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.'"