John Harwood - The Asylum

By Thursday the rain had cleared; I arrived at the fallen tree an hour early, and paced restlessly about until Frederic appeared, looking so disconsolate that I assumed the worst. He could muster only a wan shadow of his usual smile.

“Good afternoon, Miss Ashton; I am sorry to have kept you waiting. You will be pleased, I hope, to hear that Miss Ferrars is to visit us, a week from today.”

He sounded so funereal that I thought I must have misheard him.

“Has she agreed to see me, then?”

“Yes, Miss Ashton, she has. She seems to have quite forgiven you, and she hopes that her visit will do you good—though of course she also hopes that it will lead to the recovery of her writing case. She would happily have made her visit sooner; only Dr. Straker reminded me, before I left, that he would be away in Bristol on Monday and Tuesday, and so we settled upon the Thursday.”

He spoke as if his mind were not really upon what he was saying, and he would not meet my eye.

“I am truly grateful to you, Mr. Mordaunt, for all the trouble you have taken on my behalf. But—you do not seem very happy about it.”

“Well yes—no—it is only—no, it is nothing, I assure you.”

It is just as I feared, I thought. He has fallen in love with Lucia.

“No doubt Miss Ferrars is very charming,” I said. “I only wish I could remember her.”

“Well yes, Miss Ashton, she—no—that is—” he stammered, looking even more uncomfortable.

“I trust that she was not distressed—or displeased—by your visit.”

“No, not at all, Miss Ashton. She was most hospitable—and charming, as you say—only—”

It struck me that he was using “Miss Ashton” far more frequently than before, with a peculiar emphasis upon the “Ashton.”

“I wish you would tell me, Mr. Mordaunt, what is troubling you.”

“Only that—” He took a deep breath, and seemed to make up his mind. “Until yesterday, Miss Ashton, I had hoped—against all the evidence—that Dr. Straker might have been mistaken; that perhaps the woman he had met in London really was the imposter, as you so vehemently believed. You had given me such a vivid picture of your childhood on the cliffs; your mother, your aunt, the loss of the house, that I simply could not—”

He paused, groping for words. I felt as if I had swallowed a lump of ice.

“But now I have met Miss Ferrars—the physical resemblance between you is indeed remarkable—and heard her describing those very scenes, sometimes in far greater detail, and spoken to her uncle, and the maid, and heard all about you—Miss Ardent, as you called yourself—and your extraordinary powers of recall, and mimicry, and—well, I can hope no longer. She even invited me to accompany her on an errand to the haberdasher in the square; they were reminiscing about the winter before last, when she first came to London.”

Clever Lucia, I thought. She has made absolutely sure of him.

“I am sorry, Miss Ashton, but we must face facts. Dr. Straker has been saying all along that when your memory does return, your personality, your facial expressions, even your voice, may change beyond recognition. It will be quite painless, he assures me; you may not even realise it has happened. You will wake up one morning as a different person in the same body, with your true history returned to you. But you will not remember me, or anyone here; you will not even know who I am . . .”

He had been gazing directly at me as he spoke, but his voice broke on the last phrase, and he averted his eyes. After a long, paralysed interval, I heard myself speaking, as I had that winter’s morning in the library, with cold contempt.

“Never mind, Mr. Mordaunt. You will have Miss Ferrars to console you.”

His head shot up again.

“You surely cannot think—you do think. No, I cannot—I will not have it. Miss Ferrars is quite charming, yes, but I could never—it is you that I love, you that I have longed for since the day we met. I would infinitely rather you remained forever as you are. To me, you are the real woman, and Miss Ferrars a pale imitation. I will love you no matter how you may change—of that I am sure—but you will never love me. You will look back on this time—if you remember it at all—with horror, and upon me as one of your gaolers. Detest me if you will, but never, never doubt my love for you.”

He spoke with such passion, his face flushed, his hands gesturing eloquently, that I was moved in spite of myself; moved, but also exasperated beyond measure. Then why, why, why, I thought, can you not believe that Lucia is the imitation? I imagined him getting down on his knees, and my replying, I cannot marry you because we are cousins; because I have Mordaunt blood in my veins; because everything you are offering me is lawfully mine (though I do not think I want to claim it); and because I cannot return your passion. But he is not on his knees, I reminded myself, and you cannot afford to feel sorry for him.

“I do not think of you as my gaoler, Mr. Mordaunt, and I am truly grateful for what you have done for me. But you must understand that until I am released, I can think of nothing else.”

“Miss Ashton, you must not imagine that I cherish any false hopes,” he said earnestly, though his face suggested otherwise. “I should never have spoken, only—” An awkward silence followed.

“At what time next Thursday,” I asked, “do you expect Miss Ferrars to arrive?”

“She said she would take the early express, and she hopes to be here in time for luncheon. I have arranged for a fly to meet her at the station. She will stay with us that night and return the following day.”

“And—will you tell Dr. Straker that you have spoken to me?”

“Yes. In fact, he insisted that I should convey the news to you; he still believes that this was entirely my idea. Relations between us are—strained. But I find I do not greatly care. No doubt,” he added, staring bleakly at the distant hills, “we shall be back on our accustomed footing before long. I doubt I shall ever have cause to defy him again.”

There seemed to be nothing more to say, and after another awkward silence he rose, and, with a last, desolate, searching look, made his farewells and departed.

The following morning brought another summons from Dr. Straker, and an even longer wait before he appeared in the doorway of my room. My mouth was very dry, and I could feel my arm shaking as he took my wrist.

“You are agitated, Miss Ashton. Mr. Mordaunt has told you, I believe, that Miss Ferrars is to visit us. Is that, do you think, the reason for your agitation?”

“I—I cannot tell, sir.”

“You do understand, Miss Ashton, that you are under no obligation to see her? My first duty is to you, as my patient, and I will not have you exposed to unnecessary nervous strain.”

“But sir,” I pleaded, “I want to see Miss Ferrars; I shall be quite calm, I am sure of it. If I seem anxious, it is because—because I hope this meeting will lead to my release.”

“Mr. Mordaunt is certainly of that opinion,” he said drily. “Well, I shall allow it. You may speak to Miss Ferrars—in my presence, of course—but if you seem in the smallest degree distressed, I shall close the proceedings forthwith. And if you should change your mind in the meantime, do not hesitate to send for me—remembering that I shall be leaving for Bristol on Monday afternoon and will not return until Tuesday evening.”

He rose, and seemed about to leave, then paused by the door.

“I take it, speaking of remembering, that you still have no recollection of where you hid Miss Ferrars’ writing case.”

I was suddenly, acutely conscious of the oak chest, a mere three feet from where I was sitting. I felt sure I could smell leather and parchment. My eyes were irresistibly drawn toward the chest, even as I tried to keep them fixed upon the floor at my feet, pretending to reflect. The air was heavy with suspicion.