The knowledge had shocked him beyond expression, but he had borne it like a man and Marion had helped him. Only a short time after the discovery the wretched creature died. She had drifted to Blackwell’s Island as a “drunk and disorderly,” her face disfigured by vitriol which had been thrown upon her by another low woman.
It was Marion Marlowe’s lot to round out the fearful tragedy, for at the very last moment, when poor Mary Ray’s body was en route for Potter’s Field, it was she who rescued her remains and gave them back to her husband and to a Christian burial.
Since that time Marion and Mr. Ray had met but once. That was at Dollie’s wedding at the little flat in Harlem.
And now he was thinking of going away, yet she knew that he loved her more deeply than ever—she could read it in his eyes and in his voice when he spoke to her.
But the beautiful girl was not so sure of her own sentiments as she was of his, for the question of love had always been put aside by her—there was too much else to be considered in the fearful struggle for existence. Until Dollie was safely settled she did not dare to think of herself, but now with these tender eyes looking almost into her soul, Marion was forced to, in a measure, analyze her feelings for him.
“You will come and see us, will you not?” she asked earnestly, as she raised her lovely eyes to his face. “Dear Dollie is so happy in her little home. Do promise me that you will come and see us.”
There was something in her voice that thrilled his very soul and in an instant every barrier seemed to melt from between them.
A sudden pallor appeared upon his handsome face at her request, then a flush rose swiftly to his very brow as he answered:
“I will come, Marion, on one condition,” he murmured, eagerly. “Oh, Marion, darling! Don’t you know that I love you? May I not come to you as your lover, dearest?”
He had taken her hands in his as he spoke and his dark eyes were looking into hers as though he would read her heart’s every secret.