“Didn't you hear me? I said they are ordinary people.”
“I've no doubt,” retorted Miss Deetle, “and as such they will not thank us for prying into their affairs.”
“Prying, did you say?” said the parson, resenting this implied criticism of his actions.
“Just plain prying,” persisted his sister angrily. “I don't see what else it is.”
The Rev. Pontifex straightened up and threw out his chest as he replied:
“It is protecting my flock. As Leader of the Unified All Souls Baptismal Presbytery, it is my duty to visit the widows and orphans of this community.”
“These people are neither widows or orphans,” objected Miss Deetle.
“They are strangers,” insisted the Rev. Pontifex, “and it is my duty to minister to them—if they need it. Furthermore it is my duty to my congregation to find out who is in their midst. No less than three of the Lady Trustees of my church have asked me who and what these people are and whence they came.”
“The Lady Trustees are a pack of old busybodies,” growled his sister.
Her brother raised his finger warningly.
“Jane, do you know you are uttering a blasphemy? These Rossmore people have been here two weeks. They have visited no one, no one visits them. They have avoided a temple of worship, they have acted most mysteriously. Who are they? What are they hiding? Is it fair to my church, is it fair to my flock? It is not a bereavement, for they don't wear mourning. I'm afraid it may be some hidden scandal—”
Further speculations on his part were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Rossmore, who thought rightly that the quickest way to get rid of her unwelcome visitors was to hurry downstairs as quickly as possible.
“Miss Deetle—Mr. Deetle. I am much honoured,” was her not too effusive greeting.
The Reverend Pontifex, anxious to make a favourable impression, was all smiles and bows. The idea of a possible scandal had for the moment ceased to worry him.
“The honour is ours,” he stammered. “I—er—we—er—my sister Jane and I called to—”
“Won't you sit down?” said Mrs. Rossmore, waving him to a chair. He danced around her in a manner that made her nervous.
“Thank you so much,” he said with a smile that was meant to be amiable. He took a seat at the further end of the room and an awkward pause followed. Finally his sister prompted him:
“You wanted to see Mrs. Rossmore about the festival,” she said.
“Oh, of course, I had quite forgotten. How stupid of me. The fact is, Mrs. Rossmore,” he went on, “we are thinking of giving a festival next week—a festival with strawberries—and our trustees thought, in fact it occurred to me also that if you and Mr. Rossmore would grace the occasion with your presence it would give us an opportunity—so to speak—get better acquainted, and er—”
Another awkward pause followed during which he sought inspiration by gazing fixedly in the fireplace. Then turning on Mrs. Rossmore so suddenly that the poor woman nearly jumped out of her chair he asked:
“Do you like strawberries?”
“It's very kind of you,” interrupted Mrs. Rossmore, glad of the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. “Indeed, I appreciate your kindness most keenly but my husband and I go nowhere, nowhere at all. You see we have met with reverses and—”
“Reverses,” echoed the clerical visitor, with difficulty keeping his seat. This was the very thing he had come to find out and here it was actually thrown at him. He congratulated himself on his cleverness in having inspired so much confidence and thought with glee of his triumph when he returned with the full story to the Lady Trustees. Simulating, therefore, the deepest sympathy he tried to draw his hostess out:
“Dear me, how sad! You met with reverses.”
Turning to his sister, who was sitting in her corner like a petrified mummy, he added:
“Jane, do you hear? How inexpressibly sad! They have met with reverses!”
He paused, hoping that Mrs. Rossmore would go on to explain just what their reverses had been, but she was silent. As a gentle hint he said softly:
“Did I interrupt you, Madam?”
“Not at all, I did not speak,” she answered.
Thus baffled, he turned the whites of his eyes up to the ceiling and said:
“When reverses come we naturally look for spiritual consolation. My dear Mrs. Rossmore, in the name of the Unified All Souls Baptismal Presbytery I offer you that consolation.”
Mrs. Rossmore looked helplessly from one to the other embarrassed as to what to say. Who were these strangers that intruded on her privacy offering a consolation she did not want? Miss Deetle, as if glad of the opportunity to joke at her brother's expense, said explosively:
“My dear Pontifex, you have already offered a strawberry festival which Mrs. Rossmore has been unable to accept.”
“Well, what of it?” demanded Mr. Deetle, glaring at his sister for the irrelevant interruption.
“You are both most kind,” murmured Mrs. Rossmore; “but we could not accept in any case. My daughter is returning home from Paris next week.”
“Ah, your daughter—you have a daughter?” exclaimed Mr. Deetle, grasping at the slightest straw to add to his stock of information. “Coming from Paris, too! Such a wicked city!”
He had never been to Paris, he went on to explain, but he had read enough about it and he was grateful that the Lord had chosen Massapequa as the field of his labours. Here at least, life was sweet and wholesome and one's hopes of future salvation fairly reasonable. He was not a brilliant talker when the conversation extended beyond Massapequa but he rambled on airing his views on the viciousness of the foreigner in general, until Mrs. Rossmore, utterly wearied, began to wonder when they would go. Finally he fell back upon the weather.
“We are very fortunate in having such pleasant weather, don't you think so, Madam? Oh, Massapequa is a lovely spot, isn't it? We think it's the one place to live in. We are all one happy family. That's why my sister and I called to make your acquaintance.”
“You are very good, I'm sure. I shall tell my husband you came and he'll be very pleased.”
Having exhausted his conversational powers and seeing that further efforts to pump Mrs. Rossmore were useless, the clerical visitor rose to depart:
“It looks like rain. Come, Jane, we had better go. Good-bye, Madam, I am delighted to have made this little visit and I trust you will assure Mr. Rossmore that All Souls Unified Baptismal Presbytery always has a warm welcome for him.”
They bowed and Mrs. Rossmore bowed. The agony was over and as the door closed on them Mrs. Rossmore gave a sigh of relief.
That evening Stott and the judge came home earlier than usual and from their dejected appearance Mrs. Rossmore divined bad news. The judge was painfully silent throughout the meal and Stott was unusually grave. Finally the latter took her aside and broke it to her gently. In spite of their efforts and the efforts of their friends the Congressional inquiry had resulted in a finding against the judge and a demand had already been made upon the Senate for his impeachment. They could do nothing now but fight it in the Senate with all the influence they could muster. It was going to be hard but Stott was confident that right would prevail. After dinner as they were sitting in silence on the porch, each measuring the force of this blow which they had expected yet had always hoped to ward off, the crunching sound of a bicycle was heard on the quiet country road. The rider stopped at their gate and came up the porch holding out an envelope to the judge, who, guessing the contents, had started forward. He tore it open. It was a cablegram from Paris and read as follows:
Am sailing on the Kaiser Wilhelm to-day.
Shirley.
The pier of the North German Lloyd Steamship Company, at Hoboken, fairly sizzled with bustle and excitement. The Kaiser Wilhelm had arrived at Sandy Hook the previous evening and was now lying out in midstream. She would tie up at her dock within half an hour. Employés of the line, baggage masters, newspaper reporters, Custom House officers, policemen, detectives, truck drivers, expressmen, longshoremen, telegraph messengers and anxious friends of incoming passengers surged back and forth in seemingly hopeless confusion. The shouting of orders, the rattling of cab wheels, the shrieking of whistles was deafening. From out in the river came the deep toned blasts of the steamer's siren, in grotesque contrast with the strident tooting of a dozen diminutive tugs which, puffing and snorting, were slowly but surely coaxing the leviathan into her berth alongside the dock. The great vessel, spick and span after a coat of fresh paint hurriedly put on during the last day of the voyage, bore no traces of gale, fog and stormy seas through which she had passed on her 3,000 mile run across the ocean. Conspicuous on the bridge, directing the docking operations, stood Capt. Hegermann, self satisfied and smiling, relieved that the responsibilities of another trip were over, and at his side, sharing the honours, was the grizzled pilot who had brought the ship safely through the dangers of Gedney's Channel, his shabby pea jacket, old slouch hat, top boots and unkempt beard standing out in sharp contrast with the immaculate white duck trousers, the white and gold caps and smart full dress uniforms of the ship's officers. The rails on the upper decks were seen to be lined with passengers, all dressed in their shore going clothes, some waving handkerchiefs at friends they already recognized, all impatiently awaiting the shipping of the gangplank.
Stott had come early. They had received word at Massapequa the day before that the steamer had been sighted off Fire Island and that she would be at her pier the next morning at 10 o'clock. Stott arrived at 9.30 and so found no difficulty in securing a front position among the small army of people, who, like himself, had come down to meet friends.
As the huge vessel swung round and drew closer, Stott easily picked out Shirley. She was scanning eagerly through a binocular the rows of upturned faces on the dock, and he noted that a look of disappointment crossed her face at not finding the object of her search. She turned and said something to a lady in black and to a man who stood at her side. Who they might be Stott had no idea. Fellow passengers, no doubt. One becomes so intimate on shipboard; it seems a friendship that must surely last a lifetime, whereas—the custom officers have not finished rummaging through your trunks when these easily-made steamer friends are already forgotten. Presently Shirley took another look and her glass soon lighted on him. Instantly she recognized her father's old friend. She waved a handkerchief and Stott raised his hat. Then she turned quickly and spoke again to her friends, whereupon they all moved in the direction of the gangplank, which was already being lowered.
Shirley was one of the first to come ashore. Stott was waiting for her at the foot of the gangplank and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. He had known her ever since she was a little tot in arms, and bystanders who noticed them meet had no doubt that they were father and daughter. Shirley was deeply moved; a great lump in her throat seemed to choke her utterance. So far she had been able to bear up, but now that home was so near her heart failed her. She had hoped to find her father on the dock. Why had he not come? Were things so bad then? She questioned Judge Stott anxiously, fearfully.
He reassured her. Both her mother and father were well. It was too long a trip for them to make, so he had volunteered.
“Too long a trip,” echoed Shirley puzzled. “This is not far from our house. Madison Avenue is no distance. That could not have kept father away.”
“You don't live on Madison Avenue any longer. The house and its contents have been sold,” replied Stott gravely, and in a few words he outlined the situation as it was.
Shirley listened quietly to the end and only the increasing pallor of her face and an occasional nervous twitching at the corner of her mouth betrayed the shock that this recital of her father's misfortunes was to her. Ah, this she had little dreamed of! Yet why not? It was but logic. When wrecked in reputation, one might as well be wrecked in fortune, too. What would their future be, how could that proud, sensitive man her father bear this humiliation, this disgrace? To be condemned to a life of obscurity, social ostracism, and genteel poverty! Oh, the thought was unendurable! She herself could earn money, of course. If her literary work did not bring in enough, she could teach and what she earned would help out. Certainly her parents should never want for anything so long as she could supply it. She thought bitterly how futile now were plans of marriage, even if she had ever entertained such an idea seriously. Henceforward, she did not belong to herself. Her life must be devoted to clearing her father's name. These reflections were suddenly interrupted by the voice of Mrs. Blake calling out:
“Shirley, where have you been? We lost sight of you as we left the ship, and we have been hunting for you ever since.”
Her aunt, escorted by Jefferson Ryder, had gone direct to the Customs desk and in the crush they had lost trace of her. Shirley introduced Stott.
“Aunt Milly, this is Judge Stott, a very old friend of father's. Mrs. Blake, my mother's sister. Mother will be surprised to see her. They haven't met for ten years.”
“This visit is going to be only a brief one,” said Mrs. Blake. “I really came over to chaperone Shirley more than anything else.”
“As if I needed chaperoning with Mr. Ryder for an escort!” retorted Shirley. Then presenting Jefferson to Stott she said:
“This is Mr. Jefferson Ryder—Judge Stott. Mr. Ryder has been very kind to me abroad.”
The two men bowed and shook hands.
“Any relation to J.B.?” asked Stott good humouredly.
“His son—that's all,” answered Jefferson laconically.
Stott now looked at the young man with more interest. Yes, there was a resemblance, the same blue eyes, the righting jaw. But how on earth did Judge Rossmore's daughter come to be travelling in the company of John Burkett Ryder's son? The more he thought of it the more it puzzled him, and while he cogitated Shirley and her companions wrestled with the United States Customs, and were undergoing all the tortures invented by Uncle Sam to punish Americans for going abroad.
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 dooks. 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.
“Father! Father! What have they done to you?”—Page 161.
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?”
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.
Europe, thought Jefferson as he strode quickly along, pointed with envy to America's unparalleled prosperity, spoke with bated breath of her great fortunes. Rather should they say her gigantic robberies, her colossal frauds! As a nation we were not proud of our multi-millionaires. How many of them would bear the searchlight of investigation? Would his own father? How many millions could one man make by honest methods? America was enjoying unprecedented prosperity, not because of her millionaires, but in spite of them. The United States owed its high rank in the family of nations to the country's vast natural resources, its inexhaustible vitality, its great wheat fields, the industrial and mechanical genius of its people. It was the plain American citizen who had made the greatness of America, not the millionaires who, forming a class by themselves of unscrupulous capitalists, had created an arrogant oligarchy which sought to rule the country by corrupting the legislature and the judiciary. The plutocrats—these were the leeches, the sores in the body politic. An organized band of robbers, they had succeeded in dominating legislation and in securing control of every branch of the nation's industry, crushing mercilessly and illegally all competition. They were the Money Power, and such a menace were they to the welfare of the people that, it had been estimated, twenty men in America had it in their power, by reason of the vast wealth which they controlled, to come together, and within twenty-four hours arrive at an understanding by which every wheel of trade and commerce would be stopped from revolving, every avenue of trade blocked and every electric key struck dumb. Those twenty men could paralyze the whole country, for they controlled the circulation of the currency and could create a panic whenever they might choose. It was the rapaciousness and insatiable greed of these plutocrats that had forced the toilers to combine for self-protection, resulting in the organization of the Labor Unions which, in time, became almost as tyrannical and unreasonable as the bosses. And the breach between capital on the one hand and labour on the other was widening daily, masters and servants snarling over wages and hours, the quarrel ever increasing in bitterness and acrimony until one day the extreme limit of patience would be reached and industrial strikes would give place to bloody violence.
Meantime the plutocrats, wholly careless of the significant signs of the times and the growing irritation and resentment of the people, continued their illegal practices, scoffing at public opinion, snapping their fingers at the law, even going so far in their insolence as to mock and jibe at the President of the United States. Feeling secure in long immunity and actually protected in their wrong doing by the courts—the legal machinery by its very elaborateness defeating the ends of justice—the Trust kings impudently defied the country and tried to impose their own will upon the people. History had thus repeated itself. The armed feudalism of the middle ages had been succeeded in twentieth century America by the tyranny of capital.
Yet, ruminated the young artist as he neared the Ryder residence, the American people had but themselves to blame for their present thralldom. Forty years before Abraham Lincoln had warned the country when at the close of the war he saw that the race for wealth was already making men and women money-mad. In 1864 he wrote these words: