_ CHAPTER XVIII
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. _