_ Monday came and with it his final departure. All that could be
done had been done. Cowperwood said his farewells to his mother
and father, his brothers and sister. He had a rather distant but
sensible and matter-of-fact talk with his wife. He made no special
point of saying good-by to his son or his daughter; when he came
in on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings, after he
had learned that he was to depart Monday, it was with the thought
of talking to them a little in an especially affectionate way.
He realized that his general moral or unmoral attitude was perhaps
working them a temporary injustice. Still he was not sure. Most
people did fairly well with their lives, whether coddled or deprived
of opportunity. These children would probably do as well as most
children, whatever happened--and then, anyhow, he had no intention
of forsaking them financially, if he could help it. He did not
want to separate his wife from her children, nor them from her.
She should keep them. He wanted them to be comfortable with her.
He would like to see them, wherever they were with her, occasionally.
Only he wanted his own personal freedom, in so far as she and they
were concerned, to go off and set up a new world and a new home
with Aileen. So now on these last days, and particularly this
last Sunday night, he was rather noticeably considerate of his boy
and girl, without being too openly indicative of his approaching
separation from them.
"Frank," he said to his notably lackadaisical son on this occasion,
"aren't you going to straighten up and be a big, strong, healthy
fellow? You don't play enough. You ought to get in with a gang
of boys and be a leader. Why don't you fit yourself up a gymnasium
somewhere and see how strong you can get?"
They were in the senior Cowperwood's sitting-room, where they had
all rather consciously gathered on this occasion.
Lillian, second, who was on the other side of the big library
table from her father, paused to survey him and her brother with
interest. Both had been carefully guarded against any real
knowledge of their father's affairs or his present predicament.
He was going away on a journey for about a month or so they
understood. Lillian was reading in a Chatterbox book which had
been given her the previous Christmas.
"He won't do anything," she volunteered, looking up from her reading
in a peculiarly critical way for her. "Why, he won't ever run
races with me when I want him to."
"Aw, who wants to run races with you, anyhow?" returned Frank,
junior, sourly. "You couldn't run if I did want to run with you."
"Couldn't I?" she replied. "I could beat you, all right."
"Lillian!" pleaded her mother, with a warning sound in her voice.
Cowperwood smiled, and laid his hand affectionately on his son's
head. "You'll be all right, Frank," he volunteered, pinching his
ear lightly. "Don't worry--just make an effort."
The boy did not respond as warmly as he hoped. Later in the
evening Mrs. Cowperwood noticed that her husband squeezed his
daughter's slim little waist and pulled her curly hair gently.
For the moment she was jealous of her daughter.
"Going to be the best kind of a girl while I'm away?" he said to
her, privately.
"Yes, papa," she replied, brightly.
"That's right," he returned, and leaned over and kissed her mouth
tenderly. "Button Eyes," he said.
Mrs. Cowperwood sighed after he had gone. "Everything for the
children, nothing for me," she thought, though the children had
not got so vastly much either in the past.
Cowperwood's attitude toward his mother in this final hour was
about as tender and sympathetic as any he could maintain in this
world. He understood quite clearly the ramifications of her
interests, and how she was suffering for him and all the others
concerned. He had not forgotten her sympathetic care of him in
his youth; and if he could have done anything to have spared her
this unhappy breakdown of her fortunes in her old age, he would
have done so. There was no use crying over spilled milk. It was
impossible at times for him not to feel intensely in moments of
success or failure; but the proper thing to do was to bear up,
not to show it, to talk little and go your way with an air not so
much of resignation as of self-sufficiency, to whatever was awaiting
you. That was his attitude on this morning, and that was what he
expected from those around him--almost compelled, in fact, by his
own attitude.
"Well, mother," he said, genially, at the last moment--he would
not let her nor his wife nor his sister come to court, maintaining
that it would make not the least difference to him and would only
harrow their own feelings uselessly--"I'm going now. Don't worry.
Keep up your spirits."
He slipped his arm around his mother's waist, and she gave him a
long, unrestrained, despairing embrace and kiss.
"Go on, Frank," she said, choking, when she let him go. "God
bless you. I'll pray for you." He paid no further attention to
her. He didn't dare.
"Good-by, Lillian," he said to his wife, pleasantly, kindly. "I'll
be back in a few days, I think. I'll be coming out to attend some
of these court proceedings."
To his sister he said: "Good-by, Anna. Don't let the others get
too down-hearted."
"I'll see you three afterward," he said to his father and brothers;
and so, dressed in the very best fashion of the time, he hurried
down into the reception-hall, where Steger was waiting, and was
off. His family, hearing the door close on him, suffered a poignant
sense of desolation. They stood there for a moment, his mother
crying, his father looking as though he had lost his last friend
but making a great effort to seem self-contained and equal to his
troubles, Anna telling Lillian not to mind, and the latter staring
dumbly into the future, not knowing what to think. Surely a
brilliant sun had set on their local scene, and in a very pathetic
way. _