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 today. 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 today, 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.