“Something of the sort—how did you guess?” asked Ryder surprised.
Shirley coughed to hide her embarrassment and replied indifferently.
“So many boys do that. Besides,” she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, “I can hardly imagine that any woman would be the right one unless you selected her yourself!”
Ryder made no answer. He folded his arms and gazed at her. Who was this woman who knew him so well, who could read his inmost thoughts, who never made a mistake? After a silence he said:
“Do you know you say the strangest things?”
“Truth is strange,” replied Shirley carelessly. “I don't suppose you hear it very often.”
“Not in that form,” admitted Ryder.
Shirley had taken on to her lap some of the letters he had passed her, and was perusing them one after another.
“All these letters from Washington consulting you on politics and finance—they won't interest the world.”
“My secretary picked them out,” explained Ryder. “Your artistic sense will tell you what to use.”
“Does your son still love this girl? I mean the one you object to?” inquired Shirley as she went on sorting the papers.
“Oh, no, he does not care for her any more,” answered Ryder hastily.
“Yes, he does; he still loves her,” said Shirley positively.
“How do you know?” asked Ryder amazed.
“From the way you say he doesn't,” retorted Shirley.
Ryder gave his caller a look in which admiration was mingled with astonishment.
“You are right again,” he said. “The idiot does love the girl.”
“Bless his heart,” said Shirley to herself. Aloud she said:
“I hope they'll both outwit you.”
Ryder laughed in spite of himself. This young woman certainly interested him more than any other he had ever known.
“I don't think I ever met anyone in my life quite like you,” he said.
“What's the objection to the girl?” demanded Shirley.
“Every objection. I don't want her in my family.”
“Anything against her character?”
To better conceal the keen interest she took in the personal turn the conversation had taken, Shirley pretended to be more busy than ever with the papers.
“Yes—that is no—not that I know of,” replied Ryder. “But because a woman has a good character, that doesn't necessarily make her a desirable match, does it?”
“It's a point in her favor, isn't it?”
“Yes—but—” He hesitated as if uncertain what to say.
“You know men well, don't you, Mr. Ryder?”
“I've met enough to know them pretty well,” he replied.
“Why don't you study women for a change?” she asked. “That would enable you to understand a great many things that I don't think are quite clear to you now.”
Ryder laughed good humouredly. It was decidedly a novel sensation to have someone lecturing him.
“I'm studying you,” he said, “but I don't seem to make much headway. A woman like you whose mind isn't spoiled by the amusement habit has great possibilities—great possibilities. Do you know you're the first woman I ever took into my confidence—I mean at sight?” Again he fixed her with that keen glance which in his business life had taught him how to read men. He continued: “I'm acting on sentiment—something I rarely do, but I can't help it. I like you, upon my soul I do, and I'm going to introduce you to my wife—my son—”
He took the telephone from his desk as if he were going to use it.
“What a commander-in-chief you would have made—how natural it is for you to command,” exclaimed Shirley in a burst of admiration that was half real, half mocking. “I suppose you always tell people what they are to do and how they are to do it. You are a born general. You know I've often thought that Napoleon and Cæsar and Alexander must have been great domestic leaders as well as imperial rulers. I'm sure of it now.”
Ryder listened to her in amazement. He was not quite sure if she were making fun of him or not.
“Well, of all—” he began. Then interrupting himself he said amiably: “Won't you do me the honour to meet my family?”
Shirley smiled sweetly and bowed.
“Thank you, Mr. Ryder, I will.”
She rose from her seat and leaned over the manuscripts to conceal the satisfaction this promise of an introduction to the family circle gave her. She was quick to see that it meant more visits to the house, and other and perhaps better opportunities to find the objects of her search. Ryder lifted the receiver of his telephone and talked to his secretary in another room, while Shirley, who was still standing, continued examining the papers and letters.
“Is that you, Bagley? What's that? General Dodge? Get rid of him. I can't see him to-day. Tell him to come to-morrow. What's that? My son wants to see me? Tell him to come to the phone.”
At that instant Shirley gave a little cry, which in vain she tried to suppress. Ryder looked up.
“What's the matter?” he demanded startled.
“Nothing—nothing!” she replied in a hoarse whisper. “I pricked myself with a pin. Don't mind me.”
She had just come across her father's missing letters, which had got mixed up, evidently without Ryder's knowledge, in the mass of papers he had handed her. Prepared as she was to find the letters somewhere in the house, she never dreamed that fate would put them so easily and so quickly into her hands; the suddenness of their appearance and the sight of her father's familiar signature affected her almost like a shock. Now she had them, she must not let them go again; yet how could she keep them unobserved? Could she conceal them? Would he miss them? She tried to slip them in her bosom while Ryder was busy at the 'phone, but he suddenly glanced in her direction and caught her eye. She still held the letters in her hand, which shook from nervousness, but he noticed nothing and went on speaking through the 'phone:
“Hallo, Jefferson, boy! You want to see me. Can you wait till I'm through? I've got a lady here. Going away? Nonsense! Determined, eh? Well, I can't keep you here if you've made up your mind. You want to say good-bye. Come up in about five minutes and I'll introduce you to a very interesting person,”
He laughed and hung up the receiver. Shirley was all unstrung, trying to overcome the emotion which her discovery had caused her, and in a strangely altered voice, the result of the nervous strain she was under, she said:
“You want me to come here?”
She looked up from the letters she was reading across to Ryder, who was standing watching her on the other side of the desk. He caught her glance and, leaning over to take some manuscript, he said:
“Yes, I don't want these papers to get—”
His eye suddenly rested on the letters she was holding. He stopped short, and reaching forward he tried to snatch them from her.
“What have you got there?” he exclaimed.
He took the letters and she made no resistance. It would be folly to force the issue now, she thought. Another opportunity would present itself. Ryder locked the letters up very carefully in the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk, muttering to himself rather than speaking to Shirley:
“How on earth did they get among my other papers?”
“From Judge Rossmore, were they not?” said Shirley boldly.
“How did you know it was Judge Rossmore?” demanded Ryder suspiciously. “I didn't know that his name had been mentioned.”
“I saw his signature,” she said simply. Then she added: “He's the father of the girl you don't like, isn't he?”
“Yes, he's the—”
A cloud came over the financier's face; his eyes darkened, his jaws snapped and he clenched his fist.
“How you must hate him!” said Shirley, who observed the change.
“Not at all,” replied Ryder recovering his self-possession and suavity of manner. “I disagree with his politics and his methods, but—I know very little about him except that he is about to be removed from office.”
“About to be?” echoed Shirley. “So his fate is decided even before he is tried?” The girl laughed bitterly. “Yes,” she went on, “some of the newspapers are beginning to think he is innocent of the things of which he is accused.”
“Do they?” said Ryder indifferently.
“Yes,” she persisted, “most people are on his side.”
She planted her elbows on the desk in front of her, and looking him squarely in the face, she asked him point blank:
“Whose side are you on—really and truly?”
Ryder winced. What right had this woman, a stranger both to Judge Rossmore and himself, to come here and catechise him? He restrained his impatience with difficulty as he replied:
“Whose side am I on? Oh, I don't know that I am on any side. I don't know that I give it much thought. I—”
“Do you think this man deserves to be punished?” she demanded.
She had resumed her seat at the desk and partly regained her self-possession.
“Why do you ask? What is your interest in this matter?”
“I don't know,” she replied evasively; “his case interests me, that's all. Its rather romantic. Your son loves this man's daughter. He is in disgrace—many seem to think unjustly.” Her voice trembled with emotion as she continued: “I have heard from one source or another—you know I am acquainted with a number of newspaper men—I have heard that life no longer has any interest for him, that he is not only disgraced but beggared, that he is pining away slowly, dying of a broken heart, that his wife and daughter are in despair. Tell me, do you think he deserves such a fate?”
Ryder remained thoughtful a moment, and then he replied:
“No, I do not—no—”
Thinking that she had touched his sympathies, Shirley followed up her advantage:
“Oh, then, why not come to his rescue—you, who are so rich, so powerful; you, who can move the scales of justice at your will—save this man from humiliation and disgrace!”
Ryder shrugged his shoulders, and his face expressed weariness, as if the subject had begun to bore him.
“My dear girl, you don't understand. His removal is necessary.”
Shirley's face became set and hard. There was a contemptuous ring to her words as she retorted:
“Yet you admit that he may be innocent!”
“Even if I knew it as a fact, I couldn't move.”
“Do you mean to say that if you had positive proof?” She pointed to the drawer in the desk where he had placed the letters. “If you had absolute proof in that drawer, for instance? Wouldn't you help him then?”
Ryder's face grew cold and inscrutable; he now wore his fighting mask.
“Not even if I had the absolute proof in that drawer?” he snapped viciously.
“Have you absolute proof in that drawer?” she demanded.
“I repeat that even if I had, I could not expose the men who have been my friends. Its noblesse oblige in politics as well as in society, you know.”
He smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour after their sharp passage at arms.
“Oh, it's politics—that's what the papers said. And you believe him innocent. Well, you must have some grounds for your belief.”
“Not necessarily—”
“You said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce them without sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends are interested in having this man put off the bench—” She stopped and burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh, I think you're having a joke at my expense,” she went on, “just to see how far you can lead me. I daresay Judge Rossmore deserves all he gets. Oh, yes—I'm sure he deserves it.” She rose and walked to the other side of the room to conceal her emotion.
Ryder watched her curiously.
“My dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!”
“Please forgive me,” laughed Shirley, and averting her face to conceal the fact that her eyes were filled with tears. “It's my artistic temperament, I suppose. It's always getting me into trouble. It appealed so strongly to my sympathies—this story of hopeless love between two young people—with the father of the girl hounded by corrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers. It was too much for me. Ah! ah! I forgot where I was!”
She leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her whole body trembling. At that moment there was a knock at the library door and Jefferson Ryder appeared. Not seeing Shirley, whose back was towards him, he advanced to greet his father.
“You told me to come up in five minutes,” he said. “I just wanted to say—”
“Miss Green,” said Ryder, Sr., addressing Shirley and ignoring whatever it was that the young man wanted to say, “this is my son Jefferson. Jeff—this is Miss Green.”
Jefferson looked in the direction indicated and stood as if rooted to the floor. He was so surprised that he was struck dumb. Finally, recovering himself, he exclaimed:
“Shirley!”
“Yes, Shirley Green, the author,” explained Ryder, Sr., not noticing the note of familiar recognition in his exclamation.
Shirley advanced, and holding out her hand to Jefferson, said demurely:
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ryder.” Then quickly, in an undertone, she added: “Be careful; don't betray me!”
Jefferson was so astounded that he did not see the outstretched hand. All he could do was to stand and stare first at her and then at his father.
“Why don't you shake hands with her?” said Ryder, Sr. “She won't bite you.” Then he added: “Miss Green is going to do some literary work for me, so we shall see a great deal of her. It's too bad you're going away!” He chuckled at his own pleasantry.
“Father!” blurted out Jefferson, “I came to say that I've changed my mind. You did not want me to go, and I feel I ought to do something to please you.”
“Good boy,” said Ryder pleased. “Now you're talking common sense,” He turned to Shirley, who was getting ready to make her departure: “Well, Miss Green, we may consider the matter settled. You undertake the work at the price I named and finish it as soon as you can. Of course, you will have to consult me a good deal as you go along, so I think it would be better for you to come and stay here while the work is progressing. Mrs. Ryder can give you a suite of rooms to yourself, where you will be undisturbed and you will have all your material close at hand. What do you say?”
Shirley was silent for a moment. She looked first at Ryder and then at his son, and from them her glance went to the little drawer on the left-hand side of the desk. Then she said quietly:
“As you think best, Mr. Ryder. I am quite willing to do the work here.”
Ryder, Sr., escorted her to the top of the landing and watched her as she passed down the grand staircase, ushered by the gorgeously uniformed flunkies, to the front door and the street.
Shirley entered upon her new duties in the Ryder household two days later. She had returned to her rooms the evening of her meeting with the financier in a state bordering upon hysteria. The day's events had been so extraordinary that it seemed to her they could not be real, and that she must be in a dream. The car ride to Seventy-fourth Street, the interview in the library, the discovery of her father's letters, the offer to write the biography, and, what to her was still more important, the invitation to go and live in the Ryder home—all these incidents were so remarkable and unusual that it was only with difficulty that the girl persuaded herself that they were not figments of a disordered brain.
But it was all true enough. The next morning's mail brought a letter from Mrs. Ryder, who wrote to the effect that Mr. Ryder would like the work to begin at once, and adding that a suite of rooms would be ready for her the following afternoon. Shirley did not hesitate. Everything was to be gained by making the Ryder residence her headquarters, her father's very life depended upon the successful outcome of her present mission, and this unhoped for opportunity practically ensured success. She immediately wrote to Massapequa. One letter was to her mother, saying that she was extending her visit beyond the time originally planned. The other letter was to Stott. She told him all about the interview with Ryder, informed him of the discovery of the letters, and after explaining the nature of the work offered to her, said that her address for the next few weeks would be in care of John Burkett Ryder. All was going better than she had dared to hope. Everything seemed to favour their plan. Her first step, of course, while in the Ryder home, would be to secure possession of her father's letters, and these she would dispatch at once to Massapequa, so they could be laid before the Senate without delay.
So, after settling accounts with her landlady and packing up her few belongings, Shirley lost no time in transferring herself to the more luxurious quarters provided for her in the ten-million-dollar mansion uptown.
At the Ryder house she was received cordially and with every mark of consideration. The housekeeper came down to the main hall to greet her when she arrived and escorted her to the suite of rooms, comprising a small working library, a bedroom simply but daintily furnished in pink and white and a private bathroom, which had been specially prepared for her convenience and comfort, and here presently she was joined by Mrs. Ryder.
“Dear me,” exclaimed the financier's wife, staring curiously at Shirley, “what a young girl you are to have made such a stir with a book! How did you do it? I'm sure I couldn't. It's as much as I can do to write a letter, and half the time that's not legible.”
“Oh, it wasn't so hard,” laughed Shirley. “It was the subject that appealed rather than any special skill of mine. The trusts and their misdeeds are the favourite topics of the hour. The whole country is talking about nothing else. My book came at the right time, that's all.”
Although “The American Octopus” was a direct attack on her own husband, Mrs. Ryder secretly admired this young woman, who had dared to speak a few blunt truths. It was a courage which, alas! she had always lacked herself, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing there were women in the world not entirely cowed by the tyrant Man.
“I have always wanted a daughter,” went on Mrs. Ryder, becoming confidential, while Shirley removed her things and made herself at home; “girls of your age are so companionable.” Then, abruptly, she asked: “Do your parents live in New York?”
Shirley's face flushed and she stooped over her trunk to hide her embarrassment.
“No—not at present,” she answered evasively. “My mother and father are in the country.”
She was afraid that more questions of a personal nature would follow, but apparently Mrs. Ryder was not in an inquisitive mood, for she asked nothing further. She only said:
“I have a son, but I don't see much of him. You must meet my Jefferson. He is such a nice boy.”
Shirley tried to look unconcerned as she replied:
“I met him yesterday. Mr. Ryder introduced him to me.”
“Poor lad, he has his troubles too,” went on Mrs. Ryder. “He's in love with a girl, but his father wants him to marry someone else. They're quarrelling over it all the time.”
“Parents shouldn't interfere in matters of the heart,” said Shirley decisively. “What is more serious than the choosing of a life companion, and who are better entitled to make a free selection than they who are going to spend the rest of their days together? Of course, it is a father's duty to give his son the benefit of his riper experience, but to insist on a marriage based only on business interests is little less than a crime. There are considerations more important if the union is to be a happy or a lasting one. The chief thing is that the man should feel real attachment for the woman he marries. Two people who are to live together as man and wife must be compatible in tastes and temper. You cannot mix oil and water. It is these selfish marriages which keep our divorce courts busy. Money alone won't buy happiness in marriage.”
“No,” sighed Mrs. Ryder, “no one knows that better than I.”
The financier's wife was already most favourably impressed with her guest, and she chatted on as if she had known Shirley for years. It was rarely that she had heard so young a woman express such common-sense views, and the more she talked with her the less surprised she was that she was the author of a much-discussed book. Finally, thinking that Shirley might prefer to be alone, she rose to go, bidding her make herself thoroughly at home and to ring for anything she might wish. A maid had been assigned to look exclusively after her wants, and she could have her meals served in her room or else have them with the family as she liked. But Shirley, not caring to encounter Mr. Ryder's cold, searching stare more often than necessary, said she would prefer to take her meals alone.
Left to herself, Shirley settled down to work in earnest. Mr. Ryder had sent to her room all the material for the biography, and soon she was completely absorbed in the task of sorting and arranging letters, making extracts from records, compiling data, etc., laying the foundations for the important book she was to write. She wondered what they would call it, and she smiled as a peculiarly appropriate title flashed through her mind—“The History of a Crime.” Yet she thought they could hardly infringe on Victor Hugo; perhaps the best title was the simplest “The History of the Empire Trading Company.” Everyone would understand that it told the story of John Burkett Ryder's remarkable career from his earliest beginnings to the present time. She worked feverishly all that evening getting the material into shape, and the following day found her early at her desk. No one disturbed her and she wrote steadily on until noon, Mrs. Ryder only once putting her head in the door to wish her good morning.
After luncheon, Shirley decided that the weather was too glorious to remain indoors. Her health must not be jeopardized even to advance the interests of the Colossus, so she put on her hat and left the house to go for a walk. The air smelled sweet to her after being confined so long indoor, and she walked with a more elastic and buoyant step than she had since her return home. Turning down Fifth Avenue, she entered the park at Seventy-second Street, following the pathway until she came to the bend in the driveway opposite the Casino. The park was almost deserted at that hour, and there was a delightful sense of solitude and a sweet scent of new-mown hay from the freshly cut lawns. She found an empty bench, well shaded by an overspreading tree, and she sat down, grateful for the rest and quiet.
She wondered what Jefferson thought of her action in coming to his father's house practically in disguise and under an assumed name. She must see him at once, for in him lay her hope of obtaining possession of the letters. Certainly she felt no delicacy or compunction in asking Jefferson to do her this service. The letters belonged to her father and they were being wrongfully withheld with the deliberate purpose of doing him an injury. She had a moral if not a legal right to recover the letters in any way that she could.
She was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she had not noticed a hansom cab which suddenly drew up with a jerk at the curb opposite her bench. A man jumped out. It was Jefferson.
“Hello, Shirley,” he cried gaily; “who would have expected to find you rusticating on a bench here? I pictured you grinding away at home doing literary stunts for the governor.” He grinned and then added: “Come for a drive. I want to talk to you.”
Shirley demurred. No, she could not spare the time. Yet, she thought to herself, why was not this a good opportunity to explain to Jefferson how he came to find her in his father's library masquerading under another name, and also to ask him to secure the letters for her? While she pondered Jefferson insisted, and a few minutes later she found herself sitting beside him in the cab. They started off at a brisk pace, Shirley sitting with her head back, enjoying the strong breeze caused by the rapid motion.
“Now tell me,” he said, “what does it all mean? I was so startled at seeing you in the library the other day that I almost betrayed you. How did you come to call on father?”
Briefly Shirley explained everything. She told him how Mr. Ryder had written to her asking her to call and see him, and how she had eagerly seized at this last straw in the hope of helping her father. She told him about the letters, explaining how necessary they were for her father's defence and how she had discovered them. Mr. Ryder, she said, had seemed to take a fancy to her and had asked her to remain in the house as his guest while she was compiling his biography, and she had accepted the offer, not so much for the amount of money involved as for the splendid opportunity it afforded her to gain possession of the letters.
“So that is the mysterious work you spoke of—to get those letters?” said Jefferson.
“Yes, that is my mission. It was a secret. I couldn't tell you; I couldn't tell anyone. Only Judge Stott knows. He is aware I have found them and is hourly expecting to receive them from me. And now,” she said, “I want your help.”
His only answer was to grasp tighter the hand she had laid in his. She knew that she would not have to explain the nature of the service she wanted. He understood.
“Where are the letters?” he demanded.
“In the left-hand drawer of your father's desk,” she answered.
He was silent for a few moments, and then he said simply:
“I will get them.”
The cab by this time had got as far as Claremont, and from the hill summit they had a splendid view of the broad sweep of the majestic Hudson and the towering walls of the blue palisades. The day was so beautiful and the air so invigorating that Jefferson suggested a ramble along the banks of the river. They could leave the cab at Claremont and drive back to the city later. Shirley was too grateful to him for his promise of coöperation to make any further opposition, and soon they were far away from beaten highways, down on the banks of the historic stream, picking flowers and laughing merrily like two truant children bent on a self-made holiday. The place they had reached was just outside the northern boundaries of Harlem, a sylvan spot still unspoiled by the rude invasion of the flat-house builder. The land, thickly wooded, sloped down sharply to the water, and the perfect quiet was broken only by the washing of the tiny surf against the river bank and the shrill notes of the birds in the trees.
Although it was late in October the day was warm, and Shirley soon tired of climbing over bramble-entangled verdure. The rich grass underfoot looked cool and inviting, and the natural slope of the ground affording an ideal resting-place, she sat there, with Jefferson stretched out at her feet, both watching idly the dancing waters of the broad Hudson, spangled with gleams of light, as they swept swiftly by on their journey to the sea.
“Shirley,” said Jefferson suddenly, “I suppose you saw that ridiculous story about my alleged engagement to Miss Roberts. I hope you understood that it was done without my consent.”
“If I did not guess it, Jeff,” she answered, “your assurance would be sufficient. Besides,” she added, “what right have I to object?”
“But I want you to have the right,” he replied earnestly. “I'm going to stop this Roberts nonsense in a way my father hardly anticipates. I'm just waiting a chance to talk to him. I'll show him the absurdity of announcing me engaged to a girl who is about to elope with his private secretary!”
“Elope with the secretary?” exclaimed Shirley.
Jefferson told her all about the letter he had found on the staircase, and the Hon. Fitzroy Bagley's plans for a runaway marriage with the senator's wealthy daughter.
“It's a godsend to me,” he said gleefully. “Their plan is to get married next Wednesday. I'll see my father on Tuesday; I'll put the evidence in his hands, and I don't think,” he added grimly, “he'll bother me any more about Miss Roberts.”
“So you're not going away now?” said Shirley, smiling down at him.
He sat up and leaned over towards her.
“I can't, Shirley, I simply can't,” he replied, his voice trembling. “You are more to me than I dreamed a woman could ever be. I realize it more forcibly every day. There is no use fighting against it. Without you, my work, my life means nothing.”
Shirley shook her head and averted her eyes.
“Don't let us speak of that, Jeff,” she pleaded gently. “I told you I did not belong to myself while my father was in peril.”
“But I must speak of it,” he interrupted. “Shirley, you do yourself an injustice as well as me. You are not indifferent to me—I feel that. Then why raise this barrier between us?”
A soft light stole into the girl's eyes. Ah, it was good to feel there was someone to whom she was everything in the world!
“Don't ask me to betray my trust, Jeff,” she faltered. “You know I am not indifferent to you—far from it. But I—”
He came closer until his face nearly touched hers.
“I love you—I want you,” he murmured feverishly. “Give me the right to claim you before all the world as my future wife!”
Every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous passion, sounded in Shirley's ear like a soft caress. She closed her eyes. A strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a mysterious thrill passed through her whole body. The eternal, inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences, putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler judgment had made. The sensuous charm of the place—the distant splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of the trees and grass—all these symbols of the joy of life conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman. Why, after all, should she not know happiness like other women? She had a sacred duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her womanhood? Both her soul and her body called out: “Let this man love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love.”
Half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her cheek:
“Shirley, I offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman. Say the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched of men. Yes or no! Only think well before you wreck my life. I love you—I love you! I will wait for you if need be until the crack of doom. Say—say you will be my wife!”
She opened her eyes. His face was bent close over hers. Their lips almost touched.
“Yes, Jefferson,” she murmured, “I do love you!”
His lips met hers in a long, passionate kiss. Her eyes closed and an ecstatic thrill seemed to convulse her entire being. The birds in the trees overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of the betrothal.
It was nearly seven o'clock when Shirley got back to Seventy-fourth Street. No one saw her come in, and she went direct to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night on her book to make up for lost time. The events of the afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness. She reproached herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the moment. She had said only what was the truth when she admitted she loved Jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future while her father's fate was still uncertain? Her conscience troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more impossible seemed their union from every point of view. How could she become the daughter-in-law of the man who had ruined her own father? The idea was preposterous, and hard as the sacrifice would be, Jefferson must be made to see it in that light. Their engagement was the greatest folly; it bound each of them when nothing but unhappiness could possibly come of it. She was sure now that she loved Jefferson. It would be hard to give him up, but there are times and circumstances when duty and principle must prevail over all other considerations, and this she felt was one of them.
The following morning she received a letter from Stott. He was delighted to hear the good news regarding her important discovery, and he urged her to lose no time in securing the letters and forwarding them to Massapequa, when he would immediately go to Washington and lay them before the Senate. Documentary evidence of that conclusive nature, he went on to say, would prove of the very highest value in clearing her father's name. He added that the judge and her mother were as well as circumstances would permit, and that they were not in the least worried about her protracted absence. Her Aunt Milly had already returned to Europe, and Eudoxia was still threatening to leave daily.
Shirley needed no urging. She quite realized the importance of acting quickly, but it was not easy to get at the letters. The library was usually kept locked when the great man was away, and on the few occasions when access to it was possible, the lynx-eyed Mr. Bagley was always on guard. Short as had been her stay in the Ryder household, Shirley already shared Jefferson's antipathy to the English secretary, whose manner grew more supercilious and overbearing as he drew nearer the date when he expected to run off with one of the richest catches of the season. He had not sought the acquaintance of his employer's biographer since her arrival, and, with the exception of a rude stare, had not deigned to notice her, which attitude of haughty indifference was all the more remarkable in view of the fact that the Hon. Fitzroy usually left nothing unturned to cultivate a flirtatious intimacy with every attractive female he met. The truth was that what with Mr. Ryder's demands upon his services and his own preparations for his coming matrimonial venture, in which he had so much at stake, he had neither time nor inclination to indulge his customary amorous diversions.
Miss Roberts had called at the house several times, ostensibly to see Mrs. Ryder, and when introduced to Shirley she had condescended to give the latter a supercilious nod. Her conversation was generally of the silly, vacuous sort, concerning chiefly new dresses or bonnets, and Shirley at once read her character—frivolous, amusement-loving, empty-headed, irresponsible—just the kind of girl to do something foolish without weighing the consequences. After chatting a few moments with Mrs. Ryder she would usually vanish, and one day, after one of these mysterious disappearances, Shirley happened to pass the library and caught sight of her and Mr. Bagley conversing in subdued and eager tones. It was very evident that the elopement scheme was fast maturing. If the scandal was to be prevented, Jefferson ought to see his father and acquaint him with the facts without delay. It was probable that at the same time he would make an effort to secure the letters. Meantime she must be patient. Too much hurry might spoil everything.
So the days passed, Shirley devoting almost all her time to the history she had undertaken. She saw nothing of Ryder, Sr., but a good deal of his wife, to whom she soon became much attached. She found her an amiable, good-natured woman, entirely free from that offensive arrogance and patronizing condescension which usually marks the parvenue as distinct from the thoroughbred. Mrs. Ryder had no claims to distinguished lineage; on the contrary, she was the daughter of a country grocer when the then rising oil man married her, and of educational advantages she had had little or none. It was purely by accident that she was the wife of the richest man in the world, and while she enjoyed the prestige her husband's prominence gave her, she never allowed it to turn her head. She gave away large sums for charitable purposes and, strange to say, when the gift came direct from her, the money was never returned on the plea that it was “tainted.” She shared her husband's dislike for entertaining, and led practically the life of a recluse. The advent of Shirley, therefore, into her quiet and uneventful existence was as welcome as sunshine when it breaks through the clouds after days of gloom. Quite a friendship sprang up between the two women, and when tired of writing, Shirley would go into Mrs. Ryder's room and chat until the financier's wife began to look forward to these little impromptu visits, so much she enjoyed them.
Nothing more had been said concerning Jefferson and Miss Roberts. The young man had not yet seen his father, but his mother knew he was only waiting an opportunity to demand an explanation of the engagement announcements. Her husband, on the other hand, desired the match more than ever, owing to the continued importunities of Senator Roberts. As usual, Mrs. Ryder confided these little domestic troubles to Shirley.
“Jefferson,” she said, “is very angry. He is determined not to marry the girl, and when he and his father do meet there'll be another scene.”
“What objection has your son to Miss Roberts?” inquired Shirley innocently.
“Oh, the usual reason,” sighed the mother, “and I've no doubt he knows best. He's in love with another girl—a Miss Rossmore.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Shirley simply. “Mr. Ryder spoke of her.”
Mrs. Ryder was silent, and presently she left the girl alone with her work.
The next afternoon Shirley was in her room busy writing when there came a tap at her door. Thinking it was another visit from Mrs. Ryder, she did not look up, but cried out pleasantly:
“Come in.”
John Ryder entered. He smiled cordially and, as if apologizing for the intrusion, said amiably:
“I thought I'd run up to see how you were getting along.”
His coming was so unexpected that for a moment Shirley was startled, but she quickly regained her composure and asked him to take a seat. He seemed pleased to find her making such good progress, and he stopped to answer a number of questions she put to him. Shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw—Wall Street had gone wrong with the Colossus that day and he was still wearing his war paint—she recalled the wrong this man had done her father and she felt how bitterly she hated him. The more her mind dwelt upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remained civil.
“What is the moral of your life?” she demanded bluntly.
He was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility towards him.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, What can you show as your life work? Most men whose lives are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful—they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated authors, great inventors. What have you done?”
The question appeared to stagger him. The audacity of any one putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible. He squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the table.
“What have I done?” he cried. “I have built up the greatest fortune ever accumulated by one man. My fabulous wealth has caused my name to spread to the four corners of the earth. Is that not an achievement to relate to future generations?”
Shirley gave a little shrug of her shoulders.
“Future generations will take no interest in you or your millions,” she said calmly. “Our civilization will have made such progress by that time that people will merely wonder why we, in our day, tolerated men of your class so long. Now it is different. The world is money-mad. You are a person of importance in the eyes of the unthinking multitude, but it only envies you your fortune; it does not admire you personally. When you die people will count your millions, not your good deeds.”
He laughed cynically and drew up a chair near her desk. As a general thing, John Ryder never wasted words on women. He had but a poor opinion of their mentality, and considered it beneath the dignity of any man to enter into serious argument with a woman. In fact, it was seldom he condescended to argue with anyone. He gave orders and talked to people; he had no patience to be talked to. Yet he found himself listening with interest to this young woman who expressed herself so frankly. It was a decided novelty for him to hear the truth.