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from the newspapers and private conversation, at her own family's table and elsewhere, that, as
bad as they said he was, he was not as bad as he might be. One item only, clipped from the
Philadelphia Public Ledger soon after Cowperwood had been publicly accused of
embezzlement, comforted and consoled her. She cut it out and carried it in her bosom; for,
somehow, it seemed to show that her adored Frank was far more sinned against than sinning. It
was a part of one of those very numerous pronunciamientos or reports issued by the Citizens'
Municipal Reform Association, and it ran:
"The aspects of the case are graver than have yet been allowed to reach the public. Five
hundred thousand dollars of the deficiency arises not from city bonds sold and not accounted
for, but from loans made by the treasurer to his broker. The committee is also informed, on what
it believes to be good authority, that the loans sold by the broker were accounted for in the
monthly settlements at the lowest prices current during the month, and that the difference
between this rate and that actually realized was divided between the treasurer and the broker,
thus making it to the interest of both parties to 'bear' the market at some time during the month,
so as to obtain a low quotation for settlement. Nevertheless, the committee can only regard the
prosecution instituted against the broker, Mr. Cowperwood, as an effort to divert public attention
from more guilty parties while those concerned may be able to 'fix' matters to suit themselves."
"There," thought Aileen, when she read it, "there you have it." These politicians--her father
among them as she gathered after his conversation with her--were trying to put the blame of
their own evil deeds on her Frank. He was not nearly as bad as he was painted. The report said
so. She gloated over the words "an effort to divert public attention from more guilty parties."
That was just what her Frank had been telling her in those happy, private hours when they had
been together recently in one place and another, particularly the new rendezvous in South Sixth
Street which he had established, since the old one had to be abandoned. He had stroked her
rich hair, caressed her body, and told her it was all a prearranged political scheme to cast the
blame as much as possible on him and make it as light as possible for Stener and the party
generally. He would come out of it all right, he said, but he cautioned her not to talk. He did not
deny his long and profitable relations with Stener. He told her exactly how it was. She
understood, or thought she did. Anyhow, her Frank was telling her, and that was enough.
As for the two Cowperwood households, so recently and pretentiously joined in success, now so
gloomily tied in failure, the life was going out of them. Frank Algernon was that life. He was the
courage and force of his father: the spirit and opportunity of his brothers, the hope of his
children, the estate of his wife, the dignity and significance of the Cowperwood name. All that
meant opportunity, force, emolument, dignity, and happiness to those connected with him, he
was. And his marvelous sun was waning apparently to a black eclipse.
Since the fatal morning, for instance, when Lillian Cowperwood had received that utterly
destructive note, like a cannonball ripping through her domestic affairs, she had been walking
like one in a trance. Each day now for weeks she had been going about her duties placidly
enough to all outward seeming, but inwardly she was running with a troubled tide of thought.
She was so utterly unhappy. Her fortieth year had come for her at a time when life ought
naturally to stand fixed and firm on a solid base, and here she was about to be torn bodily from
the domestic soil in which she was growing and blooming, and thrown out indifferently to wither
in the blistering noonday sun of circumstance.
As for Cowperwood, Senior, his situation at his bank and elsewhere was rapidly nearing a
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