LADY JANET’S curiosity was by this time thoroughly aroused. Summoned to
explain who the nameless lady mentioned in his letter could possibly be,
Julian had looked at her adopted daughter. Asked next to explain what
her adopted daughter had got to do with it, he had declared that he
could not answer while Miss Roseberry was in the room.
What did he mean? Lady Janet determined to find out.
“I hate all mysteries,” she said to Julian. “And as for secrets, I
consider them to be one of the forms of ill-breeding. People in our rank
of life ought to be above whispering in corners. If you _must_ have your
mystery, I can offer you a corner in the library. Come with me.”
Julian followed his aunt very reluctantly. Whatever the mystery might
be, he was plainly embarrassed by being called upon to reveal it at a
moment’s notice. Lady Janet settled herself in her chair, prepared to
question and cross-question her nephew, when an obstacle appeared at the
other end of the library, in the shape of a man-servant with a message.
One of Lady Janet’s neighbors had called by appointment to take her to
the meeting of a certain committee which assembled that day. The servant
announced that the neighbor--an elderly lady--was then waiting in her
carriage at the door.
Lady Janet’s ready invention set the obstacle aside without a
moment’s delay. She directed the servant to show her visitor into the
drawing-room, and to say that she was unexpectedly engaged, but that
Miss Roseberry would see the lady immediately. She then turned to
Julian, and said, with her most satirical emphasis of tone and manner:
“Would it be an additional convenience if Miss Roseberry was not only
out of the room before you disclose your secret, but out of the house?”
Julian gravely answered: “It may possibly be quite as well if Miss
Roseberry is out of the house.”
Lady Janet led the way back to the dining-room.
“My dear Grace,” she said, “you looked flushed and feverish when I saw
you asleep on the sofa a little while since. It will do you no harm to
have a drive in the fresh air. Our friend has called to take me to the
committee meeting. I have sent to tell her that I am engaged--and I
shall be much obliged if you will go in my place.”
Mercy looked a little alarmed. “Does your ladyship mean the committee
meeting of the Samaritan Convalescent Home? The members, as I understand
it, are to decide to-day which of the plans for the new building they
are to adopt. I cannot surely presume to vote in your place?”
“You can vote, my dear child, just as well as I can,” replied the old
lady. “Architecture is one of the lost arts. You know nothing about it;
I know nothing about it; the architects themselves know nothing about
it. One plan is, no doubt, just as bad as the other. Vote, as I should
vote, with the majority. Or as poor dear Dr. Johnson said, ‘Shout with
the loudest mob.’ Away with you--and don’t keep the committee waiting.”
Horace hastened to open the door for Mercy.
“How long shall you be away?” he whispered, confidentially. “I had a
thousand things to say to you, and they have interrupted us.”
“I shall be back in an hour.”
“We shall have the room to ourselves by that time. Come here when you
return. You will find me waiting for you.”
Mercy pressed his hand significantly and went out. Lady Janet turned
to Julian, who had thus far remained in the background, still, to all
appearance, as unwilling as ever to enlighten his aunt.
“Well?” she said. “What is tying your tongue now? Grace is out of the
room; why won’t you begin? Is Horace in the way?”
“Not in the least. I am only a little uneasy--”
“Uneasy about what?”
“I am afraid you have put that charming creature to some inconvenience
in sending her away just at this time.”
Horace looked up suddenly, with a flush on his face.
“When you say ‘that charming creature,’” he asked, sharply, “I suppose
you mean Miss Roseberry?”
“Certainly,” answered Julian. “Why not?”
Lady Janet interposed. “Gently, Julian,” she said. “Grace has only been
introduced to you hitherto in the character of my adopted daughter--”
“And it seems to be high time,” Horace added, haughtily, “that I should
present her next in the character of my engaged wife.”
Julian looked at Horace as if he could hardly credit the evidence of his
own ears. “Your wife!” he exclaimed, with an irrepressible outburst of
disappointment and surprise.
“Yes. My wife,” returned Horace. “We are to be married in a fortnight.
May I ask,” he added, with angry humility, “if you disapprove of the
marriage?”
Lady Janet interposed once more. “Nonsense, Horace,” she said. “Julian
congratulates you, of course.”
Julian coldly and absently echoed the words. “Oh, yes! I congratulate
you, of course.”
Lady Janet returned to the main object of the interview.
“Now we thoroughly understand one another,” she said, “let us speak of a
lady who has dropped out of the conversation for the last minute or two.
I mean, Julian, the mysterious lady of your letter. We are alone, as you
desired. Lift the veil, my reverend nephew, which hides her from mortal
eyes! Blush, if you like--and can. Is she the future Mrs. Julian Gray?”
“She is a perfect stranger to me,” Julian answered, quietly.
“A perfect stranger! You wrote me word you were interested in her.”
“I _am_ interested in her. And, what is more, you are interested in her,
too.”
Lady Janet’s fingers drummed impatiently on the table. “Have I not
warned you, Julian, that I hate mysteries? Will you, or will you not,
explain yourself?”
Before it was possible to answer, Horace rose from his chair. “Perhaps I
am in the way?” he said.
Julian signed to him to sit down again.
“I have already told Lady Janet that you are not in the way,” he
answered. “I now tell you--as Miss Roseberry’s future husband--that you,
too, have an interest in hearing what I have to say.”
Horace resumed his seat with an air of suspicious surprise. Julian
addressed himself to Lady Janet.
“You have often heard me speak,” he began, “of my old friend and
school-fellow, John Cressingham?”
“Yes. The English consul at Mannheim?”
“The same. When I returned from the country I found among my other
letters a long letter from the consul. I have brought it with me, and
I propose to read certain passages from it, which tell a very strange
story more plainly and more credibly than I can tell it in my own
words.”
“Will it be very long?” inquired Lady Janet, looking with some alarm at
the closely written sheets of paper which her nephew spread open before
him.
Horace followed with a question on his side.
“You are sure I am interested in it?” he asked. “The consul at Mannheim
is a total stranger to me.”
“I answer for it,” replied Julian, gravely, “neither my aunt’s patience
nor yours, Horace, will be thrown away if you will favor me by listening
attentively to what I am about to read.”
With those words he began his first extract from the consul’s letter.
* * * “‘My memory is a bad one for dates. But full three months must
have passed since information was sent to me of an English patient,
received at the hospital here, whose case I, as English consul, might
feel an interest in investigating.
“‘I went the same day to the hospital, and was taken to the bedside.
“‘The patient was a woman--young, and (when in health), I should think,
very pretty. When I first saw her she looked, to my uninstructed eye,
like a dead woman. I noticed that her head had a bandage over it, and
I asked what was the nature of the injury that she had received. The
answer informed me that the poor creature had been present, nobody knew
why or wherefore, at a skirmish or night attack between the Germans
and the French, and that the injury to her head had been inflicted by a
fragment of a German shell.’”
Horace--thus far leaning back carelessly in his chair--suddenly raised
himself and exclaimed, “Good heavens! can this be the woman I saw laid
out for dead in the French cottage?”
“It is impossible for me to say,” replied Julian. “Listen to the rest of
it. The consul’s letter may answer your question.”
He went on with his reading:
“‘The wounded woman had been reported dead, and had been left by
the French in their retreat, at the time when the German forces took
possession of the enemy’s position. She was found on a bed in a cottage
by the director of the German ambulance--”
“Ignatius Wetzel?” cried Horace.
“Ignatius Wetzel,” repeated Julian, looking at the letter.
“It _is_ the same!” said Horace. “Lady Janet, we are really interested
in this. You remember my telling you how I first met with Grace? And you
have heard more about it since, no doubt, from Grace herself?”
“She has a horror of referring to that part of her journey home,”
replied Lady Janet. “She mentioned her having been stopped on the
frontier, and her finding herself accidentally in the company of another
Englishwoman, a perfect stranger to her. I naturally asked questions on
my side, and was shocked to hear that she had seen the woman killed by
a German shell almost close at her side. Neither she nor I have had any
relish for returning to the subject since. You were quite right, Julian,
to avoid speaking of it while she was in the room. I understand it all
now. Grace, I suppose, mentioned my name to her fellow-traveler. The
woman is, no doubt, in want of assistance, and she applies to me through
you. I will help her; but she must not come here until I have prepared
Grace for seeing her again, a living woman. For the present there is no
reason why they should meet.”
“I am not sure about that,” said Julian, in low tones, without looking
up at his aunt.
“What do you mean? Is the mystery not at an end yet?”
“The mystery has not even begun yet. Let my friend the consul proceed.”
Julian returned for the second time to his extract from the letter:
“‘After a careful examination of the supposed corpse, the German surgeon
arrived at the conclusion that a case of suspended animation had (in the
hurry of the French retreat) been mistaken for a case of death. Feeling
a professional interest in the subject, he decided on putting his
opinion to the test. He operated on the patient with complete success.
After performing the operation he kept her for some days under his own
care, and then transferred her to the nearest hospital--the hospital at
Mannheim. He was obliged to return to his duties as army surgeon, and he
left his patient in the condition in which I saw her, insensible on
the bed. Neither he nor the hospital authorities knew anything whatever
about the woman. No papers were found on her. All the doctors could do,
when I asked them for information with a view to communicating with
her friends, was to show me her linen marked with her, name. I left the
hospital after taking down the name in my pocket-book. It was “Mercy
Merrick.”’”
Lady Janet produced _her_ pocket-book. “Let me take the name down too,”
she said. “I never heard it before, and I might otherwise forget it. Go
on, Julian.”
Julian advanced to his second extract from the consul’s letter:
“‘Under these circumstances, I could only wait to hear from the hospital
when the patient was sufficiently recovered to be able to speak to
me. Some weeks passed without my receiving any communication from the
doctors. On calling to make inquiries I was informed that fever had
set in, and that the poor creature’s condition now alternated between
exhaustion and delirium. In her delirious moments the name of your aunt,
Lady Janet Roy, frequently escaped her. Otherwise her wanderings were
for the most part quite unintelligible to the people at her bedside. I
thought once or twice of writing to you, and of begging you to speak to
Lady Janet. But as the doctors informed me that the chances of life or
death were at this time almost equally balanced, I decided to wait until
time should determine whether it was necessary to trouble you or not.’”
“You know best, Julian,” said Lady Janet. “But I own I don’t quite see
in what way I am interested in this part of the story.”
“Just what I was going to say,” added Horace. “It is very sad, no doubt.
But what have _we_ to do with it?”
“Let me read my third extract,” Julian answered, “and you will see.”
He turned to the third extract, and read as follows:
“‘At last I received a message from the hospital informing me that Mercy
Merrick was out of danger, and that she was capable (though still very
weak) of answering any questions which I might think it desirable to
put to her. On reaching the hospital, I was requested, rather to my
surprise, to pay my first visit to the head physician in his private
room. “I think it right,” said this gentleman, “to warn you, before you
see the patient, to be very careful how you speak to her, and not to
irritate her by showing any surprise or expressing any doubts if she
talks to you in an extravagant manner. We differ in opinion about her
here. Some of us (myself among the number) doubt whether the recovery
of her mind has accompanied the recovery of her bodily powers. Without
pronouncing her to be mad--she is perfectly gentle and harmless--we are
nevertheless of opinion that she is suffering under a species of insane
delusion. Bear in mind the caution which I have given you--and now
go and judge for yourself.” I obeyed, in some little perplexity and
surprise. The sufferer, when I approached her bed, looked sadly weak and
worn; but, so far as I could judge, seemed to be in full possession of
herself. Her tone and manner were unquestionably the tone and manner of
a lady. After briefly introducing myself, I assured her that I should be
glad, both officially and personally, if I could be of any assistance
to her. In saying these trifling words I happened to address her by
the name I had seen marked on her clothes. The instant the words “Miss
Merrick” passed my lips a wild, vindictive expression appeared in her
eyes. She exclaimed angrily, “Don’t call me by that hateful name!
It’s not my name. All the people here persecute me by calling me Mercy
Merrick. And when I am angry with them they show me the clothes. Say
what I may, they persist in believing they are my clothes. Don’t you
do the same, if you want to be friends with me.” Remembering what the
physician had said to me, I made the necessary excuses and succeeded in
soothing her. Without reverting to the irritating topic of the name,
I merely inquired what her plans were, and assured her that she might
command my services if she required them. “Why do you want to know what
my plans are?” she asked, suspiciously. I reminded her in reply that
I held the position of English consul, and that my object was, if
possible, to be of some assistance to her. “You can be of the greatest
assistance to me,” she said, eagerly. “Find Mercy Merrick!” I saw the
vindictive look come back into her eyes, and an angry flush rising on
her white cheeks. Abstaining from showing any surprise, I asked her who
Mercy Merrick was. “A vile woman, by her own confession,” was the quick
reply. “How am I to find her?” I inquired next. “Look for a woman in a
black dress, with the Red Geneva Cross on her shoulder; she is a nurse
in the French ambulance.” “What has she done?” “I have lost my papers;
I have lost my own clothes; Mercy Merrick has taken them.” “How do you
know that Mercy Merrick has taken them?” “Nobody else could have taken
them--that’s how I know it. Do you believe me or not?” She was beginning
to excite herself again; I assured her that I would at once send to make
inquiries after Mercy Merrick. She turned round contented on the pillow.
“There’s a good man!” she said. “Come back and tell me when you have
caught her.” Such was my first interview with the English patient at the
hospital at Mannheim. It is needless to say that I doubted the existence
of the absent person described as a nurse. However, it was possible
to make inquiries by applying to the surgeon, Ignatius Wetzel, whose
whereabouts was known to his friends in Mannheim. I wrote to him, and
received his answer in due time. After the night attack of the Germans
had made them masters of the French position, he had entered the cottage
occupied by the French ambulance. He had found the wounded Frenchmen
left behind, but had seen no such person in attendance on them as the
nurse in the black dress with the red cross on her shoulder. The only
living woman in the place was a young English lady, in a gray traveling
cloak, who had been stopped on the frontier, and who was forwarded on
her way home by the war correspondent of an English journal.’”
“That was Grace,” said Lady Janet.
“And I was the war correspondent,” added Horace.
“A few words more,” said Julian, “and you will understand my object in
claiming your attention.”
He returned to the letter for the last time, and concluded his extracts
from it as follows:
“‘Instead of attending at the hospital myself, I communicated by letter
the failure of my attempt to discover the missing nurse. For some little
time afterward I heard no more of the sick woman, whom I shall still
call Mercy Merrick. It was only yesterday that I received another
summons to visit the patient. She had by this time sufficiently
recovered to claim her discharge, and she had announced her intention of
returning forthwith to England. The head physician, feeling a sense of
responsibility, had sent for me. It was impossible to detain her on
the ground that she was not fit to be trusted by herself at large, in
consequence of the difference of opinion among the doctors on the case.
All that could be done was to give me due notice, and to leave the
matter in my hands. On seeing her for the second time, I found her
sullen and reserved. She openly attributed my inability to find the
nurse to want of zeal for her interests on my part. I had, on my side,
no authority whatever to detain her. I could only inquire whether she
had money enough to pay her traveling expenses. Her reply informed me
that the chaplain of the hospital had mentioned her forlorn situation in
the town, and that the English residents had subscribed a small sum
of money to enable her to return to her own country. Satisfied on this
head, I asked next if she had friends to go to in England. “I have one
friend,” she answered, “who is a host in herself--Lady Janet Roy.” You
may imagine my surprise when I heard this. I found it quite useless to
make any further inquiries as to how she came to know your aunt, whether
your aunt expected her, and so on. My questions evidently offended her;
they were received in sulky silence. Under these circumstances,
well knowing that I can trust implicitly to your humane sympathy for
misfortune, I have decided (after careful reflection) to insure the poor
creature’s safety when she arrives in London by giving her a letter
to you. You will hear what she says, and you will be better able to
discover than I am whether she really has any claim on Lady Janet Roy.
One last word of information, which it may be necessary to add, and I
shall close this inordinately long letter. At my first interview with
her I abstained, as I have already told you, from irritating her by any
inquiries on the subject of her name. On this second occasion, however,
I decided on putting the question.’”
As he read those last words, Julian became aware of a sudden movement on
the part of his aunt. Lady Janet had risen softly from her chair and had
passed behind him with the purpose of reading the consul’s letter for
herself over her nephew’s shoulder. Julian detected the action just in
time to frustrate Lady Janet’s intention by placing his hand over the
last two lines of the letter.
“What do you do that for?” inquired his aunt, sharply.
“You are welcome, Lady Janet, to read the close of the letter for
yourself,” Julian replied. “But before you do so I am anxious to prepare
you for a very great surprise. Compose yourself and let me read on
slowly, with your eye on me, until I uncover the last two words which
close my friend’s letter.”
He read the end of the letter, as he had proposed, in these terms:
“‘I looked the woman straight in the face, and I said to her, “You have
denied that the name marked on the clothes which you wore when you came
here was your name. If you are not Mercy Merrick, who are you?” She
answered, instantly, “My name is ------“’”
Julian removed his hand from the page. Lady Janet looked at the next two
words, and started back with a loud cry of astonishment, which brought
Horace instantly to his feet.
“Tell me, one of you!” he cried. “What name did she give?”
Julian told him.
“GRACE ROSEBERRY.”