The Asylum by John Harwood Page A

to leave, no one will hinder you. But I urge you with all my heart to remain until Dr. Straker returns. Remember that you have suffered a seizure; and there is the question of—what happened during the interval, and why you chose to arrive here as Miss Ashton. If you leave us before these mysteries are solved, you may suffer a relapse. I wonder, myself, if some healing instinct drew you to us: Dr. Straker is a leading authority on disorders of the personality. I am not saying that you have any such disorder, but if you do, you could not be in better hands.”
    “And can you assure me that if I do wait for Dr. Straker, he will let me go whenever I wish?”
    “My word upon it, Miss Ferrars. You are a voluntary patient, and need only give twenty-four hours’ notice in writing. And, of course, since you are here as our guest, even that would not be necessary.”
    “But—” I was about to say that Dr. Straker had twice refused me permission to leave, when it occurred to me that Frederic might not know this.
    “It is only that—Dr. Straker seems far too disposed to believe that I am not Georgina Ferrars.”
    “But you must understand, Miss Ferrars, that he sees many patients who are utterly convinced of things which are—well, quite mistaken. I am not saying that you are mistaken, only that he is bound to consider that possibility. I assure you, Miss Ferrars, you have nothing to fear; I would trust him with my life.”
    He spread his arms wide in a gesture of reassurance. His hands were naturally expressive, the fingers long and flexible, unconsciously dramatizing the flow of his emotions as he talked. Every so often he would become aware of them, and blush, and clasp them tightly in his lap, until gradually he forgot, and his hands would unclasp, and begin to speak again. I wanted to tell him that he need not restrain them on my account, but it would have seemed far too intimate.
    “And you have no idea,” he said after a pause, “as to why you presented yourself here as Miss Ashton?”
    “None at all; I have tried and tried, but nothing will come . . . Have you any notion, Mr. Mordaunt, of what might have happened to me? How could I have lost all memory of the past six weeks, and yet recall everything before that perfectly—as I assure you I do?”
    “Well,” he said hesitantly, “it can happen that, after a particularly terrifying experience, one loses all memory of the event—the mind protecting itself, like a scab growing over a wound before the wound itself has healed. But in your case, the seizure itself is the most likely cause, as I am sure Dr. Straker has indicated. Indeed, Miss Ferrars, you are fortunate to be alive; two of our patients have died of seizures in the past year—”
    He stopped short with a look of consternation.
    “I am very sorry, Miss Ferrars; I should not have mentioned that. Dr. Straker would be most displeased. You are recovering well; that is the important thing. The real question is what brought you here in the first place.
    “Most likely, Dr. Straker has already seen your uncle and reassured him; he may even have solved the mystery. Why risk a long, cold, and tiring journey before you are fully recovered? You are safe here, on my word of honour, and I shall be delighted to keep you company whenever I can—if that is agreeable to you—until Dr. Straker returns.”
    I could see the sense in this, and the thought of another day—perhaps two—in his company was tempting, indeed. But a small, persistent voice urged me not to weaken.
    “Or,” he continued, “if you absolutely insist upon leaving tomorrow, is there someone else—a close friend, a relation?—in this part of the world, to whom you could go?”
    “There is no one, apart from my uncle,” I said. “I am quite alone in the world.” The words echoed in my mind, as if I had heard them very recently.
    It occurred to me that I need not leave by the very next train; I could wait until tomorrow afternoon, or even