The sinister mark
He motioned to one in gaudy uniform who stood close by, and instantly,
out of the darkness, a cab rolled up and stopped, and the gaudy one
threw open the door.
"I won't trouble you, Mary," Morris whispered, hastily. "But I must
come with you and see you safe. Mary, oh, Mary----" His lips closed,
but his eyes spoke on.
With a slight shrug and a deep intake of the breath, the woman bent her
tall head and preceded him into the waiting cab.
"Ninety-nine Waverly Place."
Morris gave the direction with almost the assured familiarity with
which one gives one's own, and yet the thought crossed his mind
briefly, as it had many times before, that he had never been beyond
the broad old door of Ninety-nine Waverly Place.... Why?... He
had suggested it more than once, as plainly as he dared, but the
suggestion had always been evaded or ignored. It was not on the score
of propriety, of that he was certain. She lived with her sister. They
would not have been alone. He had always felt that her apartment
would tell him something of her inner life, that inner life which he
knew now, at last, concerned him so deeply; for the phrase which had
come unbidden to his lips was true. He loved her--loved her more than
anything in the world. Nothing else mattered.
His gaze was fixed on the beautiful profile which could be seen now and
then as the misty street lights flashed past. There had been no sound
within the cab after the slamming of the door.
Mary Blake sat slightly forward on the cushions, gazing, with unseeing
eyes, straight ahead. Her small head was held erect now, but there was
something tense in its pose, something taut in her whole attitude which
suggested the drawn bow. Her hands were tightly clasped upon her knees.
After a long time, Donald Morris spoke.
"I won't trouble you, Mary. I won't ask any more questions, but--I
meant what I said. You must have seen it coming. You must have
known--oh, you beautiful, dear, wonderful girl, I love you. I want you
to be my wife, Mary. My----"
"No, no, Donald! Stop, oh, stop," she gasped. "Don't--don't--not
to-night----" Her breath came short and quick. "I'm to blame--to blame.
I--I don't know what to say to you. I don't know whether to----But no.
You could never ... oh, I can't talk! Not to-night! It's been a long
season, and I'm tired--so tired."
There was no hint of fatigue in her poised figure, but in her voice was
all the way-worn wistful weariness of the ages.
The cab reached Washington Square, turned to the left, and stopped, and
a grimy hand stretched leisurely back and opened the door.
"Wait," said Donald Morris, briefly, as he alighted and gave his hand
to the woman who quickly followed him.
Silently he received her keys, unlocked and opened the door of the dark
vestibule and the door of the hall. A faint light burned inside, and
by it he could just distinguish the white oval of her face, the wild,
bitter tragedy in the curving lips and great shadowed eyes.
He closed the door and caught both her hands in his.
"Let me come up with you, Mary," he cried, "if only for a moment. I
can't leave you like this. Your sister will be waiting up for you?"
"She--she hasn't gone to bed yet. It isn't that," Mary replied in a
shaken voice. There was always a strange note in her voice when she was
forced to speak of her sister. It was there now, stronger than ever.
Subconsciously, it registered itself on Morris's mind, though at the
moment he paid no heed. He was to remember it later.
"You're trembling, Mary! You're shivering as if you were frightened,"
he cried, anxiously. "What is it, dear?"
Again she shuddered, and drawing one hand away, covered her face.
"It's nothing, nothing, Donald." She tried to laugh. "Someone walking
over my grave, perhaps," she added, lightly. Then, under her breath,
"Over my grave ... I wonder...." She caught her lip between her teeth
and swiftly pulled herself together.
"Good-night, Donald. Thank you for all your kindness--your--everything.
And leave me now. If you--care--go now, at once, while I have----"
For a flash her eyes were upon him. What he saw in them took his
breath. With a cry he caught her close in his arms and held her fast.
Wildly heart beat against heart, conquering lips pressed lips which
yielded in passionate surrender.
But only for a moment, though that moment seemed a lifetime to both.
With shaking hand she pushed him from her, and without another word
sped up the shadowy stair.
CHAPTER II
AN UNSTAMPED LETTER
Followed, for Donald Morris, two sleepless nights.
The first was spent in living over again, moment by thrilling moment,
the events and emotions of the previous evening.
The days of indecision, when worldly considerations were weighed in
the balance with his growing love for Mary Blake, seemed far away, and
almost inconceivable, so overwhelming had his passion become. Whatever
her antecedents had been, whatever her past, he was ready now to face
any future so long as it should be spent at her side. The trouble that
threatened her, if trouble there was, would be as nothing to him, no
matter what its nature, if he were allowed to share it. Every selfish
thought was swept away in the great tide of emotion which buoyed him up
and made him feel the master and ruler of circumstance.
On the Sunday morning, as soon as convention would allow it, he had
called Mary Blake on the telephone to beg for an immediate interview.
She had answered him quietly but finally. She would not see him for the
present. She made no explanation, gave no reasons, and in the midst of
his protestations she had quietly cut off the connection, leaving him
hurt, anxious, and apprehensive.
These feelings had grown upon him during the morning to such an extent
that before noon he had decided to brave her displeasure and attempt an
interview.
The pace of the swiftly moving cab that bore him southward seemed
all too slow, so anxious had he become. Gone now was the feeling of
invincibility of the early morning. A vague but almost unbearable sense
of uneasiness and alarm pursued him, try as he would to reason it away.
When he had climbed the three flights of stairs of the old apartment
at Waverly Place, his fears were not allayed by the silence that
followed his repeated knocking. Once he had called through the door:
"Mary, Mary!" and in the stillness that ensued he had an uneasy sense
of a presence near him, a feeling that there was someone inside the
apartment, listening. He could never tell on what this assumption was
based, for there had been no recognizable sound, and though he renewed
his efforts, there had been no answer.
Forced, at last, to abandon his attempt to see her, he left the
apartment and wandered about the streets, in a frame of mind to which,
in all his fortunate and successful life, he had been a stranger.
Many times during the ensuing afternoon and evening he had attempted
to get her apartment on the wire. The first report was that the line
was busy and after that, each time he called, the operator made the
same reply--"Party doesn't answer."--And Donald Morris spent the second
sleepless night of all his healthy years.
It was with a haggard face that he presented himself at his sister's
breakfast table on the Monday morning. He tried to greet her with his
usual affectionate gaiety, but Helena Atterbury was quick to notice
the change in his appearance, though she made no sign. He had lived
with her for years, this talented younger brother, and was the chief
consideration and passion of her ambitious and worldly heart. Even her
husband, Francis Atterbury, while tolerated with friendly courtesy
for his wealth and position, had a far less important place in her
affections.
She watched Donald now with concern as he absently crumbled his roll,
though she spoke only of ordinary things.
"Madame Justice coming along all right, Don?" she asked, referring to a
piece of allegorical statuary on which he was at work. "I'd like to run
in to the studio this morning and pay my respects, if she's ready to
receive callers."
Morris glanced up from the morning paper and was about to reply when
an overwhelmingly correct maid entered and silently presented to his
notice an unstamped letter lying on a silver tray.
"For me?" he questioned, unnecessarily, as he picked up the letter.
"Just came by messenger, sir," replied the maid, in a still, small
voice. "Is there an answer, sir?"
Donald Morris tore open the envelope while the maid waited. He pulled
out the letter and glanced at the signature. Then, abruptly, he rose
from his seat and strode quickly over to the window where, with back
turned, he swiftly perused the letter, not once but twice, crushing it
in his hand when he had finished.
With a quick gesture he turned to the maid.
"Where's the boy who brought this?" he asked, almost fiercely. "In the
hall? All right. You needn't wait." And turned sharply to leave the
room.
"What is it, Don?" cried Helena Atterbury, rising quickly from the
table. "Is anything the matter? Tell me----"
But her brother, entirely oblivious of the fact that she had spoken,
was already in the hall.
She heard him questioning the messenger, heard the boy say, "Left at
the office in the Pennsylvania Station yesterday, to be delivered this
morning," and saw the boy dismissed.
The trouble and concern in her brother's face was more than she could
bear.
"What is it, Don? What has happened?" she cried, coming up to him near
the door.
He turned from the hall table, his hat already in his hand.
"I don't know, Helena," he said, confusedly. "I can't make out----And
it was yesterday! Oh, God!" He clenched his hand. "Already too late!
But I must see--I must make sure. Forgive me, Helena, but I can't wait.
I must----"
He tore open the front door and rushed down the broad steps, looking in
every direction for a cab.
Gramercy Park was peaceful and quiet on this spring morning. The sun
shone on the budding trees and bushes of the little park, and already
little children were playing and laughing with their nurses behind
the iron railings. A few private cars stood waiting along the curb at
different points, but not a cab was in sight.
Without wasting an instant, Morris passed swiftly westward. As he
neared Fourth Avenue, he saw an empty cab rolling uptown. He hailed it
with a shout and broke into a run.
"Ninety-nine Waverly Place," he called, as he pulled open the door and
leapt inside.
"Make the best time you can," he called through the glass as the
cab turned. "It'll be worth your while to forget the speed laws.
Understand?"
The smart Bowery boy at the wheel grinned his comprehension of the
order. His wary eye noted the appearance and probable generosity of
his fare, and the pressure of his foot on the accelerator marked, with
sincerity, the result of his observations.
"Fool, to hurry now," thought Donald, leaning forward, however, and
chafing at every delay caused by the traffic of the busier streets.
"Too late! I know it will be too late.... But there's the merest
chance. Thank God----" he broke off as they swung into University
Place, and the way before them being comparatively clear, they sped
swiftly southward.
In a few minutes the cab turned the corner of Waverly Place and stopped
before the quiet brownstone front of Number Ninety-nine. It had once
been a private residence of distinction, and even in its altered
condition it had retained a look of reserved dignity which would have
impressed any one less preoccupied than the man who now, dismissing the
cabman with a handsome tip, sprang up its broad, worn steps.
In his haste, Donald Morris almost fell over a kneeling figure just
inside the half-open door.