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.
"Watcha da pail!" a voice protested, as its owner jumped to his feet
and jerked a bucket of water out of the way. He grinned at Morris's
rapid apology, disclosing two rows of strong teeth, shining white in
a ruddy and rather stupid Italian face. "Me scrubba da floor," he
explained the obvious. "White marb' maka lotta troub'."
Morris nodded, absently. "Miss Blake in? May I go up?" he asked,
hurriedly. Already his foot was on the stair.
"Sure," answered the Italian, indifferently, bending again to his work.
"Me tinka both in, awright."
The reply surprised and heartened Morris, to some slight extent
allaying his fears. The man was evidently the caretaker and might
know. At any rate, he could see Mary's sister, Anne, and find out----He
swore to himself that he would find out--that he would spare no means
and no person to get to the bottom of this--and with set jaw and racing
feet he dashed up the stairs.
He passed two landings, where gas burned dimly beside discreetly closed
doors, and in a moment reached the top of the last flight.
There was no light here save that which filtered through the
old-fashioned coloured glass of the skylight above the stair well, but
Morris did not hesitate, for there was only one door to Mary Blake's
apartment, the same plain white door at which, yesterday, he had
knocked so long and so fruitlessly.
His foot had scarcely touched the landing when his hand shot out and
grasped the small brass knocker. The sharp "clap, clap," as it fell,
resounded in the silence, and Donald waited.
No answer. Only grave silence within and the far-away roar of the busy
city without.
He tried again, and yet again. Within, the silence lay unbroken.
"No living thing beyond this door could fail to hear," Morris muttered
to himself. "No living--oh, God! What does her letter mean?"
He drew it from his pocket and looked at it, but the light was too dim.
He could not decipher again its hurriedly written pages.
He leaned against the edge of the door and thought as he had never
thought before. The words of the letter came back to him like fire, and
he clenched his teeth and groaned aloud.
"What shall I do? What can I do?" he whispered to himself in an agony
of apprehension--and as he leaned forward to knock once more, his eyes,
grown accustomed to the dimness, caught a glimmer of something white
which lay upon the threshold of the door.
He dropped to his knees and touched it. He felt it to be a small
portion--a corner of a scarf of soft, filmy silk, edged with fringe,
fine as thistle-down. It lay across the sill, caught by the closed
door. He pulled at it gently, but the door held it fast.
Swiftly his hand sought and found a paper of matches in his pocket. He
lit one, and as the tiny flame leapt into being he held it down toward
the bit of frail silk tissue.
Yes, he did recognize it. It was the scarf Mary had worn when last he
had seen her. These soft folds of silk had floated against his cheek
when--oh, God!--when he had kissed her.
Reverently he stooped to put it to his lips--and suddenly, with a cry,
he sprang to his feet.
With the last flicker of the match he had seen something which brought
his heart up, pounding in his ears.
Wildly he struck another match, and holding the end of the scarf in his
left hand, he bent and brought the wavering flame close to the place
where the scarf was held by the door.
Upon its pure silken folds, spreading toward him from under the door,
was an ugly dried blot of an ominous, dark red.