The Port of Adventure Part 34

"Oh, if that's all, I----"

"Have you seen the lady, over in the annex, in number twenty-three?"

"Yes," said Jessy. "One of the girls told me there was a regular beauty there, English or something, so I made an errand that way. So _she's_ the lady? Well, that makes it harder! 'Tisn't everything would do for _her_. I guess she's rather special."

"I guess so, too. That was what worried me. Because it's for the honour of California that a foreigner should be supplied, even at a moment's notice, with something as good as she could get at home."

"If not better," Jessy corrected him.

"If not better. Of course, if an American lady lost her baggage she'd make allowances, being at home. And if she couldn't get what she wanted, she'd be good-natured and want what she could get. Well, this lady's good-natured, too; but it's no compliment to the Yosemite for her to expect little and have what she expects."

"No. We must surprise her."

"Exactly. For the honour of California. Let's mingle our brains," said Nick.

"I guess they'll be more useful kept separate, sir; each along its own line."

"Does yours keep a line of the right thing?"

"It begins to see its way there. We've a lady staying in the hotel, Mrs.

Everett, from San Francisco, who's got what we want. Mrs. Everett's a Native Daughter, too. Oh, yes, she'll spare one--her prettiest. Don't you worry, and don't you say a word to your friend. I and Mrs. Everett will do the rest. When that lady from Europe opens her door to-night she'll see lying on her bed something that'll keep her from knowing the difference between the Yosemite Valley and Paris. Trust two Native Daughters."

"I will," said Nick devoutly. And he shook hands with Jessy Jones. He knew better than to offer money at this stage of the game; for he, too, was a Californian, and honour was concerned.

That night, her spirit illumined by the unearthly glory of a lunar rainbow, Angela went to her room with a faint sense of anticlimax, in the discomfort she expected. Then, making a light, she saw foaming over the coverlet a froth of lace and film of cambric. Almost it might have been woven from the moon-rainbow. But pinned on to a sleeve-knot of pale pink ribbon was a slip of paper; and on the slip of paper were a few words in a woman's handwriting: "Compliments of California to Mrs. May."

XXIV

THE BEST THING IN HER LIFE

A faint fragrance of roses haunted the mysterious "nighty," filled the room, and mingled with Angela's dreams. All night long she walked in a garden of sleeping flowers, "sweet shut mouths of rosebuds, and closed white lids of lilies"; and it seemed but a short night, for in her dreams she had half the garden still to explore--in searching for Nick, it seemed--when a rap, sharp as the breaking of a tree branch, made her start up in bed. A dim impression was in her mind that a voice had accompanied the rap, and had made an unsympathetic announcement which meant the need to get up. But the only really important thing was to run back into the garden and find Nick Hilliard, as otherwise she might miss him forever. So Angela shut her eyes, and hurried down dim labyrinths, where she had been wandering before, and called to Nick: "I'm here again. Where are you?"

The rosebuds and lilies were still there, fast asleep, yet somehow the garden was different and not so beautiful. A handsome woman, with black hair, was gathering the flowers, pretending not to see Angela, and Nick had gone. A girl's voice somewhere was saying, "Prince di Sereno! What a romantic name."

It only seemed a minute since the first knock, but now there came another; and this time the announcement was even more disturbing: "Breakfast's ready!" Immediately after, as if to show that no arguing would avail, steps went clanking along the veranda, heavy at first, fainter with distance, and at last a convulsive banging on the door of some other unfortunate.

Now Angela wished no longer to return to the garden of sleep. She was glad to get up, bathe in haste and dress breathlessly, for she had asked to be called at five in order to breakfast before six. In a strenuous quarter of an hour she had arrived at the blouse-fastening stage of her toilet; and, as luck would have it, the blouse concerned was one which did not approve of hurry, and tolerated no liberties. It was of fine cambric, hand-embroidered, fastening at the back, where on one side lived a quant.i.ty of tiny pearl b.u.t.tons, made to mate with an equal number of loops on the other side, very little loops of linen thread. As works of art these were admirable, but they liked to be waited upon respectfully by an experienced lady's maid. Missing such attentions, not one would consent to yoke itself with its appointed b.u.t.ton.

Angela grew warm and flurried. She rang, but no one answered the bell, for it was not yet six o'clock; and only a few of the hotel servants had come on duty.

What should she do? Last night she had looked forward with interest to dressing this morning, for Nick had got for her a costume suitable for riding a trail pony, and fortunately she had it in her suit-case. It was of khaki, with a divided skirt, and a peculiarly fetching jacket. But the jacket must be worn over a thin blouse; and she could not go out to breakfast with that blouse unb.u.t.toned from neck to waist. No doubt by this time Nick was waiting. A large party would start from the hotel to drive to Mirror Lake, and they two were to be in the crowd--though not of it--finding their trail ponies later. She might, of course, keep her "forest creature" waiting indefinitely. He was inured to that treatment and would not complain; but the others?

"Are you ready, Mrs. May?" Nick's voice inquired apologetically, outside the door. "I hope you won't mind my bothering you, but I thought perhaps your call had been forgotten, so----"

"_Can_ you do my blouse for me? Because I can't! And if you can't I shall cry," moaned Angela in a voice of despair. She dashed the door open, and stood on the threshold, in the sweet dawn, the river laughing at her plight.

Nick did not laugh.

There was his Angel, in her short khaki skirt, and the thin cambric blouse that would not b.u.t.ton. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling with that dress-rage than which no emotion known to woman is more fiercely primitive. She was in an early morning "I don't care _what_ happens now!"

mood; but Nick cared.

In the first place, as his eyes took in the situation, he was overwhelmed with a sense of vast responsibility. If he could not "do" the blouse, Mrs.

May had threatened to cry, and she looked as if she would keep her word.

So "do" the blouse he must, if the sky fell. And if he couldn't, it had better fall!

Angela stood with her back to her victim, and the rosy light of sunrise turned a small visible slip of white skin to pearl. A ring or two of bright hair, moist from her bath, curled out from the turned-up ma.s.s of gold, and hovered like little glittering bees just over the top b.u.t.tons of Mrs. May's collar, which Nick must now attack. What if some of that shiny hair was twisted around the b.u.t.tons? Good heavens! On closer inspection it was!

The man's heart, which was beating fast, seemed suddenly to turn to water--wild, rushing water, like that of the river below the fall.

"Can you do it?" asked Angela, anxiously.

"I sure will," answered Nick, with a hundred per cent, more confidence than he felt. A confidence somewhat increased, however, by last evening's success. "Do I begin at the neck or the waist?" he inquired in his most matter-of-fact voice, as if he were about to cord a box, or nail up a crate of oranges.

"At the neck," Angela instructed him.

The stricken young man had a curious sensation, as if his hands were swelling to an immense size. He seemed to have as much control of his fingers as though he wore a pair of boxing gloves.

He took hold gingerly of the delicately embroidered collar, a thumb and finger on either side. "I guess it won't meet," he ventured, tentatively.

"Oh, yes, it will. Just pull it together firmly."

Nick pulled with resolution.

"Ugh! You're choking me!" she gurgled.

All that water which once had been his heart trickled vaguely and icily through the wrong veins, upsetting his whole system.

"Forgive me this time!" he implored. "It's going to be right, just as soon as--as--I find the b.u.t.tonholes."

"There aren't any. They're loops."

"Oh, those tiny little stick-up things, like loosened threads?"

"Yes. You'll see it's _quite_ easy, after the first."

Oh, was it indeed? Nick suppressed a groan, not at his task, but at his own oxlike awkwardness (so he anathematized it) that made a torture of a delicious privilege. Evidently it was a much harder thing to la.s.so one of these little pearl atrocities with its alleged "loop" than to rope a vicious steer. And there were those tangling threads of gold. If he should hurt her!

The ex-cowboy almost prayed, as, with the caution of a man treading upon knife-blades on the edge of a precipice, he unwound the two little curls from the top b.u.t.ton of the collar. And perhaps his unconscious appeal for mercy had its effect, for the tendrils yielded graciously to coaxing. He would have given a year of his life to kiss one of those curls; a comparatively worthless year it would be, since, in all probability, it would be empty of Angela May! Yet no--now that he had touched her like this, now that he had come so near to her, he felt with all his soul that he could never let her go. He would have to keep her somehow.

"She may think there's a dead line between us," he told himself; "but before we leave the Yosemite Valley together I'm going to do my best to cross that line, if I get shot for my cheek. It's better to dare the dash and die, than not to dare, and lose her."

Never, perhaps, was so desperate a resolve cemented while fastening a woman's blouse; but there was a hint of triumph in Nick's voice as he announced, "I've done it!" His signal success in two operations of extreme difficulty seemed to him like two separate good omens.

Angela lightly thanked her knight for his services and bade him wait on the veranda while she put on her jacket and hat. A minute later she came out again, ready for breakfast; and now, having a mind released from b.u.t.tons, she saw that Nick was good to look upon in his khaki riding-clothes.