The Port of Adventure Part 46

Then, if they're worthy, I'll send them to you--once a month or so. Will you do the same?"

"Yes."

"And you'll take care of yourself--for me--won't you?"

He could not answer in words. He crushed her hands against his lips, and then, turning from her abruptly, walked away, without looking back.

It grew cold at Lake Tahoe. When weeks had pa.s.sed, there was no excuse to stay: the plans of the architect were finished, and the new house begun.

Angela went to Del Monte, and motored nearly every day to the forest on the peninsula to see how her home grew. She had not the old interest in thinking of it, but she was no longer unhappy, for she had not lost Nick Hilliard out of her life. She could almost feel the thrill of his thoughts. And at Del Monte she was much nearer Lucky Star City than she had been at Tahoe.

Sometimes she wondered if it would be very wrong and unwise to have him come to look at the house when it was finished. If, afterward, she could have the memory of him in the rooms, walking through them with her--just that, no more; and then going away--it would make all the difference between a live home and a dead house, or a house that never had really "come alive." But generally, when she had dreamed this dream, she said to herself, "Better not," or "It would never do."

One morning in October, just six months to the day after her coming to California, she read in a San Francisco paper--a mere tucked-away paragraph to fill up a corner--that the Italian amateur aeronaut, Prince di Sereno, had arranged a sensational flight from Naples to Algiers in his new aeroplane, an improvement on a celebrated older make. The machine had just been named the _Vittoria_ in honour of the brave and beautiful lady whom he called his "mascot," and who had made so many daring journeys through the air with him. The projected dash would be the most ambitious so far attempted, and it was exciting considerable interest. It was said that Prince di Sereno, in grat.i.tude to his "mascot" had lately made a will in her favour, leaving all his personal property to her. In event of death, his great estates would go to a nephew, as he was without a direct heir.

Angela wondered how much of her money was left for him to bequeath to the celebrated Vittoria di Cancellini. She did not grudge it either to the Prince or his mascot. She took no interest in the great flight from Naples to Algiers, but she felt certain that Paolo would succeed in accomplishing it. He had always succeeded in everything he had ever wanted to do, except perhaps in winning her love. But then he had not really wanted that.

The day came for the flight, but she had forgotten it. She went in the morning to the new house, picnicked there, and returned to Del Monte only at dusk. She was thinking on the way back of several things she would put in the diary she kept for Nick, sending it off to him in a fat envelope the first of each month. One bit of news she wanted to tell him was that his favourite flowers--pansies--were to be planted in a great bed under the windows of her own room. "Then, whenever I look out, I shall think of you. Not that I shouldn't do that anyway." She wondered if she had better add that last sentence, or if it would be better to leave it out.

"There's a telegram for you, Mrs. May; just this minute come," said the hotel clerk.

Angela took it, her heart beating fast, for whenever a telegram arrived--which happened seldom--she always wondered if it would tell her that, for some good reason or other, Nick was coming. But he never had come, and had never telegraphed.

She opened the envelope, and glanced first at the signature: "James Morehouse." Why should he have wired? Then she read:

"In flight to-day aeroplane fell into Sea off Sardinia. Aeronaut killed. Companion injured. Forgive abruptness. Wished get ahead of newspapers."

For a moment she felt absolutely unconcerned, as if reading of the death of some stranger aeronaut, of j.a.pan or South America. Then:

"I hope you've not got bad news, Mrs. May?" a concerned voice was saying.

She was vaguely conscious that the hotel clerk who had given her the telegram was hovering distressfully before her. She had been standing up when she began to read the message. Now she was sitting down. But her voice sounded quite calm and natural in her own ears as she answered, "No, thank you very much. A surprise--that is all. A great surprise."

"You are all right?"

"Oh, quite--quite!"

"Nothing I can do for you?"

"Nothing, thanks. I will go up to my room."

Her first thought, when she could think connectedly, was to send her unfinished letter to Nick, with a few hastily scribbled words at the end--not about the pansies. And perhaps to enclose the telegram.

But she did neither. Two days pa.s.sed before she sent the long diary letter, and when she did send it, nothing more had been written. She waited. She did not know what would happen. She did not even read the newspapers, though she knew there must be paragraphs, not tucked into corners, for this was, in a way, world's news. There had been "considerable interest."

On the third day she was given another telegram. This time the name at the bottom was the only name that could make her heart beat:

"I have seen what has happened. When will you let me come?"

He did not say "Will you let me come?" but "When." She thought if she did not answer soon he would come all the same. It seemed wonderful, unbelievable, that now there was no wrong, no cruelty, no terrible unwisdom in having him near her. But there was none. Even she could see none. So she telegraphed, not the immediate summons he hoped for and she was tempted to send him, but the message of her second thought. "Come; not yet, but on the day I have a home of my own to welcome you in. Till then, let me be alone with my thoughts of you."

The architect thought Mrs. May's impatience to get into her new house, and to have even the garden finished, a charming whim. As she seemed not to care how much money was spent, relays of men, many men, were put on to work night as well as day. Angela chose furniture in San Francisco, all made of beautiful California woods. "We shall have two homes," she thought. It was heavenly to say "we" again.

"You can have Christmas dinner at your own place," said the architect.

"Oh, but I want Christmas _Eve_ there!" Angela exclaimed. "Of all things, I want Christmas Eve!"

"Very well, I promise you Christmas Eve," the architect answered, almost as if she were a child.

But she was not a child. She was a woman loving and longing. Always she had wanted to have a happy Christmas Eve, and she had never had one since Franklin Merriam died.

At last she wrote: "I am going to have a house-warming at Christmas-time: only five guests, and you, Nick, are the princ.i.p.al one. The others, are Mrs. Harland, Mr. Falconer and his bride, and little Miss Wilkins, your school-teacher at Lucky Star. Some day I'll tell you how we renewed our acquaintance."

Nick did not care to know. He wanted to be the only guest: yet somehow he felt that she did not mean to disappoint him. She meant him to be happy that day--the day of Christmas Eve, when she asked him to come to her--at last. But how could she contrive, with other guests, not to let it be a disappointment?

She contrived it by letting him arrive first at the beautiful new house, which was as like as possible, in miniature, to the Mission Inn where they had once "made-believe." They did not speak when they met. Their hearts were too full. There was no question, "Will you marry me?" No answer, "Yes, I am free to love you now." But when the others came, Angela said:

"Congratulate me. I am engaged to the best and dearest man on earth, and I--am the happiest woman."

THE END

BY THE SAME AUTHORS

LORD LOVELAND DISCOVERS AMERICA

ROSEMARY IN SEARCH OF A FATHER

LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER

MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR

THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR

THE GUESTS OF HERCULES

THE PRINCESS VIRGINIA

THE GOLDEN SILENCE

THE CAR OF DESTINY