(Nurse in Doctor Beal's Private Hospital).
Mr. James Morehouse (in whose bank there were funds for "Mrs. May") had
not informed her of his brother's intentions, and though she was sorry to
hear of the poor man's sufferings, she could not regret his failure to
meet her at the ship. She did not wish to be helped, nor told how to see
things, nor be personally conducted to California. She enjoyed being free,
and vague, able to stop as long or as short a time as she liked on the
way. She wanted to see only places which she _wanted_ to see, not places
which she ought to want to see; for there was sure to be a difference.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, she wrote a gracious answer to the letter, and ordered
flowers sent to Doctor Beal's Nursing Home, for Mr. Henry Morehouse. Then
she proceeded to forget him, unconscious of the direct influence his
illness was to have upon her future. She thought far more about Mr.
Nickson Hilliard, whom she had avoided yesterday, and who seemed to avoid
her to-day. The fact that the letter which had brought colour to her face
was from a strange, unwanted Mr. Morehouse, vexed the Princess
unreasonably with Nickson Hilliard, who ought to have written, if he could
not call, to tell his story; and when she heard nothing from him, saw
nothing of him, it was in resentment that she left New York next morning.
Though it was entirely subconscious, the real thought in her mind was:
"Since he didn't choose to take the chance when he had it, now he shan't
have it at all!"
For a woman of twenty-three is very young. It is annoying to be cut off in
the midst of an adventure, by the hero of the adventure, when you have
flattered yourself that the poor fellow was yearning to know you. If
Angela was unjust to Hilliard she was not an isolated instance; for all
women are unjust to all men, especially to those in whom they are
beginning to take an interest. Angela did not know that she was interested
in Nickson Hilliard, and would have laughed if any one had suggested the
idea, from a personal point of view; but in her social reign as the
Princess di Sereno, she had been a good deal spoiled--by every one except
the Prince. Vaguely, and like a petted child, she had taken it for granted
that all men were glad to be "nice" to her, and she thought the "forest
creature" was showing himself a backwoods creature--rude and
unenlightened.
Angela loved the sea, and chose to travel on it whenever she could. The
trip from New York to New Orleans was even more interesting than she had
expected from tales of her father's, for the ship steamed along the coast,
in blue and golden weather, turning into the Gulf of Mexico after rounding
the long point of Florida. Cutting the silk woof of azure, day by day, a
great longing to be happy knocked at Angela's heart, like something
unjustly imprisoned, demanding to be let out. She had never felt it so
strongly before. It must be, she thought, the tonic of the air, which made
her conscious of youth and life, eager to have things happen, and be in
the midst of them. But Kate was a comfort, almost a friend. And Timmy the
cat was a priceless treasure.
No town in America, perhaps, could have contrasted more sharply with New
York than New Orleans. Angela felt this, even as the ship moved slowly
along the great canal and slipped into the dark, turbid gold of the
Mississippi River. The drowsy landscape on either side was Southern
landscape, and among live-oaks draped with mourning flags of moss, and
magnolia-trees gemmed with buds, there were planters' houses which seemed
all roof and balcony. Buzzards flew up suddenly, out of rice-fields, as
the ship rounded a curve--creatures big and long-legged as the storks of
Holland and Algeria. The wharf, when the ship docked at last, was filled
with bales of cotton, and it was as if all the negroes in America must
have come down to meet the boat. She might have been walking into an old
story of Cable's, in the days "befoh the wah."
Her idea had been to travel on to the West next day, but New Orleans held
her. She had left the Old World eagerly for the New; but this bit of the
Old, in the midst of the New, made her feel as if she had stumbled into an
ancient Spanish court, in the middle of a modern skyscraper. The contrast
was sharp as the impress of an old seal in new wax, and Angela loved it.
She liked her hotel, too, and said but half-heartedly each morning,
"To-morrow I'll go on." With Kate for duenna, she wandered through streets
which, though they had historic French names, reminded her more of Spain
than of France, with their rows of balconies and glimpses of flowery
patios paved with mossy stones, or cracked but still beautiful tiles. She
made friends with an elderly French shopkeeper of the Vieux Carré, who
looked as if carved out of ivory and yellowed with age. His business was
the selling of curiosities; antique furniture brought in sailing ships
from France when New Orleans was in the making; quaintly set jewels worn
by famous beauties of the great old days; brocades and velvets which had
been their ball dresses; books which had Andrew Jackson's name on yellow
fly-leaves; weird souvenirs from the haunted house where terrible Madame
Lalaurie tortured slaves to death; fetishes which had belonged to Marie
Laveau, the Voodoo Queen; sticks and stones of the varnished house where
Louis Philippe lived, and letters written by Nicholas Girod, who plotted
to rescue Napoleon from St. Helena and spirit him across the sea to New
Orleans. The selling of these things, or rather the collecting of them,
was the pleasure as well as the business of Monsieur Bienvenu, and he had
stored in his mind as many legends of the old town as he had stored
treasures in his low-browed, musky-smelling shop. Angela spent her
mornings listening to his tales of slave-days, and always she bought
something before she bade him _au revoir_, in the Parisian French which
enchanted the old man.
"You light up my place, madame," he said; and insisted, with graceful
gestures, that she should not pay for her collection of old miniatures,
necklaces, gilded crystal bottles, illuminated books and ivory crucifixes,
until the day fixed for her departure.
"Once you pay, madame, you may not come again," he smiled. "I am
superstitious. I will not take your money till the last moment."
On the third day, however, Angela decided that she must go. Her father's
country called, with a voice she could hear above the music of the
Southern town, the laughter of the pretty French girls and the chatter of
black and brown babies who babbled a language which was neither French,
Spanish, nor English, but a mixture of all. She bought more things of
Monsieur Bienvenu, and also in other curiosity shops which she dared not
mention to him, since his one failing was a bitter jealousy of rivals.
"Where is my gold bag, Kate? Have you got it?" she asked, when the moment
came to pay a hundred dollars for two or three snuff-boxes, picked up in a
place she had not visited until that day.
"No, ma'am, you had it on yer arm when I noticed last," said Kate, looking
startled. "Fur all the saints, I hope ye haven't lost it!"
Angela, too, began to look anxious. Not only was her bag valuable--worth
seven or eight hundred dollars--but all her money was in it, and a
check-book she had brought out that morning, to pay Monsieur Bienvenu the
rather large sum she owed him. Still, she was not greatly distressed. She
had lost that gold bag so many times, had dropped it from her lap when she
got up, left it in motor-cars, or lying on the floor in friends' houses,
and always it had come back to her! She cheered herself, therefore by
saying that to-day would be no exception.
"Let me think, where were we last, Kate?" she wondered. "The shop where I
bought the lilac and silver stole, wasn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am it was. And indade, if ye'll not mind my sayin' so, I begged
ye not to go in there, the place looked so disrespectable, as if there
might be measles or 'most anything, and the man himself come poppin' out
to entice ye in, like the spider with the fly."
"We must go back at once and see if I left the bag after paying for the
stole," said Angela. And, explaining to the late owner of the snuff-boxes,
she hurried out with Kate, leaving her parcel to be called for.
Little Mr. Isaac Cohensohn, of the brocade shop, made a search, but could
not find the missing trinket. Unfortunately, a number of people had been
in since the lady left, strangers to him. If madam was sure she had gone
out of the shop without the bag, why, somebody must have taken it since
then. The question was, who? But she must apply to the police.
"If only I hadn't stuffed in that check-book!" Angela said to Kate.
"Perhaps they would have cashed a check in the hotel. Anyhow, Monsieur
Bienvenu would have taken one for what I owe him. Now I'm in the most
horrid scrape! I don't know how I'm going to get out of it."
They walked back toward the shop of the snuff-boxes gloomily discussing
the situation, which was complicated by the fact that, grown cautious
since the attempted burglary at the Valmont, Angela had left her most
valuable jewellery in a bank at New York. It was to be sent on, insured,
only when she finished her travelling, and settled down.
"I'll have to call the police, I suppose," she said. "Though it's sure to
do no good. I shall never see my bag again! I can telegraph to have the
checks stopped at the San Francisco bank; but I had nearly five hundred
dollars in the purse. What shall I do about my hotel bill and everything?
And my railway tickets? We'll have to stay till I can get money."
Suddenly, because it seemed impossible, she wanted passionately to start
at once.
Always she had hated postponing things.
"Somehow, I _will_ go!" she said to herself. "I don't know how--but I
will." And she walked on with Kate, back to the hotel, remembering how she
had told the head clerk that this was her last day--she was giving up the
rooms to-morrow. And the hotel was crammed, because there was a Convention
of some sort. It might be that her suite was already let for the next
day.
She went to the desk, asking abruptly, "If I find that I need to stop
longer, are my rooms free for to-morrow?"
"Unfortunately, we've just let them--not as a suite, but separately," said
the young man. "This is a big week for the Crescent City, you know, and
we've got people sleeping in bathrooms."
"What shall I do?" Angela exclaimed, trouble breaking down reserve. "All
my money and a check-book I had in my gold bag have been stolen. I'll have
to telegraph my bank." And she had visions of being deposited in a
bathroom, with all her luggage and Kate, and Tim the cat.
"Well, that's a shame," the clerk sympathized. "I'll tell you what I can
do. A gentleman came in about an hour ago; said he was looking for a
friend; glanced over the register, and must have found the name, because
he's going to stay. He's got to sleep in the laundry to-night, but he's
among those I've allotted to your suite to-morrow. When he hears a lady
wants to keep her room, he's sure to wait for it."
"I don't like to ask a favour of a stranger," Angela hesitated.
"American men don't call things like that favours, when there's a lady in
the case," replied the clerk. "It wouldn't do for _you_ to be in the
laundry."
It was rather unthinkable; so when the young man added that the newcomer
might be in at any minute for luncheon, Angela flitted to her own
quarters, which looked more than ever attractive now that they might be
snapped away from her. She descended again soon, hoping to hear her fate;
and there, by the desk, stood Mr. Nickson Hilliard.
His brown face reddened at sight of Mrs. May, but he did not show
surprise. Seeing that she intended to recognize him, his eyes brightened,
and Angela felt that she, too, was blushing a little. She was vexed with
him still, but it would have been stupid as well as ungrateful to show her
annoyance except by being elaborately polite. After all, she owed him
gratitude, which she had wished for a chance to pay.
She put out her hand, and he radiated joy as he took it. Happiness was
becoming to Nick. An all too cordial grip he gave, then loosened his grasp
in a fright; "I hope I haven't hurt you!" he exclaimed, horrified.
Angela laughed. "Only a tiny bit; and that's better than a fishy
handshake. Luckily, I left my sharpest rings in New York. And, oh, the
gold bag you saved is gone forever! I've just had it stolen."
"That's too bad," he remarked. But he did not look cast down. "I'll
rummage New Orleans for it, if you give me leave to have a try," he
volunteered.
"Thank you," she said. "But I shall have to tell the police, I suppose.
Not that there's much hope."
"You wouldn't let me set the ball rolling, would you?" he asked, as if he
were begging a favour instead of wishing to do one. "I mean go to the
police for you, and all that?"
"How kind you are!" exclaimed Angela. "But--no, indeed, I won't spoil your
visit to New Orleans as I did your visit to New York."
Nick looked astounded. "What makes you think you spoiled my visit to New
York?"
Here was Angela's chance for a gentle reproach, and she could not resist
the temptation of administering it, wrapped in sugar.
"I don't _think_. I know. And it distressed me very much," she said,
sweetly. "I read in the papers that you hadn't been in New York since you
were a boy; that you were there to 'enjoy yourself.' And all your time was
taken up with the bother that ought to have been mine! You were too busy
even to let me hear what happened that night, after----" Suddenly she was
sorry that she had begun. It was silly and undignified to reproach him.
His face grew scarlet, as if he were a scolded schoolboy.
"Too busy!" he echoed. "Why, you didn't think _that_, did you? You
couldn't!"
"What was I to think?" asked Angela, lightly. "But really, what I thought
isn't worth talking about."
"It may not be to you, but it is to me, if you don't mind," he persisted.
"I--I made sure you'd know why I didn't--send you any word or--or
anything. But if you didn't see it the right way, I've got to tell you
now. It was because--of course, it was because--I just didn't dare butt
in. I was afraid you'd feel, if I had the cheek to write a note, or follow
up and speak to you in the hotel, that I was--kind of takin' advantage of
what was an accident--my luck in gettin' a chance to do a little thing for
you. A mighty small thing; 'twouldn't have been visible except in a
high-powered microscope, and only then if you looked hard for it. So I
said to myself, 'Twas enough luck to have had that chance.' I'd be a
yellow dog to presume on it."
Instantly Angela realized that it was her vanity which had been hurt by
his seeming negligence, and that it was stroked the right way by this
embarrassed explanation. She was ashamed of herself for drawing it out,
yet she was pleased; because she had been really hurt. Now that she need
not puzzle over the man's motives, she would perhaps cease to think of
him. But she must be kind, just for a minute or two--to make up for
putting him in the confessional, and to prove the gratitude she wished to
show.
"You must be a very modest person, if you didn't understand that I longed
to hear--_lots_ of things you wouldn't let the newspapers get hold of,"
she smiled. "Of course, it was interesting to read about that wretched
man--Dutchy, or whatever they called him. And as he seems to have stolen
from heaps of people, I suppose it's well for the world that he'll be shut
up in prison--although I can't bear the thought of prison for any one. It
stifles me. There ought to be some other kind of punishment. But I _did_
want to know what happened in your room after----"
"Nothing much happened," said Nick. "The little beast was all in. I'd kind
of got on his nerves, and he knew I'd dig a hole in the ground with him if
he so much as peeped. I just rounded him up, and then the police came and
played out the rest of the hand. As for you spoilin' my visit to New York,
why ma'am, you _made_ it. I had the time of my life."
Angela laughed, because he called her "ma'am" (which was even funnier than
"lady," from the hero who had saved her life), and because all his
expressions struck her as extremely "quaint."
"It was a very short time of your life then. I should have thought you'd
want to stay weeks in New York, as you hadn't been there for so long--and
you'd travelled so far. You see, I saw in the paper that you'd come from
California. And that interested me, because my--because dear friends of
mine have told me so much about California." She did not add that she was
on her way there, but, of course, he might suspect, meeting her in New
Orleans, if he were curious concerning her movements.
"I did mean to stay some time when I went East," he admitted, "but--well,
perhaps I was homesick. Anyhow, I felt as if I'd got a hurry call to go
home."
"What an odd coincidence, our meeting here!" Angela spoke out her thought.
"Ye-es," assented Nick. "I reckon it does seem that way." He was
interested in the pattern of the carpet. "If you won't think it a liberty,
now I _am_ here," he began again, "I'll be mighty glad to try and find
your bag. If you'll tell me just how and where you lost it----"
Angela shook her head. "You're not to spend your time fussing with the
police, as you did in New York."
"But I'd like it better than anything," he said. "I didn't come to New
Orleans to see the sights, anyhow. I'll feel down and out if you won't let
me help. 'Twill seem as if I'd managed wrong in New York."
"Oh, if you're going to feel like _that_!" And forthwith Angela told him
the story of her loss.
"All your money and a check-book full of blank checks!" he echoed.
"Yes. I've wired already to have the checks stopped for the bank's sake.
But it's a bore. And I was fond of that bag. Besides, I had about five
hundred dollars in my purse. Now I shall have to wait here till I can get
more."
"You wanted to go?" he asked.
"Yes--to-morrow. However, that doesn't matter."
"It does, if you wanted to. But, see here, ma'am, I've thought of
something."
"My name is Mrs. May," said Angela, smiling.
"I know--I mean, are you willing I should call you it, just as if I was
really acquainted with you?"
"Of course. Why not?"
"Well, you see," he explained. "What I don't know about society and the
right way to act with ladies could be put in a book bigger than the Bible.
And I wouldn't offend you, for--for a good deal."
"I feel certain you'd know the 'right way to act,' by instinct," Angela
assured him. "You were splendid to me that night in New York. Very few men
would have known how to do what you did."
"Thank you a thousand times for saying that, though I don't deserve one
word," Nick burst out, flushing again, and hoping she did not see, because
he had a trying task before him. "But my idea is this. Couldn't you let me
lend the money you need, and go on when you like, instead of waiting? You
could send it back, any old way--check or anything. And I wouldn't care a
hang--I wouldn't care a red cent--when."
"Oh, I couldn't----" Angela began, but the look on his face stopped her.
It was so strong a mixture of disappointment and chagrin, as to make him
instantly pathetic in her eyes. She had just said that he was a man whose
instinct would always be right, and she had meant it sincerely. She knew,
if she knew anything about men, that here was one of Nature's gentlemen.
He had proved that already; and--it was a shame to hurt his feelings
after all he had done for her.
"I beg your pardon if I've said the wrong thing. I meant no harm," he
apologized warmly. "But I get left-handed and tongue-tied, I guess, when
it comes to being civilized--where there's a lady in the case. It must
have been I said it the wrong way, for, I _do_ know the thing itself would
be right. You want to go. You've lost your money. And I expect your bank
wouldn't send it on a telegram. They mostly won't. That means waiting
days, perhaps. So I thought----"
"It would mean waiting," she broke into his pause. "My bank is a long way
off. You're very kind, and I _will_ borrow the money, if it won't
inconvenience you, on condition that--you let me give you security."
"That would hurt my feelings badly," said he; "but I'd rather you'd do it
than not take the money, because your convenience is a heap more important
than my feelings."
"If I go I can get money in a few days, and wire it back to you here,"
Angela reflected aloud, at a loss how to treat the situation when it
became a question of hurting Mr. Hilliard's feelings.
Nick's face fell. "I--unless you give me your orders--I don't want to stay
here very long," said he. "I don't care when I get the money back."
"Why, you've only just arrived, haven't you?"
"Ye-es. But I feel my homesickness coming on again. I shouldn't wonder if
I'll always be sort of restless, now, away from the West. It's my
country--anyhow, the country of my heart."
Angela came near saying, "So it is mine." But that might have necessitated
explanations. "Well, you must take the security, I'm afraid," she said,
"or I can't take the loan. As I told you, I left most of my things in New
York, to be sent on when I settle down. Still, there's _one_ thing, which
I couldn't pawn, or leave with hotel people. But I wouldn't mind giving it
to you. It's a diamond frame for a miniature I always carry with me. I
could take the miniature out."
Nick stared hard at the carpet again. He was afraid to let her see the
look on his face. "It's her dead husband's picture," he thought. "She must
have loved him, if she always carries his portrait around." Aloud he said,
"Very well, if you won't do my way, I'll have to do yours."
"I'll give you the address of my bank; and I must have your address,"
Angela went on. "Then, if you should change your mind and stay here----"
"I'm going to stay just long enough to get your bag," he replied.