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.