A LOST WIFE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VI, Issue 37, 13 September 1890, Page 6

A LOST WIFE.

«TELL you, Tom, 1 cannot rest night or day. 11 1 must know the truth. This suspense is killing me.’ I spoke thus to my friend, Tom Burnaby, who was dining with me at the Langham Hotel. Some two years back I had had the terrible misfortune to marry into a family in which unknown to me and to my bride, there was r F"- hereditary insanity. We bad twelve months of perfect happiness, and then my wife, bavin" shown undoubted symptoms of the malady, had required to be carefully watched. One evening, however, she managed to elude her attendants, escaped from the house, and had not been seen since by any of her friends. Detectives were at once set to work, and everything done to discover her whereabouts. We ascertained that a person answering to her description had taken a ticket for the Continent, but although the clue had been keenly followed up nothing as to her fate had been elucidated. ' 1 It was almost a year since this had happened, but bein<» passionately attached to my wife, I still clung to the hope of finding her, trusting, on eminent medical authority, that she would ultimately recover from the brain and utterly refusing to believe—what the police and others felt assured of—that she had committed suicide. Nothin"- but absolute proof of it would convince me, I felt, and after a year’s further search for her abroad, 1 had returned to London to renew my endeavours in this country. Feelin"' very lonely in the big hotel, 1 bad sent for my old school and college friend to dine with me, and he professed himself much shocked at the wan and haggard appearance I presented. * Yes,’ I continued, ‘ I believe I have been on the wron" track all this time. lam now certain she never left En>" land.’ ' ° ‘But, Jack,’ he said, ‘ surely the description of the lady who left London that night for France exactly tallied with that of your wife. ’ ‘ Well it did, no doubt, but it may have been only a resemblance for all that. 1 tell you I feel it borne in upon me that she is somewhere in England.’ Tom shook his head sorrowfully. * Then she is no longer living, Jack, I feel persuaded,’ he answered. ‘ For God’s sake, don’t harp upon that,’ I broke out, passionately. ‘ One and all, you tell me the same thing but there isn’t a vestige of proof of it. The poor darling may have strayed away, or been taken care ot by poor respectable people who never see a newspaper, or who may have thought she had escaped from an asylum, and were averse to sendin"her back.’ ° He saw there was no use in arguing with me ; so although we talked the whole evening on the same subject for” I could speak of no other, he did not again attempt to combat my conviction that my wife still lived. After be had left me I transacted some family business with my solicitor, which had accumulated during my absence, and I did not retire to my room until midnight.’ As the clock struck the half-hour I tumbled into bedbrainfagged and weary, and was soon fast asleep. Now I am not in the least given to dreaming, but that night a dream or vision—startlingly vivid—of the Clifton Suspension Bridge came before me. It stood out clearly in the moonlight, the beautiful tracery of the structure cutting distinctly against the star-illumined sky—the Lei"h Woods on their heights loomed mysteriously beyond, while below in the gi Idy depths swept the dark river. I awoke in an agony of fear—my heart was palpitating wildly, and the cold perspiration stood thickly on my brow° I tried to rise, but I could not. My limbs were paralysed with terror. J What could it mean ’ thought I. So near, so distinct was the apparition, if I may so call it of the Bridge, thkt it almost seemed before me still, and my brain fel scorched Yet why it should produce this effect upon me I was ata loss to imagine. Clifton, which was my native place, I had left when a child of seven, and had never revisited—l had scarcely ever thought of the Bridge, and certainly never dreamed about it before. How long I lay there, I know not, but towards mornin" I sank into a troubled sleep. ” ‘By Jove,' I said to myself when at last I roused, and splashed into my tub, ‘ this won’t do. ‘ I must have had indigestion last night with a vengeance. And yet it is very odd ; I never remember to have had nightmare before in my life.’ That first day of my return I was very low and miserable • my poor Winifred s unknown fate seemed to oppress me more even than usual, and after a long consultation in Sootland Yard with the chief detective upon the best means to be employed towards unravelling it, I took a lonely walk ovei Hampstead Heath, brooding over my misery. That evening I retired rather early to bed, but it seemed to me I had scarcely fallen asleep hefoie I awoke a"ain As I lay there, the deep tones of the church clock 'hard by boomed out the hour of midnight. Before the last stroke had died away I sat up m order to see whether my watch tallied with the church time, but the match flickered as I struck it and went out. Suddenly I perceived a blue mist had Idled the room, and the horror of the precedin', night fell again upon me. B ” I could not move. I tried to call out, but no voice would come. Straining my eyes in a fixed gaze into the blue filmy air and fearing to see I knew not what, the vision of the ni'dit before grew, as it were, out of the mist. ” There stood the Suspension Bridge, the massive buttress on the Leigh M ood side grey in the moonlight, the other black and frowning as night, while between them, like threads of black pearls, was suspended the frail and ghostlike fabric of the bridge. This was no nightmare, 1 distinctly felt; 1 knew 1 was awake, and an unutterable awe crept over me. dread of something more to follow ; a fear of some appalling apparition laid hold upon me, strong man as I was, and all the awful and blood-curdling tales of my youth, which as a man I had scoffed at, flashed through my brain. Again 1 tried to call out, but every sense, save those of sight and hearing, seemed denied me. Gradually I became aware of a presence in the room, an

nndetinable ‘ something.’ Was it ghost or demon ’ spirit or fiend ! I strained my eyes in vain. They saw nothing but the moonlit bridge, anil the dark woods beyond. The ‘ something ’ came nearer ; I felt a blast of cold, icy air sweep across my face, and in a paroxysm of terror I seemed to burst the bonds that held me, and thrust out my hand. I felt my fingers clutched by a wet, clammy hand, cold as death, aud in the same instant a piercing scream of agony and honor rent the midnight air. The blood froze in my veins. I endeavoured to free myself from that convulsive clasp, but in vain. Long, thin fingers wreathed themselves inextricably round mine, and I felt myself being drawn towards it when a sound of rushing air, tearing along like a whirlwind, filled the room. The fingers released their hold, a few gasping sighs came quickly one after the other, and then all was still. (Jone was the vision of the bridge; the unseen presence had passed away, and I felt I was alone again. Trembling in every limb, and my brain reeling, I longed intensely for a light. It was horrible to be in that darkness ! and with trembling hands I tried once again to strike a match. In a few moments I succeeded, and as I replaced the match-box, I noticed the impression of a long wet hand on the polished mahogany table. I gazed at it with horror ; the impression was gradually vanishing, but as the last finger mark died away 1 touched it to make sure that it was no ocular delusion on my part. No ! the finger with which I touched it was wet also ! It was no delusion. It was a reality ! Slowly the wan light of early dawn stole into the room competing with, and gradually overpowering, the feeble ray from my candle, and still I lay there watching. At length when a great golden shaft of sunshine struck the floor and streamed up to the wall beyond, lighting up the whole apartment with sudden warmth and brightness, I extinguished the taper, and sunk exhausted into a deep sleep. When I awoke, I found I had barely time to dress and get down to the city, where I had an appointment at 10 o’clock. Snatching a cup of coffee as I made my hurried toilet, a commissionaire called up a hansom and handed me my letters as I drove off. Most of them were on business, so after a hasty glance I put them into my pocket. The last one I was startled to see bore on the envelope the postmark of ‘ Clifton.’ My hand trembled as I tore it open, the coincidence seemed to me so strange. The letter was from an old school-fellow, and ran thus : — Clifton Down, March 10th, 188—. Dear Jack,— My wife having been ordered here for her health, we have taken a house on the Downs for three months Tom Burnaby tells me you have just returned, and are not looking yourself at all. Do, like a good fellow, run down and pay us a visit. It will cheer you up, old man: and. as I don't know a creature here, it will be a real charity to me to come.—Thine. Fred. Fvrlong. I felt bewildered. It almost seemed as if there must be a connection between the apparition of the previous nights and this invitation. But how or why passed my comprehension. Bowling along in the bright sunshine through the busy streets of London, however, I felt almost ashamed of my superstitious fears, and resolutely assured myself that it was a mere coincidence. ‘Anyhow,’ thought I, boldly enough, ‘ I’ll see the end of it. I’ll go. I really do feel fagged, too, and perhaps after all, it was a delusion.’ Then I suddenly remembered the impression of the wet hand, and a cold shiver ran down my back. Nevertheless, I sent off a telegram to my friend, saying I would be with him by a late train that evening. My business concluded, and some necessary visits paid, I left London at 6.23, reaching Clifton Down Station about ten, where Fred met me, and we drove straight to his house. On our way I told him of my fruitless search for my wife on the Continent, and also of my determination to prosecute my inquiries in England. ‘ Poor old chap,’ he said tenderly, as he slipped his arm within mine ; ‘ you will never find her. Far better reconcile yourself to the belief that she is dead.’ ‘ Then I must have some proof of it,’ I answered bitterly, ‘else I will never believe it.’ For some minutes there was silence between us. Then Fred said, with a sigh—- ‘ A sweeter better woman than your Winifred never breathed. It was hard for both of you that the curse of insanity should have fallen on her.’ ‘ Yes ; but the doctors said she would recover,’ I responded eagerly, ‘ but she may come back to me any day quite well.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘ Jack, dear boy,’ he said, earnestly, ‘ you must really try and give up this idea. You will unsettle your own mind if you go on like this.’ ‘ Proof !’ I cried. ‘ I must have proof of her death before I believe it.’ By this time we had reached the door, and after some supper and a smoke, we retired to our rooms. Mine was on the ground floor, and as I still felt restless and wakeful, I opened the window and looked out. It was a wild windy night without rain. Dark clouds covered the heavens, though now and again for a moment the moon would peer through a rift, torn asunder by the force of the gale, and then again black darkness would reign over all. Suddenly a desiie seized me to go and look at the Clifton Suspension Bridge by one of these fitful gleams. It was near I knew, so vaulting out of the window and clambering over the gate which was locked, I went up the road until I met a pedestrian. He scanned me suspiciously as 1 asked my way, but pointed out a path to the right, telling me it would firing me to the bridge in two minutes. In less time than that I was walking across it. The lamps glimmered fitfully in the wind which was tearing and howling down in the deep gorge, making the frail fabric rock and shiver with every blast. Grasping the handrail to steady myself, I looked over into the gulf of darkness. There, nearly three hundred feet below me, was, I knew, the sullen tidal river with its tawny stream and hideous mud banks. What a fearful place for a suicide I thought with a shudder of horror, as I turned away remembering the number of poor creatures who had there committed selfdestruction.

At that moment the moon broke forth, and as I looked upward I noted with surprise that along the looped lines of the upper part of the bridge tiny jets of blue flame flickered and wavered all along from end to eml it was the same ; even the lamps in that wan light seemed to me to cast a bluish glare around. I was puzzling over this strange phenomenon,|which I took to be caused by some magnetic state of the atmosphere, when the moon became again obscured, and, as the darkness fell, a terrible cry. piteous in its anguish, burst forth. Again, ami once again, I heard it, ringing out above the wind which whistled and sobbed and shrieked through the ironwork of the bridge. I stood rooted to the spot. It was the same voice I had heard the night before. A feeling of horror and desperation came over me. I thought I had been drawn there by some evil power that was luring me to self-destruction. An icy blast swept across my face, and I felt that same cold hand lay upon mine which was grasping the rail convulsively. Instantaneously shone out a gleam of moon light, revealing a white phantom by my side. A wild fear lest I should be drawn over into the gulf below broke the spell, and I turned and tied at my utmost speed along the bridge, followed by the apparition. I felt it was gaining on me—that my limbs were failing from sheer terror that in another moment I should be in the grasp of that fearful plfantom, when, with a relief I cannot describe, I saw a policeman with his lantern approaching within a few paces. Staggering up against the side I looked back, and as I did so I saw the white diaphanous figure, which had stopped also, spring upon the rail, while the blue light of a lamp fell upon the upturned face. It was the face of my lost wife ! For one swift instant she stood there. I could see the gleam of insanity in her eyes, but around the mouth played an expression of such infinite pathos, such unutterable misery and despair as will haunt my memory to my dying day. Then throwing up her arms to the sky appealingly, a piercing cry of agony lent the air, and she disappeared into the yawning darkness below. I turned with a horrified exclamation to the policeman, ‘Did you see that? Did you hear that scream ?’ I demanded hurriedly as I tried to regain my breath. ‘ I heard a scream, sir,’ he answered, looking at me fixedly, ‘ but I expect it was the wind. Lor’ bless you, windy nights you’d sometimes think a army of ghosts was squalling and roaring up and down this bridge.’ ‘ But I tell yon I saw the face ; I recognised her ’. ’ I shrieked, almost maddened by the horror of what I had seen. He shook his head, and laying his hand on my arm soothingly, he advised me to go home. Trembling from head to foot I obeyed him. I heaid him tell the ticket clerk at the bridge gate not to allow me on again, and having seen me to my friend’s door he left me. 1 lay down upon my bed, as I was, until the morning. At last I felt convinced that my darling was lost to me for ever that she had thrown herself from that terrible bridge, and none can guess how I suffered as I writhed under that agonised conviction. After some hours I became somewhat calmer, and meeting Fred on the stairs as I went down to breakfast, I took him into the smoking-room and told him of the strange visions I had experienced, and of the spectre on the bridge. Of course he was incredulous, and declared it was alia phantasy of my brain ; neveitheless he came down with me to the police station, where he saw the superintendent. Yes. He remembered hearing of the disappearance of the lady I mentioned, and there had been the suicide of a woman from Clifton Suspension Bridge just about the same time, but the clothes not corresponding with those worn by my wife, together with the fact that the latter had been seen to take a ticket for the Continent, hail convinced him that the body found could not be hers. I asked to see the garments. They were pro luced, neatly tied up, and labelled with the date, and a minute description of the dead person, which exactly tallied with that of my poor Winifred, even to a slight peculiarity of one finger nail. But the clothes were of the most common and ordinary kind, and I felt the superintendent must be right. Turning them over, I noticed that the under ones were of a fine material and beautifully made, although there was not the vestige of a mark upon them. The boots I looked at last, and my heart beat fast as I observed that they were lined with fleecy lamb's wool soles. I remembered that a short time before Winifred was taken ill she had complained much of havingcold feet, and I had laughingly sent her such a pair of wool soles as a Christmas card, writing my good wishes in humorous poetry on the reverse side, which was of leather. It did not take a moment to strip them out of the boots, and there, blotted and blurred by the water, were the lines I had written. How she and I had laughed over them that happy Christmas morning, and how prettily she had laid her soft cheeks against the fleecy trifles vowing they were too charming to use. The warmth and love ami joy of that morning—the agony, the misery, the despair that no man can fathom, and which had (Given her to her fearful end, rushed upon me in sudden contrast, and as I, in broken sentences, explained to the superintendent and Fred how I was enabled to identify her by those little fleecy soles, I could not restrain my sobs. Two years later the mystery of the clothes was solved. An old servant of Winifred's confessed on her death bed that she met her former mistress in the streets of London handsomely dressed, and knowing the condition of her mind, she persuaded her to change clothing with her for the sake of the valuable furs she was wearing. This was easily done by representing to Winifred that there was a plan to put her in a lunatic asylum, and that her escape could only be managed by agreeing to this pro|>osal. She assented, and the wicked woman, taking her purse from her, paid for a ticket, and despatched her from the nearest station by the next train that started, which happened to be one for Bristol. She herself left for the continent, which, of course, accounted for a person dressed like Winifred having been seen to do so. As for my vision, I have been troubled by it no more. Probably the poor perturbed spirit is at peace now that her husband has been made acquainted with her unhappy end. God rest her sweet soul ! and may He preserve all those who read this fiom a life-long sorrow such as mine.