Books: The Lion and the Mouse
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Charles Klein >> The Lion and the Mouse
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"Hello, Shirley!" called out a voice from a heap of rugs as
Shirley and Jefferson passed the rows of chairs.
They stopped short and discovered Mrs. Blake ensconced in a cozy
corner, sheltered from the wind.
"Why, aunt Milly," exclaimed Shirley surprised. "I thought you
were downstairs. I didn't think you could stand this sea."
"It is a little rougher than I care to have it," responded Mrs.
Blake with a wry grimace and putting her hand to her breast as if
to appease disturbing qualms. "It was so stuffy in the cabin I
could not bear it. It's more pleasant here but it's getting a
little cool and I think I'll go below. Where have you children
been all afternoon?"
Jefferson volunteered to explain.
"The children have been rhapsodizing over the beauties of the
ocean," he laughed. With a sly glance at Shirley, he added, "Your
niece has been coaching me in metaphysics."
Shirley shook her finger at him.
"Now Jefferson, if you make fun of me I'll never talk seriously
with you again."
"Wie geht es, meine damen?"
Shirley turned on hearing the guttural salutation. It was Captain
Hegermann, the commander of the ship, a big florid Saxon with
great bushy golden whiskers and a basso voice like Edouard de
Reszke. He was imposing in his smart uniform and gold braid and
his manner had the self-reliant, authoritative air usual in men
who have great responsibilities and are accustomed to command. He
was taking his afternoon stroll and had stopped to chat with his
lady passengers. He had already passed Mrs. Blake a dozen times
and not noticed her, but now her pretty niece was with her, which
altered the situation. He talked to the aunt and looked at
Shirley, much to the annoyance of Jefferson, who muttered things
under his breath.
"When shall we be in, captain?" asked Mrs. Blake anxiously,
forgetting that this was one of the questions which according to
ship etiquette must never be asked of the officers.
But as long as he could ignore Mrs. Blake and gaze at Shirley
Capt. Hegermann did not mind. He answered amiably:
"At the rate we are going, we ought to sight Fire Island sometime
to-morrow evening. If we do, that will get us to our dock about 11
o'clock Friday morning, I fancy." Then addressing Shirley direct
he said:
"And you, fraulein, I hope you won't be glad the voyage is over?"
Shirley sighed and a worried, anxious look came into her face.
"Yes, Captain, I shall be very glad. It is not pleasure that is
bringing me back to America so soon."
The captain elevated his eyebrows. He was sorry the young lady had
anxieties to keep her so serious, and he hoped she would find
everything all right on her arrival. Then, politely saluting, he
passed on, only to halt again a few paces on where his bewhiskered
gallantry met with more encouragement.
Mrs. Blake rose from her chair. The air was decidedly cooler, she
would go downstairs and prepare for dinner. Shirley said she would
remain on deck a little longer. She was tired of walking, so when
her aunt left them she took her chair and told Jefferson to get
another. He wanted nothing better, but before seating himself he
took the rugs and wrapped Shirley up with all the solicitude of a
mother caring for her first born. Arranging the pillow under her
head, he asked:
"Is that comfortable?"
She nodded, smiling at him.
"You're a good boy, Jeff. But you'll spoil me."
"Nonsense," he stammered as he took another chair and put himself
by her side. "As if any fellow wouldn't give his boots to do a
little job like that for you!"
She seemed to take no notice of the covert compliment. In fact,
she already took it as a matter of course that Jefferson was very
fond of her.
Did she love him? She hardly knew. Certainly she thought more of
him than of any other man she knew and she readily believed that
she could be with him for the rest of her life and like him better
every day. Then, too, they had become more intimate during the
last few days. This trouble, this unknown peril had drawn them
together. Yes, she would be sorry if she were to see Jefferson
paying attention to another woman. Was this love? Perhaps.
These thoughts were running through her mind as they sat there
side by side isolated from the main herd of passengers, each
silent, watching through the open rail the foaming water as it
rushed past. Jefferson had been casting furtive glances at his
companion and as he noted her serious, pensive face he thought how
pretty she was. He wondered what she was thinking of and suddenly
inspired no doubt by the mysterious power that enables some people
to read the thoughts of others, he said abruptly:
"Shirley, I can read your thoughts. You were thinking of me."
She was startled for a moment but immediately recovered her self
possession. It never occurred to her to deny it. She pondered for
a moment and then replied:
"You are right, Jeff, I was thinking of you. How did you guess?"
He leaned over her chair and took her hand. She made no
resistance. Her delicate, slender hand lay passively in his big
brown one and met his grasp frankly, cordially. He whispered:
"What were you thinking of me--good or bad?"
"Good, of course. How could I think anything bad of you?"
She turned her eyes on him in wonderment. Then she went on:
"I was wondering how a girl could distinguish between the feeling
she has for a man she merely likes, and the feeling she has for a
man she loves."
Jefferson bent eagerly forward so as to lose no word that might
fall from those coveted lips.
"In what category would I be placed?" he asked.
"I don't quite know," she answered, laughingly. Then seriously,
she added: "Jeff, why should we act like children? Your actions,
more than your words, have told me that you love me. I have known
it all along. If I have appeared cold and indifferent it is
because"--she hesitated.
"Because?" echoed Jefferson anxiously, as if his whole future
depended on that reason.
"Because I was not sure of myself. Would it be womanly or
honourable on my part to encourage you, unless I felt I
reciprocated your feelings? You are young, one day you will be
very rich, the whole world lies before you. There are plenty of
women who would willingly give you their love."
"No--no!" he burst out in vigorous protest, "it is you I want,
Shirley, you alone."
Grasping her hand more closely, he went on, passion vibrating in
every note of his voice. "I love you, Shirley. I've loved you from
the very first evening I met you. I want you to be my wife."
Shirley looked straight up into the blue eyes so eagerly bent down
on hers, so entreating in their expression, and in a gentle voice
full of emotion she answered:
"Jefferson, you have done me the greatest honour a man can do a
woman. Don't ask me to answer you now. I like you very much--I
more than like you. Whether it is love I feel for you--that I have
not yet determined. Give me time. My present trouble and then my
literary work---"
"I know," agreed Jefferson, "that this is hardly the time to speak
of such matters. Your father has first call on your attention. But
as to your literary work. I do not understand."
"Simply this. I am ambitious. I have had a little success--just
enough to crave for more. I realize that marriage would put an
extinguisher on all aspirations in that direction."
"Is marriage so very commonplace?" grumbled Jefferson.
"Not commonplace, but there is no room in marriage for a woman
having personal ambitions of her own. Once married her duty is to
her husband and her children--not to herself."
"That is right," he replied; "but which is likely to give you
greater joy--a literary success or a happy wifehood? When you have
spent your best years and given the public your best work they
will throw you over for some new favorite. You'll find yourself an
old woman with nothing more substantial to show as your life work
than that questionable asset, a literary reputation. How many
literary reputations to-day conceal an aching heart and find it
difficult to make both ends meet? How different with the woman who
married young and obeys Nature's behest by contributing her share
to the process of evolution. Her life is spent basking in the
affection of her husband and the chubby smiles of her dimpled
babes, and when in the course of time she finds herself in the
twilight of her life, she has at her feet a new generation of her
own flesh and blood. Isn't that better than a literary
reputation?"
He spoke so earnestly that Shirley looked at him in surprise. She
knew he was serious but she had not suspected that he thought so
deeply on these matters. Her heart told her that he was uttering
the true philosophy of the ages. She said:
"Why, Jefferson, you talk like a book. Perhaps you are right, I
have no wish to be a blue stocking and deserted in my old age, far
from it. But give me time to think. Let us first ascertain the
extent of this disaster which has overtaken my father. Then if you
still care for me and if I have not changed my mind," here she
glanced slyly at him, "we will resume our discussion."
Again she held out her hand which he had released.
"Is it a bargain?" she asked.
"It's a bargain," he murmured, raising the white hand to his lips.
A fierce longing rose within him to take her in his arms and kiss
passionately the mouth that lay temptingly near his own, but his
courage failed him. After all, he reasoned, he had not yet the
right.
A few minutes later they left the deck and went downstairs to
dress for dinner. That same evening they stood again at the rail
watching the mysterious phosphorescence as it sparkled in the
moonlight. Her thoughts travelling faster than the ship, Shirley
suddenly asked:
"Do you really think Mr. Ryder will use his influence to help my
father?"
Jefferson set his jaw fast and the familiar Ryder gleam came into
his eyes as he responded:
"Why not? My father is all powerful. He has made and unmade judges
and legislators and even presidents. Why should he not be able to
put a stop to these preposterous proceedings? I will go to him
directly we land and we'll see what can be done."
So the time on shipboard had passed, Shirley alternately buoyed up
with hope and again depressed by the gloomiest forebodings. The
following night they passed Fire Island and the next day the huge
steamer dropped anchor at Quarantine.
CHAPTER VI.
A month had passed since the memorable meeting of the directors of
the Southern and Transcontinental Railroad in New York and during
that time neither John Burkett Ryder nor Judge Rossmore had been
idle. The former had immediately set in motion the machinery he
controlled in the Legislature at Washington, while the judge
neglected no step to vindicate himself before the public.
Ryder, for reasons of his own--probably because he wished to make
the blow the more crushing when it did fall--had insisted on the
proceedings at the board meeting being kept a profound secret and
some time elapsed before the newspapers got wind of the coming
Congressional inquiry. No one had believed the stories about Judge
Rossmore but now that a quasi-official seal had been set on the
current gossip, there was a howl of virtuous indignation from the
journalistic muck rakers. What was the country coming to? they
cried in double leaded type. After the embezzling by life
insurance officers, the rascality of the railroads, the looting of
city treasuries, the greed of the Trusts, the grafting of the
legislators, had arisen a new and more serious scandal--the
corruption of the Judiciary. The last bulwark of the nation had
fallen, the country lay helpless at the mercy of legalized
sandbaggers. Even the judges were no longer to be trusted, the
most respected one among them all had been unable to resist the
tempter. The Supreme Court, the living voice of the Constitution,
was honeycombed with graft. Public life was rotten to the core!
Neither the newspapers nor the public stopped to ascertain the
truth or the falsity of the charges against Judge Rossmore. It was
sufficient that the bribery story furnished the daily sensation
which newspaper editors and newspaper readers must have. The world
is ever more prompt to believe ill rather than good of a man, and
no one, except in Rossmore's immediate circle of friends,
entertained the slightest doubt of his guilt. It was common
knowledge that the "big interests" were behind the proceedings,
and that Judge Rossmore was a scapegoat, sacrificed by the System
because he had been blocking their game. If Rossmore had really
accepted the bribe, and few now believed him spotless, he deserved
all that was coming to him. Senator Roberts was very active in
Washington preparing the case against Judge Rossmore. The latter
being a democrat and "the interests" controlling a Republican
majority in the House, it was a foregone conclusion that the
inquiry would be against him, and that a demand would at once be
made upon the Senate for his impeachment.
Almost prostrated by the misfortune which had so suddenly and
unexpectedly come upon him, Judge Rossmore was like a man
demented. His reason seemed to be tottering, he spoke and acted
like a man in a dream. Naturally he was entirely incapacitated for
work and he had applied to Washington to be temporarily relieved
from his judicial duties. He was instantly granted a leave of
absence and went at once to his home in Madison Avenue, where he
shut himself up in his library, sitting for hours at his desk
wrestling with documents and legal tomes in a pathetic endeavour
to find some way out, trying to elude this net in which unseen
hands had entangled him.
What an end to his career! To have struggled and achieved for half
a century, to have built up a reputation year by year, as a man
builds a house brick by brick, only to see the whole crumble to
his feet like dust! To have gained the respect of the country, to
have made a name as the most incorruptible of public servants and
now to be branded as a common bribe taker! Could he be dreaming?
It was too incredible! What would his daughter say--his Shirley?
Ah, the thought of the expression of incredulity and wonder on her
face when she heard the news cut him to the heart like a knife
thrust. Yet, he mused, her very unwillingness to believe it should
really be his consolation. Ah, his wife and his child--they knew
he had been innocent of wrong doing. The very idea was ridiculous.
At most he had been careless. Yes, he was certainly to blame. He
ought to have seen the trap so carefully prepared and into which
he had walked as if blindfolded. That extra $50,000 worth of
stock, on which he had never received a cent interest, had been
the decoy in a carefully thought out plot. They, the plotters,
well knew how ignorant he was of financial matters and he had been
an easy victim. Who would believe his story that the stock had
been sent to him with a plausibly-worded letter to the effect that
it represented a bonus on his own investment? Now he came to think
of it, calmly and reasonably, he would not believe it himself. As
usual, he had mislaid or destroyed the secretary's letter and
there was only his word against the company's books to
substantiate what would appear a most improbable if not impossible
occurrence.
It was his conviction of his own good faith that made his present
dilemma all the more cruel. Had he really been a grafter, had he
really taken the stock as a bribe he would not care so much, for
then he would have foreseen and discounted the chances of
exposure. Yes, there was no doubt possible. He was the victim of a
conspiracy, there was an organized plot to ruin him, to get him
out of the way. The "interests" feared him, resented his judicial
decisions and they had halted at nothing to accomplish their
purpose. How could he fight them back, what could he do to protect
himself? He had no proofs of a conspiracy, his enemies worked in
the dark, there was no way in which he could reach them or know
who they were.
He thought of John Burkett Ryder. Ah, he remembered now. Ryder was
the man who had recommended the investment in Alaskan stock. Of
course, why did he not think of it before? He recollected that at
the time he had been puzzled at receiving so much stock and he had
mentioned it to Ryder, adding that the secretary had told him it
was customary. Oh, why had he not kept the secretary's letter? But
Ryder would certainly remember it. He probably still had his two
letters in which he spoke of making the investment. If those
letters could be produced at the Congressional inquiry they would
clear him at once. So losing no time, and filled with renewed hope
he wrote to the Colossus a strong, manly letter which would have
melted an iceberg, urging Mr. Ryder to come forward now at this
critical time and clear him of this abominable charge, or in any
case to kindly return the two letters he must have in his
possession, as they would go far to help him at the trial. Three
days passed and no reply from Ryder. On the fourth came a polite
but frigid note from Mr. Ryder's private secretary. Mr. Ryder had
received Judge Rossmore's letter and in reply begged to state that
he had a vague recollection of some conversation with the judge in
regard to investments, but he did not think he had advised the
purchase of any particular stock, as that was something he never
did on principle, even with his most intimate friends. He had no
wish to be held accountable in case of loss, etc. As to the letter
which Judge Rossmore mentioned as having written to Mr. Ryder in
regard to having received more stock than he had bought, of that
Mr. Ryder had no recollection whatsoever. Judge Rossmore was
probably mistaken as to the identity of his correspondent. He
regretted he could not be of more service to Judge Rossmore, and
remained his very obedient servant.
It was very evident that no help was to be looked for in that
quarter. There was even decided hostility in Ryder's reply. Could
it be true that the financier was really behind these attacks upon
his character, was it possible that one man merely to make more
money would deliberately ruin his fellow man whose hand he had
grasped in friendship? He had been unwilling to believe it when
his friend ex-judge Stott had pointed to Ryder as the author of
all his misfortunes, but this unsympathetic letter with its
falsehoods, its lies plainly written all over its face, was proof
enough. Yes, there was now no doubt possible. John Burkett Ryder
was his enemy and what an enemy! Many a man had committed suicide
when he had incurred the enmity of the Colossus. Judge Rossmore,
completely discouraged, bowed his head to the inevitable.
His wife, a nervous, sickly woman, was helpless to comfort or aid
him. She had taken their misfortune as a visitation of an
inscrutable Deity. She knew, of course, that her husband was
wholly innocent of the accusations brought against him and if his
character could be cleared and himself rehabilitated before the
world, she would be the first to rejoice. But if it pleased the
Almighty in His wisdom to sorely try her husband and herself and
inflict this punishment upon them it was not for the finite mind
to criticise the ways of Providence. There was probably some good
reason for the apparent cruelty and injustice of it which their
earthly understanding failed to grasp. Mrs. Rossmore found much
comfort in this philosophy, which gave a satisfactory ending to
both ends of the problem, and she was upheld in her view by the
rector of the church which she had attended regularly each Sunday
for the past five and twenty years. Christian resignation in the
hour of trial, submission to the will of Heaven were, declared her
spiritual adviser, the fundamental principles of religion. He
could only hope that Mrs. Rossmore would succeed in imbuing her
husband with her Christian spirit. But when the judge's wife
returned home and saw the keen mental distress of the man who had
been her companion for twenty-five long years, the comforter in
her sorrows, the joy and pride of her young wifehood, she forgot
all about her smug churchly consoler, and her heart went out to
her husband in a spontaneous burst of genuine human sympathy. Yes,
they must do something at once. Where men had failed perhaps a
woman could do something. She wanted to cable at once for Shirley,
who was everything in their household--organizer, manager,
adviser--but the judge would not hear of it. No, his daughter was
enjoying her holiday in blissful ignorance of what had occurred.
He would not spoil it for her. They would see; perhaps things
would improve. But he sent for his old friend ex-Judge Stott.
They were life-long friends, having become acquainted nearly
thirty years ago at the law school, at the time when both were
young men about to enter on a public career. Stott, who was
Rossmore's junior, had begun as a lawyer in New York and soon
acquired a reputation in criminal practice. He afterwards became
assistant district attorney and later, when a vacancy occurred in
the city magistrature, he was successful in securing the
appointment. On the bench he again met his old friend Rossmore and
the two men once more became closely intimate. The regular court
hours, however, soon palled on a man of Judge Stott's nervous
temperament and it was not long before he retired to take up once
more his criminal practice. He was still a young man, not yet
fifty, and full of vigor and fight. He had a blunt manner but his
heart was in the right place, and he had a record as clean as his
close shaven face. He was a hard worker, a brilliant speaker and
one of the cleverest cross-examiners at the bar. This was the man
to whom Judge Rossmore naturally turned for legal assistance.
Stott was out West when he first heard of the proceedings against
his old friend, and this indignity put upon the only really honest
man in public life whom he knew, so incensed him that he was
already hurrying back to his aid when the summons reached him.
Meantime, a fresh and more serious calamity had overwhelmed Judge
Rossmore. Everything seemed to combine to break the spirit of this
man who had dared defy the power of organized capital. Hardly had
the news of the Congressional inquiry been made public, than the
financial world was startled by an extraordinary slump in Wall
Street. There was nothing in the news of the day to justify a
decline, but prices fell and fell. The bears had it all their own
way, the big interests hammered stocks all along the line,
"coppers" especially being the object of attack. The market closed
feverishly and the next day the same tactics were pursued. From
the opening, on selling orders coming from no one knew where,
prices fell to nothing, a stampede followed and before long it
became a panic. Pandemonium reigned on the floor of the Stock
Exchange. White faced, dishevelled brokers shouted and struggled
like men possessed to execute the orders of their clients. Big
financial houses, which stood to lose millions on a falling
market, rallied and by rush orders to buy, attempted to stem the
tide, but all to no purpose. One firm after another went by the
board unable to weather the tempest, until just before closing
time, the stock ticker announced the failure of the Great
Northwestern Mining Co. The drive in the market had been
principally directed against its securities, and after vainly
endeavoring to check the bear raid, it had been compelled to
declare itself bankrupt. It was heavily involved, assets nil,
stock almost worthless. It was probable that the creditors would
not see ten cents on the dollar. Thousands were ruined and Judge
Rossmore among them. All the savings of a lifetime--nearly $55,000
were gone. He was practically penniless, at a time when he needed
money most. He still owned his house in Madison Avenue, but that
would have to go to settle with his creditors. By the time
everything was paid there would only remain enough for a modest
competence. As to his salary, of course he could not touch that so
long as this accusation was hanging over his head. And if he were
impeached it would stop altogether. The salary, therefore, was not
to be counted on. They must manage as best they could and live
more cheaply, taking a small house somewhere in the outskirts of
the city where he could prepare his case quietly without
attracting attention.
Stott thought this was the best thing they could do and he
volunteered to relieve his friend by taking on his own hands all
the arrangements of the sale of the house and furniture, which
offer the judge accepted only too gladly. Meantime, Mrs. Rossmore
went to Long Island to see what could be had, and she found at the
little village of Massapequa just what they were looking for--a
commodious, neatly-furnished two-story cottage at a modest rental.
Of course, it was nothing like what they had been accustomed to,
but it was clean and comfortable, and as Mrs. Rossmore said,
rather tactlessly, beggars cannot be choosers. Perhaps it would
not be for long. Instant possession was to be had, so deposit was
paid on the spot and a few days later the Rossmores left their
mansion on Madison Avenue and took up their residence in
Massapequa, where their advent created quite a fluster in local
social circles.
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