Haguenin stood by his desk after Cowperwood had gone, wondering where he should get one hundred thousand dollars quickly, and also what he should do to make his daughter see the error of her ways.
It was an astonishing blow he had received, he thought, in the house of a friend.
It occurred to him that Walter Melville Hyssop, who was succeeding mightily with his two papers, might come to his rescue, and that later he could repay him when the Press was more prosperous.
He went out to his house in a quandary concerning life and chance; while Cowperwood went to the Chicago Trust Company to confer with Videra, and later out to his own home to consider how he should equalize this loss.
The state and fate of Cecily Haguenin was not of so much importance as many other things on his mind at this time.
Far more serious were his cogitations with regard to a liaison he had recently ventured to establish with Mrs. Hosmer Hand, wife of an eminent investor and financier.
Hand was a solid, phlegmatic, heavy-thinking person who had some years before lost his first wife, to whom he had been eminently faithful.
After that, for a period of years he had been a lonely speculator, attending to his vast affairs; but finally because of his enormous wealth, his rather presentable appearance and social rank, he had been entrapped by much social attention on the part of a Mrs. Jessie Drew Barrett into marrying her daughter Caroline, a dashing skip of a girl who was clever, incisive, calculating, and intensely gay.
Since she was socially ambitious, and without much heart, the thought of Hand’s millions, and how advantageous would be her situation in case he should die, had enabled her to overlook quite easily his heavy, unyouthful appearance and to see him in the light of a lover.
There was criticism, of course.
Hand was considered a victim, and Caroline and her mother designing minxes and cats; but since the wealthy financier was truly ensnared it behooved friends and future satellites to be courteous, and so they were.
The wedding was very well attended.
Mrs. Hand began to give house-parties, teas, musicales, and receptions on a lavish scale.
Cowperwood never met either her or her husband until he was well launched on his street-car programme.
Needing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in a hurry, and finding the Chicago Trust Company, the Lake City Bank, and other institutions heavily loaded with his securities, he turned in a moment of inspirational thought to Hand.
Cowperwood was always a great borrower. His paper was out in large quantities.
He introduced himself frequently to powerful men in this way, taking long or short loans at high or low rates of interest, as the case might be, and sometimes finding some one whom he could work with or use.
In the case of Hand, though the latter was ostensibly of the enemies’ camp—the Schryhart-Union-Gas-Douglas-Trust-Company crowd—nevertheless Cowperwood had no hesitation in going to him.
He wished to overcome or forestall any unfavorable impression.
Though Hand, a solemn man of shrewd but honest nature, had heard a number of unfavorable rumors, he was inclined to be fair and think the best.
Perhaps Cowperwood was merely the victim of envious rivals.
When the latter first called on him at his office in the Rookery Building, he was most cordial.
“Come in, Mr. Cowperwood,” he said.
“I have heard a great deal about you from one person and another—mostly from the newspapers.
What can I do for you?”
Cowperwood exhibited five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of West Chicago Street Railway stock.
“I want to know if I can get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on those by to-morrow morning.”
Hand, a placid man, looked at the securities peacefully.
“What’s the matter with your own bank?” He was referring to the Chicago Trust Company.
“Can’t it take care of them for you?”
“Loaded up with other things just now,” smiled Cowperwood, ingratiatingly.
“Well, if I can believe all the papers say, you’re going to wreck these roads or Chicago or yourself; but I don’t live by the papers.
How long would you want it for?”
“Six months, perhaps. A year, if you choose.”
Hand turned over the securities, eying their gold seals.
“Five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of six per cent. West Chicago preferred,” he commented.
“Are you earning six per cent.?”
“We’re earning eight right now.
You’ll live to see the day when these shares will sell at two hundred dollars and pay twelve per cent. at that.”
“And you’ve quadrupled the issue of the old company?
Well, Chicago’s growing.
Leave them here until to-morrow or bring them back.
Send over or call me, and I’ll tell you.”
They talked for a little while on street-railway and corporation matters.
Hand wanted to know something concerning West Chicago land—a region adjoining Ravenswood. Cowperwood gave him his best advice.
The next day he ’phoned, and the stocks, so Hand informed him, were available.
He would send a check over.
So thus a tentative friendship began, and it lasted until the relationship between Cowperwood and Mrs. Hand was consummated and discovered.
In Caroline Barrett, as she occasionally preferred to sign herself, Cowperwood encountered a woman who was as restless and fickle as himself, but not so shrewd.
Socially ambitious, she was anything but socially conventional, and she did not care for Hand.