The New York Central Railroad terminus in Manhattan is not exactly a
spot which one would be apt to select for a rest cure, although a
famous nerve specialist has expressed the learned opinion that such
little disturbances in the atmospheric envelope as the shrieking of
steam whistles, the exploding of giant firecrackers, the bursting of
pneumatic tires, the blasting with dynamite, the uproar of street
traffic, the shouts of men and boys, the screams of women and the
wailing of babes are soothing, rather than harmful, to the human
nervous system. All these sounds and others even more discordant,
greeted the tired passengers of the Buffalo express, as, arriving from
the West, they emerged from the train-shed into the deafening turmoil
of Forty-second Street.
John Madison, tanned and weather-beaten, suitcase in hand, stood
hesitating on the curb, as if dazed. After long months spent amid the
loneliness and comparative quiet of the Nevada desert, the rush and
bustle of the colossal metropolis was bewildering and confusing. A
hackman hailed him.
"Cab, sir?"
"Yes," he answered, throwing his traveling grip on the seat. "Drive to
the Waldorf."
As the jehu flourished his whip, and the hack rattled along on its way
to the hotel, Madison gazed idly out of the windows, watching with
interest the luxurious shops and the crowds of busy people hurrying
along the sidewalks. How different it all looked to-day than when he
was last in New York! Now, he viewed the scene with different eyes.
Then he was a penniless reporter, obliged to stint and count before he
ventured to spend a dollar. To-day he was a successful miner, one of
those lucky individuals to whom Fortune has been more than kind. He was
suddenly possessed of more money than he knew what to do with. He could
stop at the best hotels, throw gold around him by the handfuls. For the
first time in his life he was tasting the sweets of wealth. Every one
treated him with deference, all were eager to render service. People
who formerly affected to be ignorant of his very existence, now fawned
upon him and asked him to their houses. He was a rich man. It meant not
only immediate creature comforts, but freedom from care, independence
for life. And what he prized most of all, it meant happiness, both for
himself and the girl he loved, the girl who had waited so faithfully
and so patiently. He could hardly restrain his impatience to see her.
What rapture would it be to clasp her to his heart and cry: "Your long
wait is over! I've come to make you happy! Henceforth you won't have to
work. You'll leave the stage for good." And in his mind's eye, he saw
Laura's joy, and heard her happy, girlish laugh, as he sat down before
her and signed a blank cheque, telling her to fill in the rest for any
amount she wished to spend. Yes--that was the greatest joy of success
and being rich--the power of making happy the girl you loved. Thank
God, he had won out! To-day, he was a rich man.
He had entirely forgotten the doubts and morbid fancies which had
seized him in the wilderness. When he had recovered from his terrible
experiences, he wondered how he could ever have permitted his mind to
haunt such strange, unpleasant paths. The suffering and mental torture
he went through was doubtless responsible for his unreasoning
suspicions. He would never tell Laura; she must never know that he had
harbored such thoughts. She would never forgive him. How delighted she
would be to see him! Probably she was already anxiously on the lookout.
By this time she had certainly received his telegram, which he had sent
in care of her manager. He wondered where she was stopping. His last
letter to her had been returned by the post office authorities marked
"address unknown." She was in New York. He was sure of that, for he had
read in the Chicago papers of her success in the new play. He was glad
she had made good at last, because it meant more comforts for her. No
doubt she had left the boarding-house, of which she wrote him
discouraging accounts early in the winter, and was now installed in
some fashionable hotel. The best and quickest way to find her would be
to telephone the Burgess office. He wondered if she would be willing to
throw up at once everything--the theatre, her future contracts and
all--to marry him without delay. If he could have his way, he would
like to return West with her that same day. They could leave on the
Limited and get married in Chicago.
In less than fifteen minutes the Waldorf was reached, a room engaged,
and Madison already had the office of Burgess & Co. on the telephone.
"Hello! Can you give me the private address of Miss Laura Murdock?"
"We don't give private addresses," was the curt reply.
This difficulty Madison had not foreseen, but his quick wit came to his
aid, and in his most persuasive tone, he said:
"I'm sure you will, when you know the circumstances. I am a personal
friend--I might say, relative, of Miss Murdock. I've just got in from
Chicago. She expects me, but I've mislaid her address."
"Oh--that's different," said the voice more civilly. "There's so many
Johnnies around that we have to be careful. Miss Murdock is at the
Pomona, West ---- Street."
Madison did not wait to eat or anything else. Jumping into the first
taxicab he saw, he said:
"West ---- Street."
A few minutes later the cab drew up before the rather imposing entrance
of the Pomona Apartments. Dismissing the taxi, he turned to the
uniformed attendant, who stood surveying the weather-tanned six-footer
with some respect. Judging by his clothes, the new arrival looked as if
he had done some traveling.
"Is Miss Murdock in?"
"I'll see, sir. Who shall I say?"
"Mr. Madison." Airily, he added: "Miss Murdock expects me."
A moment later the man returned, and politely ushered him into an
elevator lined with mirrors, and luxuriously upholstered in red satin.
At the fifth floor, the smooth-running car stopped, and the attendant
pointed to an apartment across the corridor. Before Madison could reach
the door, it was thrown wide open. There was a wild rush of rustling
silks and white lace, a woman's stifled sob, and Laura was in his arms.
"Oh, John!" she cried almost hysterically, as the door closed behind
him. "I'm so happy!"
For a moment he held her clasped tightly to him, as if afraid some one
else might appear in this strange apartment to rob him of her. This was
the supreme moment for which he had toiled and waited all these cruel,
weary months. When at last, all red under his kisses, she released
herself from his embrace, he took her face in his hands and held it up
towards his. Tenderly, he said:
"I'm not much on the love-making business, Laura, but I never thought
I'd be as happy as I am now. I've been counting mile-posts ever since I
left Chicago, and it seemed like as if I had to go round the world
before I got here."
Following close behind, as she went into the sitting room, he gave an
exclamation of surprise as he took in the beautiful gilded furniture
and rich furnishings. His eye seemed to ask questions he found no words
for. She caught the look, and she trembled. Nervously waving him to a
seat, she said:
"You never told me about your good fortune. If you hadn't telegraphed,
I wouldn't even have known you were coming."
"I didn't want to," he replied, smiling. "I'd made up my mind to sort
of drop in here and give you a great big surprise--a happy one, I
knew--but the papers made such a fuss in Chicago that I thought you
might have read about it--did you?"
"No, tell me," she said eagerly.
He sat down and began the story of his wanderings. He told her of his
adventures in the search for gold, of his sufferings, and his narrow
escape from death. In those dark hours, he had only had one thought,
one hope--that he might be spared to see her once again.
"It's been pretty tough sledding out there in the mining country," he
said. "It did look as if I never would make a strike; but your spirit
was with me, and I knew if I could only hold out that something would
come my way. I had a pal--a fine fellow. We started out to find gold.
The first thing we knew we were lost--lost in the howling wilderness.
We nearly perished of cold and hunger. It was a close call, little
girl. I never thought I should see you again. But one day, when we were
about all in, we struck gold--quantities of it, nuggets as big as my
fist. We staked our claims in two weeks, and I went to Reno to raise
enough money for me to come East. Now, things are all fixed, and it's
just a matter of time."
He took the girl's delicate hand in his big brown ones, and looked
fondly into her eyes.
"So you're very, very rich, dear?" she murmured.
He released her hand, and leaned back carelessly in his chair.
"Oh, not rich; just heeled. I'm not going down to the Wall Street
bargain counter and buy the Union Pacific, or anything like that; but
we won't have to take the trip on tourists' tickets, and there's enough
money to make us comfortable all the rest of our lives."
"How hard you must have worked and suffered!"
He smiled, and, rising from his chair, stood looking down at her from
the other side of the table.
"Nobody else ever accused me of that, but I sure have to plead guilty
to you. Why, dear, since the day you came into my life, hell-raising
took a sneak out the back door, and God poked His toe in the front, and
ever since then I think He's been coming a little closer to me. I used
to be a fellow without much faith, and kidded everybody who had it, and
I used to say to those who prayed and believed, 'You may be right, but
show me a message.' You came along, and brought that little document in
your sweet face and your dear love. Laura, you turned the trick for me,
and I think I'm almost a regular man now."
She turned her head away, unwilling that he should see her face, afraid
that he might read there the whole miserable truth. As he spoke, his
words brought to her a full realization of all she was to this man, and
she became more and more unnerved. It was more than she could bear.
Feebly she murmured:
"Please, John, don't. I'm not worth it."
Rising suddenly from the sofa, she went to the window. The air of the
room was hot and stifling. She felt herself growing faint.
"Not worth it?" he exclaimed lightly, going up to her. "Why, you're
worth that and a whole lot more. And see how you've got on! Brockton
told me you never could get along in your profession, but I knew you
could."
He walked around the room, inspecting the furnishings and knickknacks.
Finally, he turned, and, with an interrogative note in his voice, said:
"Gee! fixed up kind o' scrumptious, ain't you? I guess you've been
almost as prosperous as I have."
She forced a laugh. With affected carelessness, she said:
"You can get a lot of gilt and cushions in New York at half-price, and,
besides, I've got a pretty good part now."
"Of course, I know that," he smiled; "but I didn't think it would make
you quite so comfortable. Great, ain't it?"
"Yes."
Taking her by the shoulders, and shaking her playfully, he went on:
"I knew what you had in you, and here you are. You succeeded, and I
succeeded, but I'm going to take you away; and after a while, when
things sort of smooth out, we're going to move back here, and go to
Europe, and just have a great time, like a couple of kids."
She turned and looked up at him. Slowly, she said:
"But if I hadn't succeeded, and if things--things weren't just as they
seem--would it make any difference to you, John?"
He took her in his arms and kissed her, drawing her onto the sofa
beside him.
"Not the least in the world. Now, don't get blue. I should not have
surprised you this way. It's taken you off your feet."
Looking at his watch, he jumped up, and, going behind the sofa, he got
his overcoat. "But we've not any time to lose. How soon can you get
ready?"
Laura knelt on the sofa, leaning over the back.
"You mean to go at once?" she asked.
"Nothing else."
"Take all my things?"
"All your duds," he smiled. "Can't you get ready?"
"Why, my dear, I can get ready most any time."
He came over and stood by her chair, looking down at her
affectionately. With a smile, he said:
"Well, are you ready?"
She looked up quickly, a faint flush on her pale face.
"For what, dear?"
"You know what I said in the telegram?"
"Yes."
Her head dropped forward on his shoulder. In a low tone, she murmured:
"Yes."
"Well, I meant it," he said tenderly.
"I know," she whispered.
He took a seat on the other side of the table facing her.
"I've got to get back, Laura, just as soon as ever I can. There's a lot
of work to be done out in Nevada, and I stole away to come to New York.
I want to take you back. Can you go?"
"Yes--when?"
"This afternoon. We'll take the eighteen-hour train to Chicago, late
this afternoon, and connect at Chicago with the Overland, and I'll soon
have you in a home." He hesitated a moment; then he said: "And here's
another secret."
"What, dear?"
"I've got that home all bought and furnished, and while you wouldn't
call it a Fifth Avenue residence, still it has got something on any
other one in town."
Looking into the bedroom, he asked: "Is that your maid?"
"Yes--Annie."
"Well, you and she can pack everything you want to take; the rest can
follow later." Putting his coat on, he went on: "I planned it all out.
There's a couple of boys downtown, one's Glenn Warner--you know him--he
introduced me to you that night--the other is a newspaper man. I
telephoned them when I got in, and they're waiting for me. I'll just
get down there as soon as I can. I won't be gone long."
"How long?" she demanded.
"I don't know just how long, but we'll make that train. I'll get the
license. We'll be married, and we'll be off on our honeymoon this
afternoon. Can you do it?"
She went up to him, put her hands in his, and they confronted each
other.
"Yes, dear," she said. "I could do anything for you."
He took her in his arms and kissed her again. Looking at her fondly, he
said:
"That's good. Hurry now. I won't be long. Good-by."
"Hurry back, John."
"Yes. I won't be long."
The next instant the door banged behind him.