XV
One afternoon, many, many months after the interview just described, afew keen observers among the passengers on an incoming SouthwesternExpress--pulling with final, smooth, exhaustive effort into its easternterminal--noted with considerable amusement that the pulses of one oftheir number had quickened to such a degree, that evidently their ownerfound it quite impossible to resist the temptation to leave her seat andpolitely push forward to the vestibule of the car, where she waiteduntil the train came to a full stop. And so it happened that ShirleyBloodgood led the first flight of men who were hurrying up the longlanes of the station toward a roped-off space where groups of peoplewaited expectantly for relatives and friends. Not that Shirley lookedforward to seeing a familiar face among them; on the contrary she wasfully aware,--since she had neglected to telegraph to any one the timeof her arrival,--that there was not one chance in a thousand of any ofher acquaintances being there; it was merely that she had fallen underthe spell of that subtle spirit of unrest and haste, which alltravellers, however phlegmatic, recognise the moment they breathe theair of the metropolis. One quick, scrutinising glance, it is true, thegirl threw around and about her, as she passed through the crowd, butthere was no disappointment on her face as now, looking neither to theright nor to the left, she brushed past what seemed to her a hundredcabbies each intent on making her their legitimate human prey.
Once clear of the exit she turned to the porter who was carrying herbag, tipped him, and directing his attention to an urchin in the centreof a howling mob of youthful street Arabs ready to pounce upon her bagthe instant the porter dropped it, she cried:--
"Give it to him--him!"
It was a chubby, little, Russian Jew with red cheeks and glistening eyeswhom she selected, and, with a howl of disappointment, the otherragamuffins opened up a lane to let the victor get his spoils, stoodwhile Shirley and her escort marched off, and then swooped down uponanother victim.
"Come with me," said Shirley to the boy; and suiting her pace to hisrunning stride, she turned her face toward the west.
As Shirley walked rapidly along, the even pavement felt resilient to herwell-shod feet. The keen air brought new vigour into her face, into herbody, and in it--partial stranger as she was--she detected that whichthe metropolitan never scents: the salt vapour of the sea. Thousands ofmen and women passed her, and to one and all, figuratively speaking, sheopened wide her arms. The glitter of a thousand lights found ananswering sparkle in her eyes.
"There is nothing in the world like it! It will ever be home--the realhome to me!" cried Shirley, half-aloud. "The noise, the bustle, thecrowds, the life--Oh, how I do love it all!"
For a considerable time Shirley had been living on the heights ofArizona--a wilderness crowded with space, dotted here and there withhuman beings. Leaving her mother out there until, under new and alteredcircumstances, she could arrange their home in the big city thatbelonged to her,--and to-day, more than ever, she knew that she belongedto the big city, that in truth she was one of its people,--she had comeall the way through without stopping, reasoning that in that way just somuch less time would elapse before she could return and fetch her. Inthe West--a land where men stood out in bold relief, because they werefew, they had pointed out to her rugged specimens noted for theirphysical prowess, their dare-devil recklessness of life. And viewingthese swaggering heroes, with the sense of personal achievement, howeverremote, strong upon them, a vague longing had crept into her innerconsciousness.
"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, facingthe crowd that passed her on the left, she knew and felt that here wasthe place of the real struggle, the battle-ground, the fiery furnacethat men were tested in. Out in Arizona, it had been man to man; buthere 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 withtireless energy, could strike where men had failed, could crowd her wayup, inch by inch, to the top. And thus communing with herself, Shirleywalked on and on, feeling that she could walk on forever through thisrush of home-going-folk--people who had done something that day withtheir hands--people who had unconsciously pushed the earth anothertwenty-four hours upon his journey.
All of a sudden there came a strong tug at her skirts followed by ayouthful voice that called:--
"Say, lady,"--setting down Shirley's bag in mild protest--"youse don'tbelong so far away! Ain't we got too far?"
After an instant of confusion, Shirley conceded the fact with a franklaugh.
"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 baghe turned southwards.
At sight of the unpretentious hostelry, which rejoiced in thedistinction of possessing such a resounding name, Shirley was consciousof a variety of emotions. For a time, in the old days, it had been thefashion to patronise the Bellerophon, and Murgatroyd had been the firstto take her there. On more than one occasion she had lunched with himand he had always been most enthusiastic over the respectful service,the wonderful cuisine and the quiet of the place. It was infinitelynicer, he had said, to have their luncheon there than to go to any ofthe huge, noisy caravansaries like the skyscraping, five-acre, concreteMonolith on the avenue. And she had agreed with him. Another time, hehad 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 greatlypreferred a corner, all to himself, in the Bellerophon to dining withhalf-formed acquaintances at the club. In this, likewise, she hadsympathised thoroughly with his point of view. And so, not unnaturally,it came about that Shirley had had little difficulty, on her longjourney east, in convincing herself that it was merely her liking forthe Bellerophon, and not at all anything more subtle that had caused herto decide upon this quaint, old hotel for her lonely stay in themetropolis. Besides, Miriam and she had often been there together, andfor 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 herbag at the feet of the Bellerophon porter,--charging her quite double,as the price of her unpardonable absentmindedness,--a flood of memoriesswept over her, and her face flushed and she laughed in an irritatedsort of way on realising that all the time she had been thinking solelyof Murgatroyd.
Murgatroyd! Would the man's name never be out of her thoughts! For atime, out west, it is true, she had been so engrossed in the cares andgriefs of her almost hermit-like existence, that she had been able tolook 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 slenderold gentlemen--aristocrats--who strolled to and fro, everything aboutthe place recalled vividly the man who, not so very long ago, had been apart and parcel of her existence.
They showed her to her room--a wonderfully old-fashioned room without aparticle of brass or glitter in it. Even the bedstead was of wood--agood, 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 wasnot 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 hadstraggled in, stale and unprofitable. But these--of even date; why, theywere damp from the press. Indeed, it was good to have them!
"Home, home," she whispered to herself as she sank into a chair. Shedecided that she would not dine until much later, for she wanted tothink, wanted to classify the emotions which had rushed in upon her sosuddenly. The easy chair responded to her mood; and with a sigh, andplacing her hands behind her head, she leaned back contentedly, littleknowing that she looked wonderfully pretty in that old room--a goddessin a travelling gown. All the care and sorrow that she had passedthrough in these last months had made a woman of the girl
, had deepenedher beauty. Time had rounded her gently. Travel-stained and feverishwith the glow of a new experience upon her, she was more inviting, morehuman, more beautiful than she could possibly be in the latest Pariscreation. And yet one of the fittest mates in a great metropolis wasalone. East and west, everywhere she had wandered, men, great men,wonderful men had held out their hands to her beseechingly--drawn by acertain undefinable magnetism and attractiveness which she possessed--acharm of manner which few could resist. And Shirley had passed on, andhad given no sign.
But now in the silence of her room, her loneliness appalled her. Theinsistent memories closed in around her. And suddenly she knew that shewanted to live as other women lived--with a man of her own choosing. Butwhere 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 headof the third column, a word, a name had caught her eye: Murgatroyd!Paper after paper she now scanned, and all mentioned his name: some onthe first page, others on the second; and with it invariably was coupledanother name: Thorne! Finally, she rejected all but one, the_Pillar_,--the most conservative evening paper in the city,--andconcentrated her attention upon it. At a glance, Shirley could see thatwith all its conservatism, the _Pillar_ was holding up its hands inreverential hero-worship. In a two-column article it reviewedMurgatroyd's record from its invariably impartial viewpoint. "Murgatroydhad been clean," it said, "his reputation was unsullied." It evenreferred to the Challoner incident as a pitiful piece of falsehood whichhad strengthened Murgatroyd in his position. Shirley laid down the paperwith a cry:--
"Oh, what a hypocrite he is!"
So Murgatroyd was still playing a game! The root of his record wasdishonesty! Shirley was thoroughly sincere in her indignation. And yetafter a little while she began to wonder whether his conscience troubledhim--whether it had cost him anything? Oh, if only she could be sure ofthat! For she well knew, and a little sigh of shame escaped her, that ifonly he had abandoned all pose, shown himself in true colours, evenbecome a machine politician, she could have forgiven him everything. Nota little distressed, therefore, she read on and on, marvelling at the_Pillar's_ devotion, but soon it became apparent to her that its editorwas picturing Murgatroyd more in the light of a losing martyr than as asuccessful saint. For the article pointed out the strength of therailroads, of Wall Street, of the brewers, of the machine, and predictedmournfully that Murgatroyd was bound to fall before all his powerfulenemies, concluding with: "More the pity, more the pity."
Presently she read the other papers; all contained more or less adversecriticism of him. One thing, however, stood out: fanatic though some ofthem called him, they were unanimous as to his honesty of purpose--a manwho could not be bought, who could not be swerved from the straight andnarrow path. Moreover, in none of them was there any reference to theexistence of Challoner. The Challoners had been forgotten--had droppedcompletely out of sight.
It was after eight o'clock when Shirley was reminded of a sudden thatshe was desperately hungry. Once in the dining-room, she directed hersteps to the small alcove--the corner which Miriam and she had alwaysoccupied, after the first of those memorable occasions when she hadlunched there with Murgatroyd. Taking her place at the table with a sighof satisfaction, Shirley threw a glance around the room. Palms screenedher table, making it impossible for her to be seen, although it wasperfectly easy for her to see every one in the room. There were fewdining at that hour, and so after ordering her meal, she was thrown backonce more on her reflections--reflections of Murgatroyd; and she fell towondering in what way had the possession of almost a million dollarschanged him. Had he grown stout? Was he full-faced, or possibly a bitinsolent, overbearing and aggressively genial with a wide laugh? In anyevent, she was quite positive that he was prosperous-looking--tooprosperous-looking; and, all in all, it was anything but a pleasantpicture 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. Onseeing it occupied, he mumbled his surprise and backed out again. Butwhile pushing his way through the palms he extended a short arm andsaid:--
"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 beenpointed out to her at the Challoner trial. Shirley wondered what a manof his stamp was doing in the quietude of the Bellerophon. Somehow, hedid not seem to belong there; she laughed silently to herself as throughthe palms she watched him settle himself laboriously at a table inanother corner. The seat he had taken faced away from her, and she notedhow broad, how terribly broad was his back.
"But a power in politics--the real thing!" she cried half-aloud. It wasnot surprising, she told herself, that men of refinement hesitated along time before going into politics, if this were a type of the menthey had to compete with. Her thoughts running on in this strain, shedetermined 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 facingher.
At the first glance, Shirley had a faint suspicion that likewise sheknew 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 upand dispelled her doubts. She was face to face with the man who hadfilled her thoughts for the last two hours.
"And so that is Billy Murgatroyd!" she murmured to herself. He was thesame Murgatroyd she had known, but different from the man she hadpictured. And she would have gone on indefinitely criticising his looks,but she was suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices. It wasBroderick talking, his big voice filling the room. Shirley listenedattentively.
"Blamed good place to get away from the gang," he was saying; and therewas a satisfied look on his face as he glanced about the room.
While Broderick ordered the dinner, Murgatroyd leaned forward and madesome remark. Instantly something in the tone of his voice, or it mayhave been his manner, told the girl that the relations between the twomen were, in a degree, confidential. The back of Broderick assumed theattitude of a political adviser. Shirley observed that he gesticulated agreat deal and often wiped his brow with a handkerchief which, even at adistance, she could see was over-embroidered, but in none of hismovements 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 andwhile Broderick talked on, Murgatroyd rose and walked for a brief whileup and down behind the table; and, unseen herself, she scrutinised himclosely.
The first thing that her woman's eye noted was that Murgatroyd was notin evening clothes; he wore a business suit, not altogether new, whichto her thinking, needed pressing; it looked as if he had lived in itfrom daybreak to daybreak. He was no stouter than when she had last seenhim; if anything he appeared to have lost flesh, yet his figure stillretained its strong but fine lines. And Shirley was forced toacknowledge to herself that it had lost none of its grace. But on hisface was the dull flush that results from the strain of enthusiasm, ofexcitement, of overwork. He looked fagged out, and his eyes wererestless, though they glowed with steadiness of purpose. From time totime he glanced quickly about him, taking in every detail of the room,study
ing the people in it, and even peering through the palms that hidthe girl, as though he wondered what interloper had had the temerity torob him of his lair. One thing, however, impressed her more thananything else: his demeanour toward Broderick. There was within it not aparticle of that confidential concession that Broderick seemed everready to offer; on the contrary, it suggested a suspicious watchfulness.Murgatroyd had every appearance of being a zealous, jealous taskmasterwho had set himself over a paid but uncertain servant.
And Broderick,--only once did Broderick turn his head so that Shirleymight see his face; but in that one instant the girl divined what shebelieved to be the situation, the true force of the drama that was beingplayed by the two men. Broderick's face, glance, his whole being,indicated the cunning of the man; he was treachery personified, atleast, so he appeared to Shirley; and she told herself, as she sat thereand studied him, that any one with half an eye could see that he washoodwinking the man opposite him.
"Murgatroyd was being fooled!" There was no doubt about it. The attitudeof both men expressed it; but, more than anything else, Murgatroyd's airof feverish endeavour, of expenditure of energy, confirmed it. WithMiriam's thousands he had paid for something that had not beendelivered. Broderick had taken the money--every dollar of it, of thatShirley was thoroughly convinced,--and had given nothing in return. Inthe girl's mind there was no accounting otherwise for Broderick's leer;in no other way was it possible to explain the desperate effort thatMurgatroyd seemed to be making. But, at last, the lawyer grew angry; hehit the table repeatedly with his fist and glared at Broderick. And thehuge politician pretended to cower and tried to propitiate him.
"Yes, they are fooling him!" she repeated to herself. Miriam's money hadbeen of no avail; Murgatroyd had failed to accomplish his purpose.
After a while this feeling of contempt for his failure gave way to awave of pity. What right had she to judge him at all; what manner ofwoman was she, that she should set herself up to determine whether hislesson was deservedly bitter or not; and what should be his punishment."Money so gotten will never do him any good," Miriam had said after thescene in the court-room; and how true her words had proved! Why, thepapers, even though they believed in his honesty, had as much as saidthat he was going down to defeat. And then, in turn, her feeling ofcompassion was succeeded by one of gladness. She was not a littlesurprised to find herself fervently wishing that Broderick had robbedhim of every dollar; but, later on, her cheeks burned furiously when anhonest 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, strippedof all save truth, a beaten man, what then? Well, she felt unutterablylonely, she wanted to be loved, and after all, he had helped her friendby setting her husband free.