John Harwood - The Asylum

The wait, I knew, might be anything from five minutes to an hour or more. Telling myself that I must not show fear only made my trembling worse; I knew, too, that I would not be able to look at him without horror and loathing. Even if Hodges had not confessed, he would sense that something was wrong; and then he would press and press until he found out.

I could pretend to be ill, but when he found that I had no fever, he would know that I was pretending, and that would make me fear him even more. No; I would have to admit that I was afraid—as I had been, often enough, before—but somehow conceal that I was now mortally afraid of him. I sat down on the upright chair, with my back to the window, trying to decide what I should say.

When I heard his footsteps approaching, I buried my face in my hands and began to sob, which was easy enough to do in earnest, and when the door opened, I did not even look up.

“Good morning, Miss Ashton. I am sorry to see you distressed.”

I drew a long, sobbing breath and slowly raised my head. His tone, as ever, was calm and courteous, but the gleam in his eyes, which I had once taken for amusement, now seemed as cold as ice.

“It should not surprise you, sir,” I said. “I am a prisoner here; I will die here; there is no hope for me.”

“Come now, Miss Ashton; any day now, we are bound to discover your identity.”

“You have been saying that for months, sir—an eternity of torment—and nothing has changed.”

“Believe me, Miss Ashton; I understand how hard it must be. Allow me to take your pulse.”

I could not repress a shudder as his fingers touched my wrist.

“I beg your pardon; it is a cold morning, and my hand is doubtless cold as well.”

His solicitude was like that of a slaughterman, scratching a lamb’s head affectionately as he prepares to cut its throat. He was going to tear my soul out of my body, but in as humane and enlightened a fashion as the demands of his experiment allowed, sincerely regretting any distress I might suffer in the process. I wished I could stop my hand from trembling.

“Hmm . . . a little fast, but then you are agitated this morning. Tell me, is there any reason—any specific reason, I mean—for your agitation? Have you remembered anything of those weeks before you arrived here?”

“No, sir, I have not.” The fear in my voice was all too genuine.

“A pity. I had a note from Miss Ferrars only the other day, asking whether we had found her writing case. She is still threatening to press charges against you. Of course, you are perfectly safe so long as you are with us, but if you could only remember where you hid it, that would be one less obstacle in the way of your release.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” I said dully, dabbing at my eyes to conceal my face.

“Well, Miss Ashton, it would be unfortunate if we discharged you as cured, only to see you arrested at the gate.”

“How can I ever be discharged, sir, when I have no home, no money, and no name?”

“But you will have a name . . . Are you saying that you no longer believe you are Georgina Ferrars?”

My sob of terror was quite involuntary; I clutched my handkerchief and prayed he would take it for distress.

“I do not know what I believe, sir. My reason says I cannot be, but my memory says . . . that if I am not Georgina Ferrars, I am no one.”

“Interesting,” he said. “And encouraging, though I know you cannot see it. Try to have faith, Miss Ashton; it will not be long now.”

The words echoed like a warning bell as the door closed behind him.

It rained all of that day, but the following afternoon I was back in the garden, walking slowly around the perimeter until weariness overtook me, and I sat down on the bench to rest in the pale sunlight.

What had Dr. Straker said about my writing case? “If you could remember where you hid it . . .” It was surely not in his interest that I should recall anything of that time; yet he kept on pressing me to remember what I had done with it. What if it was not in his possession? Might there be something in it that he wanted—or feared?

Of course: the journal I had presumably kept throughout those missing weeks. I had told Frederic all about Aunt Vida’s gift, and how she had encouraged me to keep a record of every day’s events, no matter how trivial.

If I had brought my brooch here—assuming I had not been kidnapped—I would have brought my writing case as well.

But the key had not been round my neck when I woke in the infirmary.

A dark figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the garden and began to walk toward me. I saw with a jolt of alarm that it was Frederic Mordaunt, looking as woebegone as ever. Which was all the more reason to fear him, especially as Dr. Straker was doubtless watching from one of the windows above.

“Miss Ashton, I know I promised not to trouble you again, but I have come to tell you that I have persuaded Dr. Straker to move you back to the voluntary wing.”

I stared at him for several seconds, mute with astonishment. It could only be a trap, but what sort of a trap?

“You had better sit down,” I said, indicating the place on my right, so that I would be facing away from the windows.

“Thank you. I’m afraid there are conditions. He refuses to lift the certificate; and you must take all your meals in the closed ward, as at present. But you will have your old room back—the room you were in before the seizure, I mean—and be free, during the day, to walk anywhere in the grounds, so long as you do not try to escape again, which I beg you not to attempt, for your own sake. You will be closely watched; he insists upon it; and if you so much as pass the gate, he will wash his hands of you, and have you transferred to the county asylum as incurably insane.”

I had no need to feign bewilderment. Why would they move me to a room I had probably never occupied, and give me the freedom of the grounds? Did they want me to try to escape again?

“Why has Dr. Straker agreed to this?” I said at last.

“Because I insisted upon it. I took to heart what you said to me—about my being the heir, and my duty as a gentleman. I have never crossed him before—I have never had occasion to—but after I saw you the other day . . . Well, I reminded him of his own guiding principle, which is never to cause a patient unnecessary pain. I put it to him that after several months’ confinement, we had inflicted nothing but torment upon you, and were no closer to solving the mystery of your identity. And that the best chance of restoring your memory was to enlist Miss Ferrars’ cooperation by any means necessary, and bring you face to face—so that you could speak to each other, I mean. He said that she would never agree to this unless we could recover her writing case; I said that her best chance of recovering it was to meet you, in as tranquil a setting as we could provide, and that if that failed, I would compensate her for the loss.

“He replied that on the contrary, seeing Miss Ferrars again would cause you such agitation that you might well suffer another seizure—a fatal one this time. He is a physician; I am not: I could not argue with that. But I insisted we do something for you. It ended with his agreeing, most reluctantly, to move you back to the voluntary wing, on the conditions I have described. He says that if any harm comes to you because of this, it will be upon my head.”

He spoke with what I would have sworn was heartfelt emotion.

“But why did he not mention this himself, when he saw me yesterday?”

“I did not speak to him until this morning, and then—he agreed that I might tell you.”

“If you had kept your promise, sir, I would not be here now. But I thank you for what you have done. When may I expect to be moved?”