Books: The Lion and the Mouse
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Charles Klein >> The Lion and the Mouse
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"No," sighed Mrs. Ryder, "no one knows that better than I."
The financier's wife was already most favourably impressed with
her guest, and she chatted on as if she had known Shirley for
years. It was rarely that she had heard so young a woman express
such common-sense views, and the more she talked with her the less
surprised she was that she was the author of a much-discussed
book. Finally, thinking that Shirley might prefer to be alone, she
rose to go, bidding her make herself thoroughly at home and to
ring for anything she might wish. A maid had been assigned to look
exclusively after her wants, and she could have her meals served
in her room or else have them with the family as she liked. But
Shirley, not caring to encounter Mr. Ryder's cold, searching stare
more often than necessary, said she would prefer to take her meals
alone.
Left to herself, Shirley settled down to work in earnest. Mr.
Ryder had sent to her room all the material for the biography, and
soon she was completely absorbed in the task of sorting and
arranging letters, making extracts from records, compiling data,
etc., laying the foundations for the important book she was to
write. She wondered what they would call it, and she smiled as a
peculiarly appropriate title flashed through her mind--"The
History of a Crime." Yet she thought they could hardly infringe on
Victor Hugo; perhaps the best title was the simplest "The History
of the Empire Trading Company." Everyone would understand that it
told the story of John Burkett Ryder's remarkable career from his
earliest beginnings to the present time. She worked feverishly all
that evening getting the material into shape, and the following
day found her early at her desk. No one disturbed her and she
wrote steadily on until noon, Mrs. Ryder only once putting her
head in the door to wish her good morning.
After luncheon, Shirley decided that the weather was too glorious
to remain indoors. Her health must not be jeopardized even to
advance the interests of the Colossus, so she put on her hat and
left the house to go for a walk. The air smelled sweet to her
after being confined so long indoor, and she walked with a more
elastic and buoyant step than she had since her return home.
Turning down Fifth Avenue, she entered the park at Seventy-second
Street, following the pathway until she came to the bend in the
driveway opposite the Casino. The park was almost deserted at that
hour, and there was a delightful sense of solitude and a sweet
scent of new-mown hay from the freshly cut lawns. She found an
empty bench, well shaded by an overspreading tree, and she sat
down, grateful for the rest and quiet.
She wondered what Jefferson thought of her action in coming to his
father's house practically in disguise and under an assumed name.
She must see him at once, for in him lay her hope of obtaining
possession of the letters. Certainly she felt no delicacy or
compunction in asking Jefferson to do her this service. The
letters belonged to her father and they were being wrongfully
withheld with the deliberate purpose of doing him an injury. She
had a moral if not a legal right to recover the letters in any way
that she could.
She was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she had not
noticed a hansom cab which suddenly drew up with a jerk at the
curb opposite her bench. A man jumped out. It was Jefferson.
"Hello, Shirley," he cried gaily; "who would have expected to find
you rusticating on a bench here? I pictured you grinding away at
home doing literary stunts for the governor." He grinned and then
added: "Come for a drive. I want to talk to you."
Shirley demurred. No, she could not spare the time. Yet, she
thought to herself, why was not this a good opportunity to explain
to Jefferson how he came to find her in his father's library
masquerading under another name, and also to ask him to secure the
letters for her? While she pondered Jefferson insisted, and a few
minutes later she found herself sitting beside him in the cab.
They started off at a brisk pace, Shirley sitting with her head
back, enjoying the strong breeze caused by the rapid motion.
"Now tell me," he said, "what does it all mean? I was so startled
at seeing you in the library the other day that I almost betrayed
you. How did you come to call on father?"
Briefly Shirley explained everything. She told him how Mr. Ryder
had written to her asking her to call and see him, and how she had
eagerly seized at this last straw in the hope of helping her
father, She told him about the letters, explaining how necessary
they were for her father's defence and how she had discovered
them. Mr. Ryder, she said, had seemed to take a fancy to her and
had asked her to remain in the house as his guest while she was
compiling his biography, and she had accepted the offer, not so
much for the amount of money involved as for the splendid
opportunity it afforded her to gain possession of the letters.
"So that is the mysterious work you spoke of--to get those
letters?" said Jefferson.
"Yes, that is my mission. It was a secret. I couldn't tell you; I
couldn't tell anyone. Only Judge Stott knows. He is aware I have
found them and is hourly expecting to receive them from me. And
now," she said, "I want your help."
His only answer was to grasp tighter the hand she had laid in his.
She knew that she would not have to explain the nature of the
service she wanted. He understood.
"Where are the letters?" he demanded.
"In the left-hand drawer of your father's desk," she answered.
He was silent for a few moments, and then he said simply:
"I will get them."
The cab by this time had got as far as Claremont, and from the
hill summit they had a splendid view of the broad sweep of the
majestic Hudson and the towering walls of the blue palisades. The
day was so beautiful and the air so invigorating that Jefferson
suggested a ramble along the banks of the river. They could leave
the cab at Claremont and drive back to the city later. Shirley was
too grateful to him for his promise of cooperation to make any
further opposition, and soon they were far away from beaten
highways, down on the banks of the historic stream, picking
flowers and laughing merrily like two truant children bent on a
self-made holiday. The place they had reached was just outside the
northern boundaries of Harlem, a sylvan spot still unspoiled by
the rude invasion of the flat-house builder. The land, thickly
wooded, sloped down sharply to the water, and the perfect quiet
was broken only by the washing of the tiny surf against the river
bank and the shrill notes of the birds in the trees.
Although it was late in October the day was warm, and Shirley soon
tired of climbing over bramble-entangled verdure. The rich grass
underfoot looked cool and inviting, and the natural slope of the
ground affording an ideal resting-place, she sat there, with
Jefferson stretched out at her feet, both watching idly the
dancing waters of the broad Hudson, spangled with gleams of light,
as they swept swiftly by on their journey to the sea.
"Shirley," said Jefferson suddenly, "I suppose you saw that
ridiculous story about my alleged engagement to Miss Roberts. I
hope you understood that it was done without my consent."
"If I did not guess it, Jeff," she answered, "your assurance would
be sufficient. Besides," she added, "what right have I to object?"
"But I want you to have the right," he replied earnestly. "I'm
going to stop this Roberts nonsense in a way my father hardly
anticipates. I'm just waiting a chance to talk to him. I'll show
him the absurdity of announcing me engaged to a girl who is about
to elope with his private secretary!"
"Elope with the secretary?" exclaimed Shirley.
Jefferson told her all about the letter he had found on the
staircase, and the Hon. Fitzroy Bagley's plans for a runaway
marriage with the senator's wealthy daughter.
"It's a godsend to me," he said gleefully. "Their plan is to get
married next Wednesday. I'll see my father on Tuesday; I'll put
the evidence in his hands, and I don't think," he added grimly,
"he'll bother me any more about Miss Roberts."
"So you're not going away now?" said Shirley, smiling down at him.
He sat up and leaned over towards her.
"I can't, Shirley, I simply can't," he replied, his voice
trembling. "You are more to me than I dreamed a woman could ever
be. I realize it more forcibly every day. There is no use fighting
against it. Without you, my work, my life means nothing."
Shirley shook her head and averted her eyes.
"Don't let us speak of that, Jeff," she pleaded gently. "I told
you I did not belong to myself while my father was in peril."
"But I must speak of it," he interrupted. "Shirley, you do
yourself an injustice as well as me. You are not indifferent to
me--I feel that. Then why raise this barrier between us?"
A soft light stole into the girl's eyes. Ah, it was good to feel
there was someone to whom she was everything in the world!
"Don't ask me to betray my trust, Jeff," she faltered. "You know I
am not indifferent to you--far from it. But I--"
He came closer until his face nearly touched hers.
"I love you--I want you," he murmured feverishly. "Give me the
right to claim you before all the world as my future wife!"
Every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous
passion, sounded in Shirley's ear like a soft caress. She closed
her eyes. A strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a
mysterious thrill passed through her whole body. The eternal,
inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a
woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences,
putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler
judgment had made. The sensuous charm of the place--the distant
splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of
the trees and grass--all these symbols of the joy of life
conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman. Why, after all,
should she not know happiness like other women? She had a sacred
duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done
because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her
womanhood? Both her soul and her body called out: "Let this man
love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love."
Half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes
shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her
cheek:
"Shirley, I offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman. Say
the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched
of men. Yes or no! Only think well before you wreck my life. I
love you--I love you! I will wait for you if need be until the
crack of doom. Say--say you will be my wife!"
She opened her eyes. His face was bent close over hers. Their lips
almost touched.
"Yes, Jefferson," she murmured, "I do love you!" His lips met hers
in a long, passionate kiss. Her eyes closed and an ecstatic thrill
seemed to convulse her entire being. The birds in the trees
overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of the
betrothal.
CHAPTER XIV
It was nearly seven o'clock when Shirley got back to Seventy-
fourth Street. No one saw her come in, and she went direct to her
room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night
on her book to make up for lost time. The events of the afternoon
caused her considerable uneasiness. She reproached herself for her
weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the
moment. She had said only what was the truth when she admitted she
loved Jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future
while her father's fate was still uncertain? Her conscience
troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more
impossible seemed their union from every point of view. How could
she become the daughter-in-law of the man who had ruined her own
father? The idea was preposterous, and hard as the sacrifice would
be, Jefferson must be made to see it in that light. Their
engagement was the greatest folly; it bound each of them when
nothing but unhappiness could possibly come of it. She was sure
now that she loved Jefferson. It would be hard to give him up, but
there are times and circumstances when duty and principle must
prevail over all other considerations, and this she felt was one
of them.
The following morning she received a letter from Stott. He was
delighted to hear the good news regarding her important discovery,
and he urged her to lose no time in securing the letters and
forwarding them to Massapequa, when he would immediately go to
Washington and lay them before the Senate. Documentary evidence of
that conclusive nature, he went on to say, would prove of the very
highest value in clearing her father's name. He added that the
judge and her mother were as well as circumstances would permit,
and that they were not in the least worried about her protracted
absence. Her Aunt Milly had already returned to Europe, and
Eudoxia was still threatening to leave daily.
Shirley needed no urging. She quite realized the importance of
acting quickly, but it was not easy to get at the letters. The
library was usually kept locked when the great man was away, and
on the few occasions when access to it was possible, the lynx-eyed
Mr. Bagley was always on guard. Short as had been her stay in the
Ryder household, Shirley already shared Jefferson's antipathy to
the English secretary, whose manner grew more supercilious and
overbearing as he drew nearer the date when he expected to run off
with one of the richest catches of the season. He had not sought
the acquaintance of his employer's biographer since her arrival,
and, with the exception of a rude stare, had not deigned to notice
her, which attitude of haughty indifference was all the more
remarkable in view of the fact that the Hon. Fitzroy usually left
nothing unturned to cultivate a flirtatious intimacy with every
attractive female he met. The truth was that what with Mr. Ryder's
demands upon his services and his own preparations for his coming
matrimonial venture, in which he had so much at stake, he had
neither time nor inclination to indulge his customary amorous
diversions.
Miss Roberts had called at the house several times, ostensibly to
see Mrs. Ryder, and when introduced to Shirley she had
condescended to give the latter a supercilious nod. Her
conversation was generally of the silly, vacuous sort, concerning
chiefly new dresses or bonnets, and Shirley at once read her
character--frivolous, amusement-loving, empty-headed,
irresponsible--just the kind of girl to do something foolish
without weighing the consequences. After chatting a few moments
with Mrs. Ryder she would usually vanish, and one day, after one
of these mysterious disappearances, Shirley happened to pass the
library and caught sight of her and Mr. Bagley conversing in
subdued and eager tones. It was very evident that the elopement
scheme was fast maturing. If the scandal was to be prevented,
Jefferson ought to see his father and acquaint him with the facts
without delay. It was probable that at the same time he would make
an effort to secure the letters. Meantime she must be patient. Too
much hurry might spoil everything.
So the days passed, Shirley devoting almost all her time to the
history she had undertaken. She saw nothing of Ryder, Sr., but a
good deal of his wife, to whom she soon became much attached. She
found her an amiable, good-natured woman, entirely free from that
offensive arrogance and patronizing condescension which usually
marks the parvenue as distinct from the thoroughbred. Mrs. Ryder
had no claims to distinguished lineage; on the contrary, she was
the daughter of a country grocer when the then rising oil man
married her, and of educational advantages she had had little or
none. It was purely by accident that she was the wife of the
richest man in the world, and while she enjoyed the prestige her
husband's prominence gave her, she never allowed it to turn her
head. She gave away large sums for charitable purposes and,
strange to say, when the gift came direct from her, the money was
never returned on the plea that it was "tainted." She shared her
husband's dislike for entertaining, and led practically the life
of a recluse. The advent of Shirley, therefore, into her quiet and
uneventful existence was as welcome as sunshine when it breaks
through the clouds after days of gloom. Quite a friendship sprang
up between the two women, and when tired of writing, Shirley would
go into Mrs. Ryder's room and chat until the financier's wife
began to look forward to these little impromptu visits, so much
she enjoyed them.
Nothing more had been said concerning Jefferson and Miss Roberts.
The young man had not yet seen his father, but his mother knew he
was only waiting an opportunity to demand an explanation of the
engagement announcements. Her husband, on the other hand, desired
the match more than ever, owing to the continued importunities of
Senator Roberts. As usual, Mrs. Ryder confided these little
domestic troubles to Shirley.
"Jefferson," she said, "is very angry. He is determined not to
marry the girl, and when he and his father do meet there'll be
another scene."
"What objection has your son to Miss Roberts?" inquired Shirley
innocently.
"Oh, the usual reason," sighed the mother, "and I've no doubt he
knows best. He's in love with another girl--a Miss Rossmore."
"Oh, yes," answered Shirley simply. "Mr. Ryder spoke of her."
Mrs. Ryder was silent, and presently she left the girl alone with
her work.
The next afternoon Shirley was in her room busy writing when there
came a tap at her door. Thinking it was another visit from Mrs.
Ryder, she did not look up, but cried out pleasantly:
"Come in."
John Ryder entered. He smiled cordially and, as if apologizing for
the intrusion, said amiably:
"I thought I'd run up to see how you were getting along."
His coming was so unexpected that for a moment Shirley was
startled, but she quickly regained her composure and asked him to
take a seat. He seemed pleased to find her making such good
progress, and he stopped to answer a number of questions she put
to him. Shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at
him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive
lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw--Wall Street
had gone wrong with the Colossus that day and he was still wearing
his war paint--she recalled the wrong this man had done her father
and she felt how bitterly she hated him. The more her mind dwelt
upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be
there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest
difficulty that she remained civil.
"What is the moral of your life?" she demanded bluntly.
He was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he
gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her
thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility
towards him.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean, what can you show as your life work? Most men whose lives
are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful-
-they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated
authors, great inventors. What have you done?"
The question appeared to stagger him. The audacity of any one
putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible.
He squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the
table.
"What have I done?" he cried. "I have built up the greatest
fortune ever accumulated by one man. My fabulous wealth has caused
my name to spread to the four corners of the earth. Is that not an
achievement to relate to future generations?"
Shirley gave a little shrug of her shoulders.
"Future generations will take no interest in you or your
millions," she said calmly. "Our civilization will have made such
progress by that time that people will merely wonder why we, in
our day, tolerated men of your class so long. Now it is different.
The world is money-mad. You are a person of importance in the eyes
of the unthinking multitude, but it only envies you your fortune;
it does not admire you personally. When you die people will count
your millions, not your good deeds."
He laughed cynically and drew up a chair near her desk. As a
general thing, John Ryder never wasted words on women. He had but
a poor opinion of their mentality, and considered it beneath the
dignity of any man to enter into serious argument with a woman. In
fact, it was seldom he condescended to argue with anyone. He gave
orders and talked to people; he had no patience to be talked to.
Yet he found himself listening with interest to this young woman
who expressed herself so frankly. It was a decided novelty for him
to hear the truth.
"What do I care what the world says when I'm dead?" he asked with
a forced laugh.
"You do care," replied Shirley gravely. "You may school yourself
to believe that you are indifferent to the good opinion of your
fellow man, but right down in your heart you do care--every man
does, whether he be multi-millionaire or a sneak thief."
"You class the two together, I notice," he said bitterly.
"It is often a distinction without a difference," she rejoined
promptly.
He remained silent for a moment or two toying nervously with a
paper knife. Then, arrogantly, and as if anxious to impress her
with his importance, he said:
"Most men would be satisfied if they had accomplished what I have.
Do you realize that my wealth is so vast that I scarcely know
myself what I am worth? What my fortune will be in another fifty
years staggers the imagination. Yet I started with nothing. I made
it all myself. Surely I should get credit for that."
"How did you make it?" retorted Shirley.
"In America we don't ask how a man makes his money; we ask if he
has got any."
"You are mistaken," replied Shirley earnestly. "America is waking
up. The conscience of the nation is being aroused. We are coming
to realize that the scandals of the last few years were only the
fruit of public indifference to sharp business practice. The
people will soon ask the dishonest rich man where he got it, and
there will have to be an accounting. What account will you be able
to give?"
He bit his lip and looked at her for a moment without replying.
Then, with a faint suspicion of a sneer, he said:
"You are a socialist--perhaps an anarchist!"
"Only the ignorant commit the blunder of confounding the two," she
retorted. "Anarchy is a disease; socialism is a science."
"Indeed!" he exclaimed mockingly, "I thought the terms were
synonymous. The world regards them both as insane."
Herself an enthusiastic convert to the new political faith that
was rising like a flood tide all over the world, the contemptuous
tone in which this plutocrat spoke of the coming reorganization of
society which was destined to destroy him and his kind spurred her
on to renewed argument.
"I imagine," she said sarcastically, "that you would hardly
approve any social reform which threatened to interfere with your
own business methods. But no matter how you disapprove of
socialism on general principles, as a leader of the capitalist
class you should understand what socialism is, and not confuse one
of the most important movements in modern world-history with the
crazy theories of irresponsible cranks. The anarchists are the
natural enemies of the entire human family, and would destroy it
were their dangerous doctrines permitted to prevail; the
socialists, on the contrary, are seeking to save mankind from the
degradation, the crime and the folly into which such men as you
have driven it."
She spoke impetuously, with the inspired exaltation of a prophet
delivering a message to the people. Ryder listened, concealing his
impatience with uneasy little coughs.
"Yes," she went on, "I am a socialist and I am proud of it. The
whole world is slowly drifting toward socialism as the only remedy
for the actual intolerable conditions. It may not come in our
time, but it will come as surely as the sun will rise and set
tomorrow. Has not the flag of socialism waved recently from the
White House? Has not a President of the United States declared
that the State must eventually curb the great fortunes? What is
that but socialism?"
"True," retorted Ryder grimly, "and that little speech intended
for the benefit of the gallery will cost him the nomination at the
next Presidential election. We don't want in the White House a
President who stirs up class hatred. Our rich men have a right to
what is their own; that is guaranteed them by the Constitution."
"Is it their own?" interrupted Shirley.
Ryder ignored the insinuation and proceeded:
"What of our boasted free institutions if a man is to be
restricted in what he may and may not do? If I am clever enough to
accumulate millions who can stop me?"
"The people will stop you," said Shirley calmly. "It is only a
question of time. Their patience is about exhausted. Put your ear
to the ground and listen to the distant rumbling of the tempest
which, sooner or later, will be unchained in this land, provoked
by the iniquitous practices of organized capital. The people have
had enough of the extortions of the Trusts. One day they will rise
in their wrath and seize by the throat this knavish plutocracy
which, confident in the power of its wealth to procure legal
immunity and reckless of its danger, persists in robbing the
public daily. But retribution is at hand. The growing discontent
of the proletariat, the ever-increasing strikes and labour
disputes of all kinds, the clamour against the Railroads and the
Trusts, the evidence of collusion between both--all this is the
writing on the wall. The capitalistic system is doomed; socialism
will succeed it."
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