VII
TO THE RESCUE OF MISS MORRIS
I met Grace Morris for the first time at Mrs. Hatfield's musicaltea--a unique affair at which the half-dozen world-famous artists ourhostess had engaged for the afternoon strove vainly to make theirmusic heard above the care-free voices of her guests. I had isolatedmyself behind a potted palm in the great music-room, and was trying todistinguish the strains of Mischa Elman's playing from theconversational high notes around me when a deprecating little laughsounded in my ear.
"It's no use," said a clear, languid young voice. "We might as wellchat, too. But first _do_ rise on your toes, look over the purpleplume on the fat woman's hat, and catch one glimpse of Elman'sexpression! He thinks we're all insane, or that he is."
I did not follow this stimulating suggestion. Instead I looked at thespeaker. She was a typical New York society girl of twenty-three, orpossibly twenty-four, dressed to perfection and bored to extinction,her pale, pretty features stamped with the avid expression of thechronic seeker of new sensations.
"You're Miss Iverson, aren't you?" she went on, when I had smiled myacknowledgment of her swift service across the conversational net. "Mybrother pointed you out to me at the theater the other night. He wantsus to meet. He's one of your editors on the _Searchlight_, youknow--Godfrey Morris."
In another minute we were chatting with as little compunction as theruthless throng around us, and while we talked I studied Miss Morris.I knew a great deal about her. She had only recently returned fromGermany, where for two years she had been studying singing withLehmann. She had an exquisite voice, and, though it was understoodthat she would make no professional use of it, she had already sung atseveral concerts given in behalf of charities that appealed to her.She possessed a large fortune, inherited from her grandfather; herbrother Godfrey had inherited one of equally impressive proportions,but its coming had not interrupted the daily and nightly grind of hiseditorial work. Evidently the Morrises, despite their languid air,sprang from energetic stock. It was whispered that Miss Morris'senergies occasionally lent themselves to all-night tango parties, andlate suppers with Bohemian friends in operatic and dramatic worldswhose orbits hardly touched the exclusive one in which she dwelt; butthus far there had been nothing more significant than a few raisedeyebrows to emphasize this gossip.
"I'm lucky to meet you," she ran on now. "It saves writing a note.Mother and I want you to dine with us Thursday evening of next week,at our hotel. We haven't gone to housekeeping. We're at the Berkeleyfor the winter, because Godfrey has an apartment there. Can youcome?--I'm so glad. At eight, then."
A ravishing strain of music reached us. Simultaneously the voice ofthe fat woman with the purple plume uttered the final notes of therecital she had been pouring into the ears of the acquaintance on herleft. "Then, and not till then," she shouted, "I found that theunhappy woman _lived on the West Side_!"
Miss Morris's eyes and mine exchanged a look that carried us a longway forward on the road of friendship.
"I wouldn't miss these musicales for the world," she murmured. "Isn'tMrs. Hatfield unique? Look at her now, out in the dining-room, puttinga layer of French pastry over Amato's perfectly good voice! He won'tbe able to sing for a week. Oh, Elman has finished. Do you know him?No? Then come and meet him."
Miss Morris interested me, and I was sorry to say good-by to her whenwe parted, and genuinely disappointed when I reached the Berkeley thefollowing Thursday night, to learn that she was not to be with us atdinner. Her mother lost no time in acquainting me with thisdistressing fact.
"Grace wants me to apologize for her, and to tell you how _very_ sorryshe is to miss you," Mrs. Morris drawled at once, as she came forwardto receive me.
She was a charming woman of fifty, with white hair, a young face, andthe figure of a girl of twenty. Under the controlled calm of hermanner a deep-seated nervousness struggled for expression. She had herdaughter's languor, but none of her cool insolence or cynicism; in thelook of her gray eyes I caught a glint oddly like that in the eyes ofher son.
"Grace was looking forward to your coming," she went on, as she seatedherself on a davenport facing the open fire, and motioned me to aplace beside her. "But an hour ago she received a note from a friendwho is in town only for the night. There was something very urgent init, and Grace rushed off without stopping to explain. My son Godfreywill be with us--and we hope Grace will be back before you leave."
As if in response to his cue, "my son Godfrey" appeared, lookingextremely handsome in his evening clothes, and rather absurdly pleasedto find his mother and me so deep in talk that we did not hear himapproach.
"Friends already, aren't you?" was his comment on the effectivetableau we made, and as we descended in the elevator to the hoteldining-room he explained again how glad he was to have his mother andsister home after two years of absence, and to bring us together atlast.
The little dinner moved on charmingly, but before an hour had passedI realized that my host and hostess were under some special strain.Mrs. Morris wore a nervous, expectant look--the look of one who islistening for a bell, or a step long overdue. Several times I sawGodfrey glance toward the door, and once I caught a swift look thatpassed between him and his mother--a look charged with anxiety. Bothobviously tried to throw off their care, whatever it was, and to adegree they succeeded. I was sending my spoon into the deep heart of araspberry-ice when a servant leaned over the back of my chair andconfidentially addressed me.
"Beg pardon, miss," he murmured, deprecatingly. "But if it's MissIverson, a person wants Miss Iverson on the wire."
I flushed and hesitated, glancing at Mrs. Morris.
"Party says it's urgent, miss," prompted the servant.
I apologized to my hostess, and rose. There seemed no other courseopen to me. Mrs. Morris looked mildly amused; her son lookedthoughtful as he, too, rose and accompanied me across the dining-roomto the door, returning then to the table, as I insisted that he must.In the telephone-booth the voice of Grace Morris came to me over thewire, not languid now, but quick and imperative.
"Miss Iverson?" she called. "Is that you at last? Thank Heaven! Ithought you were never coming. Are mother and Godfrey still in thedining-room? Good! Will you do me a favor? It's a big one--vital."
I expressed my willingness to do Miss Morris a vital favor.
"Thank you," she said. "Then please do exactly what I tell you. Go tothe hotel desk and ask the clerk for the key to my suite. I left itwith him. Then go up to my bedroom. On my dressing-table you'll findan open letter I dropped there--or perhaps it's on the floor. Concealit in your bosom, the way they do in books, and keep it for me till wemeet."
I gasped. With a rush, my mind leaped at some of the possible resultsof carrying out this startling suggestion.
"Really, Miss Morris," I protested, "I can't do that. Suppose some onecaught me in the act? It's likely to happen. We're at dessert, and Iheard your mother order the coffee brought up to her sitting-room.Isn't the letter safe till you get home?"
There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the line. Then MissMorris's voice came to me again, in the controlled accents ofdesperation.
"Miss Iverson," she urged, "you've simply got to help me out! If mymother goes into my room and sees that letter, she'll read it. She'llthink it's her duty. If she reads it--well, in plain words, there willbe the devil to pay. Now do you understand?"
"But why not come home and get it yourself?" I persisted.
"I can't. There isn't time. I'm away down at the Lafayette. Heavens! Ididn't mean to let that slip out, I'm so nervous I don't know whatI'm saying. Don't tell a soul where I am. Don't even let any one knowI've talked to you. And you _must_ get that letter. There isn't aminute to lose!"
It began to look as if I had to get that letter. And since the thingmust be done, I wanted it over.
"Very well," I said, between my teeth, and hung up the receiver,shutting off the stream of thanks that gushed forth from the other endof the wire. In the same mood of grim acc
eptance I went to the hoteldesk. I did not intend to make this part of my task more difficultthan it need be, so I paid the clerk the compliment of truth.
"I want to get something from Miss Morris's room," I told him,casually. "Will you give me the key, please? I am dining with Mrs.Morris to-night."
He gave me a swift glance, then took the key from its rack and handedit to me with a little bow. In another moment I was in the elevatorand on my way to the tenth floor, on which, as I had learned, eachindependent member of the Morris family occupied a separate apartment,though the suites of Mrs. Morris and her daughter had a connectingdoor. The tag on Miss Morris's key gave me the number of her suite,and I found her door without difficulty. My fingers shook withnervousness as I inserted the key in the lock. I felt like ahousebreaker, and probably looked like one, as I glanced anxiouslyover my shoulder and up and down the long hall, which, fortunately,was empty.
Once inside the apartment I regained my courage. I went swiftlythrough the entrance-hall and the sitting-room, turning, by instinctas it seemed, to the door that opened into the bedroom. This, like thesitting-room, was dark, and I could not immediately find the switchthat turned on the electric light. There was, however, an open fireburning behind a brass fender, and by its uncertain light I made myway to the dressing-table, my eyes racing ahead in their eager search.There, among a litter of silver and glass toilet articles,powder-puffs, and shell-pins, was the letter I was after--an unfoldedsheet, lying face downward. An envelope, obviously that from which ithad been taken, had fallen to the floor.
I picked up the letter. Just as I did so the door at the other end ofthe bedroom opened, and Mrs. Morris entered. For an instant, startled,we faced each other in the gloom. The next second, acting on animpulse which seemed to flex the muscles of my arm before it touchedmy brain, I flung the letter into the fire. At the same moment Mrs.Morris touched an electric switch beside the door and filled the roomwith light. Then she came toward me, easily and naturally.
"Oh, here you are," she said. "The elevator-boy told me you had comethis way. Is anything wrong? Are you ill?"
Her manner was perfect. There was exactly the right degree ofsolicitude in her voice, of quiet assurance that everything would beat once and satisfactorily explained. But as she spoke she turned andfixed her eyes on the blazing letter in the fire. All but one cornerwas burned, but the thick paper kept its perfect outline. Bending, shepicked up the envelope from the floor, glanced at the address, andnodded as if to herself, still holding it in her hand.
For a second I remained speechless. It was a hideous situation to bein. Still, even confronted by Godfrey Morris's mother, I felt that Ihad done right, and before the pause was too deeply underlined Imanaged to reply naturally that nothing was wrong and that I was quitewell. When my hostess realized that I did not intend to make anyexplanation, she threw her arm across my shoulder and led me from theroom. It was not until we were again in her sitting-room, and side byside on her big davenport, that she spoke.
"My dear," she said, then, very quietly, "won't you trust me?"
I looked at her, and she smiled back at me, but with something in herface that hurt. She seemed suddenly to have grown old and care-worn.
"Do you imagine I don't understand?" she went on. "I have not livedwith my daughter Grace for almost a quarter of a century withoutknowing her rather well. Of course it was she who telephoned you. Ofcourse she asked you to find and burn that letter. What else did shesay? Where is she now? There is a vital reason why her brother and Ishould know. We have been anxious about her all evening. I am afraidyou noticed it."
I admitted that I had. "I'm sorry," I added. "But I can't explain. Ireally can't say anything. I wish I could. I'm sure you willunderstand."
Mrs. Morris studied me in silence for a moment. The glint in her grayeyes deepened. Her jaw-line took on a sudden firmness, oddly like thatof her son.
"Of course I understand," she said. "It's girlish loyalty. You thinkyou must stand by Grace--that you must respect her confidence. Butcan't you believe that Grace's mother and brother may be wiser thanshe is?"
This, to one only two years emancipated from family rule, had afamiliar sound. Instinctively I resented it.
"Aren't you forgetting," I asked, gently, "that Miss Morris is reallya woman of the world? It isn't as if she were merely a school-girl,you know, with immature judgment."
Mrs. Morris sighed. "You don't understand," she murmured. "You mayfeel differently when you talk to my son. I see that we must be veryfrank with you."
With an effort she talked of other things for a few moments, untilGodfrey joined us. His face brightened as he entered, and darkenedwhen his mother told him briefly what had occurred. Without preface,he went at the heart of the tangle, in as direct and professional amanner as if he were giving me an assignment in the _Searchlight_office.
"It all means just this, Miss Iverson," he said. "Grace has fallen inlove with an utterly worthless fellow. He has no family, no position;but those things don't matter so much. Perhaps she has, as she says,enough of them for two. What does matter is that he comes of badstock--rotten stock--that he's a bounder and worse."
That surprised me, and I showed it.
"Oh, he has some qualities, I admit," added Morris. "The mostimportant one is a fine tenor voice. He is a professional singer. Thatinterested Grace in the beginning. Now she is obsessed by him. She haslost her head. Evidently he's in town to-night--you heard my mothersay that envelope was addressed in his handwriting. They're togethersomewhere, and Heaven only knows what they're hatching up."
I resented that at first. Then it disturbed me. Perhaps they _were_hatching up something.
"I'm sorry to bore you with all this," Mr. Morris apologized, "butGrace seems to have dragged you into it. She and Dillon--that's thefellow's name--have been trying to bring us 'round to their marriage.Lately they've about given up hope of that. Now I believe Grace iscapable of eloping with him. Of course, as you say, we can't controlher, but I've been looking up his record, and it's mighty bad. If Icould show her proofs of what I know is true, she would throw himover. With a little more time I can get them. I expect them this week.But if in the mean time--to-night--"
He broke off suddenly, stood up, and began to stride about the room.
I rose. "I haven't any idea what she intends to do," I told him,truthfully. "And I can't tell you where she is. But I'll do what Ican. I'll try to find her, and tell her what you say." I turned to hismother. "Good night," I said. "I'll go at once."
They looked at each other, then at me. There was something fine in theway their heads went up, in the quiet dignity with which they bothbade me good-by. It was plain that they were hurt, that they hadlittle hope that I could do anything; but they would not continue tohumiliate themselves by confidences or appeals to one who stoodoutside the circle of anxiety which fate had drawn around them.
Arrived at the Lafayette, I went patiently from room to room of thebig French restaurant, glancing in at each door for the couple Isought. It was not long before I found them. They were in a corner inone of the smallest of the side rooms--one which held only four orfive tables. Grace Morris's back was toward me as I entered the room,but her escort faced me, and I had a moment in which to look him over.He was a thin, reedy person, about thirty years old, in immaculateevening dress, with a lock of dry hair falling over a pale and narrowbrow, and with hollow, hectic eyes that burned into those of hiscompanion as he leaned over the table, facing her. They were talkingin very low tones, and so earnestly that neither noticed me until Idrew out a third chair at the table and quietly dropped into it. Bothstarted violently. The man stared; Miss Morris caught my arm.
"What happened?" she asked, quickly. "Mother didn't get that letter?"
"No," I said. "No one saw it. It's burned."
She relaxed in her chair, with a laugh of relief.
"Speaking of angels," she quoted. "I was telling Herbert about youonly a few moments ago." Her manner changed. "Miss Iverson," she said,more
formally, "may I present Mr. Dillon?"
The reedy gentleman rose and bowed. She allowed him the barestinterval for this ceremony before she continued.
"Herbert, listen to me," she said, emphatically. "If Miss Iverson willstand by us, I'll do it."
The young man's sallow face lit up. He had nice teeth and a pleasantsmile. He had, also, the additional charm of a really beautifulspeaking-voice. Already I began to understand why Miss Morris likedhim.
"By Jove, that's great!" he cried. "Miss Iverson, Heaven has sent you.You've accomplished in ten seconds what I've failed to do in threehours." He turned to Miss Morris. "You explain," he said, "while I paythe bill and get the car ready. I'm not going to give you a chance tochange your mind!"
He disappeared, and Miss Morris remarked, casually: "We're going to bemarried to-night, with you as maid of honor. Herbert gave me all theplans in his letter, and I came down fully determined to carry themout; but I've been hanging back. It's frightfully dismal to trot offand be married all by one's self--"
I stopped her, and hurriedly described what had occurred at theBerkeley. She listened thoughtfully.
"The poor dears," she murmured. "They can't get over the notion thatI'm still in leading-strings. They'll feel better after it's all over,whereas if mother knew it was really coming off to-night she'd have asuccession of heart attacks between now and morning, and Godfrey wouldspend the night pursuing us. We're going to Jersey for theceremony--to a little country minister I've known since I was a child.Herbert will drive the car, and we'll put you into the chauffeur's furcoat."
It took me a long time to convince her that I would not play theimportant role she had assigned to me on the evening's program. Atlast, however, she seemed impressed by my seriousness, and by theemphasis I laid on the repetition of her brother's words. She rose,resumed her usual languidly insolent air, and led the way from theroom. In the main hall, near the door, we found Mr. Dillon strugglinginto a heavy coat while he gave orders to a stout youth who seemed tobe his chauffeur. Miss Morris drew Dillon to one side, and for a fewmoments the two talked together. Then they came toward me, smiling.
"All right," said the prospective bridegroom, with much cheerfulness."Since she insists, we'll take Miss Iverson home first."
He gave me a cap that lay in the tonneau, helped Miss Morris and meinto fur coats, settled us comfortably in the back seat, folded heavyrugs over our knees with great care, sprang into the driver's place,and took the wheel. In another moment the car leaped forward, turned acorner at an appallingly sharp angle, and went racing along a darkside-street at a speed that made the lamp-posts slip by us likewraiths. The wind sang past our ears. Miss Morris put her lips closeto my face and laughed exultantly.
"You're going, after all, you see," she triumphed. "Herbert and Iaren't easy to stop when we've set our hearts on anything. Here--whatare you doing? Don't be an idiot!"
She caught me as I tried to throw off the rugs. I had some mad idea ofjumping out, of stopping the car, even if I paid for it by seriousinjury; but her strong grip held me fast.
"I thought you had more sense," she panted. "There, that's right. Sitstill."
I sat still, trying to think. This mad escapade would not only cost memy position on the _Searchlight_, where Godfrey Morris was growingdaily in power, but, what was infinitely worse, it would cost me hisinterest and friendship. More than any one else, in my two years onthe newspaper, he had been helpful, sympathetic, and understanding.And this was my return to him. What would he think of me? What must Ithink of myself?
We were across the ferry now. Dillon stopped the car and got out tolight the lamps. During the interval Miss Morris held me by aseemingly affectionate, but uncomfortably tight, pressure of an armthrough mine. I made no effort to get away. Whatever happened, I hadnow decided I must see the thing through. There was always a chancethat in some way, _any_ way, I could prevent the marriage.
The great car sped on again, through a fog that, thin at first,finally pressed against us like a moist gray net. Though we could seehardly a dozen yards ahead of us, Dillon did not slacken his alarmingspeed. From time to time we knew, by the wan glimmer of street lampsthrough the mist, that we were sweeping through some town. Graduallythe roads grew rougher. Occasionally we made sharp turns, Dillonstopping often to consult with Miss Morris, who at first had seemed toknow the way, but who now made suggestions with growing uncertainty.Plainly, we had left the highway and were on country roads. The foglifted a trifle, and rain began to fall--lightly at first, then in acold, steady downpour. The car jolted over the ruts in the road,tipped at a dangerous angle once or twice, but struggled on.
In varying degrees our tempers began to feel the effect of the cold,the roughness, and the long-continued strain. Miss Morris and I satsilent. At his wheel Dillon had begun to swear, at first under hisbreath, then more audibly, in irritable, muttered words, and finallyopenly and fluently, when he realized that we had lost our way.Suddenly he stopped the car with a jerk that almost threw us out ofour seats.
"What dashed place is this?" he demanded, turning for the first timeto face us. "Thought you knew the way, Grace?"
With an obvious effort to ignore his manner, Miss Morris peeredunhappily into the gray mist around us. "I don't recognize it at all,"she confessed, at last. "We must have taken the wrong turn somewhere.I'm afraid we're lost."
Our escort swore again. His self-control, sufficient when all wasgoing smoothly, had quite deserted him. I stared at him, trying torealize that this was the charming young man I had met at theLafayette less than three hours ago.
"This is an infernal mess," he exclaimed at last. "We're in some sortof marsh! The mud's a foot deep!"
He continued to pull and tug and twist and swear, while the carresponded with eager throbs of its willing heart, but with laggingwheels. At last, however, we were through the worst of the marsh andout into a wider roadway, and just as we began to go more smoothlythere was a sudden, loud report. The car swerved. A series of oathspoured from Dillon's lips as he stopped the car and got out in the mudto inspect the damage.
"Cast a shoe, dash her," he snarled. "And on a road a million milesfrom any place. Of all the fool performances this trip was the worst.Why didn't you watch where you were going, Grace? You said you knewthe way. You knew I didn't know it."
His last words had degenerated into an actual whine. Looking at him,as he stood in the mud, staring vacantly at us, I had a feeling that,absurd and impossible as it seemed, in another minute the young manwould burst into tears! His nerves were in tatters; all self-control,all self-respect, was gone.
Miss Morris did not answer. She merely sat still and looked at him, atfirst in a white, flaming anger that was the more impressive becauseso quiet, later in an odd, puzzled fashion, as if some solution of theproblem he presented had begun to dawn upon her. He meantime took offhis fur coat and evening coat, rolled up his sleeves, and got readyfor his uncongenial task of putting on a new tire. I took the bigelectric bull's-eye he handed me, and directed its light upon hiswork. By the time the new tire was on, his light evening shoes wereunrecognizable, his clothes were covered with mud, his face wasflushed with exertion and anger, and the few words he spoke came outwith a whine of exhausted vitality. At last he stopped work,straightened up, reached into the car, and fumbled in the pocket ofhis overcoat. Then he walked around to the side of the car farthestfrom us, and bent forward as if to inspect something there. I startedto follow him, but he checked me.
"Stay where you are," he said, curtly. "Don't need you."
A moment later he came back to us, opened the door, and motioned usinto the tonneau. In the short interval his whole manner had changed.He had stopped muttering and swearing; he seemed anxious to make uscomfortable, and he folded the rugs over our knees with special care,casting at Miss Morris a series of anxious glances, which she quietlyignored. Before he got in and took his place at the wheel he made acareful inspection of the other tires, and several times, as I changedthe position of the light to fall
more directly upon them, he smiledand thanked me. Miss Morris was evidently impressed by his change ofmood. Quietly and seriously she studied him.
He was directly beside me now, bending over the rear right tire, andsuddenly, as his bare arm came into view, I saw on it something thatmade me start and look at it again. I had not been mistaken. I glancedat Miss Morris. Her eyes were on Dillon, but in her place on the leftside of the car she commanded a view of only his head and shoulders.As if annoyed by a flicker in the light, I lifted the bull's-eye intomy lap and began to fumble with the snap, turning off the light. Thelittle manoeuver had the effect I expected. Mr. Dillon stood up atonce, and his bare arm came helpfully forward.
"What's the matter?" he asked, trying to take the bull's-eye. "Let mesee."
I held it tight. At the same instant I flashed the light on again.
"_This_ is the matter," I said. "There's no mistaking what it means!"
To my ears my voice sounded hysterical, and I have no doubt it was,for what I was doing went against the grain. The one thing I mostdesire is to play the great game of life according to the highestrules. Yet here, under the eyes of Dillon's future wife, I wasdirecting a relentless light on the young man's bare arm--an armpeppered with dark needle-pricks, and covered with telltale scars. Forone instant, before the mind of its owner took in what I was saying,it remained before us, giving its mute, horrible testimony to constantuse of the hypodermatic syringe. The next, it was wrenched away with ajerk that knocked the bull's-eye from my hand. Over me Dillon leaned,his face livid with rage.
"I'll make you regret that!" he snarled.
"Oh no, you won't, Herbert," Miss Morris said, gently. "This is not amelodrama, you know. And you haven't anything against Miss Iverson,for I was already beginning to--to--understand. Take us home."
He started to speak, but something in her eyes checked him, and with alittle shrug--no doubt, too, with the philosophy of the drug victimwho has just had his drug--he turned away. In silence he rolled downhis sleeves, put on his fur coat, took his place at the wheel, and,turning the car, started back through the clearing fog toward the farlights of the city.
It was a long ride and a silent one. At his wheel Dillon satmotionless, his jaws set, his eyes staring straight ahead. Hisdriving, I noticed, was much more careful than on our outward ride.Not once did I see Grace Morris look at him. Once or twice sheshivered, as if she felt cold. When we were on the ferry-boat Dillonturned and spoke to her.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he said. "I suppose--your manner seemsto mean--that--I've lost everything."
For a moment Miss Morris did not reply. Under the robe her handslipped into mine and clung there, as if in a lonely world shesuddenly felt the need of a human touch.
"Poor old Herbert," she said, then, very gently. "I'm afraid we'veboth lost everything. This has been a nightmare, but--I needed it."
There was absolute finality in her voice. Without a word the young manturned from her and sat staring at the river lights before us. MissMorris pressed my hand.
"I'm going to take you home with me," she announced. She took out herwatch and looked at it. "Quarter to three," she murmured. "What anight!" And after a moment she added under her breath, "And what anescape!"
She threw back her shoulders with a gesture as energetic as if at thesame time she had cast off some intolerable burden. Then she added, inher cool, cynical fashion, "It's only fair, you know, that after sucha vigil your drooping spirit should be refreshed by the rain of mymother's grateful tears--not to speak of Godfrey's!"