“Yes, we may congratulate ourselves that this cruel war is nearing its close. It has cost a vast amount of treasure and blood. The best blood of the flower of American youth has been freely offered upon our country's altar that the nation might live. It has been indeed a trying hour for the Republic, but I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. As a result of the war, corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed.”
Truly prophetic these solemn words were to-day. Forgetting the austere simplicity of their forebears, a love of show and ostentation had become the ruling passion of the American people. Money, MONEY, MONEY! was to-day the only standard, the only god! The whole nation, frenzied with a wild lust for wealth no matter how acquired, had tacitly acquiesced in all sorts of turpitude, every description of moral depravity, and so had fallen an easy victim to the band of capitalistic adventurers who now virtually ruled the land. With the thieves in power, the courts were powerless, the demoralization was general and the world was afforded the edifying spectacle of an entire country given up to an orgy of graft—treason in the Senate—corruption in the Legislature, fraudulent elections, leaks in government reports, trickery in Wall Street, illegal corners in coal, meat, ice and other prime necessaries of life, the deadly horrors of the Beef and Drug Trusts, railroad conspiracies, insurance scandals, the wrecking of savings banks, police dividing spoils with pickpockets and sharing the wages of prostitutes, magistrates charged with blackmailing—a foul stench of social rottenness and decay! What, thought Jefferson, would be the outcome—Socialism or Anarchy?
Still, he mused, one ray of hope pierced the general gloom—the common sense, the vigour and the intelligence of the true American man and woman, the love for a “square deal” which was characteristic of the plain people, the resistless force of enlightened public opinion. The country was merely passing through a dark phase in its history, it was the era of the grafters. There would come a reaction, the rascals would be exposed and driven off, and the nation would go on upward toward its high destiny. The country was fortunate, too, in having a strong president, a man of high principles and undaunted courage who had already shown his capacity to deal with the critical situation. America was lucky with her presidents. Picked out by the great political parties as mere figureheads, sometimes they deceived their sponsors, and showed themselves men and patriots. Such a president was Theodore Roosevelt. After beginning vigorous warfare on the Trusts, attacking fearlessly the most rascally of the band, the chief of the nation had sounded the slogan of alarm in regard to the multi-millionaires. The amassing of colossal fortunes, he had declared, must be stopped—a man might accumulate more than sufficient for his own needs and for the needs of his children, but the evil practice of perpetuating great and ever-increasing fortunes for generations yet unborn was recognized as a peril to the State. To have had the courage to propose such a sweeping and radical restrictive measure as this should alone, thought Jefferson, ensure for Theodore Roosevelt a place among America's greatest and wisest statesmen. He and Americans of his calibre would eventually perform the titanic task of cleansing these Augean stables, the muck and accumulated filth of which was sapping the health and vitality of the nation.
Jefferson turned abruptly and went up the wide steps of an imposing white marble edifice, which took up the space of half a city block. A fine example of French Renaissance architecture, with spire roofs, round turrets and mullioned windows dominating the neighbouring houses, this magnificent home of the plutocrat, with its furnishings and art treasures, had cost John Burkett Ryder nearly ten millions of dollars. It was one of the show places of the town, and when the “rubber neck” wagons approached the Ryder mansion and the guides, through their megaphones, expatiated in awe-stricken tones on its external and hidden beauties, there was a general craning of vertebræ among the “seeing New York”-ers to catch a glimpse of the abode of the richest man in the world.
Only a few privileged ones were ever permitted to penetrate to the interior of this ten-million-dollar home. Ryder was not fond of company, he avoided strangers and lived in continual apprehension of the subpœna server. Not that he feared the law, only he usually found it inconvenient to answer questions in court under oath. The explicit instructions to the servants, therefore, were to admit no one under any pretext whatever unless the visitor had been approved by the Hon. Fitzroy Bagley, Mr. Ryder's aristocratic private secretary, and to facilitate this preliminary inspection there had been installed between the library upstairs and the front door one of those ingenious electric writing devices, such as are used in banks, on which a name is hastily scribbled, instantly transmitted elsewhere, immediately answered and the visitor promptly admitted or as quickly shown the door.
Indeed the house, from the street, presented many of the characteristics of a prison. It had massive doors behind a row of highly polished steel gates, which would prove as useful in case of attempted invasion as they were now ornamental, and heavily barred windows, while on either side of the portico were great marble columns hung with chains and surmounted with bronze lions rampant. It was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but Mr. Ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in New York at this time, and Mrs. Ryder, who was one of the few American wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord.
Jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal. The sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs. But the great man's son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and Jefferson was under his father's roof.
“Is my father in?” he demanded of the man.
“No, sir,” was the respectful answer. “Mr. Ryder has gone out driving, but Mr. Bagley is upstairs.” Then after a brief pause he added: “Mrs. Ryder is in, too.”
In this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter's secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife.
Jefferson went up the grand staircase hung on either side with fine old portraits and rare tapestries, his feet sinking deep in the rich velvet carpet. On the first landing was a piece of sculptured marble of inestimable worth, seen in the soft warm light that sifted through a great pictorial stained-glass window overhead, the subject representing Ajax and Ulysses contending for the armour of Achilles. To the left of this, at the top of another flight leading to the library, was hung a fine full-length portrait of John Burkett Ryder. The ceilings here as in the lower hall were richly gilt and adorned with paintings by famous modern artists. When he reached this floor Jefferson was about to turn to the right and proceed direct to his mother's suite when he heard a voice near the library door. It was Mr. Bagley giving instructions to the butler.
The Honourable Fitzroy Bagley, a younger son of a British peer, had left his country for his country's good, and in order to turn an honest penny, which he had never succeeded in doing at home, he had entered the service of America's foremost financier, hoping to gather a few of the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table and disguising the menial nature of his position under the high-sounding title of private secretary. His job called for a spy and a toady and he filled these requirements admirably. Excepting with his employer, of whom he stood in craven fear, his manner was condescendingly patronizing to all with whom he came in contact, as if he were anxious to impress on these American plebeians the signal honour which a Fitzroy, son of a British peer, did them in deigning to remain in their “blarsted” country. In Mr. Ryder's absence, therefore, he ran the house to suit himself, bullying the servants and not infrequently issuing orders that were contradictory to those already given by Mrs. Ryder. The latter offered no resistance, she knew he was useful to her husband and, what to her mind was a still better reason for letting him have his own way, she had always had the greatest reverence for the British aristocracy. It would have seemed to her little short of vulgarity to question the actions of anyone who spoke with such a delightful English accent. Moreover, he dressed with irreproachable taste, was an acknowledged authority on dinner menus and social functions and knew his Burke backwards—altogether an accomplished and invaluable person.
Jefferson could not bear the sight of him; in fact, it was this man's continual presence in the house that had driven him to seek refuge elsewhere. He believed him to be a scoundrel as he certainly was a cad. Nor was his estimate of the English secretary far wrong. The man, like his master, was a grafter, and the particular graft he was after now was either to make a marriage with a rich American girl or to so compromise her that the same end would be attained. He was shrewd enough to realize that he had little chance to get what he wanted in the open matrimonial market, so he determined to attempt a raid and carry off an heiress under her father's nose, and the particular proboscis he had selected was that of his employer's friend, Senator Roberts. The senator and Miss Roberts were frequently at the Ryder House and in course of time the aristocratic secretary and the daughter had become quite intimate. A flighty girl, with no other purpose in life beyond dress and amusement and having what she termed “a good time,” Kate thought it excellent pastime to flirt with Mr. Bagley, and when she discovered that he was serious in his attentions she felt flattered rather than indignant. After all, she argued, he was of noble birth. If his two brothers died he would be peer of England, and she had enough money for both. He might not make a bad husband. But she was careful to keep her own counsel and not let her father have any suspicion of what was going on. She knew that his heart was set on her marrying Jefferson Ryder and she knew better than anyone how impossible that dream was. She herself liked Jefferson quite enough to marry him, but if his eyes were turned in another direction—and she knew all about his attentions to Miss Rossmore—she was not going to break her heart about it. So she continued to flirt secretly with the Honourable Fitzroy while she still led the Ryders and her own father to think that she was interested in Jefferson.
“Jorkins,” Mr. Bagley was saying to the butler, “Mr. Ryder will occupy the library on his return. See that he is not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the butler respectfully. The man turned to go when the secretary called him back.
“And, Jorkins, you will station another man at the front entrance. Yesterday it was left unguarded, and a man had the audacity to address Mr. Ryder as he was getting out of his carriage. Last week a reporter tried to snapshot him. Mr. Ryder was furious. These things must not happen again, Jorkins. I shall hold you responsible.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler bowed and went downstairs. The secretary looked up and saw Jefferson. His face reddened and his manner grew nervous.
“Hello! Back from Europe, Jefferson? How jolly! Your mother will be delighted. She's in her room upstairs.”
Declining to take the hint, and gathering from Bagley's embarrassed manner that he wanted to get rid of him, Jefferson lingered purposely. When the butler had disappeared, he said:
“This house is getting more and more like a barracks every day. You've got men all over the place. One can't move a step without falling over one.”
Mr. Bagley drew himself up stiffly, as he always did when assuming an air of authority.
“Your father's personality demands the utmost precaution,” he replied. “We cannot leave the life of the richest and most powerful financier in the world at the mercy of the rabble.”
“What rabble?” inquired Jefferson, amused.
“The common rabble—the lower class—the riff-raff,” explained Mr. Bagley.
“Pshaw!” laughed Jefferson. “If our financiers were only half as respectable as the common rabble, as you call them, they would need no bars to their houses.”
Mr. Bagley sneered and shrugged his shoulders.
“Your father has warned me against your socialistic views.” Then, with a lofty air, he added: “For four years I was third groom of the bedchamber to the second son of England's queen. I know my responsibilities.”
“But you are not groom of the bedchamber here,” retorted Jefferson.
“Whatever I am,” said Mr. Bagley haughtily, “I am answerable to your father alone.”
“By the way, Bagley,” asked Jefferson, “when do you expect father to return? I want to see him.”
“I'm afraid it's quite impossible,” answered the secretary with studied insolence. “He has three important people to see before dinner. There's the National Republican Committee and Sergeant Ellison of the Secret Service from Washington—all here by appointment. It's quite impossible.”
“I didn't ask you if it were possible. I said I wanted to see him and I will see him,” answered Jefferson quietly but firmly, and in a tone and manner which did not admit of further opposition. “I'll go and leave word for him on his desk,” he added.
He started to enter the library when the secretary, who was visibly perturbed, attempted to bar his way.
“There's some one in there,” he said in an undertone. “Someone waiting for your father.”
“Is there?” replied Jefferson coolly. “I'll see who it is,” with which he brushed past Mr. Bagley and entered the library.
He had guessed aright. A woman was there. It was Kate Roberts.
“Hello, Kate! how are you?” They called each other by their first names, having been acquainted for years, and while theirs was an indifferent kind of friendship they had always been on good terms. At one time Jefferson had even begun to think he might do what his father wished and marry the girl, but it was only after he had met and known Shirley Rossmore that he realized how different one woman can be from another. Yet Kate had her good qualities. She was frivolous and silly as are most girls with no brains and nothing else to do in life but dress and spend money, but she might yet be happy with some other fellow, and that was why it made him angry to see this girl with $100,000 in her own right playing into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer. He had evidently disturbed an interesting tête-à -tête. He decided to say nothing, but mentally he resolved to spoil Mr. Bagley's game and save Kate from her own folly. On hearing his voice Kate turned and gave a little cry of genuine surprise.
“Why, is it you, Jeff? I thought you were in Europe.”
“I returned yesterday,” he replied somewhat curtly. He crossed over to his father's desk where he sat down to scribble a few words, while Mr. Bagley, who had followed him in scowling, was making frantic dumb signs to Kate.
“I fear I intrude here,” said Jefferson pointedly.
“Oh, dear no, not at all,” replied Kate in some confusion. “I was waiting for my father. How is Paris?” she asked.
“Lovely as ever,” he answered.
“Did you have a good time?” she inquired.
“I enjoyed it immensely. I never had a better one.”
“You probably were in good company,” she said significantly. Then she added: “I believe Miss Rossmore was in Paris.”
“Yes, I think she was there,” was his non-committal answer.
To change the conversation, which was becoming decidedly personal, he picked up a book that was lying on his father's desk and glanced at the title. It was “The American Octopus.”
“Is father still reading this?” he asked. “He was at it when I left.”
“Everybody is reading it,” said Kate. “The book has made a big sensation. Do you know who the hero is?”
“Who?” he asked with an air of the greatest innocence.
“Why, no less a personage than your father—John Burkett Ryder himself! Everybody says it's he—the press and everybody that's read it. He says so himself.”
“Really?” he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise. “I must read it.”
“It has made a strong impression on Mr. Ryder,” chimed in Mr. Bagley. “I never knew him to be so interested in a book before. He's trying his best to find out who the author is. It's a jolly well written book and raps you American millionaires jolly well—what?”
“Whoever wrote the book,” interrupted Kate, “is somebody who knows Mr. Ryder exceedingly well. There are things in it that an outsider could not possibly know.”
“Phew!” Jefferson whistled softly to himself. He was treading dangerous ground. To conceal his embarrassment, he rose.
“If you'll excuse me, I'll go and pay my filial respects upstairs. I'll see you again,” He gave Kate a friendly nod, and without even glancing at Mr. Bagley left the room.
The couple stood in silence for a few moments after he disappeared. Then Kate went to the door and listened to his retreating footsteps. When she was sure that he was out of earshot she turned on Mr. Bagley indignantly.
“You see what you expose me to. Jefferson thinks this was a rendezvous.”
“Well, it was to a certain extent,” replied the secretary unabashed. “Didn't you ask me to see you here?”
“Yes,” said Kate, taking a letter from her bosom, “I wanted to ask you what this means?”
“My dear Miss Roberts—Kate—I”—stammered the secretary.
“How dare you address me in this manner when you know I and Mr. Ryder are engaged?”
No one knew better than Kate that this was not true, but she said it partly out of vanity, partly out of a desire to draw out this Englishman who made such bold love to her.
“Miss Roberts,” replied Mr. Bagley loftily, “in that note I expressed my admiration—my love for you. Your engagement to Mr. Jefferson Ryder is, to say the least, a most uncertain fact.” There was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice that did not escape Kate.
“You must not judge from appearances,” she answered, trying to keep up the outward show of indignation which inwardly she did not feel. “Jeff and I may hide a passion that burns like a volcano. All lovers are not demonstrative, you know.”
The absurdity of this description as applied to her relations with Jefferson appealed to her as so comical that she burst into laughter in which the secretary joined.
“Then why did you remain here with me when the Senator went out with Mr. Ryder, senior?” he demanded.
“To tell you that I cannot listen to your nonsense any longer,” retorted the girl.
“What?” he cried, incredulously. “You remain here to tell me that you cannot listen to me when you could easily have avoided listening to me without telling me so. Kate, your coldness is not convincing.”
“You mean you think I want to listen to you?” she demanded.
“I do,” he answered, stepping forward as if to take her in his arms.
“Mr. Bagley!” she exclaimed, recoiling.
“A week ago,” he persisted, “you called me Fitzroy. Once, in an outburst of confidence, you called me Fitz.”
“You hadn't asked me to marry you then,” she laughed mockingly. Then edging away towards the door she waved her hand at him playfully and said teasingly: “Good-bye, Mr. Bagley, I am going upstairs to Mrs. Ryder. I will await my father's return in her room. I think I shall be safer.”
He ran forward to intercept her, but she was too quick for him. The door slammed in his face and she was gone.
Meantime Jefferson had proceeded upstairs, passing through long and luxuriously carpeted corridors with panelled frescoed walls, and hung with grand old tapestries and splendid paintings, until he came to his mother's room. He knocked.
“Come in!” called out the familiar voice.
He entered. Mrs. Ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts.
“Hello, mother!” he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way. Jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son.
“Jefferson!” she exclaimed when he released her. “My dear boy, when did you arrive?”
“Only yesterday. I slept at the studio last night. You're looking bully, mother. How's father?”
Mrs. Ryder sighed while she looked her son over proudly. In her heart she was glad Jefferson had turned out as he had. Her boy certainly would never be a financier to be attacked in magazines and books. Answering his question she said:
“Your father is as well as those busybodies in the newspapers will let him be. He's considerably worried just now over that new book ‘The American Octopus.’ How dare they make him out such a monster? He's no worse than other successful business men. He's richer, that's all, and it makes them jealous. He's out driving now with Senator Roberts. Kate is somewhere in the house—in the library, I think.”
“Yes, I found her there,” replied Jefferson dryly. “She was with that cad, Bagley. When is father going to find that fellow out?”
“Oh, Jefferson,” protested his mother, “how can you talk like that of Mr. Bagley. He is such a perfect gentleman. His family connections alone should entitle him to respect. He is certainly the best secretary your father ever had. I'm sure I don't know what we should do without him. He knows everything that a gentleman should.”
“And a good deal more, I wager,” growled Jefferson. “He wasn't groom of the backstairs to England's queen for nothing.” Then changing the topic, he said suddenly: “Talking about Kate, mother, we have got to reach some definite understanding. This talk about my marrying her must stop. I intend to take the matter up with father to-day.”
“Oh, of course, more trouble!” replied his mother in a resigned tone. She was so accustomed to having her wishes thwarted that she was never surprised at anything. “We heard of your goings on in Paris. That Miss Rossmore was there, was she not?”
“That has got nothing to do with it,” replied Jefferson warmly. He resented Shirley's name being dragged into the discussion. Then more calmly he went on: “Now, mother, be reasonable, listen. I purpose to live my own life. I have already shown my father that I will not be dictated to, and that I can earn my own living. He has no right to force this marriage on me. There has never been any misunderstanding on Kate's part. She and I understand each other thoroughly.”
“Well, Jefferson, you may be right from your point of view,” replied his mother weakly. She invariably ended by agreeing with the last one who argued with her. “You are of age, of course. Your parents have only a moral right over you. Only remember this: it would be foolish of you to do anything now to anger your father. His interests are your interests. Don't do anything to jeopardize them. Of course, you can't be forced to marry a girl you don't care for, but your father will be bitterly disappointed. He had set his heart on this match. He knows all about your infatuation for Miss Rossmore and it has made him furious. I suppose you've heard about her father?”
“Yes, and it's a dastardly outrage,” blurted out Jefferson. “It's a damnable conspiracy against one of the most honourable men that ever lived, and I mean to ferret out and expose the authors. I came here to-day to ask father to help me.”
“You came to ask your father to help you?” echoed his mother incredulously.
“Why not?” demanded Jefferson. “Is it true then that he is selfishness incarnate? Wouldn't he do that much to help a friend?”
“You've come to the wrong house, Jeff. You ought to know that. Your father is far from being Judge Rossmore's friend. Surely you have sense enough to realize that there are two reasons why he would not raise a finger to help him. One is that he has always been his opponent in public life, the other is that you want to marry his daughter.”
Jefferson sat as if struck dumb. He had not thought of that. Yes, it was true. His father and the father of the girl he loved were mortal enemies. How was help to be expected from the head of those “interests” which the judge had always attacked, and now he came to think of it, perhaps his own father was really at the bottom of these abominable charges! He broke into a cold perspiration and his voice was altered as he said:
“Yes, I see now, mother. You are right.” Then he added bitterly: “That has always been the trouble at home. No matter where I turn, I am up against a stone wall—the money interests. One never hears a glimmer of fellow-feeling, never a word of human sympathy, only cold calculation, heartless reasoning, money, money, money! Oh, I am sick of it. I don't want any of it. I am going away where I'll hear no more of it.”
His mother laid her hand gently on his shoulder.
“Don't talk that way, Jefferson. Your father is not a bad man at heart, you know that. His life has been devoted to money making and he has made a greater fortune than any man living or dead. He is only what his life has made him. He has a good heart. And he loves you—his only son. But his business enemies—ah! those he never forgives.”
Jefferson was about to reply when suddenly a dozen electric bells sounded all over the house.
“What's that?” exclaimed Jefferson, alarmed, and starting towards the door.
“Oh, that's nothing,” smiled his mother. “We have had that put in since you went away. Your father must have just come in. Those bells announce the fact. It was done so that if there happened to be any strangers in the house they could be kept out of the way until he reached the library safely.”
“Oh,” laughed Jefferson, “he's afraid some one will kidnap him? Certainly he would be a rich prize. I wouldn't care for the job myself, though. They'd be catching a tartar.”
His speech was interrupted by a timid knock at the door.
“May I come in to say good-bye?” asked a voice which they recognized as Kate's. She had successfully escaped from Mr. Bagley's importunities and was now going home with the Senator. She smiled amiably at Jefferson and they chatted pleasantly of his trip abroad. He was sincerely sorry for this girl whom they were trying to foist on him. Not that he thought she really cared for him, he was well aware that hers was a nature that made it impossible to feel very deeply on any subject, but the idea of this ready-made marriage was so foreign, so revolting to the American mind! He thought it would be a kindness to warn her against Bagley.
“Don't be foolish, Kate,” he said. “I was not blind just now in the library. That man is no good.”
As is usual when one's motives are suspected, the girl resented his interference. She knew he hated Mr. Bagley and she thought it mean of him to try and get even in this way. She stiffened up and replied coldly:
“I think I am able to look after myself, Jefferson. Thanks, all the same.”
He shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. She said good-bye to Mrs. Ryder, who was again immersed in her tradespeople bills, and left the room, escorted by Jefferson, who accompanied her downstairs and on to the street where Senator Roberts was waiting for her in the open victoria. The senator greeted with unusual cordiality the young man whom he still hoped to make his son-in-law.
“Come and see us, Jefferson,” he said. “Come to dinner any evening. We are always alone and Kate and I will be glad to see you.”
“Jefferson has so little time now, father. His work and—his friends keep him pretty busy,”
Jefferson had noted both the pause and the sarcasm, but he said nothing. He smiled and the senator raised his hat. As the carriage drove off the young man noticed that Kate glanced at one of the upper windows where Mr. Bagley stood behind a curtain watching. Jefferson returned to the house. The psychological moment had arrived. He must go now and confront his father in the library.
The library was the most important room in the Ryder mansion, for it was there that the Colossus carried through his most important business deals, and its busiest hours were those which most men devote to rest. But John Burkett Ryder never rested. There could be no rest for any man who had a thousand millions of dollars to take care of. Like Macbeth, he could sleep no more. When the hum of business life had ceased down town and he returned home from the tall building in lower Broadway, then his real work began. The day had been given to mere business routine; in his own library at night, free from inquisitive ears and prying eyes, he could devise new schemes for strengthening his grip upon the country, he could evolve more gigantic plans for adding to his already countless millions.
Here the money Moloch held court like any king, with as much ceremony and more secrecy, and having for his courtiers some of the most prominent men in the political and industrial life of the nation. Corrupt senators, grafting Congressmen, ambitious railroad presidents, insolent coal barons who impudently claimed they administered the coal lands in trust for the Almighty, unscrupulous princes of finance and commerce, all visited this room to receive orders or pay from the head of the “System.” Here were made and unmade governors of States, mayors of cities, judges, heads of police, cabinet ministers, even presidents. Here were turned over to confidential agents millions of dollars to overturn the people's vote in the National elections; here were distributed yearly hundreds of thousands of dollars to grafters, large and small, who had earned it in the service of the “interests.”
Here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put millions in the pockets of the Trust. Here were planned tricky financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day, only a week later to put Wall Street on the verge of panic. Half a dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions of profits had gone into the coffers of the “System.” Here, too, was perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free people—the conspiring of the Trusts abetted by the railroads, to arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life—meat, coal, oil, ice, gas—wholly without other justification than that of greed, which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion. In short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler was done within these four walls.
It was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle of the room and one at either end. The lofty ceiling was a marvellously fine example of panelled oak of Gothic design, decorated with gold, and the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak, richly carved. In the centre of the wall facing the windows was a massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine three-quarter length portrait of George Washington. The room was furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of Shakespeare, Goethe and Voltaire. It was the retreat of a scholar rather than of a man of affairs.
When Jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black cigar between his lips, giving instructions to Mr. Bagley. Mr. Ryder looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be. They were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the Colossus so unceremoniously. But when he saw who it was, Mr. Ryder's stern, set face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably.
“Why, Jeff, my boy, is that you? Just a moment, until I get rid of Bagley, and I'll be with you.”
Jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the financier continued his business with the secretary.
“Now, Bagley. Come, quick. What is it?”
He spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train. John Ryder had been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one.
“Governor Rice called. He wants an appointment,” said Mr. Bagley, holding out a card.
“I can't see him. Tell him so,” came the answer, quick as a flash. “Who else?” he demanded. “Where's your list?”
Mr. Bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over.
“General Abbey telephoned. He says you promised—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Ryder impatiently, “but not here. Down town, to-morrow, any time. Next?”
The secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said:
“There are some people downstairs in the reception room. They are here by appointment.”
“Who are they?”
“The National Republican Committee and Sergeant Ellison of the Secret Service from Washington,” replied Mr. Bagley.
“Who was here first?” demanded the financier.
“Sergeant Ellison, sir.”
“Then I'll see him first, and the Committee afterwards. But let them all wait until I ring. I wish to speak with my son.”
He waved his hand and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left the room. Jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held out his hand.
“Well, Jefferson,” he said kindly, “did you have a good time abroad?”
“Yes, sir, thank you. Such a trip is a liberal education in itself.”
“Ready for work again, eh? I'm glad you're back, Jefferson. I'm busy now, but one of these days I want to have a serious talk with you in regard to your future. This artist business is all very well—for a pastime. But it's not a career—surely you can appreciate that—for a young man with such prospects as yours. Have you ever stopped to think of that?”
Jefferson was silent. He did not want to displease his father; on the other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been doing. There must be an understanding sooner or later. Why not now?
“The truth is, sir,” he began timidly, “I'd like a little talk with you now, if you can spare the time.”
Ryder, Sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair. Then he said with a smile:
“Well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, I can't—but—I will. Come, what is it?” Then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added, “I've had a very busy day, Jeff. What with Trans-Continental and Trans-Atlantic and Southern Pacific, and Wall Street, and Rate Bills, and Washington I feel like Atlas shouldering the world.”
“The world wasn't intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir,” rejoined Jefferson calmly.
His father looked at him in amazement. It was something new to hear anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said.
“Why not?” he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise. “Julius Cæsar carried it. Napoleon carried it—to a certain extent. However, that's neither here nor there. What is it, boy?”
Unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass of papers on his desk, while Jefferson was thinking what to say. The last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out protestingly:
“That's just it, sir. You forget that I'm no longer a boy. It's time to treat me as if I were a man.”
Ryder, Sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
“A man at twenty-eight? That's an excellent joke. Do you know that a man doesn't get his horse sense till he's forty?”
“I want you to take me seriously,” persisted Jefferson.
Ryder, Sr., was not a patient man. His moments of good humour were of brief duration. Anything that savoured of questioning his authority always angered him. The smile went out of his face and he retorted explosively:
“Go on—damn it all! Be serious if you want, only don't take so long about it. But understand one thing. I want no preaching, no philosophical or socialistic twaddle. No Tolstoi—he's a great thinker, and you're not. No Bernard Shaw—he's funny, and you're not. Now go ahead.”
This beginning was not very encouraging, and Jefferson felt somewhat intimidated. But he realized that he might not have another such opportunity, so he plunged right in.
“I should have spoken to you before if you had let me,” he said. “I often—”
“If I let you?” interrupted his father. “Do you expect me to sit and listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform? You asked me one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard work was poverty, and I told you that I worked harder in one day than a tunnel digger works in a life-time. Thinking is a harder game than any. You must think or you won't know. Napoleon knew more about war than all his generals put together. I know more about money than any man living to-day. The man who knows is the man who wins. The man who takes advice isn't fit to give it. That's why I never take yours. Come, don't be a fool, Jeff—give up this art nonsense. Come back to the Trading Company. I'll make you vice-president, and I'll teach you the business of making millions.”
Jefferson shook his head. It was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured:
“It's impossible, father. I am devoted to my work. I even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world. It will help me considerably.”
Ryder, Sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently:
“Don't be obstinate, Jeff. Listen to me. I know the world better than you do. You mustn't go away. You are the only flesh and blood I have.”
He stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control. Jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter. Seeing that his words had made no effect, Ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried:
“You see my weakness. You see that I want you with me, and now you take advantage—you take advantage—”
“No, father, I don't,” protested Jefferson; “but I want to go away. Although I have my studio and am practically independent, I want to go where I shall be perfectly free—where my every move will not be watched—where I can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal basis, where I shall not be pointed out as the son of Ready Money Ryder. I want to make a reputation of my own as an artist.”
“Why not study theology and become a preacher?” sneered Ryder. Then, more amiably, he said: “No, my lad, you stay here. Study my interests—study the interests that will be yours some day.”
“No,” said Jefferson doggedly, “I'd rather go—my work and my self-respect demand it.”
“Then go, damn it, go!” cried his father in a burst of anger. “I'm a fool for wasting my time with an ungrateful son.” He rose from his seat and began to pace the room.
“Father,” exclaimed Jefferson starting forward, “you do me an injustice.”
“An injustice?” echoed Mr. Ryder turning round. “Ye gods! I've given you the biggest name in the commercial world; the most colossal fortune ever accumulated by one man is waiting for you, and you say I've done you an injustice!”
“Yes—we are rich,” said Jefferson bitterly. “But at what a cost! You do not go into the world and hear the sneers that I get everywhere. You may succeed in muzzling the newspapers and magazines, but you cannot silence public opinion. People laugh when they hear the name Ryder—when they do not weep. All your millions cannot purchase the world's respect. You try to throw millions to the public as a bone to a dog, and they decline the money on the ground that it is tainted. Doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of your methods?”
Ryder laughed cynically. He went back to his desk, and, sitting facing his son, he replied:
“Jefferson, you are young. It is one of the symptoms of youth to worry about public opinion. When you are as old as I am you will understand that there is only one thing which counts in this world—money. The man who has it possesses power over the man who has it not, and power is what the ambitious man loves most.”
He stopped to pick up a book. It was “The American Octopus.” Turning again to his son, he went on:
“Do you see this book? It is the literary sensation of the year. Why? Because it attacks me—the richest man in the world. It holds me up as a monster, a tyrant, a man without soul, honour or conscience, caring only for one thing—money; having but one passion—the love of power, and halting at nothing, not even at crime, to secure it. That is the portrait they draw of your father.”
Jefferson said nothing. He was wondering if his sire had a suspicion who wrote it and was leading up to that. But Ryder, Sr., continued:
“Do I care? The more they attack me the more I like it. Their puny pen pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm. What I am, the conditions of my time made me. When I started in business a humble clerk, forty years ago, I had but one goal—success; I had but one aim—to get rich. I was lucky. I made a little money, and I soon discovered that I could make more money by outwitting my competitors in the oil fields. Railroad conditions helped me. The whole country was money mad. A wave of commercial prosperity swept over the land and I was carried along on its crest. I grew enormously rich, my millions increasing by leaps and bounds. I branched out into other interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are to-day—the wonder of the twentieth century. What do I care for the world's respect when my money makes the world my slave? What respect can I have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them? Are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted, not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president elected without my consent? I am the real ruler of the United States—not the so-called government at Washington. They are my puppets and this is my executive chamber. This power will be yours one day, boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes.”
“I never want it, father,” said Jefferson firmly. “To me your words savour of treason. I couldn't imagine that American talking that way.” He pointed to the mantel, at the picture of George Washington.
Ryder, Sr., laughed. He could not help it if his son was an idealist. There was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and said:
“All right, Jeff. We'll discuss the matter later, when you've cut your wisdom teeth. Just at present you're in the clouds. But you spoke of my doing you an injustice. How can my love of power do you an injustice?”
“Because,” replied Jefferson, “you exert that power over your family as well as over your business associates. You think and will for everybody in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you. Yours is an influence no one seems able to resist. You robbed me of my right to think. Ever since I was old enough to think, you have thought for me; ever since I was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me. You have chosen that I should marry Kate Roberts. That is the one thing I wished to speak to you about. The marriage is impossible.”
Ryder, Sr., half sprang from his seat. He had listened patiently, he thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring the Ryder interests—that was inconceivable. Leaving his desk, he advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted Jefferson.
“So,” he said sternly, “this is your latest act of rebellion, is it? You are going to welsh on your word? You are going to jilt the girl?”
“I never gave my word,” answered Jefferson hotly. “Nor did Kate understand that an engagement existed. You can't expect me to marry a girl I don't care a straw about. It would not be fair to her.”
“Have you stopped to think whether it would be fair to me?” thundered his father.
His face was pale with anger, his jet-black eyes flashed, and his white hair seemed to bristle with rage. He paced the floor for a few moments, and then turning to Jefferson, who had not moved, he said more calmly:
“Don't be a fool, Jeff. I don't want to think for you, or to choose for you, or to marry for you. I did not interfere when you threw up the position I made for you in the Trading Company and took that studio. I realized that you were restless under the harness, so I gave you plenty of rein. But I know so much better than you what is best for you. Believe me I do. Don't—don't be obstinate. This marriage means a great deal to my interests—to your interests. Kate's father is all powerful in the Senate. He'll never forgive this disappointment. Hang it all, you liked the girl once, and I made sure that—”
He stopped suddenly, and the expression on his face changed as a new light dawned upon him.
“It isn't that Rossmore girl, is it?” he demanded. His face grew dark and his jaw clicked as he said between his teeth: “I told you some time ago how I felt about her. If I thought that it was Rossmore's daughter! You know what's going to happen to him, don't you?”
Thus appealed to, Jefferson thought this was the most favourable opportunity he would have to redeem his promise to Shirley. So, little anticipating the tempest he was about to unchain, he answered: