CHAPTER VII.
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.