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 cooperation 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.