And now, when for the first time in his life he had fixed his affections on a girl who seemed likely to return his passion, and who in every other way was calculated to form the charm of his home and the happiness of his fireside, he had to acknowledge to himself that she was afflicted with this dreadful malady. It was impossible to palter with the question; he had tried to do so a thousand times; but his strong common sense would not be juggled with. And there the dread fact remained--the girl he loved was frequently liable to attacks of insanity. He must face that, look at it steadily, and see what could be done. Could she be cured?
Ah! how well he knew the futility of such a hope! How many instances had he seen in his father's house of patients whose disease was not of nearly such long standing as Annette's, had indeed only just begun, and who were in a few days, or weeks, or months at the farthest, to be restored, with all their faculties calmed and renewed, to their anxious friends!--and how many of them remained there now, or had been removed to other asylums, in the hope that change might effect that restoration which skill and science had failed in bringing about!
The last day of their stay had arrived, and on the morrow George was to accompany his friend back to London. The Captain was out for his usual ramble, Paul was closeted with his mother, and George was sitting in the little room which, owing to the few books possessed by the family gathered together in it, was dignified by the name of a "study," and which overlooked a splendid view of the bay. He was standing at the window, gazing out over the broad expanse of water, thinking how strangely the usually calm-flowing current of his life had been vexed and ruffled since his arrival there, wondering what steps he could take towards the solution of the difficulty under which he laboured, and what would be the final end of it all, when he heard a door close gently behind him, and looking round, saw Annette by his side.
"I am so glad I've found you, Mr. George," she said, looking up at him frankly, and putting out her hand (she always called him "Mr. George" now; she had told him she hated to use his surname, it reminded her of disagreeable things), "I am so glad I've found you. Mrs. Stothard reminded me that it was your last day here, and said I ought to make the most of it."
"Mrs. Stothard said that?" asked George, with uplifted eyebrows; "I would sooner it had been your own idea, Miss Annette."
"The truth is, I think I am a little vexed at the notion of your going," said the girl.
"Come, that is much better," said George, with a smile.
"No, no, I mean what I say; I am very, very sorry that you are going away." As she said this her voice, apparently involuntarily, dropped into a soft caressing tone, and her eyes were fixed on him with an earnest expression of regard.
"It is very pleasing to me to be able to know that my presence or absence causes you any emotion," said George.
"I have been so happy since you have been here," said the girl; "you are so different from anybody else I have ever met before. You seem to understand me so much better than any one else, to take so much more interest in me, and to be so much more intelligible yourself; your manner is different from that of other people; and there is something in the tone of your voice which I cannot explain, but which perfectly thrills me."