


Produced by David Widger





THEIR PILGRIMAGE

By Charles Dudley Warner




I. FORTRESS MONROE

When Irene looked out of her stateroom window early in the morning of
the twentieth of March, there was a softness and luminous quality in
the horizon clouds that prophesied spring. The steamboat, which had left
Baltimore and an arctic temperature the night before, was drawing near
the wharf at Fortress Monroe, and the passengers, most of whom were
seeking a mild climate, were crowding the guards, eagerly scanning the
long facade of the Hygeia Hotel.

"It looks more like a conservatory than a hotel," said Irene to her
father, as she joined him.

"I expect that's about what it is. All those long corridors above and
below enclosed in glass are to protect the hothouse plants of New
York and Boston, who call it a Winter Resort, and I guess there's
considerable winter in it."

"But how charming it is--the soft sea air, the low capes yonder, the
sails in the opening shining in the haze, and the peaceful old fort! I
think it's just enchanting."

"I suppose it is. Get a thousand people crowded into one hotel under
glass, and let 'em buzz around--that seems to be the present notion of
enjoyment. I guess your mother'll like it."

And she did. Mrs. Benson, who appeared at the moment, a little flurried
with her hasty toilet, a stout, matronly person, rather overdressed
for traveling, exclaimed: "What a homelike looking place! I do hope the
Stimpsons are here!"

"No doubt the Stimpsons are on hand," said Mr. Benson. "Catch them not
knowing what's the right thing to do in March! They know just as well as
you do that the Reynoldses and the Van Peagrims are here."

The crowd of passengers, alert to register and secure rooms, hurried
up the windy wharf. The interior of the hotel kept the promise of the
outside for comfort. Behind the glass-defended verandas, in the spacious
office and general lounging-room, sea-coal fires glowed in the wide
grates, tables were heaped with newspapers and the illustrated pamphlets
in which railways and hotels set forth the advantages of leaving home;
luxurious chairs invited the lazy and the tired, and the hotel-bureau,
telegraph-office, railway-office, and post-office showed the new-comer
that even in this resort he was still in the centre of activity and
uneasiness. The Bensons, who had fortunately secured rooms a month in
advance, sat quietly waiting while the crowd filed before the register,
and took its fate from the courteous autocrat behind the counter.
"No room," was the nearly uniform answer, and the travelers had the
satisfaction of writing their names and going their way in search of
entertainment. "We've eight hundred people stowed away," said the clerk,
"and not a spot left for a hen to roost."

At the end of the file Irene noticed a gentleman, clad in a
perfectly-fitting rough traveling suit, with the inevitable crocodile
hand-bag and tightly-rolled umbrella, who made no effort to enroll ahead
of any one else, but having procured some letters from the post-office
clerk, patiently waited till the rest were turned away, and then
put down his name. He might as well have written it in his hat. The
deliberation of the man, who appeared to be an old traveler, though
probably not more than thirty years of age, attracted Irene's attention,
and she could not help hearing the dialogue that followed.

"What can you do for me?"

"Nothing," said the clerk.

"Can't you stow me away anywhere? It is Saturday, and very inconvenient
for me to go any farther."

"Cannot help that. We haven't an inch of room."

"Well, where can I go?"

"You can go to Baltimore. You can go to Washington; or you can go to
Richmond this afternoon. You can go anywhere."

"Couldn't I," said the stranger, with the same deliberation--"wouldn't
you let me go to Charleston?"

"Why," said the clerk, a little surprised, but disposed to
accommodate--"why, yes, you can go to Charleston. If you take at
once the boat you have just left, I guess you can catch the train at
Norfolk."

As the traveler turned and called a porter to reship his baggage, he
was met by a lady, who greeted him with the cordiality of an old
acquaintance and a volley of questions.

"Why, Mr. King, this is good luck. When did you come? have you a good
room? What, no, not going?"

Mr. King explained that he had been a resident of Hampton Roads just
fifteen minutes, and that, having had a pretty good view of the place,
he was then making his way out of the door to Charleston, without any