could it be, by any chance--her
mouth opened--Aileen Butler?
She stood still, staring at this letter, for she could scarcely
countenance her own thought. She had observed often, in spite of
all their caution, how friendly Aileen had been to him and he to
her. He liked her; he never lost a chance to defend her. Lillian
had thought of them at times as being curiously suited to each
other temperamentally. He liked young people. But, of course, he
was married, and Aileen was infinitely beneath him socially, and
he had two children and herself. And his social and financial
position was so fixed and stable that he did not dare trifle with
it. Still she paused; for forty years and two children, and some
slight wrinkles, and the suspicion that we may be no longer loved
as we once were, is apt to make any woman pause, even in the face
of the most significant financial position. Where would she go
if she left him? What would people think? What about the children?
Could she prove this liaison? Could she entrap him in a compromising
situation? Did she want to?
She saw now that she did not love him as some women love their
husbands. She was not wild about him. In a way she had been
taking him for granted all these years, had thought that he loved
her enough not to be unfaithful to her; at least fancied that he
was so engrossed with the more serious things of life that no
petty liaison such as this letter indicated would trouble him or
interrupt his great career. Apparently this was not true. What
should she do? What say? How act? Her none too brilliant mind
was not of much service in this crisis. She did not know very
well how either to plan or to fight.
The conventional mind is at best a petty piece of machinery. It
is oyster-like in its functioning, or, perhaps better, clam-like.
It has its little siphon of thought-processes forced up or down
into the mighty ocean of fact and circumstance; but it uses so
little, pumps so faintly, that the immediate contiguity of the
vast mass is not disturbed. Nothing of the subtlety of life is
perceived. No least inkling of its storms or terrors is ever
discovered except through accident. When some crude, suggestive
fact, such as this letter proved to be, suddenly manifests itself
in the placid flow of events, there is great agony or disturbance
and clogging of the so-called normal processes. The siphon does
not work right. It sucks in fear and distress. There is great
grinding of maladjusted parts--not unlike sand in a machine--and
life, as is so often the case, ceases or goes lamely ever after.
Mrs. Cowperwood was possessed of a conventional mind. She really
knew nothing about life. And life could not teach her. Reaction
in her from salty thought-processes was not possible. She was not
alive in the sense that Aileen Butler was, and yet she thought
that she was very much alive. All illusion. She wasn't. She was
charming if you loved placidity. If you did not, she was not.
She was not engaging, brilliant, or forceful. Frank Cowperwood
might well have asked himself in the beginning why he married her.
He did not do so now because he did not believe it was wise to
question the past as to one's failures and errors. It was,
according to him, most unwise to regret. He kept his face and
thoughts to the future.
But Mrs. Cowperwood was truly distressed in her way, and she
went about the house thinking, feeling wretchedly. She decided,
since the letter asked her to see for herself, to wait. She must
think how she would watch this house, if at all. Frank must not
know. If it were Aileen Butler by any chance--but surely not--she
thought she would expose her to her parents. Still, that meant
exposing herself. She determined to conceal her mood as best she
could at dinner-time--but Cowperwood was not able to be there.
He was so rushed, so closeted with individuals, so closely in
conference with his father and others, that she scarcely saw him
this Monday night, nor the next day, nor for many days.
For on Tuesday afternoon at two-thirty he issued a call for a
meeting of his creditors, and at five-thirty he decided to go into
the hands of a receiver. And yet, as he stood before his
principal creditors--a group of thirty men--in his office, he did
not feel that his life was ruined. He was temporarily embarrassed.
Certainly things looked very black. The city-treasurership deal
would make a great fuss. Those hypothecated city loan certificates,
to the extent of sixty thousand, would make another, if Stener
chose. Still, he did not feel that he was utterly destroyed.
"Gentlemen," he said, in closing his address of explanation at the
meeting, quite as erect, secure, defiant, convincing as he had
ever been, "you see how things are. These securities are worth
just as much as they ever were. There is nothing the matter with
the properties behind them. If you will give me fifteen days or
twenty, I am satisfied that I can straighten the whole matter out.
I am almost the only one who can, for I know all about it. The
market is bound to recover. Business is going to be better than
ever. It's time I want. Time is the only significant factor in
this situation. I want to know if you won't give me fifteen or
twenty days--a month, if you can. That is all I want."
He stepped aside and out of the general room, where the blinds
were drawn, into his private office, in order to give his creditors
an opportunity to confer privately in regard to his situation.
He had friends in the meeting who were for him. He waited one,
two, nearly three hours while they talked. Finally Walter Leigh,
Judge Kitchen, Avery Stone, of Jay Cooke & Co., and several others
came in. They were a committee appointed to gather further
information.
"Nothing more can be done to-day, Frank," Walter Leigh informed
him, quietly. "The majority want the privilege of examining the
books. There is some uncertainty about this entanglement with
the city treasurer which you say exists. They feel that you'd
better announce a temporary suspension, anyhow; and if they want
to let you resume later they can do so."
"I'm sorry for that, gentlemen," replied Cowperwood, the least bit
depressed. "I would rather do anything than suspend for one hour,
if I could help it, for I know just what it means. You will find
assets here far exceeding the liabilities if you will take the
stocks at their normal market value; but that won't help any if
I close my doors. The public won't believe in me. I ought to keep
open."
"Sorry, Frank, old boy," observed Leigh, pressing his hand
affectionately. "If it were left to me personally, you could have
all the time you want. There's a crowd of old fogies out there
that won't listen to reason. They're panic-struck. I guess
they're pretty hard hit themselves. You can scarcely blame them.
You'll come out all right, though I wish you didn't have to shut
up shop. We can't do anything with them, however. Why, damn it,
man, I don't see how you can fail, really. In ten days these
stocks will be all right."
Judge Kitchen commiserated with him also; but what good did that
do? He was being compelled to suspend. An expert accountant would
have to come in and go over his books. Butler might spread the
news of this city-treasury connection. Stener might complain of
this last city-loan transaction. A half-dozen of his helpful
friends stayed with him until four o'clock in the morning; but he
had to suspend just the same. And when he did that, he knew he
was seriously crippled if not ultimately defeated in his race for
wealth and fame.
When he was really and finally quite alone in his private bedroom
he stared at himself in the mirror. His face was pale and tired,
he thought, but strong and effective. "Pshaw!" he said to himself,
"I'm not whipped. I'm still young. I'll get out of this in some
way yet. Certainly I will. I'll find some way out."
And so, cogitating heavily, wearily, he began to undress. Finally
he sank upon his bed, and in a little while, strange as it may seem,
with all the tangle of trouble around him, slept. He could do
that--sleep and gurgle most peacefully, the while his father paced
the floor in his room, refusing to be comforted. All was dark
before the older man--the future hopeless. Before the younger man
was still hope.
And in her room Lillian Cowperwood turned and tossed in the face
of this new calamity. For it had suddenly appeared from news from
her father and Frank and Anna and her mother-in-law that Frank was
about to fail, or would, or had--it was almost impossible to say
just how it was. Frank was too busy to explain. The Chicago fire
was to blame. There was no mention as yet of the city treasurership.
Frank was caught in a trap, and was fighting for his life.
In this crisis, for the moment, she forgot about the note as to his
infidelity, or rather ignored it. She was astonished, frightened,
dumbfounded, confused. Her little, placid, beautiful world was
going around in a dizzy ring. The charming, ornate ship of their
fortune was being blown most ruthlessly here and there. She felt
it a sort of duty to stay in bed and try to sleep; but her eyes
were quite wide, and her brain hurt her. Hours before Frank had
insisted that she should not bother about him, that she could do
nothing; and she had left him, wondering more than ever what and
where was the line of her duty. To stick by her husband, convention
told her; and so she decided. Yes, religion dictated that, also
custom. There were the children. They must not be injured. Frank
must be reclaimed, if possible. He would get over this. But what
a blow! _