"She knows everything," answered Stott, "and takes it very sensibly. We shall find her of great moral a.s.sistance in our coming fight in the Senate," he added confidently.

[Pencil ill.u.s.tration of Shirley embracing her father at the gate of the cottage at Ma.s.sapequa.]

"Father! Father! What have they done to you?"--_Page 161_.

Realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with Shirley, Mrs. Rossmore invited Mrs. Blake to go upstairs and see the room she would have, while Stott said he would be glad of a washup.

When they had gone Shirley sidled up to her father in her old familiar way.

"I've just been longing to see you, father," she said. She turned to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had deepened during her absence she cried: "Why, how you've changed! I can scarcely believe it's you. Say something. Let me hear the sound of your voice, father."

The judge tried to smile.

"Why, my dear girl, I--"

Shirley threw her arms round his neck.

"Ah, yes, now I know it's you," she cried.

"Of course it is, Shirley, my dear girl. Of course it is. Who else should it be?"

"Yes, but it isn't the same," insisted Shirley. "There is no ring to your voice. It sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. And this place," she added dolefully, "this awful place--"

She glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune. She had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace--ah, that was something she had not antic.i.p.ated! She changed colour and her voice faltered.

Her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts.

"It's the best we can afford, Shirley," he said quietly. "The blow has been complete. I will tell you everything. You shall judge for yourself. My enemies have done for me at last."

"Your enemies?" cried Shirley eagerly. "Tell me who they are so I may go to them."

"Yes, dear, you shall know everything. But not now. You are tired after your journey. To-morrow sometime Stott and I will explain everything."

"Very well, father, as you wish," said Shirley gently. "After all," she added in an effort to appear cheerful, "what matter where we live so long as we have each other?"

She drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house. She looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face.

"It's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "I've always wanted a little place like this--all to ourselves. Oh, if you only knew how tired I am of New York and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities!

We shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?"

She spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge. He understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter.

"Yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "There's not much room, though."

"There's quite enough," she insisted. "Let me see." She began to count on her fingers. "Upstairs--three rooms, eh? and above that three more--"

"No," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?"

"Of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me--a nice gable roof, a sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. Oh, I can see that this is going to be awfully jolly--just like camping out. You know how I love camping out. And you have a piano, too."

She went over to the corner where stood one of those homely instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer cla.s.s of country boarding houses. Shirley sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, determined to like everything.

"It's a little old," was her comment, "but I like these zither effects. It's just like the sixteenth century spinet. I can see you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled.

"What's that about mother dancing?" demanded Mrs. Rossmore, who at that instant entered the room. Shirley arose and appealed to her:

"Isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having forfeited the right to be judge? Isn't it still more absurd that we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on Long Island instead of Madison Avenue? Why should Manhattan Island be a happier spot than Long Island? Why shouldn't we be happy anywhere; we have each other. And we do need each other. We never knew how much till to-day, did we? We must stand by each other now. Father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge and we're going to help him, aren't we, mother? We're not helpless just because we are women. We're going to work, mother and I."

"Work?" echoed Mrs. Rossmore, somewhat scandalized.

"Work," repeated Shirley very decisively.

The judge interfered. He would not hear of it.

"You work, Shirley? Impossible!"

"Why not? My book has been selling well while I was abroad. I shall probably write others. Then I shall write, too, for the newspapers and magazines. It will add to our income."

"Your book--'The American Octopus,' is selling well?" inquired the judge, interested.

"So well," replied Shirley, "that the publishers wrote me in Paris that the fourth edition was now on the press. That means good royalties. I shall soon be a fashionable author. The publishers will be after me for more books and we'll have all the money we want. Oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary success!" she exclaimed with glee. "Aren't you proud of me, dad?"

The judge smiled indulgently. Of course he was glad and proud. He always knew his Shirley was a clever girl. But by what strange fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of hers a.s.sailed the very man who had encompa.s.sed his own ruin? It seemed like the retribution of heaven. Neither his daughter nor the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly connected with the impeachment proceedings. Ryder could not dream that "Shirley Green," the author of the book which flayed him so mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush.

Shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it was Ryder who had lured her father to his ruin.

Mrs. Rossmore now insisted on Shirley going to her room to rest.

She must be tired and dusty. After changing her travelling dress she would feel refreshed and more comfortable. When she was ready to come down again luncheon would be served. So leaving the judge to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and with due maternal pride Mrs. Rossmore pointed out to Shirley all the little arrangements she had made for her comfort. Then she left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look after Eudoxia and luncheon.

When, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye could see her, Shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears. She had kept up appearances as long as it was possible, but now the reaction had set in. She gave way freely to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve herself in this way her heart would break. She had been brave until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see everything, but she could not keep it up forever. Stott's words to her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much more vivid. While hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality--this shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings, her mother's air of resignation to the inevitable, her father's pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish through which he had pa.s.sed. She compared this pitiful spectacle with what they had been when she left for Europe, the fine mansion on Madison Avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained servants, and her father's proud aristocratic face illumined with the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected judges on the bench. Then to have come to this all in the brief s.p.a.ce of a few months! It was incredible, terrible, heart rending!

And what of the future? What was to be done to save her father from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his grave? He could not survive that humiliation, that degradation. He must be saved in the Senate, but how--how?

She dried her eyes and began to think. Surely her woman's wit would find some way. She thought of Jefferson. Would he come to Ma.s.sapequa? It was hardly probable. He would certainly learn of the change in their circ.u.mstances and his sense of delicacy would naturally keep him away for some time even if other considerations, less unselfish, did not. Perhaps he would be attracted to some other girl he would like as well and who was not burdened with a tragedy in her family. Her tears began to flow afresh until she hated herself for being so weak while there was work to be done to save her father. She loved Jefferson. Yes, she had never felt so sure of it as now. She felt that if she had him there at that moment she would throw herself in his arms crying: "Take me, Jefferson, take me away, where you will, for I love you! I love you!" But Jefferson was not there and the rickety chairs in the tiny bedroom and the cheap prints on the walls seemed to jibe at her in her misery. If he were there, she thought as she looked into a cracked mirror, he would think her very ugly with her eyes all red from crying. He would not marry her now in any case. No self-respecting man would. She was glad that she had spoken to him as she had in regard to marriage, for while a stain remained upon her father's name marriage was out of the question. She might have yielded on the question of the literary career, but she would never allow a man to taunt her afterwards with the disgrace of her own flesh and blood. No, henceforth her place was at her father's side until his character was cleared. If the trial in the Senate were to go against him, then she could never see Jefferson again.

She would give up all idea of him and everything else. Her literary career would be ended, her life would be a blank. They would have to go abroad, where they were not known, and try and live down their shame, for no matter how innocent her father might be the world would believe him guilty. Once condemned by the Senate, nothing could remove the stigma. She would have to teach in order to contribute towards the support, they would manage somehow. But what a future, how unnecessary, how unjust!

Suddenly she thought of Jefferson's promise to interest his father in their case and she clutched at the hope this promise held out as a drowning man clutches at a drifting straw. Jefferson would not forget his promise and he would come to Ma.s.sapequa to tell her of what he had done. She was sure of that. Perhaps, after all, there was where their hope lay. Why had she not told her father at once? It might have relieved his mind. John Burkett Ryder, the Colossus, the man of unlimited power! He could save her father and he would. And the more she thought about it, the more cheerful and more hopeful she became, and she started to dress quickly so that she might hurry down to tell her father the good news. She was actually sorry now that she had said so many hard things of Mr.

Ryder in her book and she was worrying over the thought that her father's case might be seriously prejudiced if the ident.i.ty of the author were ever revealed, when there came a knock at her door. It was Eudoxia.

"Please, miss, will you come down to lunch?"

CHAPTER VIII

A whirling maelstrom of human activity and dynamic energy--the city which above all others is characteristic of the genius and virility of the American people--New York, with its congested polyglot population and teeming millions, is a.s.suredly one of the busiest, as it is one of the most strenuous and most noisy places on earth. Yet, despite its swarming streets and crowded shops, ceaselessly thronged with men and women eagerly hurrying here and there in the pursuit of business or elusive pleasure, all chattering, laughing, shouting amid the deafening, multisonous roar of traffic incidental to Gotham's daily life, there is one part of the great metropolis where there is no bustle, no noise, no crowd, where the streets are empty even in daytime, where a pa.s.ser-by is a curiosity and a child a phenomenon. This deserted village in the very heart of the big town is the millionaires'

district, the boundaries of which are marked by Carnegie hill on the north, Fiftieth Street on the south, and by Fifth and Madison Avenues respectively on the west and east. There is nothing more mournful than the outward aspect of these princely residences which, abandoned and empty for three-quarters of the year, stand in stately loneliness, as if ashamed of their isolation and utter uselessness. Their blinds drawn, affording no hint of life within, enveloped the greater part of the time in the stillness and silence of the tomb, they appear to be under the spell of some baneful curse. No merry-voiced children romp in their carefully railed off gardens, no sounds of conversation or laughter come from their hermetically closed windows, not a soul goes in or out, at most, at rare intervals, does one catch a glimpse of a gorgeously arrayed servant gliding about in ghostly fashion, supercilious and suspicious, and addressing the chance visitor in awed whispers as though he were the guardian of a house of affliction. It is, indeed, like a city of the dead.

So it appeared to Jefferson as he walked up Fifth Avenue, bound for the Ryder residence, the day following his arrival from Europe. Although he still lived at his father's house, for at no time had there been an open rupture, he often slept in his studio, finding it more convenient for his work, and there he had gone straight from the ship. He felt, however, that it was his duty to see his mother as soon as possible; besides he was anxious to fulfil his promise to Shirley and find what his father could do to help Judge Rossmore. He had talked about the case with several men the previous evening at the club and the general impression seemed to be that, guilty or innocent, the judge would be driven off the bench. The "interests" had forced the matter as a party issue, and the Republicans being in control in the Senate the outcome could hardly be in doubt. He had learned also of the other misfortunes which had befallen Judge Rossmore and he understood now the reason for Shirley's grave face on the dock and her little fib about summering on Long Island. The news had been a shock to him, for, apart from the fact that the judge was Shirley's father, he admired him immensely as a man. Of his perfect innocence there could, of course, be no question: these charges of bribery had simply been trumped up by his enemies to get him off the bench.

That was very evident. The "interests" feared him and so had sacrificed him without pity, and as Jefferson walked along Central Park, past the rows of superb palaces which face its eastern wall, he wondered in which particular mansion had been hatched this wicked, iniquitous plot against a wholly blameless American citizen. Here, he thought, were the citadels of the plutocrats, America's aristocracy of money, the strongholds of her Coal, Railroad, Oil, Gas and Ice barons, the castles of her monarchs of Steel, Copper, and Finance. Each of these million-dollar residences, he pondered, was filled from cellar to roof with costly furnishings, masterpieces of painting and sculpture, priceless art treasures of all kinds purchased in every corner of the globe with the gold filched from a Trust-ridden people. For every stone in those marble halls a human being, other than the owner, had been sold into bondage, for each of these magnificent edifices, which the plutocrat put up in his pride only to occupy it two months in the year, ten thousand American men, women and children had starved and sorrowed.