The New Magdalen

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 as 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.'"