One afternoon, many, many months after the interview just described, a
few keen observers among the passengers on an incoming Southwestern
Express--pulling with final, smooth, exhaustive effort into its eastern
terminal--noted with considerable amusement that the pulses of one of
their number had quickened to such a degree, that evidently their owner
found it quite impossible to resist the temptation to leave her seat and
politely push forward to the vestibule of the car, where she waited
until the train came to a full stop. And so it happened that Shirley
Bloodgood led the first flight of men who were hurrying up the long
lanes of the station toward a roped-off space where groups of people
waited expectantly for relatives and friends. Not that Shirley looked
forward to seeing a familiar face among them; on the contrary she was
fully aware,--since she had neglected to telegraph to any one the time
of her arrival,--that there was not one chance in a thousand of any of
her acquaintances being there; it was merely that she had fallen under
the spell of that subtle spirit of unrest and haste, which all
travellers, however phlegmatic, recognise the moment they breathe the
air of the metropolis. One quick, scrutinising glance, it is true, the
girl threw around and about her, as she passed through the crowd, but
there was no disappointment on her face as now, looking neither to the
right nor to the left, she brushed past what seemed to her a hundred
cabbies each intent on making her their legitimate human prey.
Once clear of the exit she turned to the porter who was carrying her
bag, tipped him, and directing his attention to an urchin in the centre
of a howling mob of youthful street Arabs ready to pounce upon her bag
the instant the porter dropped it, she cried:--
"Give it to him--him!"
It was a chubby, little, Russian Jew with red cheeks and glistening eyes
whom she selected, and, with a howl of disappointment, the other
ragamuffins opened up a lane to let the victor get his spoils, stood
while Shirley and her escort marched off, and then swooped down upon
another victim.
"Come with me," said Shirley to the boy; and suiting her pace to his
running stride, she turned her face toward the west.
As Shirley walked rapidly along, the even pavement felt resilient to her
well-shod feet. The keen air brought new vigour into her face, into her
body, and in it--partial stranger as she was--she detected that which
the metropolitan never scents: the salt vapour of the sea. Thousands of
men and women passed her, and to one and all, figuratively speaking, she
opened wide her arms. The glitter of a thousand lights found an
answering sparkle in her eyes.
"There is nothing in the world like it! It will ever be home--the real
home to me!" cried Shirley, half-aloud. "The noise, the bustle, the
crowds, the life--Oh, how I do love it all!"
For a considerable time Shirley had been living on the heights of
Arizona--a wilderness crowded with space, dotted here and there with
human beings. Leaving her mother out there until, under new and altered
circumstances, she could arrange their home in the big city that
belonged to her,--and to-day, more than ever, she knew that she belonged
to the big city, that in truth she was one of its people,--she had come
all the way through without stopping, reasoning that in that way just so
much less time would elapse before she could return and fetch her. In
the West--a land where men stood out in bold relief, because they were
few, they had pointed out to her rugged specimens noted for their
physical prowess, their dare-devil recklessness of life. And viewing
these swaggering heroes, with the sense of personal achievement, however
remote, strong upon them, a vague longing had crept into her inner
consciousness.
"Oh, if I were only a man!" she had said to herself.
But now, as she swept along on the right side of the sidewalk, facing
the crowd that passed her on the left, she knew and felt that here was
the place of the real struggle, the battle-ground, the fiery furnace
that men were tested in. Out in Arizona, it had been man to man; but
here in New York, it was one man against a million. And yet, woman-like,
she thought that were she unsexed, she could meet this struggle with
tireless energy, could strike where men had failed, could crowd her way
up, inch by inch, to the top. And thus communing with herself, Shirley
walked on and on, feeling that she could walk on forever through this
rush of home-going-folk--people who had done something that day with
their hands--people who had unconsciously pushed the earth another
twenty-four hours upon his journey.
All of a sudden there came a strong tug at her skirts followed by a
youthful voice that called:--
"Say, lady,"--setting down Shirley's bag in mild protest--"youse don't
belong so far away! Ain't we got too far?"
After an instant of confusion, Shirley conceded the fact with a frank
laugh.
"What am I thinking of!" she cried, "I want to go to the Bellerophon."
"This way then, lady," returned her small guide; and picking up her bag
he turned southwards.
At sight of the unpretentious hostelry, which rejoiced in the
distinction of possessing such a resounding name, Shirley was conscious
of a variety of emotions. For a time, in the old days, it had been the
fashion to patronise the Bellerophon, and Murgatroyd had been the first
to take her there. On more than one occasion she had lunched with him
and he had always been most enthusiastic over the respectful service,
the wonderful cuisine and the quiet of the place. It was infinitely
nicer, he had said, to have their luncheon there than to go to any of
the huge, noisy caravansaries like the skyscraping, five-acre, concrete
Monolith on the avenue. And she had agreed with him. Another time, he
had explained to her that he was a one-club man; a man with few friends;
and that, when tired out after a long, hard day's work, he greatly
preferred a corner, all to himself, in the Bellerophon to dining with
half-formed acquaintances at the club. In this, likewise, she had
sympathised thoroughly with his point of view. And so, not unnaturally,
it came about that Shirley had had little difficulty, on her long
journey east, in convincing herself that it was merely her liking for
the Bellerophon, and not at all anything more subtle that had caused her
to decide upon this quaint, old hotel for her lonely stay in the
metropolis. Besides, Miriam and she had often been there together, and
for that matter, had grown to regard it as their own especial discovery.
But, now, when she had crossed the portal, when the boy had dropped her
bag at the feet of the Bellerophon porter,--charging her quite double,
as the price of her unpardonable absentmindedness,--a flood of memories
swept over her, and her face flushed and she laughed in an irritated
sort of way on realising that all the time she had been thinking solely
of Murgatroyd.
Murgatroyd! Would the man's name never be out of her thoughts! For a
time, out west, it is true, she had been so engrossed in the cares and
griefs of her almost hermit-like existence, that she had been able to
look back upon the old scenes as chapters in some pathetic story book;
but now, the odd, little prints on the walls all about her, the slender
old gentlemen--aristocrats--who strolled to and fro, everything about
the place recalled vividly the man who, not so very long ago, had been a
part and parcel of her existence.
They showed her to her room--a wonderfully old-fashioned room without a
particle of brass or glitter in it. Even the bedstead was of wood--a
good, solid invitation to home-like rest and slumber.
"Get me an evening paper, please," she said to the bell-boy.
"Which one?" he asked.
"All of them," she replied with a beaming smile; after that the boy was
not long in bringing them.
In Arizona Shirley had been reading news which was, generally, three,
four days--frequently a week old. Out there her home papers had
straggled in, stale and unprofitable. But these--of even date; why, they
were damp from the press. Indeed, it was good to have them!
"Home, home," she whispered to herself as she sank into a chair. She
decided that she would not dine until much later, for she wanted to
think, wanted to classify the emotions which had rushed in upon her so
suddenly. The easy chair responded to her mood; and with a sigh, and
placing her hands behind her head, she leaned back contentedly, little
knowing that she looked wonderfully pretty in that old room--a goddess
in a travelling gown. All the care and sorrow that she had passed
through in these last months had made a woman of the girl, had deepened
her beauty. Time had rounded her gently. Travel-stained and feverish
with the glow of a new experience upon her, she was more inviting, more
human, more beautiful than she could possibly be in the latest Paris
creation. And yet one of the fittest mates in a great metropolis was
alone. East and west, everywhere she had wandered, men, great men,
wonderful men had held out their hands to her beseechingly--drawn by a
certain undefinable magnetism and attractiveness which she possessed--a
charm of manner which few could resist. And Shirley had passed on, and
had given no sign.
But now in the silence of her room, her loneliness appalled her. The
insistent memories closed in around her. And suddenly she knew that she
wanted to live as other women lived--with a man of her own choosing. But
where could she find the man in whom she could put her faith?
After a while, Shirley picked up one of the papers lying on the table.
At the first glance she started and laughed guiltily. There at the head
of the third column, a word, a name had caught her eye: Murgatroyd!
Paper after paper she now scanned, and all mentioned his name: some on
the first page, others on the second; and with it invariably was coupled
another name: Thorne! Finally, she rejected all but one, the
_Pillar_,--the most conservative evening paper in the city,--and
concentrated her attention upon it. At a glance, Shirley could see that
with all its conservatism, the _Pillar_ was holding up its hands in
reverential hero-worship. In a two-column article it reviewed
Murgatroyd's record from its invariably impartial viewpoint. "Murgatroyd
had been clean," it said, "his reputation was unsullied." It even
referred to the Challoner incident as a pitiful piece of falsehood which
had strengthened Murgatroyd in his position. Shirley laid down the paper
with a cry:--
"Oh, what a hypocrite he is!"
So Murgatroyd was still playing a game! The root of his record was
dishonesty! Shirley was thoroughly sincere in her indignation. And yet
after a little while she began to wonder whether his conscience troubled
him--whether it had cost him anything? Oh, if only she could be sure of
that! For she well knew, and a little sigh of shame escaped her, that if
only he had abandoned all pose, shown himself in true colours, even
become a machine politician, she could have forgiven him everything. Not
a little distressed, therefore, she read on and on, marvelling at the
_Pillar's_ devotion, but soon it became apparent to her that its editor
was picturing Murgatroyd more in the light of a losing martyr than as a
successful saint. For the article pointed out the strength of the
railroads, of Wall Street, of the brewers, of the machine, and predicted
mournfully that Murgatroyd was bound to fall before all his powerful
enemies, concluding with: "More the pity, more the pity."
Presently she read the other papers; all contained more or less adverse
criticism of him. One thing, however, stood out: fanatic though some of
them called him, they were unanimous as to his honesty of purpose--a man
who could not be bought, who could not be swerved from the straight and
narrow path. Moreover, in none of them was there any reference to the
existence of Challoner. The Challoners had been forgotten--had dropped
completely out of sight.
It was after eight o'clock when Shirley was reminded of a sudden that
she was desperately hungry. Once in the dining-room, she directed her
steps to the small alcove--the corner which Miriam and she had always
occupied, after the first of those memorable occasions when she had
lunched there with Murgatroyd. Taking her place at the table with a sigh
of satisfaction, Shirley threw a glance around the room. Palms screened
her table, making it impossible for her to be seen, although it was
perfectly easy for her to see every one in the room. There were few
dining at that hour, and so after ordering her meal, she was thrown back
once more on her reflections--reflections of Murgatroyd; and she fell to
wondering in what way had the possession of almost a million dollars
changed him. Had he grown stout? Was he full-faced, or possibly a bit
insolent, overbearing and aggressively genial with a wide laugh? In any
event, she was quite positive that he was prosperous-looking--too
prosperous-looking; and, all in all, it was anything but a pleasant
picture which she mentally drew of him.
The waiter brought the chosen viands and withdrew. Shirley ate eagerly.
The air of the city was full of life and body; it gave her an appetite.
Being quite a material personage, she enjoyed her dinner thoroughly.
Things tasted deliciously to her, and yet her thoughts wandered.
"If only Billy had been different ..." she kept saying to herself.
Suddenly the palms were parted, and a fat man approached her table. On
seeing it occupied, he mumbled his surprise and backed out again. But
while pushing his way through the palms he extended a short arm and
said:--
"That table over there, then."
The remark was made to a companion, whom as yet Shirley could not see.
An answer, however, came in a man's voice; both men seemed disappointed:
evidently, this corner was a favourite with others as well as herself.
And the fat man--his face was strangely familiar. Who might he be?
Shirley was sure....
Broderick. That was the man: the funny, vulgar politician who had been
pointed out to her at the Challoner trial. Shirley wondered what a man
of his stamp was doing in the quietude of the Bellerophon. Somehow, he
did not seem to belong there; she laughed silently to herself as through
the palms she watched him settle himself laboriously at a table in
another corner. The seat he had taken faced away from her, and she noted
how broad, how terribly broad was his back.
"But a power in politics--the real thing!" she cried half-aloud. It was
not surprising, she told herself, that men of refinement hesitated a
long time before going into politics, if this were a type of the men
they had to compete with. Her thoughts running on in this strain, she
determined out of curiosity to get a glimpse of Broderick's companion.
It was not difficult to get a good look at him, as the man sat facing
her.
At the first glance, Shirley had a faint suspicion that likewise she
knew that face; then she looked again and for a moment she was startled.
"No, it can't be possible that--" At that instant the stranger looked up
and dispelled her doubts. She was face to face with the man who had
filled her thoughts for the last two hours.
"And so that is Billy Murgatroyd!" she murmured to herself. He was the
same Murgatroyd she had known, but different from the man she had
pictured. And she would have gone on indefinitely criticising his looks,
but she was suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices. It was
Broderick talking, his big voice filling the room. Shirley listened
attentively.
"Blamed good place to get away from the gang," he was saying; and there
was a satisfied look on his face as he glanced about the room.
While Broderick ordered the dinner, Murgatroyd leaned forward and made
some remark. Instantly something in the tone of his voice, or it may
have been his manner, told the girl that the relations between the two
men were, in a degree, confidential. The back of Broderick assumed the
attitude of a political adviser. Shirley observed that he gesticulated a
great deal and often wiped his brow with a handkerchief which, even at a
distance, she could see was over-embroidered, but in none of his
movements so far was there the slightest suggestion of hostility.
"And this is the use that Murgatroyd has made of poor Miriam's money!"
she cried to herself. "He's bribing the enemy!"
Shirley bowed her head in shame.
Presently she lifted it again, for before their dinner had arrived and
while Broderick talked on, Murgatroyd rose and walked for a brief while
up and down behind the table; and, unseen herself, she scrutinised him
closely.
The first thing that her woman's eye noted was that Murgatroyd was not
in evening clothes; he wore a business suit, not altogether new, which
to her thinking, needed pressing; it looked as if he had lived in it
from daybreak to daybreak. He was no stouter than when she had last seen
him; if anything he appeared to have lost flesh, yet his figure still
retained its strong but fine lines. And Shirley was forced to
acknowledge to herself that it had lost none of its grace. But on his
face was the dull flush that results from the strain of enthusiasm, of
excitement, of overwork. He looked fagged out, and his eyes were
restless, though they glowed with steadiness of purpose. From time to
time he glanced quickly about him, taking in every detail of the room,
studying the people in it, and even peering through the palms that hid
the girl, as though he wondered what interloper had had the temerity to
rob him of his lair. One thing, however, impressed her more than
anything else: his demeanour toward Broderick. There was within it not a
particle of that confidential concession that Broderick seemed ever
ready to offer; on the contrary, it suggested a suspicious watchfulness.
Murgatroyd had every appearance of being a zealous, jealous taskmaster
who had set himself over a paid but uncertain servant.
And Broderick,--only once did Broderick turn his head so that Shirley
might see his face; but in that one instant the girl divined what she
believed to be the situation, the true force of the drama that was being
played by the two men. Broderick's face, glance, his whole being,
indicated the cunning of the man; he was treachery personified, at
least, so he appeared to Shirley; and she told herself, as she sat there
and studied him, that any one with half an eye could see that he was
hoodwinking the man opposite him.
"Murgatroyd was being fooled!" There was no doubt about it. The attitude
of both men expressed it; but, more than anything else, Murgatroyd's air
of feverish endeavour, of expenditure of energy, confirmed it. With
Miriam's thousands he had paid for something that had not been
delivered. Broderick had taken the money--every dollar of it, of that
Shirley was thoroughly convinced,--and had given nothing in return. In
the girl's mind there was no accounting otherwise for Broderick's leer;
in no other way was it possible to explain the desperate effort that
Murgatroyd seemed to be making. But, at last, the lawyer grew angry; he
hit the table repeatedly with his fist and glared at Broderick. And the
huge politician pretended to cower and tried to propitiate him.
"Yes, they are fooling him!" she repeated to herself. Miriam's money had
been of no avail; Murgatroyd had failed to accomplish his purpose.
After a while this feeling of contempt for his failure gave way to a
wave of pity. What right had she to judge him at all; what manner of
woman was she, that she should set herself up to determine whether his
lesson was deservedly bitter or not; and what should be his punishment.
"Money so gotten will never do him any good," Miriam had said after the
scene in the court-room; and how true her words had proved! Why, the
papers, even though they believed in his honesty, had as much as said
that he was going down to defeat. And then, in turn, her feeling of
compassion was succeeded by one of gladness. She was not a little
surprised to find herself fervently wishing that Broderick had robbed
him of every dollar; but, later on, her cheeks burned furiously when an
honest introspection disclosed to her the real motive of this desire.
For, after all, what if Murgatroyd would come to her and say:--
"I have sinned, and I have lost; be merciful to me, a miserable sinner."
What if some day he should come to her free of all hypocrisy, stripped
of all save truth, a beaten man, what then? Well, she felt unutterably
lonely, she wanted to be loved, and after all, he had helped her friend
by setting her husband free.