AGNES MURDOCK.
In a quarter of the city which is rapidly surrendering to the
relentless encroachments of trade, there still stand a few
old-fashioned houses, the sole survivors of what was once an
aristocratic settlement.
One by one their fellows have been sapped and swept away by the
resistless tide of commerce, until these ancient dwellings, stubbornly
contesting a position already lost, now rear their sepulchral
brown-stone fronts in stiff and solitary grandeur--huge sarcophagi in a
busy mart.
One of these houses stands well back from the street line, the
traditional backyard of the ordinary New York dwelling having been
sacrificed, in this instance, to make room for a tiny garden, which is
separated from the street by a tall spiked iron railing, behind which
grows an arborvitæ hedge. The former serves as a defence against the
marauding of the irrepressible metropolitan gamin; while the latter
confers upon the occupants of the garden a semblance of protection from
the curious gaze of the passers-by.
This property, having been the subject of an interminable lawsuit,
had remained for many years unoccupied, and was even beginning to be
regarded by some of the neighbors as haunted, when at last it was
bought by Doctor Murdock, a wealthy widower with an only daughter. For
some months masons and carpenters were at work; and then, one day, the
new occupants entered into possession.
The Murdocks lived quietly but luxuriously, like people accustomed to
wealth. They had their horses and carriages, their house at Lenox and
at Newport, and their yacht. Their circle of acquaintances was large,
and included not only the fashionable set, but also a scientific,
literary and artistic set. For Doctor Murdock was a chemist of national
reputation, a member of several scientific bodies, and a man of great
intelligence and broad culture.
On this particular New Year's morning, Doctor Murdock was seated in
his study, apparently absorbed in reading the daily papers, a pile of
which lay upon his table. His occupation might perhaps more accurately
be described as skimming the daily papers; for each journal in turn
was subjected to a rapid scrutiny, and only a few columns seemed
occasionally to interest the reader.
There was no haste visible in the Doctor's actions, each one of which
appeared to be performed with the coolness and deliberation of a man
who is not the slave of time; and yet, so systematic were they, that,
all lost motion being avoided, every operation was rapidly completed.
In a short time the pile of newspapers had been disposed of, and
the Doctor, lighting a choice cigar, leaned back in his comfortable
armchair and placidly puffed the wreathes of fragrant smoke
ceilingward. He was apparently satisfied with the world and with
himself, this calm, passionless man. And yet a sharp observer would
have noted an almost imperceptible furrow between the eyes, which might
perhaps have indicated only the healthy mental activity of an ordinary
man; but which, in one given so little to outward manifestation of
feeling as Doctor Murdock, might also betoken more or less serious
annoyance or displeasure.
While the chemist sat in this pensive attitude, there was a rustle of
skirts outside, and presently there came a gentle knock at the door of
the study.
"Come in!" said Murdock, removing the cigar from his lips.
The door opened, admitting a tall and beautiful young girl, evidently
not long out of her teens.
"Do I disturb you, father?" she asked, stepping lightly into the room.
"No, Agnes," replied Murdock courteously; "as you see, I am indulging
in a period of _dolce far niente_."
The young girl laughed a clear, silvery laugh, as her eyes fell upon
the pile of newspapers.
"If the reading of a dozen newspapers is _dolce far niente_, I should
think you would welcome hard work as a pleasant change."
"Oh!" replied her father, "the work I have done on those has not
amounted to much. I have only been gleaning the news from the morning
papers.
"Yes," he added, answering her surprised look, "it takes a deal of skim
milk to yield a little cream."
The last paper which Murdock had been examining lay upon the desk
before him. From the closely printed columns stood out in bold relief
the glaring headlines:
MURDER IN A CAB.
MYSTERIOUS ASSASSINATION OF AN UNKNOWN MAN, IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
CABMAN REILLY DENIES ALL KNOWLEDGE OF THE CRIME.
Miss Murdock's glance rested carelessly upon these words for an
instant. They aroused in her nothing more than the mild curiosity which
attaches to events of palpitating human interest, when they have been
congealed in the columns of the daily newspaper and served to palates
already sated with sensational verbosity.
"Mary said you wished to speak to me," said the young girl, after a
short pause. "I thought I would step in to see you before going to Mr.
Sprague's."
"To Sprague's?" inquired Murdock, fixing his keen eyes upon the young
girl. "Ah, yes; I remember he spoke of the appointment last night. How
is the portrait coming on?"
"It is almost finished. Probably only one or two more sittings, at the
most, will be necessary."
Agnes seemed slightly embarrassed by the fixity of her father's
searching glance. She settled herself in an armchair and assumed a look
of deferent expectancy.
Not a word of affection had passed between father and daughter; not a
caress had been interchanged. The relations between this impassive man
and his charming daughter were those of well-bred, if somewhat distant,
relatives. On the one hand, there was the uniform courtesy of the man
of the world toward a woman; on the other, the deference of a young
girl of good breeding toward a person much older than herself. But the
note of cordial and intimate affection between father and child was
absolutely missing.
And yet Agnes Murdock was naturally of an affectionate and expansive
nature. During her mother's lifetime the two women had been inseparable
companions, united by a strong bond of sympathy.
Mrs. Murdock had been an invalid for many years before her death, and
with Agnes had lived either abroad or in the South during much of the
time in order to escape the rigors of the northern climate. Thus the
father, engrossed as he was with his occupations and his scientific
researches, had seen but little of his daughter during her childhood,
and had been looked upon by the child almost as a stranger.
When at last, after her mother's death, Agnes, heartbroken at the loss
of her only friend, returned to the paternal roof, she was a girl of
sixteen. In the first loneliness of her bereavement, when, hungering
for human sympathy and consolation, she turned to her father, she
received patient and courteous attention, with an offer of all the
material comforts and luxuries which wealth could procure; but she
failed to find the only thing she needed--a responsive human heart.
And yet, behind the cold and selfish exterior of the chemist, the
young girl had touched a chord which had never vibrated before in this
strange man's being. It is probable that the feeling awakened in him
by his lovely daughter was the nearest approach to an absorbing human
affection of which his nature was capable. Perhaps if the child had
been sufficiently experienced to read her father's heart she might have
persisted in her advances, and thus ultimately have conquered the cold
reserve she had at first encountered. But she was proud and impulsive,
and, bitterly disappointed in her first attempt to win from her father
a demonstration of affection, she withdrew into her isolation, and ever
after met his calm courtesy with an equally reserved deference. The
abnormal situation, which at first was maintained only by an effort on
the part of the young girl, lost with time much of its strangeness, and
ultimately crystallized under the potent force of habit, so that it was
accepted by the two as the natural outcome of their relationship.
In the first pang of her bereavement and disappointment, Agnes had
turned for consolation to her books; and, being left free to dispose of
her life as she saw fit, she had planned a course of study, which had
in due time received its consecration at one of the leading colleges
for women.
Upon her return from college she had, as far as she was permitted,
taken charge of her father's household, and had presided with charming
dignity and grace over the social functions for which Doctor Murdock's
house now became famous. Up to the time of his daughter's advent
the chemist's relations with the world had been chiefly through
the clubs and scientific bodies to which he belonged. He was well
received in the homes of the members of New York society; but in the
absence of a woman to do the honors of his own home, he was unable
to return the hospitality which he enjoyed. Now, however, everything
was changed. Agnes was glad to find an outlet for her energies in the
task of receiving her father's guests, and, being a girl of remarkable
intelligence and tact, she succeeded in creating a salon, in the best
sense of the word. Many of the shining lights in the world of art,
literature, science and fashion were among the regular devotees at the
shrine of this superb young goddess.
Among the younger men more than one gay moth, dazzled by the light of
the girl's beautiful eyes, had been tempted to hover near the flame,
only to scorch his wings. Miss Murdock had already refused several of
the "best matches" of the city during her two seasons, much to the
relief of those young men who had not yet summoned up courage enough
to try their fate, and much to the disgust of a few amiable young
women and several designing mammas. The latter could not help but
deprecate the wicked selfishness of a young girl who hypothecated and
thus rendered temporarily unavailable much potential matrimonial stock,
which, in the nature of things, would ultimately be thrown back on the
market upon the selection by the fair one of that single bond to whose
exclusive possession she was limited by the laws of church and state.
The fact of the matter was, that Agnes Murdock's ideal of life was
high. She was determined, if she ever embarked upon a matrimonial
venture, to do so only with a reasonably good prospect of finding in
the wedded state a satisfactory outlet for the depths of affection
which had remained so long unapplied in her tender maiden heart. No one
among the young men who had sought her hand had seemed worthy of the
great love she was ready to bestow. She was, therefore, still awaiting
her fate.
"You wished to see me, sir?" the young girl gently insinuated.
"Yes," said Murdock, with great deliberation; "I wished to speak to you
about----"
He watched her face intently, as if to read the effect which his words
would produce. The light in his eyes was almost tender; but Agnes was
not skilled in reading their scarcely perceptible shades of expression.
She looked up inquiringly, noting only the slight hesitation in her
father's speech.
"About a young man----" continued Murdock, with a quizzical smile.
A flush mounted to the girl's cheeks, and she fixed her eyes upon space.
"A young man who admires you greatly, and who----"
"Has he asked you to tell me this?" inquired Agnes, somewhat
impatiently.
"Oh! dear no," laughed the chemist; "he is only too anxious to do
so himself. He is a most impetuous fellow. But I thought it best to
prepare you----"
"May I ask the name of your protégé?" interrupted the young girl.
"Did I say he was my protégé?" asked Murdock, gently. "I certainly
had no intention of conveying any such impression. His name is
Chatham--Thomas Chatham."
A look, half of amusement, half of vexation, came into the girl's eyes.
It did not escape Murdock's close scrutiny.
"I judge from your reception of the gentleman's name, that his suit is
not likely to meet with much favor in your eyes."
"I am not aware that I have ever given Mr. Chatham any reason to
believe that it would," answered Agnes, stiffly.
"And yet you must have understood the drift of his attentions during
the last few months, since----"
"Since it has been perfectly clear to every one else, you mean?
"And yet," the young girl continued, reflectively, "I do not see how,
without downright rudeness, I could have done more than I have to show
him that his attentions have been distasteful to me."
"Then I may infer," said Murdock, smiling, "that you would not break
your heart if----"
He seemed to hesitate in the choice of his words.
"If he should conclude to go abroad on a long journey without
subjecting you to his impending proposal."
"On the contrary, father," admitted Agnes, "I should be everlastingly
grateful to you if such a consummation could be brought about without
unnecessary rudeness or cruelty towards Mr. Chatham."
"Very well, Agnes, that is all I wanted to see you about."
Agnes looked curiously at her father, as if to read the purpose hidden
in the depths of his inscrutable eyes. She saw nothing but a polite
dismissal in his calm face; and the interview between father and
daughter ended, as it had begun, with formal courtesy on both sides.