The Financier. Theodore Dreiser
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But money is so tight. We find it awfully hard these days to meet our own obligations. I'll talk to Mr. Kugel.” Mr. Kugel was the president.
There was a long conversation—a long wait. His father came back to say it was doubtful whether they could make the loan. Eight per cent., then being secured for money, was a small rate of interest, considering its need. For ten per cent. Mr. Kugel might make a call-loan. Frank went back to his employer, whose commercial choler rose at the report.
“For Heaven's sake, is there no money at all in the town?” he demanded, contentiously. “Why, the interest they want is ruinous! I can't stand that. Well, take 'em back and bring me the money. Good God, this'll never do at all, at all!”
Frank went back. “He'll pay ten per cent.,” he said, quietly.
Tighe was credited with a deposit of fifteen thousand dollars, with privilege to draw against it at once. He made out a check for the total fifteen thousand at once to the Girard National Bank to cover a shrinkage there. So it went.
During all these days young Cowperwood was following these financial complications with interest. He was not disturbed by the cause of slavery, or the talk of secession, or the general progress or decline of the country, except in so far as it affected his immediate interests. He longed to become a stable financier; but, now that he saw the inside of the brokerage business, he was not so sure that he wanted to stay in it. Gambling in stocks, according to conditions produced by this panic, seemed very hazardous. A number of brokers failed. He saw them rush in to Tighe with anguished faces and ask that certain trades be canceled. Their very homes were in danger, they said. They would be wiped out, their wives and children put out on the street.
This panic, incidentally, only made Frank more certain as to what he really wanted to do—now that he had this free money, he would go into business for himself. Even Tighe's offer of a minor partnership failed to tempt him.
“I think you have a nice business,” he explained, in refusing, “but I want to get in the note-brokerage business for myself. I don't trust this stock game. I'd rather have a little business of my own than all the floor work in this world.”
“But you're pretty young, Frank,” argued his employer. “You have lots of time to work for yourself.” In the end he parted friends with both Tighe and Rivers. “That's a smart young fellow,” observed Tighe, ruefully.
“He'll make his mark,” rejoined Rivers. “He's the shrewdest boy of his age I ever saw.”
Chapter VIII
Cowperwood's world at this time was of roseate hue. He was in love and had money of his own to start his new business venture. He could take his street-car stocks, which were steadily increasing in value, and raise seventy per cent. of their market value. He could put a mortgage on his lots and get money there, if necessary. He had established financial relations with the Girard National Bank—President Davison there having taken a fancy to him—and he proposed to borrow from that institution some day. All he wanted was suitable investments—things in which he could realize surely, quickly. He saw fine prospective profits in the street-car lines, which were rapidly developing into local ramifications.
He purchased a horse and buggy about this time—the most attractive-looking animal and vehicle he could find—the combination cost him five hundred dollars—and invited Mrs. Semple to drive with him. She refused at first, but later consented. He had told her of his success, his prospects, his windfall of fifteen thousand dollars, his intention of going into the note-brokerage business. She knew his father was likely to succeed to the position of vice-president in the Third National Bank, and she liked the Cowperwoods. Now she began to realize that there was something more than mere friendship here. This erstwhile boy was a man, and he was calling on her. It was almost ridiculous in the face of things—her seniority, her widowhood, her placid, retiring disposition—but the sheer, quiet, determined force of this young man made it plain that he was not to be balked by her sense of convention.
Cowperwood did not delude himself with any noble theories of conduct in regard to her. She was beautiful, with a mental and physical lure for him that was irresistible, and that was all he desired to know. No other woman was holding him like that. It never occurred to him that he could not or should not like other women at the same time. There was a great deal of palaver about the sanctity of the home. It rolled off his mental sphere like water off the feathers of a duck. He was not eager for her money, though he was well aware of it. He felt that he could use it to her advantage. He wanted her physically. He felt a keen, primitive interest in the children they would have. He wanted to find out if he could make her love him vigorously and could rout out the memory of her former life. Strange ambition. Strange perversion, one might almost say.
In spite of her fears and her uncertainty, Lillian Semple accepted his attentions and interest because, equally in spite of herself, she was drawn to him. One night, when she was going to bed, she stopped in front of her dressing table and looked at her face and her bare neck and arms. They were very pretty. A subtle something came over her as she surveyed her long, peculiarly shaded hair. She thought of young Cowperwood, and then was chilled and shamed by the vision of the late Mr. Semple and the force and quality of public opinion.
“Why do you come to see me so often?” she asked him when he called the following evening.
“Oh, don't you know?” he replied, looking at her in an interpretive way.
“No.”
“Sure you don't?”
“Well, I know you liked Mr. Semple, and I always thought you liked me as his wife. He's gone, though, now.”
“And you're here,” he replied.
“And I'm here?”
“Yes. I like you. I like to be with you. Don't you like me that way?”
“Why, I've never thought of it. You're so much younger. I'm five years older than you are.”
“In years,” he said, “certainly. That's nothing. I'm fifteen years older than you are in other ways. I know more about life in some ways than you can ever hope to learn—don't you think so?” he added, softly, persuasively.
“Well, that's true. But I know a lot of things you don't know.” She laughed softly, showing her pretty teeth.
It was evening. They were on the side porch. The river was before them.
“Yes, but that's only because you're a woman. A man can't hope to get a woman's point of view exactly. But I'm talking about practical affairs of this world. You're not as old that way as I am.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Nothing. You asked why I came to see you. That's why. Partly.”
He relapsed into silence and stared at the water.
She looked at him. His handsome body, slowly broadening, was nearly full grown. His face, because of its full, clear, big, inscrutable eyes, had an expression which was almost babyish. She could not have guessed the depths it veiled. His cheeks were pink, his hands not large, but sinewy and strong. Her pale, uncertain, lymphatic body extracted a form of dynamic energy from him even at this range.
“I don't think you ought to come to see me so often. People won't think well of it.” She ventured to take a distant, matronly air—the air she had originally held toward him.
“People,” he said, “don't worry about people. People think what you want them to think. I wish you wouldn't take that distant air toward me.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“But you mustn't like me. It's wrong. I can't ever marry you. You're too young. I'm too old.”