CHAPTER XXVIII
Donald Morris Understands
It chanced that O'Malley had little difficulty in following Peter's instructions in regard to Donald Morris, for they had but a few minutes' private conversation together during the next day, and O'Malley cleverly filled the time by reporting Peter's discovery of the Italian, Angelo Russo, in Miss Blake's apartment, and the subsequent confession, which practically explained the condition in which the apartment was found.
Donald listened to the recital with little of the interest he would have felt two days before. His whole mind was occupied with the discovery they had made on the previous night, and his heart was wrung by the fact that, though Doctor Stevens had reported his patient to be physically much improved, she still insisted that she knew no other name than Rosamond Curwood, had no memory whatever of the past, and showed not the slightest sign of recognition when Donald approached her.
As early in the morning as possible she was removed to Doctor Stevens's private sanitarium. She accepted, quietly and unquestioningly, all the arrangements which were made for her comfort, and appeared grateful for the consideration shown her, to a certain extent, but it was all evidently like a dream to her, and her manner remained absent and listless.
All that day and the morning of the next Donald spent in the sanitarium, or at his home in Gramercy Park, within reach of the telephone, hoping, longing for news, but none came.
At two o'clock on Saturday, as he was rising from an untasted luncheon, he was summoned to the telephone by John Stevens, who told him, with evident sympathy, that there had been no change whatever but that he was preparing to try an experiment that afternoon.
"And I don't want you, Don. Understand?" he said, firmly. "You can't be of any assistance, and you'd much better stay where you are. I'll 'phone you the instant I want you, but it won't be until five o'clock, anyway. I promise to let you know then, or soon after. And, Don," he concluded, with a queer note in his voice, "there is hope, boy. More than hope for you, I firmly believe. Be patient—and trust me."
In a whirlwind of anxiety and emotion Donald spent that afternoon, pacing back and forth, back and forth, the length of the great house. Listening for the telephone's insistent ring, wondering, hoping, doubting, and hoping again.
At last he felt that he could bear the period of enforced inaction no longer. He would go up to the sanitarium, he decided, and spend that last, agonizing half hour before five o'clock on the spot. There could be no harm, he argued, in waiting downstairs in the reception room. And if there was news—good news——
He summoned a cab in haste, and drove rapidly to the sanitarium, which was on West Seventy-sixth Street.
An extraordinarily neat maid answered his ring.
"Doctor Stevens is in the house somewhere," she told him, "with one of the patients upstairs. I don't think he can be disturbed just now," apologetically.
"No, no," said Donald, quickly. "I wouldn't bother him on any account. I'll just wait here, in the reception room, if I may, till he comes down."
Accordingly, he passed into the pleasantly furnished room, to the right of the hall—and waited—waited with every tautened nerve stretched, it seemed, to the breaking point. Though there were many books lying about, he could not read, he could not even remain seated for more than a moment at a time. Restlessly, he paced about, touching various things on the mantelpiece and table, not knowing why he picked them up, or noticing when he put them down. And all the while he was listening—listening for he knew not what.
The big, broad, sunny house was very still. Once or twice a soft footfall on one of the floors above brought his heart into his mouth, but the sound passed away into silence, and no one went up or down the stairs. Again, for the twentieth time, he looked at his watch—five minutes of five—and John had promised——
Suddenly he heard a slight commotion at the top of the house, and he turned swiftly toward the door, his clenched hands pressed tightly together. Mary was on that floor he knew, and he took a step forward. Now he could faintly hear voices, several voices, speaking very low, and once he imagined he heard a woman's sob—then steps upon the stairs.
He waited, breathless, keeping himself in hand with an iron grip, making no sound.
Then, at the head of the lower flight of stairs, he heard Doctor Stevens's voice. He was speaking to someone behind him, and there was a ring in his tone which caused Donald's heart to leap up and his blood to pound in his temples. He took one step nearer the door, and at that instant Doctor Stevens saw him.
"Don!" he exclaimed, with a curious note of anger—almost of alarm—in his voice. "Don, I told you not to come here! Not to come here on any account! I thought I made it plain——Oh!——"
The expression on Donald's face had altered from confusion and surprise to blinding, dazzling amazement. He was not conscious that there was any one present save that one figure among several figures coming down the stairs. He cried out—he threw out his arms——
"Mary!" he said, in a choking whisper. "You know me! You know me, at last!" And then, with a sudden cry, he recoiled in horror.
The woman who, at the mention of his name, had turned toward him with a gasp of surprise, had, at the same instant, stepped full into the light. In her great clear eyes there were love, pain, fear—hope—and an agonizing tenderness.
Swiftly, she put up her hand and covered the right side of her face. But he had seen—had seen, upon the smooth curve of chin and neck, a great red mark—like the print of a bloody hand.
He stood aghast, amazed. All his senses reeled. "Anne!" he cried, incredulous, staring—"Anne!"
"Oh, Donald," she moaned, "I didn't mean it to be like this, dear. I didn't mean it to be like this!"
"Mary's voice," he muttered, still staring at her. "And Mary's face, all except the mark—the mark was on Anne's face—Clancy told me. You are Anne?"
She bowed her head in silence. Tears filled her glorious eyes.
"And Mary—is upstairs," he breathed. "And yet, when you speak, it's impossible not to believe——"
She shook her head.
"It's my sister, Rosamond, up there," she faltered. "My poor, misguided little sister that I—lost years ago—that I loved more than anything I had left in the world—until I saw you.... I never heard of her—never saw her again until to-day.... You never saw her, Donald. You never saw her until—was it yesterday?... We always looked very much alike—except——" She pressed her hand closer against her cheek. "It was no wonder, seeing her as you did, that you mistook her for——"
"I can't understand." Donald gripped his head with both hands, gazing at her with strained, bewildered eyes. "You are Anne?"
"Yes," she answered, sadly. "I am Anne Curwood.... Forgive me. Oh, forgive me, dear!" She stretched out her hands, pleadingly. "I had planned it all so differently. You can hardly forgive me now. But try to understand. There is no Mary Blake. There never has been. It was I—Anne. There is no one but Anne."
"No one but—Anne," he repeated, incredulous.
"I tried to tell you before—before I went away—as soon as I knew that you—that you cared, Don. As soon as I was sure.... I started to write it in the letter I left for you—and I hadn't the courage.... 'My sister Anne, with whom I live——' I remember I wrote that far, and crossed it out. I was going to say—I should have said—'My sister Anne, with whom I live, is a myth. There is no such person living. I have lived alone, through all these years, and played two parts——'"
He gazed at her, now, with comprehension dawning in his eyes. His very soul shuddered at the fearful disfigurement which seemed like a desecration of her wonderful face. His intense, passionate love of all that was beautiful and perfect wrought in him, for a moment, a feeling of horror. A fearful, almost physical, recoil.
And if it was thus with him, he thought, wildly, what must it have been to her—sensitive, high-strung, with magnificent gifts—a handicap which, in her chosen profession, could never be overcome—unless—
In a blinding flash he saw the reason for her deception of all the world—a deception which, lastly, had involved himself. He understood, with sure, keen insight, what her temptation must have been—and, understanding, he forgave.
The expression of his eyes altered, was changed, illuminated, with a love transcending all things. Again he stretched out his arms:
"Mary," he whispered. "Mary——"
With a little cry of joy unspeakable she started toward him—and stopped.
"No, no," she said, softly. "Not yet. Not yet, my beloved. I have suffered—suffered, to come to you clean. I said I would come to you clean, or not at all."
Then, to his amazement, she drew a handkerchief from her breast and turned away from him to a small mirror which hung against the wall.
A moment—and she faced him.
Radiant, glorified love was in her eyes—and on her perfect face there was no mark or blemish.