KATE RUTHERFORD RELIEVES HER MIND
"It was your own fault, Don. Your own fault, boy," Doctor Stevens
remarked, with partly assumed annoyance. "If you'd waited at home until
I 'phoned, you never would have seen Miss Blake with that dreadful
thing on her face. It was part of the experiment I was trying upstairs."
He looked across his private office at a stately figure ensconced in
the largest chair in the room. "It was Mrs. Rutherford who suggested
how it could be managed, and she made Miss Blake up with her own fair
hands. And Mr. Clancy backed me up in style." He glanced aside at Peter
who was sitting near him.
"But," said Donald, looking down into the glowing face so near to
his, as he and Mary (as he insisted on calling her) sat together upon
a couch. "But I can't realize it all, somehow. The--mark, dear," he
clasped her hand tenderly, "was a birthmark, wasn't it? I thought that
it was practically impossible----"
"And I thought so, too, Donald," she interrupted. "For the last few
years I've hunted up every report--all the experiments of this kind
that have been tried, for I wanted--oh, I wanted so to be rid of
the hideous, dreadful thing. I saw one of the best specialists here
last fall. He said something might be done by skin-grafting, but that
it would be a long and painful experiment. I was playing then, of
course, and couldn't give up the time.... And then, just after that,
there was an article in a silly magazine called _Beauty_, which told
of the wonderful discovery, made by a doctor, in a little place near
Chicago named Cordenham. It was a new kind of ray--which destroyed the
colouring matter in the skin. I subscribed for the magazine at once,
but there were only two more notices and they weren't very convincing.
In the meantime I went to the library and looked for more authentic
reports in all the current medical journals. I found the experiments of
Doctor Witherspoon mentioned, but the articles seemed to indicate that
nothing conclusive had been done at that time.... Oh, Donald, can you
imagine with what anxious longing I watched for the new numbers of that
magazine to appear?"
"And when they did come out, Mr. Morris," Peter interjected, "Miss
Blake cut out some of the articles and saved them. That was how I
traced her."
"You found them in her apartment?" asked Donald, quickly. "You didn't
tell me that."
"No," answered Peter, promptly, "for the simple reason that I didn't
find the articles. It was like the old story of the fisherman who was
about to take a party out among some dangerous rocks. When asked if he
knew where the submerged rocks were, he said, 'I don't know where they
be, but I know where they ain't.' Well, that was my case. I found the
magazines that the articles had been cut from pretty early in the game,
but I didn't see any significance in that till I knew--well, most of
the facts. Then I went back to the apartment and made a note of every
magazine from which anything had been clipped, the date and page. After
that, I went to the library--and found that the articles all pointed
one way. Directly or indirectly, they pointed to Doctor Witherspoon and
Cordenham."
"You're all right, Clancy," said Donald with sincerity. "You certainly
are a wonder."
Peter looked a little sheepish. "It would have been more to the point
if I'd made my discovery a little earlier," he said. "Miss Blake was
almost ready to come back to town when I found her."
"Yes, Donald," said Mary, looking at him with concern in her beautiful
eyes. "Doctor Witherspoon was almost ready to let me go, at last.
Oh, my dear, if I had known it would be so long I never would have
done what I did--have left you in suspense all these weeks. I would
have told you everything, and taken the risk.... But the very last
thing I found--it was in the _Planet_, just a few days before I went
away--an article which gave a full description of a wonderful cure made
by Doctor Witherspoon. It took only three days, and was absolutely
successful.... From previous accounts in the medical journals, I knew
that the operation was considered dangerous--but I pinned my faith to
the last thing I'd learned--and hoped.
"I'd made up my mind to take the risk, anyway. I had my plans all laid,
and that Saturday morning I drew enough money to see me through.... My
only question was whether or not to tell you.... And then, that last
night--that last night, dear, my courage failed utterly. When you spoke
of 'my sister Anne' with such confidence in me in your dear voice--oh,
Donald, every time you mentioned her, I felt--I can't tell you how
beneath contempt I felt.... To deceive you! Oh, Donald----"
"Don't--don't think of it, dearest," he said, gently. "I understand, I
understand."
"Oh, you're wonderful, wonderful," she said, with tears in her eyes.
"But it would all have been different if I had realized. Mine was a
bad case, Donald; the position and size of the mark, and my nervous
exhaustion, they all told against me, and after the very first
treatment I collapsed utterly. I knew nothing for days and days....
They kept me under anæsthetics and the treatment went on.... When
I came fully to myself, it was so near the end, I was so close to
achieving my heart's desire, that I made up my mind to wait--just a
little while, dear--to regain my strength, and then come back and tell
you--everything.... Oh, Donald," she paused, and looked deep into
his eyes, "I wonder if you can realize, quite, what the whole thing
meant to me. I knew you loved me, but I also knew how you shrank from
anything ugly, abnormal. I had good reason to know.... And the thing
had been a nightmare to me all my life long; I could not bear it any
longer.... And, if the operation was not to be successful, I had made
up my mind, Donald, that I would never, never see you again.... That
Mary Blake should vanish. That there should be no one left but Anne,
and that she would never be found, for--there would be nothing left in
life for her, and she would have been glad to lay it down----"
"Oh, Mary, Mary!" he cried, and unheeding the others in the room, he
threw his arms about her and held her fast. "It wouldn't have mattered
if the experiment had failed, dear. I love you, _you_--you must have
seen, just now, out there on the stairs--you must have realized that it
would have made no difference----"
"Oh, yes, Donald, yes," she sobbed. "I saw--I saw it all, and I
can't help being a little glad to know that not even that hideous
disfigurement could make a difference. But I never would have caused
you that pain, not even for my poor sister's sake, if I'd had any
idea----"
"And that's what made me so angry with you, Don," said Doctor Stevens,
striving to break the emotional tension of the scene. "As I said
before, if you'd only waited as I told you, you'd have been saved a
lot. You see, Don," he explained, "I have a very strong professional
interest in the case upstairs, and there was just one chance in a
million of helping Miss Rosamond Curwood to regain her memory, and the
Lord put it into my hand. I do think, now, it was that good old chap,
O'Malley, who first made the suggestion. It seems he had an experience
once with a similar case, where the patient was confronted with someone
well--intimately--known in the past."
"And this is how it happened just as it did, Mr. Morris," Peter broke
in, eagerly. "I'd wired O'Malley and Mrs. Rutherford, from Cordenham,
to meet us at the Penn. Station. Miss Blake didn't want me to telegraph
you. She was afraid of the shock, and it would have been impossible to
explain--well, everything--you see, in a telegram.... We got in about
noon, and O'Malley told us of the discovery you'd made. We compared
notes, and Miss Blake was certain that the person you'd found must be
her twin sister, Rosamond, who'd disappeared years ago. Miss Blake was
naturally all broken up over the whole thing, and O'Malley had a hunch
that if the two sisters were suddenly brought together, it might bring
Rosamond to herself. He called up Doctor Stevens on his own, while we
were going over to Mrs. Rutherford's hotel, where we were going to ask
you to come; and, by the time we'd seen to Miss Blake's luggage and
arrived at the hotel, Doctor Stevens was there, waiting for us. He was
keen on making the experiment, and was neither to hold nor to bind,"
he glanced, quizzically, at the doctor, "until he'd tried it out. Both
Miss Blake and I wanted to get you first, but he said he wasn't at all
satisfied with Miss Curwood's condition, and that the thing should be
tried at once if it was to be any good. Miss Blake became alarmed at
that, and agreed. But then we struck a snag; Miss Rosamond would never
know her sister without the--the mark, which had been successfully
removed. Then Mrs. Rutherford came to the front. She said, 'Why not
paint it on again?' And that she did to perfection, I will say----"
"So I telephoned to keep you out of the way, Don," added Doctor
Stevens, "and you upset all our plans."
"But you haven't told me yet whether you were successful," said Donald,
who, with Mary's hand held close in his, had followed the conversation
intently. "Were they right, Mary? And is your sister----"
She shook her head, sadly,
"She knew me, Donald. She recognized me--but she remembers nothing,
nothing at all, that has happened since we were little children
together. Perhaps--oh, perhaps, Donald, it is just as well. She has no
painful memories, and her life must have been--hard, I'm afraid. Doctor
Stevens says----"
"We can hope. We can always hope," said the doctor, comfortingly; but
by the look in his eyes, Donald Morris knew that there was little
hope, in this world, for Rosamond Curwood.
"We'll take care of her, Mary," Donald said, gently. "We'll take care
of her together, dear."
There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs. Rutherford spoke, for almost
the first time.
"Look here, Don," she said, in her deep, commanding voice. "I don't
want you to blame Anne for having played a part to the world."
"I don't, Aunt Kate," he said, looking not at her, but at Mary. "I
understand----"
"But that's just it," interrupted the old lady, quickly. "You
understand a part. That's all. I know you've a lively imagination,
and I will say, Don, that you're--that you're a pretty satisfactory
person--take it all in all.... But I want you to understand that it
was I who put Anne up to the whole thing, and I guess I'll need a few
prayers if my poor old soul is ever to get out of Purgatory."
"Don't talk that way, Aunt Kate," said Donald, smiling at her perturbed
face.
"All right, Don," she agreed, "but I want you to know, just the same,
how the whole thing came about. This clever young countryman of mine,"
with an appreciative glance at Peter, "figured out the whole affair.
His knowledge of it came to me like a bolt from the blue. I'd never
seen him, you know, till you introduced him to me in Fennimore Park,
and you can, perhaps, imagine my surprise when he told me who he was,
and what he was doing. I was startled nearly out of my wits, and when,
without more ado, he plunged into the very middle of the situation, and
announced, in a whisper that would have done credit to Henry Irving:
'Mrs. Rutherford, there has never been, in that apartment in New York,
but one person--and her name is Anne Curwood,' I was simply taken
completely off my feet."
She glanced about to note the effect of these lines, dramatically
uttered, then she went on:
"I told him, after that, what I'm going to tell you all now--you who
know some of the facts.... It was all my fault.... I found Anne slaving
her youth away in menial tasks--and I found out that she was the
daughter of my old friend, Winthrop Curwood."
"Winthrop Curwood of the old Athenæum Company?" asked Donald, with keen
interest. "Why, I've heard my mother speak of him often. She knew his
people in England."
"Yes, Don. That's the man. But please don't interrupt. I want to
get the whole thing off my mind. My conscience has been worrying me
so, in the last few days, that I must clear it, and take all the
blame.... This is how it was--I discovered, almost at once, that Anne
had inherited her father's wonderful gifts, and that he had given
her a perfectly marvellous training.... He had become blind, stone
blind, poor, poor Win--and teaching her had been his one pleasure and
recreation. He'd done wonders for her, and probably had great hopes
for her future. He never knew--Anne told me all this. With tears in
her eyes, she said that she could never bring herself to tell him that
there would be no possible chance for her on the stage.... When she
told me that--I had a great idea. I took her up to my room, and I made
her up with my own hands. Nobody was ever more skilful at that than
Kate Rohan." There was pride in the deep old voice. "I made her look
at herself in the glass. You could see the birthmark in the bright
daylight a little, not very much. But when I drew the blinds and turned
on the electric lights, there wasn't a trace--not a trace.
"Then I thought it all out.... She couldn't be seen in the daytime, in
a bright light, without the defect being discovered. And if it was once
known, it would be talked about, and I could see that Anne would never
be able to stand the kind of notoriety it would bring her. She was
too terribly sensitive about it.... I was at my wits' end for quite a
while, and then--suddenly--I saw a way out....
"I was determined that her wonderful gifts should not be lost to the
world, and I got Arthur Quinn to come up to Fennimore Park. I made Anne
act for him, after I'd made her up as she ought to look on the stage.
He was crazy--mad about her, and when I saw how he felt, I told him
everything, including my plan--which was that she should be two persons
instead of one.... I even picked out a name for her--Mary, for my own
mother, and Blake, which was part of her mother's name--Blakeslie....
So--as Mary Blake she was to astonish and delight the world; and as
Anne Blake she was to pursue her daily round, without any subterfuge
other than the change of name, to agree with that of her 'sister.'
And, too, I suggested that she play the part, while she was about
it--play Mary with spirit and pride, standing tall and straight, as
she always did when she was taken out of herself--and let Anne be as
she was: plainly dressed, timid, quiet, retiring; stooping a little as
she walked or stood.... To me, it was an added touch to the dramatic
possibilities of the situation, but Anne looked at the whole thing
with distaste and it took some time to persuade her--but, at last, she
yielded.
"I arranged everything for her with Arthur Quinn, contracts and all. We
even managed to have her photographed so that the photographer didn't
suspect. That was rather ticklish business, for the camera sometimes
sees what the eye doesn't. But we took care of the lighting, and the
results were perfectly satisfactory.
"In the meantime, I found the apartment in Waverly Place, and we
furnished it together."
"And had special lighting installed," put in Peter, eagerly.
"Ah, you noticed that, did you, Mr. Clancy?" The old, young eyes
flashed him a quick look. "Yes. You see, she had to make up for 'Mary
Blake' at home, and we were taking no chances with the gas, which was
already there. Anne was staying at my hotel, as my companion, so all
that was easily accomplished.... Then, when she began making money,
we had to get banking accommodations for her. Arthur Quinn managed
that. He took her to the Scoville Bank, where he had an account, and
introduced her."
"Twice?" asked Peter, quickly.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Rutherford, giving him a keen glance. "He waited
for a cloudy day, when there would be artificial light in the bank, and
then he took 'Mary Blake,' and helped her open an account. That was
just in case of emergency. We'd planned that Anne should be the one who
would make deposits, as a general thing, and draw out money."
"So you made the account subject, under all conditions, to the order of
either of the sisters," said Peter, eagerly. "I found that out almost
the first thing; and it did give me a fearful jolt, let me tell you."
He did not think it necessary to explain why, and went on at once--"I
saw the signature card at that time, and there was something about the
appearance of the two names which struck me as being peculiar. Miss
Mary's writing was large and--fluent--sort of--while Miss Anne's was
small, and slanted the wrong way. At the first glance they didn't look
a bit alike, but----Well, I didn't think so much about it at the time,
but later I happened to see a letter written by Anne Curwood to an
old friend of hers named Walter Lord, up in Hobart Falls. I--I made an
opportunity to examine it carefully, and I found that, while it was
signed 'Anne,' the writing was, unmistakably, Mary's.... Then I began
to sit up and take notice....
"Here were twin sisters, who, in childhood--I had seen photographs of
both--looked almost exactly alike--save for one thing.... I learned,
from this Walter Lord, that both children had exceptional dramatic
talent; but also, to my surprise, that Anne was much the cleverer of
the two.... I knew that Rosamond had disappeared when the girls were
about eighteen years old, and had never been heard of since, but that
Anne had gone away, later, with a Mrs. Rutherford. That's how I first
got hold of your name, Mrs. Rutherford."
All were following Peter's recital with breathless interest. Kate
Rutherford nodded at the mention of her name, and Peter continued:
"And, on top of all this, I found that letter to Walter Lord, and
knew--yes, I was absolutely certain, that the two signatures at the
bank had been made by the same hand.... Well, I thought to myself, what
in the world does that mean?
"Then I went carefully over the facts we'd turned up in New York....
Mary Blake was a brilliant, successful actress, but she knew no one,
personally, so far as we could find out, except Mr. Morris and, to
quote the Italian janitor, 'a fine, grand lady' who sometimes came to
the apartment. There was, too, her present manager, Frederick Jones.
But he didn't appear to know her, except professionally.... From
him I found out that she associated with none of the members of the
company--and something else, which came back to me later--the curious
fact that she always rehearsed in costume--with a full make-up.... She
went out only in the daytime when it was absolutely necessary, was
always heavily veiled, and always took a cab....
"But, on the other hand, Anne was well known to the janitor, to various
tradesmen in the neighbourhood, and to the people at the bank. They all
described her to me, and the descriptions were practically identical.
"I remember that no one had ever spoken of the two sisters as if they
had been seen at the same time.... That only one of them, Anne, had
left the least trace when (as we all thought at the time) both of them
disappeared.... That there were many of Mary's clothes left in the
apartment and practically none of Anne's....
"And always, and everywhere, I heard of Anne's fearful handicap.... I
thought of it this way and that.... And there was only one theory that
would exactly fit all the facts. It seemed absurd to me when it first
flashed into my mind--and that was at the time when I realized that
only one person had signed at the bank. You will remember, Mr. Morris,
that I had seen part of a letter to you signed 'Mary', but the writing
was identical with that of Walter Lord's letter from 'Anne'--and then
it came back to me that I had noticed a remarkable similarity in the
two signatures at the bank, and I was sure--sure!"
"It seemed impossible, but I figured it all out that day, on my
way from Hobart Falls to Fennimore Park.... And when I heard Mrs.
Rutherford's voice, downstairs, there at your sister's house, Mr.
Morris, you remember--and realized that it was the same voice that had
called Anne Blake on the morning of our discovery in Waverly Place--and
that the name was the same as that of the lady who had taken Anne
Curwood away from Fennimore Park--well, you can imagine my feelings!"
"And it was only on guess-work, young man, that you made me disclose
a secret I'd kept for years!" said Kate Rutherford, severely. "If I'd
known that----"
"No you wouldn't, Mrs. Rutherford," Peter interposed, eagerly. "You
wouldn't have kept it to yourself. You know you were too much alarmed
by Mr. Morris's appearance to keep the matter secret any longer."
"And, after all, Anne," said Kate Rutherford, holding out her hands
in a gesture almost of supplication, "it was my secret, in a way. At
least I was responsible. It was my fault altogether. You would never
have gone into it at all but for me. I had such a hard time persuading
you----"
"And I never would have been persuaded, Donald," a soft voice
interrupted. "I think I would never have been persuaded but for one
thing, which Mrs. Rutherford never knew." For a moment Mary Blake
looked into the eyes of her lover. Then she went on: "You don't
remember, dear, I know. It was long, long ago, that first time I saw
you----"
"At my sister's house in Gramercy Park," said Donald.
"No, dear. Long before that. You were riding through Hobart Falls with
someone--a lady--on horseback.... You stopped at old Walter Lord's,
you and she, to have him take your pictures.... I remember it well."
Her voice was very quiet, full of restrained emotion. "The sunlight on
the trees, and on your face.... I was there, on the steps, and you saw
me--I saw the quick shiver of disgust when you caught sight of my poor
face. You closed your eyes for a second--and I went quickly away....
You would not remember, but it seared deep into my soul----"
Peter Clancy rose abruptly, and quietly passing over to the window,
stood with his back turned to the room. Doctor Stevens unobtrusively
joined him, and the two men stood looking out with unseeing eyes. Mrs.
Rutherford sat very still. Her great, dark, youthful eyes were full of
tears. The two fine young creatures at the other end of the room were
oblivious of all save each other. Anne Curwood was still speaking:
"Afterward, Donald, when I was employed by your sister, in Fennimore
Park, I saw you often, but I kept out of sight. I watched you, from
behind the curtain at the door, working in your studio there. You were
rapt, absorbed. I had little fear that you would ever think of the
poor girl who came in to do cleaning.... But every line of your face
grew familiar to me in those days; in those brief moments that I could
snatch from my work--I learned to read your face--I knew when your
work was going well, and rejoiced with you--I saw the light in your
eyes--your smile----It was the thought of making something of myself,
of being someone--someone you would not shudder to look at, that
induced me----"
He turned, and caught her in his arms.
"Mary," he whispered upon her lips. "Mary!"
THE END
* * * * *
BOOKS BY LEE THAYER
Q. E. D.
THAT AFFAIR AT "THE CEDARS"
THE MYSTERY OF THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR
THE SINISTER MARK
THE UNLATCHED DOOR