A casual acquaintance in San Juan had recommended the Hotel Miston to
Ross. “Nice, quiet little place,” he had said; “and you can get a really
good cup of coffee there.”
So, when the United States customs officers had done with Ross, he
secured a taxi, and told the chauffeur to drive him to this Hotel
Miston. Not that he was in the least anxious for quiet, or had any
desire for a cup of coffee; simply, he was in a hurry to get somewhere,
anywhere, so that he could begin to live.
In spite of the rain, he lowered the window of the cab, and sat looking
out at the astounding speed and vigor of the life about him. This was
what he had longed for, this was what he had wanted; for years and years
he had said to himself that when he was free, he would come here and
make a fortune.
Well, he was free, and he was in New York, and he had already the
foundation of a nice little fortune. For eight years he had worked in
the office of a commission agent in Manila, and every day of those eight
years he had told himself that he wouldn’t stand it any longer. But he
had stood it.
His grandfather had been a cynical old tyrant; he had thwarted the boy
in every ambition that he had. When James said he wanted to be a civil
engineer, as his father had been, old Ross told him he hadn’t brains
enough for that. James had not agreed with him, but as he had no money
to send himself home to college, he had been obliged to put up with what
old Ross called “a sound practical education.”
At eighteen his education was declared finished, and he went to work. He
hated his work, he hated everything about his life, and from his meager
salary he had saved every cent he could, so that he would get away.
Long ago he had saved enough to pay his passage to New York--but he had
not gone. His grandfather was old and ill, and, because of his bitter
tongue, quite without friends; he certainly gave no sign that he enjoyed
his grandson’s company, and James showed no affection for him; their
domestic life was anything but agreeable.
Sick at heart, James saw his youth slipping by, wasted, his abilities
all unused; he told himself that he had done his duty, and more than his
duty to his grandfather. Yet he could not leave him.
Then, six months ago, the old man had died, leaving everything he had to
“my grandson, James Ross, in appreciation of his loyalty,” the only sign
of appreciation he had ever made. It was a surprisingly large estate;
there was some property in Porto Rico, where James had spent his
childhood with his parents, but the greater part consisted of very sound
bonds and mortgages in the hands of a New York lawyer, Mr. Teagle.
Mr. Teagle had written to James, and James had written to Mr. Teagle
several times in the last few months, but James had not told him when he
expected to arrive in New York. He had gone to Porto Rico in a little
cargo steamer, by the way of Panama; he had wound up his business there,
and now he wanted to walk in on Mr. Teagle in the most casual fashion.
He hated any sort of fuss; he didn’t want to be met at the steamer, he
didn’t want to be advised and assisted. He wanted to be let alone.
The taxi stopped before the Hotel Miston, a dingy little place not far
from Washington Square. Ross got out, paid the driver, and followed the
porter into the lobby. He engaged a room and bath, and turned toward the
elevator.
“Will you register, sir?” asked the clerk.
Ross hesitated for a moment; then he wrote “J. Ross, New York.” After
all, this was his home; he had been born here, and he intended to live
here.
He went upstairs to his room, and, locking the door, sat down near the
window. The floor still seemed to heave under his feet, like the deck of
a ship. He visualized the deck of the Farragut, and Phyllis in a deck
chair, looking at him with her dear, friendly little smile.
He frowned at the unwelcome thought. That was finished; that belonged in
the past. There was a new life before him, and the sooner he began it,
the better.
He reached in his pocket for Mr. Teagle’s last letter--and brought out
that note to “Cousin James.” At the sight of it, he frowned more
heavily; he tossed it across the room in the direction of the desk, but
it fluttered down to the floor. Let it lie there. He found Mr. Teagle’s
letter, and took up the telephone receiver. Presently:
“Mr. Teagle’s office!” came a brisk feminine voice.
“I’d like to see Mr. Teagle this morning, if possible.”
“Sorry, but Mr. Teagle won’t be in to-day. Will you leave a message?”
“No,” said Ross. “No, thanks.” And hung up the receiver.
He sat for a time looking out of the window at the street, far below
him. The rain fell steadily; it was a dismal day. He could not begin his
new life to-day, after all. Very well; what should he do, then? Anything
he wanted, of course. Nobody could have been freer.
He lit a cigarette, and leaned back in the chair. Freedom--that was what
he had wanted, and that was what he had got. And yet--
He turned his head, to look for an ash tray, and his glance fell upon
that confounded note on the floor. In the back of his mind he had known,
all the time, that he would have to do something about it. He disliked
it, and disapproved of it; a silly, hysterical sort of note, he thought,
but, nevertheless, it was an appeal for help, and it was from a woman.
Somebody ought to answer it.
He began idly to speculate about the “terribly unhappy” Amy Ross Solway.
Perhaps she was young--not much more than a girl--like Phyllis.
“Not much!” he said to himself. “_She_ wouldn’t write a note like that.
She’s not that sort. No matter what sort of trouble menaced--”
It occurred to him that if Phyllis Barron were in any sort of trouble,
she would never turn to James Ross for help. He had shown her too
plainly that he was not disposed to trouble himself about other people
and their affairs.
His family never did. They minded their own business, they let other
people alone, and other people soon learned to let them alone. Very
satisfactory! Lucky for this Amy Ross Solway that she didn’t know what
sort of fellow had got that note of hers.
Still, something had to be done about it. At first he thought he would
mail it back to her, with a note of his own, explaining that he was not
her Cousin James, but another James Ross, who had got it by mistake.
But, no; that plan meant too much delay, when she was no doubt waiting
impatiently for a gallant cousin.
Then he thought he would try to get her on the telephone, but that idea
did not suit him, either. It was always awkward, trying to explain
anything on the telephone--and, besides, she seemed anxious for secrecy.
He might explain to the wrong person, and do a great deal of harm.
He began to think very seriously about that note now. And, for some
unaccountable reason, his thoughts of the unknown woman were confused
with thoughts of Phyllis Barron. It seemed to him that if Phyllis could
know how much attention he was giving to this problem which was not his
business, she would realize that he was not entirely callous. If she
thought he was, she misjudged him.
Perhaps he was not what you might call impulsively sympathetic, but he
was not lacking in all decent feeling. He was not going to ignore this
appeal.
“I’ll go out there!” he decided. “I’ll see this Amy Ross Solway, and
explain. And, if her trouble’s anything real, I’ll--” He hesitated.
“Well, I’ll give her the best advice I can,” he thought.
No, James Ross was not what you might call impulsively sympathetic. But,
considering how vehemently he hated to be mixed up in other people’s
affairs, it was creditable of him even to think of giving advice,
creditable of him to go at all.
He arose, put on his overcoat, caught up his hat, and went downstairs.
Nobody took any notice of him. He walked out of the Hotel Miston--and he
never came back.