It seemed to Ross that the great noise of the wind outside was mingled
now with the throb of engines and the rushing of water. He thought he
felt the lift and roll of the ship beneath him; he thought he was lying
in his berth again, on his way across the dark waste of waters, toward
New York. He wondered what New York would be like.
Phyllis Barron was knocking at his door, telling him to hurry, hurry and
come on deck. This did not surprise him; he was only immensely relieved
and glad.
“I knew you’d come!” he wanted to say, but he could not speak. He tried
to get up and dress and go out to her, but he could not move. He made a
desperate struggle to call to her.
“Wait! Wait!” he tried to say. “I’m asleep. But I’ll wake in a minute.
Please don’t go away!”
Then, with a supreme effort, he did wake. He opened his eyes. There was
Eddy, stretched out on his two chairs, sound asleep. And there was a
muffled knocking at the door, and a little wailing voice:
“Eddy! Eddy! Oh, _can’t_ you hear me? Eddy!”
For a moment Ross thought it was an echo from his dream, but, as the
drowsiness cleared from his head, he knew it was real. He got up and
touched the sleeping youth on the shoulder.
“There’s some one calling you!” he said.
Eddy opened his eyes with an alert expression and glared at Ross.
“What?” he demanded, sternly. “No monkey tricks, now!”
As a matter of fact, he was still more than half asleep, and Ross had to
repeat his statement twice before it was understood. Then he sprang up,
pushed aside the chairs, and unlocked the door.
It was Miss Solway. She came in, like a wraith; she was wrapped in a fur
coat, but she looked cold, pale, affrighted; her black eyes wide, her
misty dark hair in disorder; a fit figure for a dream.
“Eddy!” she said. “Go away!”
“Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy protested, anxiously. “Wait till morning.”
“But it is morning!” she cried. “Go away, Eddy! Quick! I want to speak
to--Go away, do! I only have a minute to spare.”
“Morning!” thought Ross. He looked at his watch, which showed a few
minutes past six; then at the window. It was as black as ever outside.
“Lookit here, Miss Amy,” Eddy began again. “If I was you, I’d--”
“Get out, fool!” she cried. “Idiot! This instant!”
Her fierce and sudden anger astounded Ross. Her eyes had narrowed, her
nostrils dilated, her short upper lip was drawn up in a sort of snarl.
Yet this rage was in no way repellent; it was like the fury of some
beautiful little animal. He could perfectly understand Eddy’s answering
in a tone of resigned indulgence.
“All right, Miss Amy. Have it your own way.”
It seemed to Ross that that was the only possible way for any man to
regard this preposterous and lovely creature, not critically, but simply
with indulgence.
Taking up his cap and overcoat, Eddy departed, whistling as he went down
the stairs. Miss Solway waited, scowling, until he had gone; then she
turned to Ross.
“_Who are you?_” she demanded.
He was greatly taken aback. He had not yet had time to collect his
thoughts; nothing much remained in his mind except the decision of the
night before that this morning he was going to the police with an
account of what he had seen. And, stronger and clearer than anything
else, was his desire and resolve to get away from here.
“Oh, tell me!” she entreated.
Ross reflected well before answering. Eddy suspected him of
something--Heaven knew what. Perhaps this girl did, too. He imagined
that they were both a little afraid of him. And, if he held his tongue,
and didn’t let them know how casual and unpremeditated all his actions
had been, he might keep them in wholesome doubt about him, and so get
away.
“My name’s Moss,” he replied, as if surprised. “I came to get a job.”
“No!” she said. “You got my note. But how could you? Who _can_ you be?
Nanna said--but I don’t believe it! I knew--as soon as I saw you--I felt
sure you’d come to help me. Oh, tell me! My cousin James sent you,
didn’t he?”
“James Ross?” asked Ross, slowly.
“Yes!” she answered, eagerly. “My cousin James. He did! I know it!
Mother always told me to go to him if I needed help. Of course, I know
he must be old now. I was afraid--so terribly afraid that he’d left the
ship, or that I’d forgotten the name of it. But I was right, after all.
I thought mother had said he was purser on the Farragut.”
“What!” cried Ross.
He began to understand now. Years and years ago--the dimmest memory--he
had had a cousin James who was purser on one of the Porto Rico boats. He
could vaguely remember his coming to their house in Mayaguez; a gloomy
man with a black beard; son of his father’s elder brother William. It
must have been on the old Farragut, scrapped nearly twenty years ago.
And that cousin James had vanished, too, long ago. William Ross had had
three children, and outlived them all. Ross could remember his
grandfather telling him that.
“All gone,” the old man had said; “both my sons and their sons. No doubt
the Almighty has some reason for sparing _you_; but it’s beyond me.”
“_Your_ Cousin James?” said Ross, staring at her--because that had been
_his_ Cousin James.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she answered, impatiently. “I told you. Now tell me
how--”
But Ross wanted to understand.
“What was your father’s name?” he demanded.
“Luis Delmano,” she replied. “But what does that matter? I only have a
minute--”
“Then why do you call yourself Solway if your name is--”
“Oh!” she cried. “Now I see! You didn’t know the name of my mother’s
second husband! Nobody had told you that! Of course! I should have
thought of that. Mother told me how horrible her brothers were. When she
married daddy, they were so furious. They said they’d never see her or
speak to her or mention her name again--and I suppose they didn’t.
Nasty, heartless beasts! Their only sister!”
Although Ross had never before heard of any sister of his father’s, the
story seemed to him probable. His grandfather, his father, and his uncle
were so exactly the sort of people to possess a sister whose name was
never mentioned; grim, savage, old-fashioned, excommunicating sort of
people. Yes; it was probable; but it was startling. Because, if this
girl’s mother had been his father’s sister, then he was her Cousin
James, after all.
He did not want to be. His dark face grew a little pale, and he turned
away, looking down at the floor, considering this new and unwelcome
idea.
“Now you understand!” she said. “And you did come to help me, didn’t
you?”
This time his silence was deliberate, and not due to any confusion in
his thoughts. The blood in his veins spoke clearly to him. What those
other Rosses had condemned, he, too, condemned. He was like them. This
girl was altogether strange, exotic, and dangerous, and he wanted to get
away from her.
It was his gift, however, to show no sign of whatever he might be
thinking; his face was expressionless, and she read what she chose
there. She came nearer to him, and laid her hand on his arm.
“You will help me?” she said, softly.
He looked down at her gravely. He knew that she was willfully attempting
to charm him--and how he did scorn anything of that sort! And yet--He
looked at her as some long forgotten Ross of Salem might have looked at
a bonny young witch. The creature was dangerous, and yet--Bonny she was,
and a young man is a young man.
“I don’t see,” he began, doubtfully, when suddenly she cried: “Look!”
and pointed to the window. He turned, startled, but he saw nothing
there.
“It’s getting light!” she cried.
That was true enough. The sky was not black now, but all gray, pallid,
swept clean of clouds. The rain had ceased, but the mighty wind still
blew, and the tops of the trees bowed and bent before it, like inky
marionettes before a pale curtain. There was no sign yet of the sun, but
you could feel that the dawn was coming.
“What of it?” asked Ross, briefly.
“It’s the last day!” she answered.
What a thing to say! The last day. It filled him with a vague sense of
dread, and it made him angry.
“That’s not--” he began, but she did not heed him.
“Listen!” she said. “You must help me! I don’t know what to do. I’m--I’m
desperate! I’ve--” She stopped, looking up into his wooden face; then,
seizing him by the shoulder, she tried to shake him.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, look at me like a human being!” she cried.
He stared at her, dumfounded.
“Stop it!” she commanded. “You’ve got to listen to me!”
He had never in his life been so amazed. She had flown at him, and
shaken him! It was unbelievable. It was pathetic. She was such a little
thing; so fierce, and so helpless.
“All right!” he said, mildly. “I’m listening. What’s it all about?”
His tone, his faint smile, did not please her.
“Oh, you think it’s nothing!” she said. “You think I’m just a silly
girl, making an awful fuss about some childish trouble. _Don’t_ you?
Well, you’re wrong. Listen to me!”
She stopped, and drew back a little, looking him straight in the face
with those strange black eyes of hers.
“I’ve done a terrible thing,” she said, in a low, steady voice. “A
wicked, terrible thing. If I get what I deserve, I’m ruined and lost.”
She turned away from him, and walked over to the window. Ross turned,
too, and followed her. She was gazing before her at the gray sky; the
curve of her cheek, her half parted lips, her wide brow, were altogether
innocent and lovely, but the look on her pale face was not so. It was
somber, bitter, and tragic.
“The sun is coming up,” she said, almost inaudibly. “_Will_ you help
me?”
“Yes,” Ross answered.