Ainslee's Magazine/The Mystery of Mrs. Brandreth/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
She came into a room with all the blinds up, the curtains pushed back, and floods of sunshine streaming in.
Just for an instant I was chilled with doubt of last night's impression, for her face was so pale and anxious that she was more like Rosemary than had been the red-rose vision at the theater. But she was genuinely surprised at sight of me.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “you are the lovely lady who sat next us at the play!”
“Does my name suggest nothing to you?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she echoed.
“Then, we'll sit down and I'll tell you a story,” I suggested,
I began with the Aquitania, the man in the cushioned deck chair, going home condemned to die, the beautiful girl who appeared on the second day out, the recognition. I mentioned no names. When I said, however, that years ago the two had been engaged, a sudden light flashed in my visitor's eyes. She would have interrupted, but I begged her to let me go on, and she sat silent while I told the whole story. Then, before she had time to speak, I said:
“There's just one thing I know! You are not the woman who came to England and married Ralston Murray. If you have a heart in your breast, you'll tell me where to find that woman. He will die unless she goes back to him.”
Her lips parted, but she pressed them tightly together again. I saw her muscles stiffen in sympathy with some resolve.
“The woman, whoever she was, must have impersonated me for a reason of her own,” she answered. “It's as deep a mystery to me as to you.”
I looked her in the eyes.
“That's not true, Mrs. Brandreth,” I flung at her, brutally. “In spite of what I've said, you're afraid of me. I give you my most sacred word that you shall be protected if you will help, as you alone can, to save Ralston Murray. It is only if you refuse your help that you may suffer. In that case my husband and I will fight for our friend. We won't consider you at all. Now that we have a strong clew to this seeming mystery and are already on its track, everything that you have done or have not done will soon come out.”
The beautiful woman broke down, and began to cry.
“What I did I had a right to do!” she sobbed. “There was no harm! It was as much for the sake of my husband's future happiness as my own, but if he finds out, he'll never love or trust me again. Men are so cruel!”
“Tell me who went to England in your place, when you pretended to sail, and he shan't find out. Only ourselves and Ralston Murray need ever know,” I urged.
“It was my twin sister,” she gasped, “my sister, Mary Rose Hillier, who sailed on the Aquitania as Mrs. Brandreth. It was the only way I could think of, so that I could be near my husband and watch him without his having the slightest suspicion what was going on. Mary Rose owed me a lot of money which I couldn't really afford. It was when she was still in England, before she came to America, that I let her have it. My mother was dreadfully ill, and Mary Rose adored her. She wanted to call in great specialists, and begged me to help her. At first I thought I couldn't. Guy and I are not rich! But he was flirting with a woman, a cat of a woman, you saw her last night. I was nearly desperate. Suddenly an idea came to me. I sold a rope of pearls I had, first getting it copied, and making my sister promise she would do whatever I asked, if I sent her the thousand pounds she wanted. You look shocked, I suppose because I bargained over my mother's health. But my husband was more to me than my mother or any one else. Besides, mother hadn't wished me to marry Guy. She didn't want me to jilt Ralston Murray. I couldn't forgive her for the way she behaved, and I never saw her after my runaway wedding.”
“So it was you, and not your sister, who was engaged to Ralston Murray eight years ago!” I couldn't resist.
“Yes, it happened abroad, as you know perhaps. Mary Rose was away at boarding school, and they never met, The whole affair was so short, so quickly over, I doubt if I ever even told Ralston that my sister and I were twins. But he gave me a lot of lovely presents, and refused to take them back, wrote that he'd burn them, pearls and all, if I sent them to him. Yes, the pearls I sold, he gave me when we were engaged. And there were photographs of him that Mary Rose wouldn't let me destroy. She kept them herself. She was sorry for Ralston, hearing the story, and seeing some of his letters. She was a romantic girl, and thought him the ideal man. She was half in love, without having seen him in the flesh.”
“That is why she couldn't resist, on the Aquitania,' I murmured. “When Ralston begged her to marry him, she fell in love with the reality, I suppose. Poor girl, what she must have gone through, unable to tell him the truth, because she'd pledged herself to keep your secret whatever happened! I begin to see the whole thing now! When your mother died in spite of the specialists, you made the girl come over to this side, without your husband or any one knowing. You hid her in New York. You planned your trip to Europe. You left Washington. Your cabin was taken on the Aquitania, and Mary Rose Hillier sailed as Rosemary Brandreth, wearing clothes of yours, and even using the same perfume.”
“You've guessed it,” she confessed. “We'd arranged what to do, even if Guy went to the ship with me. But he and I were rather on official terms because of things I'd said about Mrs. Dupont, and he let me travel to New York alone. I learned from a famous theatrical wigmaker how to disguise myself, and I lived in lodgings not half a mile from our house, for three months, watching what he did every day. At first I didn't find out much, but later I began to see that I'd done him an injustice. He didn't care seriously for the Dupont woman. It was only a flirtation. So I was in a hurry to get Mary Rose back, and reappear as myself.”
“Why did you have to insist on her coming?” I asked, trying now not to show how disgusted I was with the selfishness of the creature, selfishness which had begun with throwing Ralston over, and now, without a thought, wrecking her sister's life.
“Oh, to have her book her passage in my name and sail for home was the only safe way. All had gone so well, I wouldn't spoil it at the end!”
“All had gone well with you,” I said. “But what about her?”
“She didn't tell me what you've told me to-day. I supposed, till almost the last, that she was just traveling about as we planned for her to do. The only address I had was mother's old bank, which was to forward everything to Mary Rose, on her own instructions. Then, a few weeks ago, she wrote and asked if I could manage without her coming back to America. She said it would make a lot of difference in her life, but she didn't explain in what way. If she'd made a clean breast of everything, I might have thought of some other way out; but”
“But as she didn't, you didn't,” I finished the sentence. “Oh, how different Mary Rose Hillier is in heart from her sister, Rosemary Brandreth, though their faces are almost identical! She was always thinking of you, and her promise to you. That promise was killing her, that and her love for Ralston Murray. She didn't want his money, and when she found he was determined to make a will in her favor, she thought of a way in which everything would come to you. It was you he really loved, no doubt, she argued with herself, and he wanted you to inherit his fortune. Oh, poor, tortured girl! And I used to suspect she was mercenary. But, thank Heaven, Ralston didn't die, as he expected to do when he made that hurried will. The woman he truly loves was never married before, and is his legal wife. Now, when she goes back to him and he hears the whole truth, he will be so happy that he'll live for years, strong and well.”
“I don't believe even you can induce Mary Rose to go back to Ralston Murray,” Mrs. Brandreth said. “She wouldn't think he could forgive her.”
“He could forgive her anything after what he went through in losing her,” I said. “When you've told me where to find your sister, I will tell her that.”
“Well, if you can make her see your point of view,” Mrs. Brandreth grudged, “and if my secret is kept, I hope Mary Rose may be happy. I don't grudge her Ralston Murray or his fortune, but when she feels herself quite safe as his wife, she can pay me my thousand pounds.”
“She has paid you, and more, with her heart's blood!” I exclaimed. “Where is she?”
“In New York. She told me she could never go back to England again after what had happened there. She seems awfully down.”
“She won't be, when she understands what work lies before her across the sea,” I retorted.
Even as I spoke, and as Mrs. Brandreth was writing down her sister's address, I mentally marshaled the argument I would use; the need to save Ralston from himself, and above all from Paul and Gaby Jennings. But, oh, the sudden stab I felt as those names came to my mind!
How could we keep the secret when Gaby Jennings had known the real Rosemary Brandreth in Baltimore? All the complication would have to be explained to her, if she were not to spread scandal, if she were not to whisper revengefully among her friends, “Ralston Murray isn't really married to his wife. I could have her arrested as a bigamist if I chose!”
It was an awful question, that question of Gaby Jennings. But the answer came like balm after the stab, and the answer was “The pictures.”
By the time Jim and I reached England again, taking Mary Rose with us, my tame detective would have got at the truth about the stolen treasures, and who had made the copies. Then, all that Ralston need do would be to say, “Tell the lies you want to tell about my wife—who is my wife!—spread any gossip at all, and you go to prison, you and your husband.”
Well, we found Mary Rose in New York. At first she was horrified at sight of us. Her one desire had been to hide. But after I had talked myself nearly dumb, and Jim had got in a word or two edgewise, she began to hope. Even then she would not go back though, until I had written out her story for Ralston to read. Then he was to decide, and to wire either, “Come to me,” or “I cannot forgive.”
We took her to our hotel to await the answer, but then something happened which changed the whole outlook. A long cablegram was delivered to me some days before it would be possible to hear from Ralston, It was from Mr. Smith, and said:
- G. J. and husband proved guilty portrait fraud. Woman's father, clever old Parisian artist, smuggled to England copy pictures. Her career on stage ruined by cocaine and attempt to substitute false jewels for friend's. When she attempted nursing in war, went to pieces again, health saved by P. J., but would not have married him if he had not pretended to be R. M's. heir. R. M. so ill I took liberty send for Sir B. D. as you directed. Sir B. D. proved nothing positive against P. J., but suspicion so strong, I got rid of couple by springing portrait discoveries on them and threatening arrest. They agreed to leave England if allowed do so quietly. Consulted R. M. who wished them to go and they have already gone. Sir B. D. installed at Manor. Things going better but patient weak. Hope you think I did right. Smith.
I showed this message to Ralston's wife, and she said what I knew she would say:
“Oh, let's sail at once! Even if he doesn't want me, I must be near.”
But, of course, he did want her. He loved her so much that—it seemed to him—the only person who had to be forgiven was that creature in Washington. Her he forgave because, if it hadn't been for her selfish scheme he would never have met his “life-saving angel.”
Yes, that's his name for her now.