The speaker paused to take breath a minute, and then resumed:
“A heavy door opened to admit us into the wide, dimly lighted hallway
of what must have been a large, aristocratic mansion. Here the
eccentric stranger removed the handkerchief from my eyes and coolly
clapped a mask upon my face instead, with the odd remark:
“‘You will have need for your eyes here, but none for your features,
Dr. Anthony, as I do not wish my patient ever to recognize you abroad.
Therefore, I request that you wear this mask.’
“I acceded to this polite request of course, you know, Miss Rodney,
not being in a condition to refuse,” said the young man, with a sly
sense of the humorous, “and then I saw beside us a neat-looking elderly
woman with a lamp in her hand, evidently a nurse. She led up a wide,
beautiful stairway of polished walnut, along another hall, and so into
a lady’s room--the most beautiful room I ever saw!” said Dr. Anthony,
with enthusiasm.
“It was large and airy, and hung with rich blue silk and white lace.
The furniture was rosewood, upholstered in blue silk, and on the marble
mantel and the ivory brackets against the wall were vases of flowers,
statuettes, and expensive _bric-à-brac_. You see, I made good use of my
eyes when I was given leave, Miss Rodney,” said the physician, with a
smile.
“Yes, doctor, but now about your mysterious patient?” breathed Effie,
anxiously.
“Yes, now I am coming to that, for I am afraid the preliminaries have
sadly wearied your patience,” he said. “There was a rosewood bed in the
center of the room, Miss Rodney, draped in rich blue silk and canopied
with snowy lace in the richest pattern, and among the lace-trimmed
pillows lay a girl--a corpse, I thought at first, for she was deathly
white and still, her eyes were closed, and the white garments about her
breast were all dabbled with blood.”
Miss Rodney shuddered and grew very pale.
“Oh, poor little Aline!” she sighed. “Tell me how she looked, Dr.
Anthony.”
“She was very young. She looked almost child-like,” said Dr. Anthony.
“She had a fair round face with a dimpled chin and beautiful features.
Her hair was dark and curling, her brows and lashes were jetty black
and of wonderful beauty. Her eyes, much to my surprise when she
recovered from her swoon, were dark, rich blue, like wet violets. I had
thought they would be black, before she opened them.”
“It was my sister!” cried Effie, in tones of conviction. “You have
described her very accurately.”
“I went up to her side, and looked down at the beautiful, silent face,”
he went on; “and the stranger, who, I have forgotten to say before,
wore a thick, heavy mask upon his face, followed me. In a moment he
turned to the nurse, angrily:
“‘How is this?’ he said. ‘I told you to put a mask upon her face!’
“‘And so I did, sir, but her protracted swoon so frightened me, that I
removed it to give her air, and forgot to replace it. I hope there is
no harm done, sir.’
“He muttered something angrily, then stepped quickly back, for at
that moment the wounded girl opened her eyes and flashed them around
the room. They fell on the face of the nurse, and she cried out, in a
startled tone:
“‘Who are you, and where am I?’
“She spoke no more, for my strange guide bent over her and whispered
something in her ear, and she relapsed into silence. He then directed
me to examine her wound, and I obeyed him.”
“Was--was it fatal?” asked poor Effie.
“No, although it had been meant for that,” he replied. “It was a
knife-wound, and had been meant for the heart, but glanced aside and
inflicted a flesh wound instead. I bathed and dressed the wound, but
before I finished, she had again relapsed into unconsciousness.”
“And you learned nothing?” sighed Effie.
“Nothing,” he answered. “Before I came away, the unknown stranger
drew off his coat and showed me a deep, jagged cut on his own arm. I
bathed and dressed his wound also, was rewarded for my services by a
twenty-dollar gold piece, and after submitting to the blindfold again,
was driven to my home by my mysterious employer. That is the end of
my story, Miss Rodney. Does it throw any light on the mystery of your
sister’s disappearance?”
“None, Dr. Anthony. It only deepens the mystery,” she answered,
mournfully.
“And yet it is in some sort a clew,” he said, thoughtfully. “If
the young girl I saw is your sister it proves that she is confined
somewhere within a radius of five miles from Maywood. Have you thought
of that, Miss Rodney?”
“If the girl you saw is really my sister, it proves also that she is a
prisoner somewhere,” Effie said, musingly. “It places the mystery in
a new aspect altogether. We had thought that Aline, offended by her
punishment that day, had run away merely to annoy us, and that, when a
sufficient time had elapsed, she would return to us again. Can it be
that she was abducted and imprisoned?”
“It looks that way,” said Dr. Anthony. “At any rate, I have thought it
best to come here and tell my story. You understand now why I wished
to see a picture of the missing girl. I could then have told most
certainly whether the girl whose strange wound I dressed was your
sister.”
“It is most unfortunate that we have never had a picture of Aline; but
your description corresponds exactly with her appearance,” declared
Effie.
“She was very beautiful. Even if I never see her again, I shall never
forget her charming face,” said Dr. Anthony.
He rose to go as he spoke, and the look of respectful admiration he
bent on Effie’s sweet, sad face seemed to mutely declare that he would
never forget her, either. Her long lashes drooped, and a delicate blush
rose to her cheek, reminding him that his thoughts were too plainly
expressed in his eyes. She thanked him in sweet, courteous phrases for
his information, and half timidly requested him to call again, and
recount his strange story to her father.
Dr. Anthony very willingly promised to do so. He was very sorry for the
afflicted family, and very much interested in the hazel-eyed Effie.
She, on her part, was vaguely interested in him.
“The most interesting young man I ever met,” she mentally decided,
recalling the handsome face and clear, frank voice, after he had gone
away.
She went back to her mother’s bedside, and related Dr. Anthony’s story.
Mrs. Rodney was greatly excited. Aline’s mysterious absence assumed a
new phase. She was full of wonder and dismay and grief.
“My dear little Aline! She may be dead ere this!” was the burden of her
grief, and it became so hysterical and violent during the long hours
of the night that Effie regretted she had told her the strange story.
She was relieved when her father came home next morning from another
fruitless quest. She felt that the charge of her grief-stricken mother
was becoming too heavy for her. No one could soothe Mrs. Rodney’s
bitter grief but her patient, though almost distracted husband.