On coming back to the Court from his abortive attempt to see Miss Merrywig, Clide found Stanton in great excitement with a telegram that had arrived for his master that instant. It was from Sir Simon, summoning him back by the first train that started. Some important news awaited him. He did not wait to see Miss Merrywig, but took the next train to London, and arrived there in the early afternoon. The news that awaited him was startling enough to justify Sir Simon’s peremptory summons. One of the detectives, whose sagacity and coolness fitted him for delicate missions of the kind, had been despatched to gather information in the principal lunatic asylums of England and Scotland. He had come that morning to tell Sir Simon Harness that he thought he had found Mrs. de Winton in one of them. Sir Simon went straight to the place, and, after an interview with the superintendent, telegraphed for Clide, as we have seen.
It was an old-fashioned Elizabethan manor-house in the suburbs of London, situated in the midst of grounds almost large enough to be called a park. There was nothing in the outward aspect of the place to suggest its real character. Everything was bright and peaceful and well ordered as in the abode of a wealthy private family. The gardens were beautifully kept; the shrubbery was trim and neat; summer-houses with pretty climbing plants rose in shady places, inviting the inmates of the fine old mansion to sit out of doors and enjoy the sunshine unmolested; for there was sunshine in this early spring-time, and here in this sheltered spot some bits of red and gold and blue were peeping through the tips of closed flower-cups. Nothing externally hinted at the discord and disorder that reigned in so many human lives within the walls. The sight of the place was soothing to Clide. He had so often pictured to himself another sort of dwelling for his unhappy Isabel that it was a great relief to him to see this well-ordered, calm abode, and to think of her being a resident there. A lady-like matron received him, and conversed with him kindly and sensibly while they were waiting for the doctor to come in. The latter accosted him with the same reassuring frankness of manner.
“I hope,” he said, “that your informant has not exaggerated matters, as that class of people are so apt to do, and that you are expecting to see the right person. All I dare say to you is that you may hope; the points of coincidence are striking enough to warrant hope, but by no means such as to establish a certainty.”
“I am too much taken by surprise to have arrived at any conclusion,” replied Clide; “and I have been too often disappointed to do so in a hurry. Until I see and speak to the patient I can say nothing.”
“You can see her at once. As to speaking to her, that is not so easy. The sun is clouding over. That is unlucky at this moment.”
His visitor looked surprised.
“Oh! I forgot that I had not explained to you the nature of the delusion which this lady is suffering from,” continued the medical man. “It is one of the most poetic fancies that madness ever engendered in a human brain. She is enamored of the sun, and fancies herself beloved of him; she believes him to be a benign deity whose love she has been privileged to win, and which she passionately responds to. But there is more suffering than joy in this belief. She fancies that when the sun shines he is pleased with her, and that when he ceases to shine he is angry; the sunbeams are his smiles and the warmth his kisses. At such times she will deck herself out with flowers and gay colors, and sit and sing to her lover by the hour, pretending to turn away her face and hide from him, and going through all the pretty coyness of love. Then suddenly, when the sun draws behind a cloud, she will burst into tears, fling aside her wreath, and give way to every expression of grief and despair. It is at such moments, when they are prolonged, that the crisis is liable to become dangerous. She flings herself on the ground, and cries out to her lover to forgive her and look on her kindly again, or she will die. Very often she cries herself to sleep in this way. I fear you have come at an unfortunate moment, for the sun seems quite clouded; however, he may come out again, and then you will get a glimpse of the patient at her best.”
He rose and led the way upstairs along a softly-carpeted corridor with doors opening on either side. Pointing to one, he motioned Clide to advance. One of the panels was perforated so as to admit of the keeper’s seeing what went on inside when it was necessary to watch the patient, without irritating her by seeming to do so or remaining in the room. At first the occupant was standing up at the window, her hands clasped, while she conversed with herself or some invisible companion in low tones of entreaty. Then, uttering a feeble cry, she turned mournfully away, laid aside the flowers that decked her long black hair, and, taking a large black cloak, drew it over her dress, and sat down in a dark corner of the room, with her face to the wall, crying to herself like a child. Clide watched her go through all this with growing emotion. He had not yet been able to catch a glimpse of her face, but the small, light figure, the wayward movements, the streaming black hair, all reminded him strikingly of Isabel. The voice was too inarticulate, so far, for him to pronounce on its resemblance with any certainty; but the low, plaintive tones fell on his ear like the broken bars of an unforgotten melody. He strained every nerve to see the features. But, stay! She is moving. She has drawn away her hands from her face, and has turned it towards him. The movement did not, however, dispel his doubts; it increased them. It was almost impossible to discover any trace of beauty in that worn, haggard face, with its sharp features, its eyes faded and sunk, and from which the tears streamed in torrents, as if they were melting away in brine. The skin was shrivelled like an old woman’s—one, at least, double the age that Isabel would be now. Was it possible that this wreck could be the bright, beautiful girl of ten years ago?
“Are you my wife?” was Clide’s mental exclamation, as he looked at the sad spectacle, and then, with a shudder, turned away.
“I see you are unable to arrive at any conclusion,” said the doctor when they were out of ear-shot in an adjoining room.