IN THIS STORY A TIGRESS MASQUERADES AS A BEAUTIFUL
WOMAN—IN OTHER WORDS, AMY ROSS WAS
PREDATORY AND CRUEL
James Ross was well content, that morning. He stood on the deck, one
elbow on the rail, enjoying the wind and the cold rain that blew in
his face, enjoying still more his feeling of complete isolation and
freedom.
None of the other passengers shared his liking for this bleak November
weather, and he had the windward side of the deck to himself. He was
alone there; he was alone in the world—and he meant to remain alone.
Through the window of the saloon he could, if he liked, see the
severe, eagle-nosed profile of Mrs. Barron, who was sitting in there,
more majestic than ever in her shore-going outfit. She was a
formidable lady, stern, resolute, and experienced; she had marked him
down as soon as he had come on board at San Juan.
Yet he had escaped from her; he had got the better of her, and so
skillfully that even to this moment she was not sure whether he had
deliberately avoided her, or whether it was chance. Yes, even now, if
the weather had permitted, she would have come out after him with her
card.
But, if the weather had permitted that, Ross would not have been where
he was. The day before, she had captured him for an instant in the
dining saloon, and she had said that before they landed she would give
him her card.
He had thanked her very civilly, but he had made up his mind that she
should do nothing of the sort. Because, if she did, she would expect a
card from him in return; she would want to know where he was going,
and he meant that she should never know, and never be able to find
him. Even she was not likely to go so far as to rush across the
rain-swept deck with that card of hers.
He could also see, if he liked, the little blond head of Phyllis
Barron, who was sitting beside her mother, her hat in her lap. He knew
very well that Phyllis had taken no part at all in pursuing him, yet,
in a way, she was far more dangerous than Mrs. Barron.
Before he had realized the danger, he had spent a good deal of time
with Phyllis—too much time. It was only a five days’ run up from Porto
Rico; he had never seen her before he came on board, and he intended
never to see her again; yet he felt that it might take him
considerably more than five days to forget her.
This made him uncomfortable. Every glimpse of that quiet, thoughtful
little face, so very pretty, so touching in its brave young dignity
and candor, gave him a sort of qualm, as if she had spoken a friendly
word to him, and he had not answered. Indeed, so much did the sight of
Phyllis Barron disquiet him that he turned away altogether.
And now, through the downpour, he saw the regal form of the Statue of
Liberty. It pleased him, and somehow consoled him for those qualms. It
was a symbol of what his life was going to be, a life of completest
liberty. He had left nobody behind him, there was nobody waiting for
him anywhere in the world; he cared for nobody—no, not he; and nobody
cared for him. That was just what he liked.
He was young, he was in vigorous health, he had sufficient money, and
no one on earth had any sort of claim upon him. He could go where he
pleased, and do what he pleased. He was free. And here he was, coming
back to what was, after all, his native city, and not one soul there
knew his face.
He smiled to himself at the thought, his dour, tight-lipped smile.
Coming home, eh? And nobody to greet him but the Statue of Liberty. He
was glad it was so. He didn’t want to be greeted; he wanted to be let
alone. And, in that case, he had better go now, before they came
alongside the pier, and Mrs. Barron appeared.
He went below to his cabin, intending to stop there until all other
passengers had disembarked. The steward had taken up his bags, and the
little room had a forlorn and untidy look; not an agreeable place in
which to sit. But it was safe.
Ross hung up his wet overcoat and cap, and sat down with a magazine,
to read. But he could not read a word. The engines had stopped; they
had arrived; he was in New York. In New York. Try as he would to
stifle his emotions, a great impatience and restlessness filled him.
There were, in this city, thousands of men to whom Manila and Mayaguez
would seem names of almost incredible romance; men to whom New York
meant little but an apartment, the subway, the office, and the anxious
and monotonous routine of earning a living. But to Ross, New York had
all the allurement of the exotic, and those other ports had meant only
exile and discontent. He thought uncharitable thoughts about Mrs.
Barron, because she kept him imprisoned here when he so longed to set
foot on shore.
There was a knock at the door.
“Well?” Ross demanded.
“Note for you, sir,” answered the steward.
Ross grinned to himself at what he considered a new instance of Mrs.
Barron’s enterprise. For a moment he thought he would refuse to take
the note, so that he might truthfully say he had never got it; then he
reflected that Mrs. Barron was never going to have a chance to
question him about it, and he unlocked the door.
“We’ve docked, sir,” the steward said.
“I know it,” Ross agreed briefly.
He took the note, tipped the steward, and locked the door after him.
Extraordinary, the way this lady had pursued him, all the way across!
He was not handsome, not entertaining, not even very amiable; she knew
nothing about him.
Indeed, as far as her knowledge went, he might be any sort of
dangerous and undesirable character. Yet she had persistently—and
obviously—done her best to capture him for her daughter.
He glanced at himself in the mirror. A lean and hardy young man, very
dark, with the features characteristic of his family, a thin, keen
nose, rather long upper lip, a saturnine and faintly mocking
expression. They were a disagreeable family, bitterly obstinate,
ambitious, energetic, and grimly unsociable.
And he was like that, too; like his father and his grandfather and his
uncles. Without being in the least humble, he still could not
understand what Mrs. Barron had seen in him to make her consider him a
suitable son-in-law.
With Phyllis Barron it was different. He had sometimes imagined that
her innocent and candid eyes had discerned in him qualities he had
long ago tried to destroy. It was possible that she had found him a
little likable.
But _she_ wouldn’t pursue him. He was certain that she had not written
this note, or wanted her mother to write it. When he had realized his
danger, and had begun to spend his time talking to the doctor, instead
of sitting beside her on deck, she had never tried to recall him.
Whenever he did come, she always had that serious, friendly little
smile for him; but she had tried to make it very plain that, where she
was concerned, he was quite free to come or to go, to remember or to
forget.
Well, he meant to forget. His life was just beginning, and he did not
intend to entangle himself in any way. He sighed, not knowing that he
did so, and then, out of sheer idle curiosity, just to see how Mrs.
Barron worked, he opened the note.
“Dear Cousin James—” it began.
But, as far as he knew, he hadn’t a cousin in the world. With a
puzzled frown, he picked up the envelope; it was plainly addressed, in
a clear, small hand, to “Mr. James Ross. On board the S. S. Farragut.”
“Must be a mistake, though,” he muttered. “I’ll just see.” And he went
on reading:
You have never seen me, and I know you have heard all
sorts of cruel and false things about me. But I beg you to
forget all that now. I am in such terrible trouble, and I
don’t know where to turn. I beg you to come here as soon
as you get this. Ask for Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper. Say
you have come from Cren’s Agency, about the job as
chauffeur. She will tell you everything. You can’t refuse
just to come and let me tell you about this terrible
thing.
Your desperately unhappy cousin,
Amy Ross Solway.
“Day’s End,” Wygatt Road, near Stamford.
He sat, staring in amazement at this letter.
“It’s a mistake!” he said, aloud.
But, all the same, it filled him with a curious uneasiness. Of course,
it was meant for some one else—and he wanted that other fellow to get
it at once; he wanted to be rid of it in a hurry.
He had nothing to do with any one’s Cousin Amy and her “terrible
trouble.” He rang the bell for the steward, waited, rang again, more
vigorously, again waited, but no one came.
Then, putting the note back in its envelope, he flung open the door
and strode out into the passage, shouting “Steward!” in a pretty
forcible voice. No one answered him. He went down the corridor, turned
a corner, and almost ran into Mrs. Barron.
“Mr. Ross!” said she, in a tone of stern triumph. “So here you are!
Phyllis, dear, give Mr. Ross one of our cards—with the address.”
Then he caught sight of Phyllis, standing behind her mother. In her
little close fitting hat, her coat with a fur collar, she looked
taller, older, graver, quite different from that bright-haired,
slender little thing in a deck chair. And, somehow, she was so dear to
him, so lovely, so gentle, so utterly trustworthy.
“I’ll never forget her!” he thought, in despair.
Then she spoke, in a tone he had not heard before.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t any cards with me.”
“Phyllis!” cried her mother. “I particularly asked you—”
“I’m sorry,” Phyllis declared again. “We’ll really have to hurry,
mother. Good-by, Mr. Ross!”
Her steady blue eyes met his for an instant, but, for all the regret
and pain he felt, his stubborn spirit refused to show one trace.
Evidently she knew he had tried to run away, and she didn’t want to
see him again. Very well!
“Good-by, Miss Barron!” he said.
She turned away, and he, too, would have walked off, but the dauntless
Mrs. Barron was not to be thwarted.
“Then I’ll tell you the address!” said she. “Hotel Benderly—West
Seventy-Seventh Street. Don’t forget!”
“I shan’t,” Ross replied. “Thank you! Good-by!”
He went back along the corridor, forgetting all about the note, even
forgetting where he was going, until the sight of a white jacket in
the distance recalled him.
“Steward!” he shouted.
The man came toward him, anxious and very hurried.
“Look here!” said Ross. “This note—it’s not meant for me.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but a boy brought it aboard and told me to give
it to you.”
“I tell you it’s not meant for me!” said Ross. “Take it back!”
“But it’s addressed to you, sir. Mr. James Ross. There’s no other Mr.
Ross on board. The boy said it was urgent.”
“Take it back!” Ross repeated.
“I shouldn’t like to do that, sir,” said the steward, firmly. “I said
I’d deliver it to Mr. Ross. If you’re not—satisfied, sir, the purser
might—”
“Oh, all right!” Ross interrupted, with a frown. “I haven’t time to
bother now. I’ll keep it. But it’s a mistake. And somebody is going to
regret it.”