She pitied her father from her heart; but her allegiance was to Cowperwood, her loyalty unshaken.
She wanted to say something, to protest much more; but she knew that it was useless.
Her father knew that she was lying.
"Well, there's no use of my saying anything more, father," she said, getting up.
The light of day was fading in the windows.
The downstairs door closed with a light slam, indicating that one of the boys had come in.
Her proposed trip to the library was now without interest to her.
"You won't believe me, anyhow.
I tell you, though, that I'm innocent just the same."
Butler lifted his big, brown hand to command silence.
She saw that this shameful relationship, as far as her father was concerned, had been made quite clear, and that this trying conference was now at an end.
She turned and walked shamefacedly out.
He waited until he heard her steps fading into faint nothings down the hall toward her room.
Then he arose.
Once more he clinched his big fists.
"The scoundrel!" he said.
"The scoundrel!
I'll drive him out of Philadelphy, if it takes the last dollar I have in the world."
Chapter XXVII
For the first time in his life Cowperwood felt conscious of having been in the presence of that interesting social phenomenon—the outraged sentiment of a parent.
While he had no absolute knowledge as to why Butler had been so enraged, he felt that Aileen was the contributing cause.
He himself was a father.
His boy, Frank, Jr., was to him not so remarkable.
But little Lillian, with her dainty little slip of a body and bright-aureoled head, had always appealed to him.
She was going to be a charming woman one day, he thought, and he was going to do much to establish her safely.
He used to tell her that she had "eyes like buttons," "feet like a pussy-cat," and hands that were "just five cents' worth," they were so little.
The child admired her father and would often stand by his chair in the library or the sitting-room, or his desk in his private office, or by his seat at the table, asking him questions.
This attitude toward his own daughter made him see clearly how Butler might feel toward Aileen.
He wondered how he would feel if it were his own little Lillian, and still he did not believe he would make much fuss over the matter, either with himself or with her, if she were as old as Aileen.
Children and their lives were more or less above the willing of parents, anyhow, and it would be a difficult thing for any parent to control any child, unless the child were naturally docile-minded and willing to be controlled.
It also made him smile, in a grim way, to see how fate was raining difficulties on him.
The Chicago fire, Stener's early absence, Butler, Mollenhauer, and Simpson's indifference to Stener's fate and his.
And now this probable revelation in connection with Aileen.
He could not be sure as yet, but his intuitive instincts told him that it must be something like this.
Now he was distressed as to what Aileen would do, say if suddenly she were confronted by her father.
If he could only get to her!
But if he was to meet Butler's call for his loan, and the others which would come yet to-day or on the morrow, there was not a moment to lose.
If he did not pay he must assign at once.
Butler's rage, Aileen, his own danger, were brushed aside for the moment.
His mind concentrated wholly on how to save himself financially.
He hurried to visit George Waterman; David Wiggin, his wife's brother, who was now fairly well to do; Joseph Zimmerman, the wealthy dry-goods dealer who had dealt with him in the past; Judge Kitchen, a private manipulator of considerable wealth; Frederick Van Nostrand, the State treasurer, who was interested in local street-railway stocks, and others.
Of all those to whom he appealed one was actually not in a position to do anything for him; another was afraid; a third was calculating eagerly to drive a hard bargain; a fourth was too deliberate, anxious to have much time.
All scented the true value of his situation, all wanted time to consider, and he had no time to consider.
Judge Kitchen did agree to lend him thirty thousand dollars—a paltry sum.
Joseph Zimmerman would only risk twenty-five thousand dollars.
He could see where, all told, he might raise seventy-five thousand dollars by hypothecating double the amount in shares; but this was ridiculously insufficient.
He had figured again, to a dollar, and he must have at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars above all his present holdings, or he must close his doors.
To-morrow at two o'clock he would know.
If he didn't he would be written down as "failed" on a score of ledgers in Philadelphia.
What a pretty pass for one to come to whose hopes had so recently run so high!