James Ross was well content, that morning. He stood on the deck, oneelbow on the rail, enjoying the wind and the cold rain that blew inhis face, enjoying still more his feeling of complete isolation andfreedom.
None of the other passengers shared his liking for this bleak Novemberweather, and he had the windward side of the deck to himself. He wasalone 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 thesevere, eagle-nosed profile of Mrs. Barron, who was sitting in there,more majestic than ever in her shore-going outfit. She was aformidable lady, stern, resolute, and experienced; she had marked himdown 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 soskillfully that even to this moment she was not sure whether he haddeliberately avoided her, or whether it was chance. Yes, even now, ifthe weather had permitted, she would have come out after him with hercard.
But, if the weather had permitted that, Ross would not have been wherehe was. The day before, she had captured him for an instant in thedining saloon, and she had said that before they landed she would givehim her card.
He had thanked her very civilly, but he had made up his mind that sheshould do nothing of the sort. Because, if she did, she would expect acard 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 findhim. Even she was not likely to go so far as to rush across therain-swept deck with that card of hers.
He could also see, if he liked, the little blond head of PhyllisBarron, who was sitting beside her mother, her hat in her lap. He knewvery 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 timewith Phyllis—too much time. It was only a five days’ run up from PortoRico; he had never seen her before he came on board, and he intendednever to see her again; yet he felt that it might take himconsiderably more than five days to forget her.
This made him uncomfortable. Every glimpse of that quiet, thoughtfullittle face, so very pretty, so touching in its brave young dignityand candor, gave him a sort of qualm, as if she had spoken a friendlyword to him, and he had not answered. Indeed, so much did the sight ofPhyllis Barron disquiet him that he turned away altogether.
And now, through the downpour, he saw the regal form of the Statue ofLiberty. It pleased him, and somehow consoled him for those qualms. Itwas a symbol of what his life was going to be, a life of completestliberty. He had left nobody behind him, there was nobody waiting forhim anywhere in the world; he cared for nobody—no, not he; and nobodycared for him. That was just what he liked.
He was young, he was in vigorous health, he had sufficient money, andno one on earth had any sort of claim upon him. He could go where hepleased, and do what he pleased. He was free. And here he was, comingback to what was, after all, his native city, and not one soul thereknew 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. Hewas glad it was so. He didn’t want to be greeted; he wanted to be letalone. And, in that case, he had better go now, before they came