I took a chair opposite him, and told him all that had befallen me, from the hour of the boatman falling overboard down to the time of the recovery of my memory. He often started up, as though pity and grief would make him clasp me. Then I told him of Alice Lee, and of Mrs. Lee’s goodness to me—how dear, true, and devoted a friend she had proved to me; and I also told him of the many inquiries she had caused to be made on our return to England, and of the paragraphs relating my story which had appeared in the newspapers. He declared he had not heard one word of those paragraphs. He asked me to name the time when they had appeared, and, when I answered, he said that in those months he was taking a holiday in France with Mary and the children, and this was the reason, no doubt, of his not having seen the newspaper paragraphs; but he was amazed that none of his friends had acquainted him with the publication of a story which must certainly have led to his discovering me, particularly as my disappearance from Piertown and my supposed death at sea had been much talked of amongst our friends in Bath, whilst the account of the disaster had been printed in a local paper.
His mentioning the trip to France with Mary and the children led him to speak of the reason of his marrying my sister. I listened to him, and then said, ‘I have not one word to say. When I first received the news it grieved me indeed to think how short a time it takes for a man to banish the memory of his wife from his love.’
‘No!’ he said passionately, ‘your memory was never banished from my love. What has been my sin? How I grieved over your loss, Mary knows. But the years stole away, two years and eight months passed; all this while Mary was living with me, the children wanted a mother’s care, and Mary was with them, and I could not part with her for Johnny’s and the baby’s sake. But already your sister had remained too long under the roof of one who was supposed to be a widower. People had been talking for some time. Our visitors grew fewer and fewer. Either Mary must leave my children, or I must protect her with my name.’
‘John, I have not one word to say,’ I repeated, ‘but Mary is your wife, and if that be so, you cannot be my husband; therefore find her—you will send me my children?’ My voice failed me; nevertheless I arose, crossed to him, kissed his brow, and then found power to say: ‘I love you, but I also love my sister. Do not ask me to dishonour her. Sooner than do so I will kill myself,’ and speaking these words I pulled the bell.
A servant opened the door, and I asked her to request Mrs. Lee to join us. In a few moments the dear little creature entered. ‘This has been my true best friend,’ I cried, throwing my arms around her neck.
My husband took her by the hand, and thanked her with deep feeling for her kindness to me; ‘But,’ he added, looking at her with grief strong in his face, ‘she asks for her children, and means to live away from me, and to think of me as a stranger.’
‘Mr. Campbell,’ said Mrs. Lee, speaking cheerfully, though with a little effort, ‘you must give your wife time. She has told you she was without memory for three years. The whole of her past life came to her suddenly, as I believe, as I truly believe, through the intercession of my sainted child. Here was a revelation that might wreck the reason. A lifetime is granted to a mortal to bear the sorrows and take the pleasures of a lifetime, but all that entered into the lifetime of your wife was utterly lost to her for three years, and then the mighty tide of memory floods her brain. Consider this, I pray you, and add to it the sad complication that has followed. Bear with her, grant her time; all will yet be well.’
‘My sister must not suffer through me,’ said I.
‘Neither must you suffer through your sister,’ she answered. ‘Mr. Campbell, I have ordered supper to be laid in the drawing-room, as I did not wish you to be interrupted. You must feel weary after your long journey.’
‘I can eat nothing, thanking you much. I have left my portmanteau at the Central Station Hotel. I had hoped to return with Agnes to-morrow morning.’