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?"