Books: The Lion and the Mouse
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Charles Klein >> The Lion and the Mouse
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Shirley and Mrs. Blake were fortunate in securing an inspector who
was fairly reasonable. Of course, he did not for a moment believe
their solemn statement, already made on the ship, that they had
nothing dutiable, and he rummaged among the most intimate garments
of their wardrobe in a wholly indecent and unjustifiable manner,
but he was polite and they fared no worse than all the other women
victims of this, the most brutal custom house inspection system in
the world.
Jefferson had the misfortune to be allotted an inspector who was
half seas over with liquor and the man was so insolent and
threatening in manner that it was only by great self-restraint
that Jefferson controlled himself. He had no wish to create a
scandal on the dock, nor to furnish good "copy" for the keen-eyed,
long-eared newspaper reporters who would be only too glad of such
an opportunity for a "scare head". But when the fellow compelled
him to open every trunk and valise and then put his grimy hands to
the bottom and by a quick upward movement jerked the entire
contents out on the dock, he interfered:
"You are exceeding your authority," he exclaimed hotly. "How dare
you treat my things in this manner?"
The drunken uniformed brute raised his bloodshot, bleary eyes and
took Jefferson in from tip to toe. He clenched his fist as if
about to resort to violence, but he was not so intoxicated as to
be quite blind to the fact that this passenger had massive square
shoulders, a determined jaw and probably a heavy arm. So
contenting himself with a sneer, he said:
"This ain't no country for blooming English docks. You're not in
England now you know. This is a free country. See?"
"I see this," replied Jefferson, furious, "that you are a drunken
ruffian and a disgrace to the uniform you wear. I shall report
your conduct immediately," with which he proceeded to the Customs
desk to lodge a complaint.
He might have spared himself the trouble. The silver-haired,
distinguished looking old officer in charge knew that Jefferson's
complaint was well founded, he knew that this particular inspector
was a drunkard and a discredit to the government which employed
him, but at the same time he also knew that political influence
had been behind his appointment and that it was unsafe to do more
than mildly reprimand him. When, therefore, he accompanied
Jefferson to the spot where the contents of the trunks lay
scattered in confusion all over the dock, he merely expostulated
with the officer, who made some insolent reply. Seeing that it was
useless to lose further time, Jefferson repacked his trunks as
best he could and got them on a cab. Then he hurried over to
Shirley's party and found them already about to leave the pier.
"Come and see us, Jeff," whispered Shirley as their cab drove
through the gates.
"Where," he asked, "Madison Avenue?"
She hesitated for a moment and then replied quickly:
"No, we are stopping down on Long Island for the Summer--at a cute
little place called Massapequa. Run down and see us."
He raised his hat and the cab drove on.
There was greater activity in the Rossmore cottage at Massapequa
than there had been any day since the judge and his wife went to
live there. Since daybreak Eudoxia had been scouring and polishing
in honour of the expected arrival and a hundred times Mrs.
Rossmore had climbed the stairs to see that everything was as it
should be in the room which had been prepared for Shirley. It was
not, however, without a passage at arms that Eudoxia consented to
consider the idea of an addition to the family. Mrs. Rossmore had
said to her the day before:
"My daughter will be here to-morrow, Eudoxia."
A look expressive of both displeasure and astonishment marred the
classic features of the hireling. Putting her broom aside and
placing her arms akimbo she exclaimed in an injured tone:
"And it's a dayther you've got now? So it's three in family you
are! When I took the place it's two you tould me there was!"
"Well, with your kind permission," replied Mrs. Rossmore, "there
will be three in future. There is nothing in the Constitution of
the United States that says we can't have a daughter without
consulting our help, is there?"
The sarcasm of this reply did not escape even the dull-edged wits
of the Irish drudge. She relapsed into a dignified silence and a
few minutes later was discovered working with some show of
enthusiasm.
The judge was nervous and fidgety. He made a pretence to read, but
it was plain to see that his mind was not on his book. He kept
leaving his chair to go and look at the clock; then he would lay
the volume aside and wander from room to room like a lost soul.
His thoughts were on the dock at Hoboken.
By noon every little detail had been attended to and there was
nothing further to do but sit and wait for the arrival of Stott
and Shirley. They were to be expected any moment now. The
passengers had probably got off the steamer by eleven o'clock. It
would take at least two hours to get through the Customs and out
to Massapequa. The judge and his wife sat on the porch counting
the minutes and straining their ears to catch the first sound of
the train from New York.
"I hope Stott broke the news to her gently," said the judge.
"I wish we had gone to meet her ourselves," sighed his wife.
The judge was silent and for a moment or two he puffed vigorously
at his pipe, as was his habit when disturbed mentally. Then he
said:
"I ought to have gone, Martha, but I was afraid. I'm afraid to
look my own daughter in the face and tell her that I am a
disgraced man, that I am to be tried by the Senate for corruption,
perhaps impeached and turned off the bench as if I were a
criminal. Shirley won't believe it, sometimes I can't believe it
myself. I often wake up in the night and think of it as part of a
dream, but when the morning comes it's still true--it's still
true!"
He smoked on in silence. Then happening to look up he noticed that
his wife was weeping. He laid his hand gently on hers.
"Don't cry, dear, don't make it harder for me to bear. Shirley
must see no trace of tears."
"I was thinking of the injustice of it all," replied Mrs.
Rossmore, wiping her eyes.
"Fancy Shirley in this place, living from hand to mouth," went on
the judge.
"That's the least," answered his wife. "She's a fine, handsome
girl, well educated and all the rest of it. She ought to make a
good marriage." No matter what state of mind Mrs. Rossmore might
be in, she never lost sight of the practical side of things.
"Hardly with her father's disgrace hanging over her head," replied
the judge wearily. "Who," he added, "would have the courage to
marry a girl whose father was publicly disgraced?"
Both relapsed into another long silence, each mentally reviewing
the past and speculating on the future. Suddenly Mrs. Rossmore
started. Surely she could not be mistaken! No, the clanging of a
locomotive bell was plainly audible. The train was in. From the
direction of the station came people with parcels and hand bags
and presently there was heard the welcome sound of carriage wheels
crunching over the stones. A moment later they saw coming round
the bend in the road a cab piled up with small baggage.
"Here they are! Here they are!" cried Mrs. Rossmore. "Come,
Eudoxia!" she called to the servant, while she herself hurried
down to the gate. The judge, fully as agitated as herself, only
showing his emotion in a different way, remained on the porch pale
and anxious.
The cab stopped at the curb and Stott alighted, first helping out
Mrs. Blake. Mrs. Rossmore's astonishment on seeing her sister was
almost comical.
"Milly!" she exclaimed.
They embraced first and explained afterwards. Then Shirley got out
and was in her mother's arms.
"Where's father?" was Shirley's first question.
"There--he's coming!"
The judge, unable to restrain his impatience longer, ran down from
the porch towards the gate. Shirley, with a cry of mingled grief
and joy, precipitated herself on his breast.
"Father! Father!" she cried between her sobs. "What have they done
to you?"
"There--there, my child. Everything will be well--everything will
be well."
Her head lay on his shoulder and he stroked her hair with his
hand, unable to speak from pent up emotion.
Mrs. Rossmore could not recover from her stupefaction on seeing
her sister. Mrs. Blake explained that she had come chiefly for the
benefit of the voyage and announced her intention of returning on
the same steamer.
"So you see I shall bother you only a few days," she said.
"You'll stay just as long as you wish," rejoined Mrs. Rossmore.
"Happily we have just one bedroom left." Then turning to Eudoxia,
who was wrestling with the baggage, which formed a miniature
Matterhorn on the sidewalk, she gave instructions:
"Eudoxia, you'll take this lady's baggage to the small bedroom
adjoining Miss Shirley's. She is going to stop with us for a few
days."
Taken completely aback at the news of this new addition, Eudoxia
looked at first defiance. She seemed on the point of handing in
her resignation there and then. But evidently she thought better
of it, for, taking a cue from Mrs. Rossmore, she asked in the
sarcastic manner of her mistress:
"Four is it now, M'm? I suppose the Constitootion of the United
States allows a family to be as big as one likes to make it. It's
hard on us girls, but if it's the law, it's all right, M'm. The
more the merrier!" With which broadside, she hung the bags all
over herself and staggered off to the house.
Stott explained that the larger pieces and the trunks would come
later by express. Mrs. Rossmore took him aside while Mrs. Blake
joined Shirley and the judge.
"Did you tell Shirley?" asked Mrs. Rossmore. "How did she take
it?"
"She knows everything," answered Stott, "and takes it very
sensibly. We shall find her of great moral assistance in our
coming fight in the Senate," he added confidently.
Realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with Shirley,
Mrs. Rossmore invited Mrs. Blake to go upstairs and see the room
she would have, while Stott said he would be glad of a washup.
When they had gone Shirley sidled up to her father in her old
familiar way.
"I've just been longing to see you, father," she said. She turned
to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had
deepened during her absence she cried: "Why, how you've changed! I
can scarcely believe it's you. Say something. Let me hear the
sound of your voice, father."
The judge tried to smile.
"Why, my dear girl, I---"
Shirley threw her arms round his neck.
"Ah, yes, now I know it's you," she cried.
"Of course it is, Shirley, my dear girl. Of course it is. Who else
should it be?"
"Yes, but it isn't the same," insisted Shirley. "There is no ring
to your voice. It sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. And this
place," she added dolefully, "this awful place--"
She glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered
walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized
the extent of their misfortune. She had come back prepared for the
worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have
to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that
humiliation in addition to disgrace--ah, that was something she
had not anticipated! She changed colour and her voice faltered.
Her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he
read her thoughts.
"It's the best we can afford, Shirley," he said quietly. "The blow
has been complete. I will tell you everything. You shall judge for
yourself. My enemies have done for me at last."
"Your enemies?" cried Shirley eagerly. "Tell me who they are so I
may go to them."
"Yes, dear, you shall know everything. But not now. You are tired
after your journey. To-morrow sometime Stott and I will explain
everything."
"Very well, father, as you wish," said Shirley gently. "After
all," she added in an effort to appear cheerful, "what matter
where we live so long as we have each other?"
She drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of
inspecting the house. She looked into the dining-room and kitchen
and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no
visible signs of trouble in her face.
"It's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "I've always
wanted a little place like this--all to ourselves. Oh, if you only
knew how tired I am of New York and its great ugly houses, its
retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities!
We shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?"
She spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but
the judge. He understood the motive of her sudden change in manner
and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter.
"Yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "There's not much room,
though."
"There's quite enough," she insisted. "Let me see." She began to
count on her fingers. "Upstairs--three rooms, eh? and above that
three more--"
"No," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?"
"Of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me--a nice gable roof, a
sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. Oh, I can see
that this is going to be awfully jolly--just like camping out. You
know how I love camping out. And you have a piano, too."
She went over to the corner where stood one of those homely
instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name
piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan
effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer
class of country boarding houses. Shirley sat down and ran her
fingers over the keys, determined to like everything.
"It's a little old," was her comment, "but I like these zither
effects. It's just like the sixteenth-century spinet. I can see
you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled.
"What's that about mother dancing?" demanded Mrs. Rossmore, who at
that instant entered the room. Shirley arose and appealed to her:
"Isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that
anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having
forfeited the right to be judge? Isn't it still more absurd that
we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on
Long Island instead of Madison Avenue? Why should Manhattan Island
be a happier spot than Long Island? Why shouldn't we be happy
anywhere; we have each other. And we do need each other. We never
knew how much till to-day, did we? We must stand by each other
now. Father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge
and we're going to help him, aren't we, mother? We're not helpless
just because we are women. We're going to work, mother and I."
"Work?" echoed Mrs. Rossmore, somewhat scandalized.
"Work," repeated Shirley very decisively.
The judge interfered. He would not hear of it.
"You work, Shirley? Impossible!"
"Why not? My book has been selling well while I was abroad. I
shall probably write others. Then I shall write, too, for the
newspapers and magazines. It will add to our income."
"Your book--'The American Octopus,' is selling well?" inquired the
judge, interested.
"So well," replied Shirley, "that the publishers wrote me in Paris
that the fourth edition was now on the press. That means good
royalties. I shall soon be a fashionable author. The publishers
will be after me for more books and we'll have all the money we
want. Oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary
success!" she exclaimed with glee. "Aren't you proud of me, dad?"
The judge smiled indulgently. Of course he was glad and proud. He
always knew his Shirley was a clever girl. But by what strange
fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of
hers assailed the very man who had encompassed his own ruin? It
seemed like the retribution of heaven. Neither his daughter nor
the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly
connected with the impeachment proceedings. Ryder could not dream
that "Shirley Green", the author of the book which flayed him so
mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush.
Shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it
was Ryder who had lured her father to his ruin.
Mrs. Rossmore now insisted on Shirley going to her room to rest.
She must be tired and dusty. After changing her travelling dress
she would feel refreshed and more comfortable. When she was ready
to come down again luncheon would be served. So leaving the judge
to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and
with due maternal pride Mrs. Rossmore pointed out to Shirley all
the little arrangements she had made for her comfort. Then she
left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look
after Eudoxia and luncheon.
When, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye
could see her, Shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst
into a torrent of tears. She had kept up appearances as long as it
was possible, but now the reaction had set in. She gave way freely
to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve
herself in this way her heart would break. She had been brave
until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see
everything, but she could not keep it up forever. Stott's words to
her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had
told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much
more vivid. While hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it
had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern
life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality--this
shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings,
her mother's air of resignation to the inevitable, her father's
pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish
through which he had passed. She compared this pitiful spectacle
with what they had been when she left for Europe, the fine mansion
on Madison Avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained
servants, and her father's proud aristocratic face illumined with
the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the
attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in
public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected
judges on the bench. Then to have come to this all in the brief
space of a few months! It was incredible, terrible, heart rending!
And what of the future? What was to be done to save her father
from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his
grave? He could not survive that humiliation, that degradation. He
must be saved in the Senate, but how--how?
She dried her eyes and began to think. Surely her woman's wit
would find some way. She thought of Jefferson. Would he come to
Massapequa? It was hardly probable. He would certainly learn of
the change in their circumstances and his sense of delicacy would
naturally keep him away for some time even if other
considerations, less unselfish, did not. Perhaps he would be
attracted to some other girl he would like as well and who was not
burdened with a tragedy in her family. Her tears began to flow
afresh until she hated herself for being so weak while there was
work to be done to save her father. She loved Jefferson. Yes, she
had never felt so sure of it as now. She felt that if she had him
there at that moment she would throw herself in his arms crying:
"Take me, Jefferson, take me away, where you will, for I love you!
I love you!" But Jefferson was not there and the rickety chairs in
the tiny bedroom and the cheap prints on the walls seemed to jibe
at her in her misery. If he were there, she thought as she looked
into a cracked mirror, he would think her very ugly with her eyes
all red from crying. He would not marry her now in any case. No
self-respecting man would. She was glad that she had spoken to him
as she had in regard to marriage, for while a stain remained upon
her father's name marriage was out of the question. She might have
yielded on the question of the literary career, but she would
never allow a man to taunt her afterwards with the disgrace of her
own flesh and blood. No, henceforth her place was at her father's
side until his character was cleared. If the trial in the Senate
were to go against him, then she could never see Jefferson again.
She would give up all idea of him and everything else. Her
literary career would be ended, her life would be a blank. They
would have to go abroad, where they were not known, and try and
live down their shame, for no matter how innocent her father might
be the world would believe him guilty. Once condemned by the
Senate, nothing could remove the stigma. She would have to teach
in order to contribute towards the support, they would manage
somehow. But what a future, how unnecessary, how unjust!
Suddenly she thought of Jefferson's promise to interest his father
in their case and she clutched at the hope this promise held out
as a drowning man clutches at a drifting straw. Jefferson would
not forget his promise and he would come to Massapequa to tell her
of what he had done. She was sure of that. Perhaps, after all,
there was where their hope lay. Why had she not told her father at
once? It might have relieved his mind. John Burkett Ryder, the
Colossus, the man of unlimited power! He could save her father and
he would. And the more she thought about it, the more cheerful and
more hopeful she became, and she started to dress quickly so that
she might hurry down to tell her father the good news. She was
actually sorry now that she had said so many hard things of Mr.
Ryder in her book and she was worrying over the thought that her
father's case might be seriously prejudiced if the identity of the
author were ever revealed, when there came a knock at her door. It
was Eudoxia.
"Please, miss, will you come down to lunch?"
CHAPTER VIII
A whirling maelstrom of human activity and dynamic energy--the
city which above all others is characteristic of the genius and
virility of the American people--New York, with its congested
polyglot population and teeming millions, is assuredly one of the
busiest, as it is one of the most strenuous and most noisy places
on earth. Yet, despite its swarming streets and crowded shops,
ceaselessly thronged with men and women eagerly hurrying here and
there in the pursuit of business or elusive pleasure, all
chattering, laughing, shouting amid the deafening, multisonous
roar of traffic incidental to Gotham's daily life, there is one
part of the great metropolis where there is no bustle, no noise,
no crowd, where the streets are empty even in daytime, where a
passer-by is a curiosity and a child a phenomenon. This deserted
village in the very heart of the big town is the millionaires'
district, the boundaries of which are marked by Carnegie hill on
the north, Fiftieth Street on the south, and by Fifth and Madison
Avenues respectively on the west and east. There is nothing more
mournful than the outward aspect of these princely residences
which, abandoned and empty for three-quarters of the year, stand
in stately loneliness, as if ashamed of their isolation and utter
uselessness. Their blinds drawn, affording no hint of life within,
enveloped the greater part of the time in the stillness and
silence of the tomb, they appear to be under the spell of some
baneful curse. No merry-voiced children romp in their carefully
railed off gardens, no sounds of conversation or laughter come
from their hermetically closed windows, not a soul goes in or out,
at most, at rare intervals, does one catch a glimpse of a
gorgeously arrayed servant gliding about in ghostly fashion,
supercilious and suspicious, and addressing the chance visitor in
awed whispers as though he were the guardian of a house of
affliction. It is, indeed, like a city of the dead.
So it appeared to Jefferson as he walked up Fifth Avenue, bound
for the Ryder residence, the day following his arrival from
Europe. Although he still lived at his father's house, for at no
time had there been an open rupture, he often slept in his studio,
finding it more convenient for his work, and there he had gone
straight from the ship. He felt, however, that it was his duty to
see his mother as soon as possible; besides he was anxious to
fulfil his promise to Shirley and find what his father could do to
help Judge Rossmore. He had talked about the case with several men
the previous evening at the club and the general impression seemed
to be that, guilty or innocent, the judge would be driven off the
bench. The "interests" had forced the matter as a party issue, and
the Republicans being in control in the Senate the outcome could
hardly be in doubt. He had learned also of the other misfortunes
which had befallen Judge Rossmore and he understood now the reason
for Shirley's grave face on the dock and her little fib about
summering on Long Island. The news had been a shock to him, for,
apart from the fact that the judge was Shirley's father, he
admired him immensely as a man. Of his perfect innocence there
could, of course, be no question: these charges of bribery had
simply been trumped up by his enemies to get him off the bench.
That was very evident. The "interests" feared him and so had
sacrificed him without pity, and as Jefferson walked along Central
Park, past the rows of superb palaces which face its eastern wall,
he wondered in which particular mansion had been hatched this
wicked, iniquitous plot against a wholly blameless American
citizen. Here, he thought, were the citadels of the plutocrats,
America's aristocracy of money, the strongholds of her Coal,
Railroad, Oil, Gas and Ice barons, the castles of her monarchs of
Steel, Copper, and Finance. Each of these million-dollar
residences, he pondered, was filled from cellar to roof with
costly furnishings, masterpieces of painting and sculpture,
priceless art treasures of all kinds purchased in every corner of
the globe with the gold filched from a Trust-ridden people. For
every stone in those marble halls a human being, other than the
owner, had been sold into bondage, for each of these magnificent
edifices, which the plutocrat put up in his pride only to occupy
it two months in the year, ten thousand American men, women and
children had starved and sorrowed.
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