The Port of Adventure. C. N. Williamson

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      "Nick Hilliard of California Makes Hotel Thief Feel Small," was the heading of a conspicuous half-column which caught her eye.

      The said thief, it seemed, was known to friends and enemies as "Officer Dutchy." He had "worked" with success in Chicago and the Middle West, but was a comparative stranger in New York. He "claimed" to have been an officer in the German army, but probably lied, though he had evidently been a soldier at one time. He had numerous aliases, and spoke with a German accent. His name appeared on the register of the Valmont as Count von Osthaven, and he admitted an attempt to enter the room occupied by Mr. Hilliard, having reached it by a daring passage along a stone cornice, from his own window, four rooms to the left, on the twelfth storey.

      The case against "Officer Dutchy" would be an interesting one, as his previous career was—according to the reporter—full of "good stories." Mr. Hilliard was hoping, however, that it might be hurried on and off, taking up as little time as possible, as he had use for every moment other than hanging about a court-room giving evidence. Born in New York, he had gone West while a boy, and had never since been in the East till a day or two ago, when he had arrived from the neighbourhood of Bakersfield, California, with the avowed intention of enjoying himself. Naturally he did not want to have his enjoyment curtailed by business.

      Angela felt guilty. It was her fault that the poor young man's holiday was spoiled. She ought not to have let him take her burdens on his shoulders; but it was too late to repent now. She could not come forward and tell the real story, for that would do him harm, since it would differ from his version. She could atone only by showing her gratitude in some way. Because he came from California, she longed to show how friendly and kind she could be to a man of her father's country—a man worthy of that country and its traditions she began to think.

      She lunched in a quiet corner of the restaurant; but Mr. Nickson Hilliard of California did not show himself, and at last Angela went up to her own rooms disappointed. Hardly had she closed the door, however, when a knock sent her flying to open it again. A bellboy had brought a note, and she sprang to the conclusion that it must be from Mr. Hilliard. He had found out her name, and had written to tell what had happened behind the closed door—the loose end of the story which the newspapers had not got, never would get, from any one concerned. But the bright pink of excitement and interest which had sprung to her face died away, as she opened the envelope and glanced down the first page of the letter, which was headed, "Doctor Beal's Nursing Home." She read:

      Madam:

       I am requested by Mr. Henry Morehouse of San Francisco to express

       his regret at not being able to meet your ship and offer his

       services as he hoped to do, at the request of his elder brother,

       Mr. James Morehouse, of the Fidelity Trust Bank, San Francisco. Mr.

       H. Morehouse was coming East on law business, when his brother

       suggested that he make himself useful to you, and he was looking

       forward to doing so, having known the late Mr. Franklin Merriam. On

       starting, however, Mr. Morehouse was far from well, and found

       himself so much worse on reaching New York, that he was obliged to

       consult a doctor. The result was an immediate operation of

       appendicitis. This was performed successfully yesterday and Mr.

       Morehouse feels strong enough to express (through me) his regret,

       wishing to explain why he failed, in case his brother may have let

       you know that he intended to meet you.

       Yours faithfully,

       N. Millar

       (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 СКАЧАТЬ