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.