Books: The Lion and the Mouse
C >>
Charles Klein >> The Lion and the Mouse
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19
So their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship and
comradeship. Further than that Shirley promised herself it should
never go. Not that Jefferson had given her the slightest hint that
he entertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only she
was sophisticated enough to know the direction in which run the
minds of men who are abnormally interested in one girl, and long
before this Shirley had made up her mind that she would never
marry. Firstly, she was devoted to her father and could not bear
the thought of ever leaving him; secondly, she was fascinated by
her literary work and she was practical enough to know that
matrimony, with its visions of slippers and cradles, would be
fatal to any ambition of that kind. She liked Jefferson immensely-
-more, perhaps, than any man she had yet met--and she did not
think any the less of him because of her resolve not to get
entangled in the meshes of Cupid. In any case he had not asked her
to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts.
Meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear of
embarrassing entanglements.
When, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in the
guise of fiction the personality of John Burkett Ryder, the
Colossus of finance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune was
fast becoming a public nuisance, she naturally turned to Jefferson
for assistance. She wanted to write a book that would be talked
about, and which at the same time would open the eyes of the
public to this growing peril in their midst--this monster of
insensate and unscrupulous greed who, by sheer weight of his ill-
gotten gold, was corrupting legislators and judges and trying to
enslave the nation. The book, she argued, would perform a public
service in awakening all to the common danger. Jefferson fully
entered into her views and had furnished her with the information
regarding his father that she deemed of value. The book had proven
a success beyond their most sanguine expectations, and Shirley had
come to Europe for a rest after the many weary months of work that
it took to write it.
The acquaintance of his son with the daughter of Judge Rossmore
had not escaped the eagle eye of Ryder, Sr., and much to the
financier's annoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertained
that Jefferson was a frequent caller at the Rossmore home. He
immediately jumped to the conclusion that this could mean only one
thing, and fearing what he termed "the consequences of the
insanity of immature minds," he had summoned Jefferson
peremptorily to his presence. He told his son that all idea of
marriage in that quarter was out of the question for two reasons:
One was that Judge Rossmore was his most bitter enemy, the other
was that he had hoped to see his son, his destined successor,
marry a woman of whom he, Ryder, Sr., could approve. He knew of
such a woman, one who would make a far more desirable mate than
Miss Rossmore. He alluded, of course, to Kate Roberts, the pretty
daughter of his old friend, the Senator. The family interests
would benefit by this alliance, which was desirable from every
point of view. Jefferson had listened respectfully until his
father had finished and then grimly remarked that only one point
of view had been overlooked--his own. He did not care for Miss
Roberts; he did not think she really cared for him. The marriage
was out of the question. Whereupon Ryder, Sr., had fumed and
raged, declaring that Jefferson was opposing his will as he always
did, and ending with the threat that if his son married Shirley
Rossmore without his consent he would disinherit him.
Jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few months
when suddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised called
out in English:
"Hello! Mr. Ryder."
He looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged,
smiling at him from an open fiacre which had drawn up to the curb.
Jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair and startling
two nervous Frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out, hat in hand.
"Why, Miss Rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked.
"You know you and Mrs. Blake promised to dine with me to-night. I
was coming round to the hotel in a few moments."
Mrs. Blake was a younger sister of Shirley's mother. Her husband
had died a few years previously, leaving her a small income, and
when she had heard of her niece's contemplated trip to Europe she
had decided to come to Paris to meet her and incidentally to
chaperone her. The two women were stopping at the Grand Hotel
close by, while Jefferson had found accommodations at the Athenee.
Shirley explained. Her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, and
she herself was most anxious to go to the Luxembourg Gardens to
hear the music. Would he take her? Then they could meet Mrs. Blake
at the hotel at seven o'clock and all go to dinner. Was he
willing?
Was he? Jefferson's face fairly glowed. He ran back to his table
on the terrasse to settle for his Vermouth, astonished the waiter
by not stopping to notice the short change he gave him, and rushed
back to the carriage.
A dirty little Italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man's
attention to the younger of the American women, wheedled up to the
carriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in Jefferson's face.
"Achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?"
Down went Jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child's
hand with small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. Then
he turned inquiringly to Shirley for instructions so he could
direct the cocher. Mrs. Blake said she would get out here. Her
dressmaker was close by, in the Rue Auber, and she would walk back
to the hotel to meet them at seven o'clock. Jefferson assisted her
to alight and escorted her as far as the porte-cochere of the
modiste's, a couple of doors away. When he returned to the
carriage, Shirley had already told the coachman where to go. He
got in and the fiacre started.
"Now," said Shirley, "tell me what you have been doing with
yourself all day."
Jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug about
Shirley, spending more time in the task perhaps than was
absolutely necessary, and she had to repeat the question.
"Doing?" he echoed with a smile, "I've been doing two things--
waiting impatiently for seven o'clock and incidentally reading the
notices of your book."
CHAPTER IV
"Tell me, what do the papers say?"
Settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, Shirley
questioned Jefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. She had been
impatiently awaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home,"
for so much depended on this first effort. She knew her book had
been praised in some quarters, and her publishers had written her
that the sales were bigger every day, but she was curious to learn
how it had been received by the reviewers.
In truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer of
her inexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so much
attention with her first book. The success almost threatened to
turn her head, she had told her aunt laughingly, although she was
sure it could never do that. She fully realized that it was the
subject rather than the skill of the narrator that counted in the
book's success, also the fact that it had come out at a timely
moment, when the whole world was talking of the Money Peril. Had
not President Roosevelt, in a recent sensational speech, declared
that it might be necessary for the State to curb the colossal
fortunes of America, and was not her hero, John Burkett Ryder, the
richest of them all? Any way they looked at it, the success of the
book was most gratifying.
While she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, Shirley
Rossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. Her features
were irregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbed
the harmony indispensable to plastic beauty. Yet there was in her
face something far more appealing--soul and character. The face of
the merely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. It
presents absolutely no key to the soul within, and often there is
no soul within to have a key to. Perfect in its outlines and
coloring, it is a delight to gaze upon, just as is a flawless
piece of sculpture, yet the delight is only fleeting. One soon
grows satiated, no matter how beautiful the face may be, because
it is always the same, expressionless and soulless. "Beauty is
only skin deep," said the philosopher, and no truer dictum was
ever uttered. The merely beautiful woman, who possesses only
beauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of her looks,
and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes on
others, that she has neither the time nor the inclination for
matters of greater importance. Sensible men, as a rule, do not
lose their hearts to women whose only assets are their good looks.
They enjoy a flirtation with them, but seldom care to make them
their wives. The marrying man is shrewd enough to realize that
domestic virtues will be more useful in his household economy than
all the academic beauty ever chiselled out of block marble.
Shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failed
to attract attention. It was a thoughtful and interesting face,
with an intellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face of
a woman who had both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at the
same time, was in perfect sympathy with the world. She was fair in
complexion, and her fine brown eyes, alternately reflective and
alert, were shaded by long dark lashes. Her eyebrows were
delicately arched, and she had a good nose. She wore her hair well
off the forehead, which was broader than in the average woman,
suggesting good mentality. Her mouth, however, was her strongest
feature. It was well shaped, but there were firm lines about it
that suggested unusual will power. Yet it smiled readily, and when
it did there was an agreeable vision of strong, healthy-looking
teeth of dazzling whiteness. She was a little over medium height
and slender in figure, and carried herself with that unmistakable
air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and culture. She
dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich material, and
of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so quietly
attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her one
could never recall what she had on.
At the special request of Shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of
the Latin Quarter, the driver took a course down the Avenue de
l'Opera, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the Opera
and ends at the Theatre Francais, and which, like many others that
go to the beautifying of the capital, the Parisians owe to the
much-despised Napoleon III. The cab, Jefferson told her, would
skirt the Palais Royal and follow the Rue de Rivoli until it came
to the Chatelet, when it would cross the Seine and drive up the
Boulevard St. Michel--the students' boulevard--until it reached
the Luxembourg Gardens. Like most of his kind, the cocker knew
less than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless,
zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusing
maze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right,
then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, and
averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen bad
collisions. At times the fiacre lurched in such alarming fashion
that Shirley was visibly perturbed, but when Jefferson assured her
that all Paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing
ever happened, she was comforted.
"Tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?"
"Say?" he echoed. "Why, simply that you've written the biggest
book of the year, that's all!"
"Really! Oh, do tell me all they said!" She was fairly excited
now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped Jefferson's broad, sunburnt
hand which was lying outside the carriage rug. He tried to appear
unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as
he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that
afternoon.
"Isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. Then
she added quickly:
"I wonder if your father has seen it?"
Jefferson grinned. He had something on his conscience, and this
was a good opportunity to get rid of it. He replied laconically:
"He probably has read it by this time. I sent him a copy myself."
The instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for
Shirley's face had changed colour.
"You sent him a copy of 'The American Octopus?'" she cried. "Then
he'll guess who wrote the book."
"Oh, no, he won't," rejoined Jefferson calmly. "He has no idea who
sent it to him. I mailed it anonymously."
Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. It was so important that her
identity should remain a secret. As daughter of a Supreme Court
judge she had to be most careful. She would not embarrass her
father for anything in the world. But it was smart of Jefferson to
have sent Ryder, Sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his
son as she asked:
"How do you know he got it? So many letters and packages are sent
to him that he never sees himself."
"Oh, he saw your book all right," laughed Jefferson. "I was around
the house a good deal before sailing, and one day I caught him in
the library reading it."
They both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had
played a successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. Jefferson noted
his companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought how
attractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within
him that this was the woman who was intended by Nature to share
his life. Her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one,
and he fancied he felt a slight pressure. But he was mistaken. Not
the slightest sentiment entered into Shirley's thoughts of
Jefferson. She regarded him only as a good comrade with whom she
had secrets she confided in no one else. To that extent and to
that extent alone he was privileged above other men. Suddenly he
asked her:
"Have you heard from home recently?"
A soft light stole into the girl's face. Home! Ah, that was all
she needed to make her cup of happiness full. Intoxicated with
this new sensation of a first literary success, full of the keen
pleasure this visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling
over with the joy of life, happy in the almost daily companionship
of the man she liked most in the world after her father, there was
only one thing lacking--home! She had left New York only a month
before, and she was homesick already. Her father she missed most.
She was fond of her mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of
a nervous invalid, had never been to her quite what her father had
been. The playmate of her childhood, companion of her girlhood,
her friend and adviser in womanhood, Judge Rossmore was to his
daughter the ideal man and father. Answering Jefferson's question
she said:
"I had a letter from father last week. Everything was going on at
home as when I left. Father says he misses me sadly, and that
mother is ailing as usual."
She smiled, and Jefferson smiled too. They both knew by experience
that nothing really serious ailed Mrs. Rossmore, who was a good
deal of a hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains
that, on the few occasions when she really felt well, she was
genuinely alarmed.
The fiacre by this time had emerged from the Rue de Rivoli and was
rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of the
historic Conciergerie prison where Marie Antoinette was confined
before her execution. Presently they recrossed the Seine, and the
cab, dodging the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace up the
"Boul' Mich'," which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by the
students upon that broad avenue which traverses the very heart of
their beloved Quartier Latin. On the left frowned the scholastic
walls of the learned Sorbonne, in the distance towered the
majestic dome of the Pantheon where Rousseau, Voltaire and Hugo
lay buried.
Like most of the principal arteries of the French capital, the
boulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, and
the sidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in which
mingled promiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks,
sober citizens, and frisky, flirtatious little ouvrieres, these
last being all hatless, as is characteristic of the work-girl
class, but singularly attractive in their neat black dresses and
dainty low-cut shoes. There was also much in evidence another type
of female whose extravagance of costume and boldness of manner
loudly proclaimed her ancient profession.
On either side of the boulevard were shops and cafes, mostly
cafes, with every now and then a brasserie, or beer hall. Seated
in front of these establishments, taking their ease as if beer
sampling constituted the only real interest in their lives, were
hundreds of students, reckless and dare-devil, and suggesting
almost anything except serious study. They all wore frock coats
and tall silk hats, and some of the latter were wonderful
specimens of the hatter's art. A few of the more eccentric
students had long hair down to their shoulders, and wore baggy
peg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose folds
over their sharp-pointed boots. On their heads were queer plug
hats with flat brims.
Shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have her
kodak to take back to America some idea of their grotesque
appearance, and she listened with amused interest as Jefferson
explained that these men were notorious poseurs, aping the dress
and manners of the old-time student as he flourished in the days
of Randolph and Mimi and the other immortal characters of Murger's
Bohemia. Nobody took them seriously except themselves, and for the
most part they were bad rhymesters of decadent verse. Shirley was
astonished to see so many of them busily engaged smoking
cigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-green beverage, which
Jefferson told her was absinthe.
"When do they read?" she asked. "When do they attend lectures?"
"Oh," laughed Jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students take
their studies seriously. Most of the men you see there are from
the provinces, seeing Paris for the first time, and having their
fling. Incidentally they are studying life. When they have sown
their wild oats and learned all about life--provided they are
still alive and have any money left--they will begin to study
books. You would be surprised to know how many of these young men,
who have been sent to the University at a cost of goodness knows
what sacrifices, return to their native towns in a few months
wrecked in body and mind, without having once set foot in a
lecture room, and, in fact, having done nothing except inscribe
their names on the rolls."
Shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and
had a son she would pray God to spare her that grief and
humiliation. She herself knew something about the sacrifices
parents make to secure a college education for their children. Her
father had sent her to Vassar. She was a product of the much-
sneered-at higher education for women, and all her life she would
be grateful for the advantages given her. Her liberal education
had broadened her outlook on life and enabled her to accomplish
the little she had. When she graduated her father had left her
free to follow her own inclinations. She had little taste for
social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. For a
time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew she
lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the
drudgery of it, so, having won honors at college in English
composition, she determined to try her hand at literature. She
wrote a number of essays and articles on a hundred different
subjects which she sent to the magazines, but they all came back
with politely worded excuses for their rejection. But Shirley kept
right on. She knew she wrote well; it must be that her subjects
were not suitable. So she adopted new tactics, and persevered
until one day came a letter of acceptance from the editor of one
of the minor magazines. They would take the article offered--a
sketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein as Miss
Rossmore could write. This success had been followed by other
acceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she
was a well-known writer for the leading publications. Her great
ambition had been to write a book, and "The American Octopus,"
published under an assumed name, was the result.
The cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. It
was the Luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a
glimpse of well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed
children playing. From the distance came the stirring strains of a
brass band.
The coachman drove up to the curb and Jefferson jumped down,
assisting Shirley to alight. In spite of Shirley's protest
Jefferson insisted on paying.
"Combien?" he asked the cocher.
The jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small,
cunning eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two
sacre foreigners whom it would be flying in the face of Providence
not to cheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered:
"Dix francs, Monsieur!" And he held up ten fingers by way of
illustration.
Jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when Shirley
indignantly interfered. She would not submit to such an
imposition. There was a regular tariff and she would pay that and
nothing more. So, in better French than was at Jefferson's
command, she exclaimed:
"Ten francs? Pourquoi dix francs? I took your cab by the hour. It
is exactly two hours. That makes four francs." Then to Jefferson
she added: "Give him a franc for a pourboire--that makes five
francs altogether."
Jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-franc
piece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. He saw
that the moment had come to bluster so he descended from his box
fully prepared to carry out his bluff. He started in to abuse the
two Americans whom in his ignorance he took for English.
"Ah, you sale Anglais! You come to France to cheat the poor
Frenchman. You make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing.
Not with this coco! I know my rights and I'll get them, too."
All this was hurled at them in a patois French, almost
unintelligible to Shirley, and wholly so to Jefferson. All he knew
was that the fellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolent
and he stepped forward with a gleam in his eye that might have
startled the man had he not been so busy shaking his fist at
Shirley. But she saw Jefferson's movement and laid her hand on his
arm.
"No, no, Mr. Ryder--no scandal, please. Look, people are beginning
to come up! Leave him to me. I know how to manage him."
With this the daughter of a United States Supreme Court judge
proceeded to lay down the law to the representative of the most
lazy and irresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streets
of a civilised community. Speaking with an air of authority, she
said:
"Now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here with
you. I took your cab at 3.30. It is now 5.30. That makes two
hours. The rate is two francs an hour, or four francs in all. We
offer you five francs, and this includes a franc pourboire. If
this settlement does not suit you we will get into your cab and
you will drive us to the nearest police-station where the argument
can be continued."
The man's jaw dropped. He was obviously outclassed. These
foreigners knew the law as well as he did. He had no desire to
accept Shirley's suggestion of a trip to the police-station, where
he knew he would get little sympathy, so, grumbling and giving
vent under his breath to a volley of strange oaths, he grabbed
viciously at the five-franc piece Jefferson held out and, mounting
his box, drove off.
Proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following the
sweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. The
band of an infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd had
gathered. Many people were sitting on the chairs provided for
visitors for the modest fee of two sous; others were promenading
round and round a great circle having the musicians in its centre.
The dense foliage of the trees overhead afforded a perfect shelter
from the hot rays of the sun, and the place was so inviting and
interesting, so cool and so full of sweet perfumes and sounds,
appealing to and satisfying the senses, that Shirley wished they
had more time to spend there. She was very fond of a good brass
band, especially when heard in the open air. They were playing
Strauss's Blue Danube, and the familiar strains of the delightful
waltz were so infectious that both were seized by a desire to get
up and dance.
There was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with its
many original and curious types. There were serious college
professors, with gold-rimmed spectacles, buxom nounous in their
uniform cloaks and long ribbon streamers, nicely dressed children
romping merrily but not noisily, more queer-looking students in
shabby frock coats, tight at the waist, trousers too short, and
comical hats, stylishly dressed women displaying the latest
fashions, brilliantly uniformed army officers strutting proudly,
dangling their swords--an attractive and interesting crowd, so
different, thought the two Americans, from the cheap, evil-
smelling, ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their own
Central Park the days when there is music, making it a nuisance
instead of a pleasure. Here everyone belonged apparently to the
better class; the women and children were richly and fashionably
dressed, the officers looked smart in their multi-coloured
uniforms, and, no matter how one might laugh at the students,
there was an atmosphere of good-breeding and refinement everywhere
which Shirley was not accustomed to see in public places at home.
A sprinkling of workmen and people of the poorer class were to be
seen here and there, but they were in the decided minority.
Shirley, herself a daughter of the Revolution, was a staunch
supporter of the immortal principles of Democracy and of the
equality of man before the law. But all other talk of equality was
the greatest sophistry and charlatanism. There could be no real
equality so long as some people were cultured and refined and
others were uneducated and vulgar. Shirley believed in an
aristocracy of brains and soap. She insisted that no clean person,
no matter how good a democrat, should be expected to sit close in
public places to persons who were not on speaking terms with the
bath-tub. In America this foolish theory of a democracy, which
insists on throwing all classes, the clean and the unclean,
promiscuously together, was positively revolting, making
travelling in the public vehicles almost impossible, and it was
not much better in the public parks. In France--also a Republic--
where they likewise paraded conspicuously the clap-trap "Egalite,
Fraternite," they managed these things far better. The French
lower classes knew their place. They did not ape the dress, nor
frequent the resorts of those above them in the social scale. The
distinction between the classes was plainly and properly marked,
yet this was not antagonistic to the ideal of true democracy; it
had not prevented the son of a peasant from becoming President of
the French Republic. Each district in Paris had its own amusement,
its own theatres, its own parks. It was not a question of capital
refusing to fraternize with labour, but the very natural desire of
persons of refinement to mingle with clean people rather than to
rub elbows with the Great Unwashed.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19