AYLWIN With Two Appendices, One Containing a Note on the Character ofD'arcy; the Other a Key to the Story, Reprinted from _Notes andQueries_ by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON Author of 'The Coming of Love: Rhona Boswell's Story, ' etc. Etc. TOC. J. R. IN REMEMBRANCE OF SUNNY DAYS AND STARLIT NIGHTSWHEN WE RAMBLED TOGETHER ON CRUMBLING CLIFFS THATARE NOW AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEATHIS EDITION OF A STORY WHICH HAS BEEN A LINK BETWEEN USIS INSCRIBED CAUGHT IN THE EBBING TIDE A REMINISCENCE OF RAXTOX CLIFFS The mightiest Titan's stroke could not withstand An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote How wind and tide conspire. I can but floatTo the open sea and strike no more for land. Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand Her feet have pressed--farewell, dear little boat Where Gelert, [Footnote] calmly sitting on my coat, Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland! All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear: Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide-- These death-mirages o'er the heaving tide--Showing two lovers in an alcove clear, Will break my heart. I see them and I hearAs there they sit at morning, side by side. [Footnote: A famous swimming dog. ] THE VISION _With Barton elms behind--in front the sea, Sitting in rosy light in that alcove, They hear the first lark rise o'er Raxton Grove:'What should I do with fame, dear heart?' says he, 'You talk of fame, poetic fame, to me Whose crown is not of laurel but of love-- To me who would not give this little gloveOn this dear hand for Shakespeare's dower in fee. While, rising red and kindling every billow, The sun's shield shines 'neath many a golden spear, To lean with you, against this leafy pillow, To murmur words of love in this loved ear--To feel you bending like a bending willow, This is to be a poet--this, my dear!'_ O God, to die and leave her--die and leave The heaven so lately won!--And then, to know What misery will be hers--what lonely woe!--To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieveWill make me a coward as I sink, and cleave To life though Destiny has bid me go. How shall I bear the pictures that will glowAbove the glowing billows as they heave? One picture fades, and now above the spray Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers Where yon sweet woman stands--the woodland flowers, In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay-- That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hoursWore angel-wings, --till portents brought dismay? Shall I turn coward here who sailed with Death Through many a tempest on mine own North Sea, And quail like him of old who bowed the knee--Faithless--to billows of Genesereth?Did I turn coward when my very breath Froze on my lips that Alpine night when He Stood glimmering there, the Skeleton, with me, While avalanches rolled from peaks beneath? Each billow bears me nearer to the verge Of realms where she is not--where love must wait. If Gelert, there, could hear, no need to urge That friend, so faithful, true, affectionate, To come and help me, or to share my fate. Ah! surely I see him springing through the surge. [_The dog, plunging into the tide and striking towards his master with immense strength, reaches him and swims round him. _] Oh, Gelert, strong of wind and strong of paw, Here gazing like your namesake, 'Snowdon's Hound, ' When great Llewelyn's child could not be found, And all the warriors stood in speechless awe--Mute as your namesake when his master saw The cradle tossed--the rushes red around-- With never a word, but only a whimpering soundTo tell what meant the blood on lip and jaw! In such a strait, to aid this gaze so fond, Should I, brave friend, have needed other speechThan this dear whimper? Is there not a bond Stronger than words that binds us each to each?--But Death has caught us both. 'Tis far beyond The strength of man or dog to win the beach. Through tangle-weed--through coils of slippery kelp Decking your shaggy forehead, those brave eyes Shine true--shine deep of love's divine surmiseAs hers who gave you--then a Titan whelp!--I think you know my danger and would help!-- See how I point to yonder smack that lies At anchor--Go! His countenance replies. Hope's music rings in Gelert's eager yelp! [_The dog swims swiftly away down the tide. _] Now, life and love and death swim out with him! If he should reach the smack, the men will guess The dog has left his master in distress. She taught him in these very waves to swim--'The prince of pups, ' she said, 'for wind and limb'-- And now those lessons come to save--to bless. ENVOY (_The day after the rescue: Gelert and his master walking alongthe sand. _) 'Twas in no glittering tourney's mimic strife, -- 'Twas in that bloody fight in Raxton Grove, While hungry ravens croaked from boughs above, And frightened blackbirds shrilled the warning fife--'Twas there, in days when Friendship still was rife. Mine ancestor who threw the challenge-glove Conquered and found his foe a soul to love, Found friendship--Life's great second crown of life. So I this morning love our North Sea more Because he fought me well, because these wavesNow weaving sunbows for us by the shore Strove with me, tossed me in those emerald caves That yawned above my head like conscious graves--I love him as I never loved before. PREFACE TO THIS EDITION The heart-thought of this hook being the peculiar doctrine in PhilipAylwin's _Veiled Queen_, and the effect of it upon the fortunesof the hero and the other characters, the name 'The Renascence ofWonder' was the first that came to my mind when confronting thedifficult question of finding a name for a book that is at once alove-story and an expression of a creed. But eventually I decided, and I think from the worldly point of view wisely, to give it simplythe name of the hero. The important place in the story, however, taken by this creed didnot escape the most acute and painstaking of the critics. MadameGalimberti, for instance, in the elaborate study of the book whichshe made in the Rivista d' Italia, gave great attention to itscentral idea: so did M. Maurice Muret, in the _Journal desDébats_; so did M. Henri Jacottet in _La Semaine Littéraire_. Mr. Baker, again, in his recently published work on fiction, described _Aylwin_ as 'an imaginative romance of modern days, the moral idea of which is man's attitude in face of the unknown, 'or, as the writer puts it, 'the renascence of wonder. ' With regard tothe phrase itself, in the introduction to the latest edition ofAylwin--the twenty-second edition--I made the following brief replyto certain questions that have been raised by critics both in Englandand on the Continent concerning it. The phrase, I said, 'TheRenascence of Wonder, ' Is used to express that great revived movement of the soul of man which is generally said to have begun with the poetry of Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, and others, and after many varieties of expression reached its culmination in the poems and pictures of Rossetti. The phrase 'The Renascence of Wonder' merely indicates that there are two great impulses governing man, and probably not man only but the entire world of conscious life--the impulse of acceptance--the impulse to take unchallenged and for granted all the phenomena of the outer world as they are, and the impulse to confront these phenomena with eyes of inquiry and wonder. The painter Wilderspin says to Henry Aylwin, 'The one great event ofmy life has been the reading of _The Veiled Queen_, yourfather's hook of inspired wisdom upon the modern Renascence of Wonderin the mind of man. ' And further on he says that his own greatpicture symbolical of this renascence was suggested by PhilipAylwin's vignette. Since the original writing of Aylwin, many yearsago, I have enlarged upon its central idea in the _EncyclopaediaBritannica_ and in the introductory essay to the third volume ofChambers's _Cyclopædia of English Literature_, and in otherplaces. Naturally, therefore, the phrase has been a good dealdiscussed. Quite lately Dr. Robertson Nicoll has directed attentionto the phrase, and he has taken it as a text of a remarkablediscourse upon the 'Renascence of Wonder in Religion. ' I am temptedto quote some of his words:-- Amongst the Logia recently discovered by the explorers of the Egypt Fund, there is one of which part was already known to have occurred in the Gospel according to the Hebrews. It runs as follows:--'Let not him that seeketh cease from his search until he find, and when he finds he shall wonder: wondering he shall reach the kingdom, and when he reaches the kingdom he shall have rest. '... We believe that Butler was one of the first to share in the Renascence of Wonder, which was the renascence of religion.... Men saw once more the marvel of the universe and the romance of man's destiny. They became aware of the spiritual world, of the supernatural, of the lifelong struggle of the soul, of the power of the unseen. The words quoted by Dr. Nicoll might very appropriately be used as amotto for _Aylwin_ and also for its sequel _The Coming ofLove: Rhona Boswells Story_. PREFACE TO THE TWENTY-SECOND EDITION OF 1904 Nothing in regard to Aylwin has given me so much pleasure as the wayin which it has been received both by my Welsh friends and my Romanyfriends. I little thought, when I wrote it, that within three yearsof its publication the gypsy pictures in it would be discoursed uponto audiences of 4000 people by a man so well equipped to express anopinion on such a subject as the eloquent and famous 'Gypsy Smith, 'and described by him as 'the most trustworthy picture of Romany lifein the English language, containing in Sinfi Lovell the truestrepresentative of the Gypsy girl. ' And as regards my Welsh readers, they have done me the honour ofsuggesting that an illustrated edition of the work would be prized byall lovers of 'Beautiful Wales. ' Although such an edition is, I am told, an expensive undertaking, myfriend and publisher, Mr. Blackett, sees his way, he tells me, tobringing it out. Since the first appearance of the book there have been manyinteresting discussions by Welsh readers, in various periodicals, upon the path taken by Sinfi Lovell and Aylwin in their ascent ofSnowdon. A very picturesque letter appeared in _Notes and Queries_ on May3rd, 1902, signed _C. C. B. _ in answer to a query by E. W. , which I will give myself the pleasure of quoting because it describesthe writer's ascent of Snowdon (accompanied by a son of my old friendHarry Owen, late of Pen-y-Gwryd) along a path which was almost thesame as that taken by Aylwin and Sinfi Lovell, when he saw the samemagnificent spectacle that was seen by them:-- The mist was then clearing (it was in July) and in a few moments was entirely gone. So marvellous a transformation scene, and so immense a prospect, I have never beheld since. For the first and only time in my life I saw from one spot almost the whole of North and Mid-Wales, a good part of Western England, and a glimpse of Scotland and Ireland. The vision faded all too quickly, but it was worth walking thirty-three or thirty-four miles, as I did that day, for even a briefer view than that. Referring to Llyn Coblynau this interesting writer says-- Only from Glaslyn would the description in _Aylwin_ of y Wyddfa standing out against the sky 'as narrow and as steep as the sides of an acorn' be correct, but from the north and north-west sides of Glaslyn this answers with quite curious exactness to the appearance of the mountain. We must suppose the action of the story to have taken place before the revival of the copper-mining industry on Snowdon. With regard, however, to the question here raised, I can save myselfall trouble by simply quoting the admirable remarks of _Sion oDdyli_ in the same number of _Notes and Queries:_-- None of us are very likely to succeed in placing this llyn, because the author of _Aylwin_, taking a privilege of romance often taken by Sir Walter Scott before him, probably changed the landmarks in idealising the scene and adapting it to his story. It may be, indeed, that the Welsh name given to the llyn in the book is merely a rough translation of the gipsies' name for it, the 'Knockers' being gnomes or goblins of the mine; hence 'Coblynau' equals goblins. If so, the name itself can give us no clue unless we are lucky enough to secure the last of the Welsh gipsies for a guide. In any case, the only point from which to explore Snowdon for the small llyn, or perhaps llyns (of which Llyn Coblynau is a kind of composite ideal picture), is no doubt, as E. W. Has suggested, Capel Curig; and I imagine the actual scene lies about a mile south from Glaslyn, while it owes something at least of its colouring in the book to that strange lake. The 'Knockers, ' it must be remembered, usually depend upon the existence of a mine near by, with old partly fallen mine-workings where the dropping of water or other subterranean noises produce the curious phenomenon which is turned to such imaginative account in the Snowdon chapters of _Aylwin_. There is another question--a question of a very differentkind--raised by several correspondents of _Notes and Queries_, upon which I should like to say a word--a question as to _TheVeiled Queen_ and the use therein of the phrase 'The Renascence ofWonder'--a phrase which has been said to 'express the artistic motifof the book. ' The _motif_ of the book, however, is one ofemotion primarily, or it would not have been written. There is yet another subject upon which I feel tempted to say a fewwords. D'Arcy in referring to Aylwin's conduct in regard to the crosssays:-- You were simply doing what Hamlet would have done in such circumstances--what Macbeth would have done, and what he would have done who spoke to the human heart through their voices. All men, I believe, have Macbeth's instinct for making 'assurance doubly sure, ' and I cannot imagine the man who, entangled as you were in a net of conflicting evidence--the evidence of the spiritual and the evidence of the natural world--would not, if the question were that of averting a curse from acting on a beloved mistress, have done as you did. That paralysis of Hamlet's will which followed when the evidence of two worlds hung in equipoise before him, no one can possibly understand better than I. Several critics have asked me to explain these words. Of course, however, the question is much too big and much too important todiscuss here. I will merely say that Shakespeare having decided inthe case of 'Macbeth' to adopt the machinery he found in Holinslied, and in the case of 'Hamlet' the machinery he found in the old'Hamlet, ' seems to have set himself the task of realising thesituation of a man oscillating between the evidence of two worlds, the physical and the spiritual--a man in each case unusuallysagacious, and in each case endowed with the instinct for 'makingassurance doubly sure'--the instinct which seems, from many passagesin his dramas, to have been a special characteristic of the poet'sown, such for instance as the words in _Pericles_: For truth can never be confirm'd enough, Though doubts did ever sleep. Why is it that, in this story, Hamlet, the moody moraliser uponcharnel-houses and mouldy bones, is identified with the jolly companionof the Mermaid, the wine-bibbing joker of the Falcon, and the Apollosaloon? It is because Hamlet is the most elaborately-painted characterin literature. It is because the springs of his actions are soprofoundly touched, the workings of his soul so thoroughly laid bare, that we seem to know him more completely than we know our most intimatefriends. It is because the sea which washes between personality andpersonality is here, for once, rolled away, and we and this Hamlettouch, soul to soul. That is why we ask whether such a character canbe the mere evolvement of the artistic mind at work. That is why weexclaim: 'The man who painted Hamlet must have been painting himself. 'The perfection of the dramatist's work betrays him. For, really andtruly, no man can paint another, but only himself, and what we call'character painting' is, at the best, but a poor mixing of painter andpainted, a 'third something' between these two; just as what we callcolour and sound are born of the play of undulation upon organism. INTRODUCTION TO THE SNOWDON EDITION OF 1901 Though written many years ago this story was, for certain personalreasons easy to guess, withheld from publication--withheld, as _TheTimes_ pointed out, because 'with the _Dichtung_ was mingleda good deal of _Wahrheit_, ' But why did I still delay inpublishing it after these reasons for withholding it had passed away?This is a question that has often been put to me both in print and inconversation. And yet I should have imagined that the explanation wasnot far to seek. It was simply diffidence; in other words it was thatinfirmity which, though generally supposed to belong to youth, comesto a writer, if it comes at all, with years. Undoubtedly there was atime in my life when I should have leapt with considerable rashnessinto the brilliant ranks of our contemporary novelists. But this wasbefore I had reached what I will call the diffident period in thelife of a writer. And then, again, I had often been told by GeorgeBorrow, and also by my friend Francis Groome, the great livingauthority on Romany matters, that there was in England no interest inGypsies. Altogether then, had it not been for the unexpected successof _The Coming of Love_, a story of Gypsy life, it is doubtfulwhether I should not have delayed the publication of _Aylwin_until the great warder of the gates of day we call Death should closehis portal behind me and shut me off from these dreams. However, I amvery glad now that I did publish it; for it has brought around me anumber of new friends--brought them at a time when new friends werewhat I yearned for--a time when, looking back through this vision ofmy life, I seem to be looking down an Appian way--a street oftombs--the tombs of those I loved. No wonder, then, that I was deeplytouched by the kindness with which the Public and the Press receivedthe story. One critic did me the honour of remarking upon what he called the'absolute newness of the plot and incidents of _Aylwin_. ' Heseems to have forgotten, however, that one incident--the most daringincident in the book--that of the rifling of a grave for treasure--is not new: it will at once remind folk-lorists of certainpractices charged against our old Norse invaders. And students ofCeltic and Gaelic literature are familiar with the same idea. Quite, lately, indeed, Mr. Alfred Nutt, in his analysis of the Gaelic_Agallamh na Senorach_, or 'Colloquy of the Elders, ' has madesome interesting remarks upon the subject. As far as I remember, the only objection made by the critics to_Aylwin_ was that I had imported into a story written forpopular acceptance too many speculations and breedings upon thegravest of all subjects--the subject of love at struggle with death. My answer to this is that although it did win a great popularacceptance I never expected it to do so. I knew the book to be anexpression of idiosyncrasy, and no man knows how much or how littlehis idiosyncrasy is in harmony with the temper of his time, until hisbook has been given to the world. It was the story of _Aylwin_that was born of the speculations upon Love and Death; it was not thespeculations that were pressed into the story; without thesespeculations there could have been no story to tell. Indeed the chieffault which myself should find with _Aylwin_, if my businesswere to criticise it, would be that it gives not too little but toomuch prominence to the strong incidents of the story--a story writtenas a comment on love's warfare with death--written to show thatconfronted as a man is every moment by signs of the fragility andbrevity of human life, the great marvel connected with him is notthat his thoughts dwell frequently upon the unknown country beyondOrion where the beloved dead are loving us still, but that he canfind time and patience to think upon anything else--a story writtenfurther to show how terribly despair becomes intensified when a manhas lost--or thinks he has lost--a woman whose love was the onlylight of his world--when his soul is torn from his body, as it were, and whisked off on the wings of the 'viewless winds' right awaybeyond the farthest star, till the universe hangs beneath his feet atrembling point of twinkling light, and at last even this dies awayand his soul cries out for help in that utter darkness andloneliness. It was to depict this phase of human emotion that both _Aylwin_and its sequel, _The Coming of Love_, were written. They weremissives from the lonely watch-tower of the writer's soul, sent outinto the strange and busy battle of the world--sent out to find, ifpossible, another soul or two to whom the watcher was, withoutknowing it, akin. And now as to my two Gypsy heroines, the Sinfi Lovell of_Aylwin_ and the Rhona Boswell of _The Coming of Love_. Although Borrow belonged to a different generation from mine, Ienjoyed his intimate friendship in his later years--during the timewhen he lived in Hereford Square; and since his death I have writtena good deal about him--both in prose and in verse--in the Athenæum, in the Encyclopædia Britannica, and in other places. When, some sevenor eight years ago, I brought out an edition of _Lavengro_ (inMessrs. Ward, Lock & Co. 's Minerva Library), I prefaced thatdelightful book by a few desultory remarks upon Sorrow's Gypsycharacters. On that occasion I gave a slight sketch of the mostremarkable 'Romany Chi' that had ever been met with in the part ofEast Anglia known to Borrow and myself--Sinfi Lovell. I describedher playing on the crwth. I discussed her exploits as a boxer, and Icontrasted her in many ways with the glorious Anglo-Saxon road-girlIsopel Berners. Since the publication of _Aylwin_ and _TheComing of Love_ I have received very many letters from English andAmerican readers inquiring whether 'the Gypsy girl described in theintroduction to _Lavenyro_ is the same as the Sinfi Lovell of_Aylwin_, ' and also whether 'the Rhona Boswell that figures inthe prose story is the same as the Rhona of _The Coming ofLove_?' The evidence of the reality of Rhona so impressed itselfupon the reader that on the appearance of Rhona's first letter in the_Athenæum_, where the poem was printed in fragments, I got amongother letters one from the sweet poet and adorable woman JeanIngelow, who was then very ill, --near her death indeed, --urging me totell her whether Rhona's love-letter was not a versification of areal letter from a real Gypsy to her lover. As it was obviouslyimpossible for me to answer the queries individually, I take thisopportunity of saying that the Sinfi of _Aylwin_ and the Sinfidescribed in my introduction to _Lavengro_ are one and the samecharacter--except that the story of the child Sinfi's weeping for the'poor dead Gorgios' in the churchyard, given in the Introduction, isreally told by the Gypsies, not of Sinfi, but of Rhona Boswell. Sinfiis the character alluded to in the now famous sonnet describing 'thewalking lord of Gypsy lore, ' Borrow, by his most intimate friend Dr. Gordon Hake. 'And he, the walking lord of Gypsy lore! How often 'mid the deer that grazed the Park, Or in the fields and heath and windy moor, Made musical with many a soaring lark, Have we not held brisk commune with him there, While Lavengro, then towering by your side, With rose complexion and bright silvery hair, Would stop amid his swift and lounging stride To tell the legends of the fading race--. As at the summons of his piercing glance, Its story peopling his brown eyes and face, While you called up that pendant of romance To Petulengro with his boxing glory Your Amazonian Sinfi's noble story?' Now that so many of the griengroes (horse-dealers), who form thearistocracy of the Romany race, have left England for America, it isnatural enough that to some readers of _Aylwin_ and _TheComing of Love_ my pictures of Romany life seem a littleidealised. The _Times_, in a kindly notice of _The Coming ofLove_, said that the kind of Gypsies there depicted are a veryinteresting people, 'unless the author has flattered them unduly. 'Those who best knew the Gypsy women of that period will be the firstto aver that I have not flattered them unduly. But I have fullydiscussed this matter, and given a somewhat elaborate account ofSinfi Lovell and Rhona Boswell, in the introduction to the fifthedition of _The Coming of Love: Rhona Boswell's Story. _ CONTENTS CHAP. 1. THE CYMRIC CHILD2. THE MOONLIGHT CROSS OF THE GNOSTICS3. WINIFRED'S DUKKERIPEN4. THE LEADER OF THE AYLWINIANS5. HAROUN-AL-RASCHID THE PAINTER6. THE SONG OF Y WYDDFA7. SINFI'S DUKKERIPEN8. ISIS AS HUMOURIST9. THE PALACE OF NIN-KI-GAL10. BEHIND THE VEIL11. THE IRONY OF HEAVEN12. THE REVOLVING CAGE OF CIRCUMSTANCE13. THE MAGIC OF SNOWDON14. SINFI'S COUP DE THÉÂTRE15. THE DAUGHTER OF SNOWDON'S STORY16. D'ARCY'S LETTER17. THE TWO DUKKERIPENS18. THE WALK TO LLANBERISAPPENDICES AYLWIN THE RENASCENCE OF WONDER I THE CYMRIC CHILD I 'Those who in childhood have had solitary communings with the seaknow the sea's prophecy. They know that there is a deeper sympathybetween the sea and the soul of man than other people dream of. Theyknow that the water seems nearer akin than the land to the spiritualworld, inasmuch as it is one and indivisible, and has motion, andanswers to the mysterious call of the winds, and is the writingtablet of the moon and stars. When a child who, born beside the sea, and beloved by the sea, feels suddenly, as he gazes upon it, a dimsense of pity and warning; when there comes, or seems to come, ashadow across the waves, with never a cloud in the sky to cast it;when there comes a shuddering as of wings that move in dread or ire, then such a child feels as if the bloodhounds of calamity are letloose upon him or upon those he loves; he feels that the sea has toldhim all it dares tell or can. And, in other moods of fate, whenbeneath a cloudy sky the myriad dimples of the sea begin to sparkleas though the sun were shining bright upon them, such a child feels, as he gazes at it, that the sea is telling him of some great joy nearat hand, or, at least, not far off. ' One lovely summer afternoon a little boy was sitting on the edge ofthe cliff that skirts the old churchyard of Raxton-on-Sea. He wassitting on the grass close to the brink of the indentation cut by thewater into the horse-shoe curve called by the fishermen MousetrapCove; sitting there as still as an image of a boy in stone, at theforbidden spot where the wooden fence proclaimed the crumbling hollowcrust to be specially dangerous--sitting and looking across the sheerdeep gulf below. Flinty Point on his right was sometimes in purple shadow andsometimes shining in the sun; Needle Point on his left was sometimesin purple shadow and sometimes shining in the sun; and beyond theseheadlands spread now the wide purple, and now the wide sparkle of theopen sea. The very gulls, wheeling as close to him as they dared, seemed to be frightened at the little boy's peril. Straight ahead hewas gazing, however--gazing so intently that his eyes must have beenseeing very much or else very little of that limitless world of lightand coloured shade. On account of certain questions connected withrace that will be raised in this narrative, I must dwell a littlewhile upon the child's personal appearance, and especially upon hiscolour. Natural or acquired, it was one that might be almost calledunique; as much like a young Gypsy's colour as was compatible withrespectable descent, and yet not a Gypsy's colour. A deep undertoneof 'Romany brown' seemed breaking through that peculiar kind of ruddygolden glow which no sunshine can give till it has itself beendeepened and coloured and enriched by the responsive kisses of thesea. Moreover, there was a certain something in his eyes that was notGypsy-like--a something which is not uncommonly seen in the eyes ofboys born along that coast, whether those eyes be black or blue orgrey; a something which cannot be described, but which seems like areflex of the daring gaze of that great land-conquering and daringsea. Very striking was this expression as he momentarily turned hisface landward to watch one of the gulls that had come wheeling up thecliffs towards the flinty grey tower of the church--the old desertedchurch, whose graveyard the sea had already half washed away. As hiseyes followed the bird's movements, however, this daring sea-lookseemed to be growing gradually weaker and weaker. At last it fadedaway altogether, and by the time his face was turned again towardsthe sea, the look I have tried to describe was supplanted by such agaze as that gull would give were it hiding behind a boulder with abroken wing. A mist of cruel trouble was covering his eyes, and soonthe mist had grown into two bright glittering pearly tears, which, globing and trembling, larger and larger, were at length big enoughto drown both eyes; big enough to drop, shining, on the grass: bigenough to blot out altogether the most brilliant picture that sea andsky could make. For that little boy had begun to learn a lesson whichlife was going to teach him fully--the lesson that shining sails inthe sunny wind, and black trailing bands of smoke passing here andthere along the horizon, and silvery gulls dipping playfully into thegreen and silver waves (nay, all the beauties and all the wonders ofthe world), make but a blurred picture to eyes that look through thelens of tears. However, with a brown hand brisk and angry, he brushedaway these tears, like one who should say, 'This kind of thing willnever do. ' Indeed, so hardy was the boy's face--tanned by the sun, hardened andbronzed by the wind, reddened by the brine--that tears seemedentirely out of place there. The meaning of those tears must be fullyaccounted for, and if possible fully justified, for this little boyis to be the hero of this story. In other words, he is Henry Aylwin;that is to say, myself: and those who know me now in the full vigourof manhood, a lusty knight of the alpenstock of some repute, will besurprised to know what troubled me. They will be surprised to knowthat owing to a fall from the cliff I was for about two years acripple. This is how it came about. Rough and yielding as were the paths, called 'gangways, ' connecting the cliffs with the endless reaches ofsand below, they were not rough enough, or yielding enough, or in anyway dangerous enough for me. So I used to fashion 'gangways' of my own; I used to descend thecliff at whatsoever point it pleased me, clinging to the lumps ofsandy earth with the prehensile power of a spider-monkey. Many awarning had I had from the good fishermen and sea-folk, that some dayI should fall from top to bottom--fall and break my neck. A laugh wasmy sole answer to these warnings; for, with the possession of perfecthealth, I had inherited that instinctive belief in good luck whichperfect health will often engender. However, my punishment came at last. The coast, which is yieldinggradually to the sea, is famous for sudden and gigantic landslips. These landslips are sometimes followed, at the return of the tide, bya further fall, called a 'settlement. ' The word 'settlement' explainsitself, perhaps. No matter how smooth the sea, the return of the tideseems on that coast to have a strange magnetic power upon the land, and the debris of a landslip will sometimes, though not always, respond to it by again falling and settling into new and permanentshapes. Now, on the morning after a great landslip, when the coastguard, returning on his beat, found a cove where, half-an-hour before, hehad left his own cabbages growing, I, in spite of all warnings, hadclimbed the heap of _débris_ from the sands, and while I washallooing triumphantly to two companions below--the two mostimpudent-looking urchins, bare-footed and unkempt, that ever agentleman's son forgathered with--a great mass of loose earthsettled, carrying me with it in its fall. I was taken up for dead. It was, however, only a matter of broken ribs and a damaged leg. Andthere is no doubt that if the local surgeon had not been allowed tohave his own way, I should soon have been cured. As it was I became acripple. The great central fact--the very pivot upon which all thewheels of my life have since been turning--is that for two yearsduring the impressionable period of childhood I walked with crutches. It must not be supposed that my tears--the tears which at this momentwere blotting out the light and glory of the North Sea in thesun--came from the pain I was suffering. They came from certainterrible news, which even my brother Frank had been careful to keepfrom me, but which had fallen from the lips of my father--the newsthat I was not unlikely to be a cripple for life. From that moment Ihad become a changed being, solitary and sometimes morose. I wouldcome and sit staring at the ocean, meditating on tilings in general, but chiefly on things connected with cripples, asking myself, as now, whether life would be bearable on crutches. At my heart were misery and anger and such revolt as is, I hope, rarely found in the heart of a child. I had sat down outside therails at this most dangerous point along the cliff, wondering whetheror not it would crumble beneath me. For this lameness coming to me, who had been so active, who had been, indeed, the little athlete andpugilist of the sands, seemed to have isolated me from myfellow-creatures to a degree that is inconceivable to me now. Astubborn will and masterful pride made me refuse to accept a disastersuch as many a nobler soul than mine has, I am conscious, borne withpatience. My nature became soured by asking in vain for sympathy athome; my loneliness drove me--silent, haughty, and aggressive--tohaunt the churchyard, and sit at the edge of the cliff, gazingwistfully at the sea and the sands which could not be reached oncrutches. Like a wounded sea-gull, I retired and took my troublealone. How could I help taking it alone when none would sympathise with me?My brother Frank called me 'The Black Savage, ' and I half began tosuspect myself of secret impulses of a savage kind. Once I heard mymother murmur, as she stroked Frank's rosy cheeks and golden curls, 'My poor Henry is a strange, proud boy!' Then, looking from mycrutches to Frank's beautiful limbs, she said, 'How providential thatit was not the elder! Providence is kind. ' She meant kind to theHouse of Aylwin. I often wonder whether she guessed that I heard her. I often wonder whether she knew how I had loved her. This is how matters stood with me on that summer afternoon, when Isat on the edge of the cliff in a kind of dull, miserable dream. Suddenly, at the moment when the huge mass of clouds had covered theentire surface of the water between Flinty Point and Needle Pointwith their rich purple shadow, it seemed to me that the waves beganto sparkle and laugh in a joyful radiance which they were making forthemselves. And at that same moment an unwonted sound struck my earfrom the churchyard behind me--a strange sound indeed in thatdeserted place--that of a childish voice singing. Was, then, the mighty ocean writing symbols for an unhappy child toread? My father, from whose book, _The Veiled Queen_, the extractwith which this chapter opens is taken, would, unhesitatingly, have answered 'Yes. ' 'Destiny, no doubt, in the Greek drama concerns itself only with thegreat, ' says he, in that wonderful book of his. 'But who are thegreat? With the unseen powers, mysterious and imperious, who governwhile they seem not to govern all that is seen, who are the great? Ina world where man's loftiest ambitions are to higher intelligenceschildish dreams, where his highest knowledge is ignorance, where hisstrongest strength is to heaven a derision--who are the great? Arethey not the few men and women and children on the earth who greatlylove?' II So sweet a sound as that childish voice I had never heard before. I held my breath and listened. Into my very being that child-voice passed, and it was a new musicand a new joy. I can give the reader no notion of it, because thereis not in nature anything with which I can compare it. The blackcaphas a climacteric note, just before his song collapses and dies, sofull of pathos and tenderness that often, when I had been sitting ona gate in Wilderness Road, it had affected me more deeply than anyhuman words. But here was a note sweet and soft as that, and yetcharged with a richness no blackcap's song had ever borne, because noblackcap has ever felt the joys and sorrows of a young human soul. The voice was singing in a language which seemed strange to me then, but has been familiar enough since: Bore o'r cymwl aur, Eryri oedd dy gaer. Bren o wyllt a gwar, Gwawr ysbrydau. [Footnote] [Footnote: Morning of the golden cloud, Eryrl was thy castle, King of the wild and tame, Glory of the spirits of air!] [Eryri--the Place of Eagles, i. E. Snowdon. ] Intense curiosity now made me suddenly forget my troubles. Iscrambled back through the trees not tar from that spot and lookedaround. There, sitting upon a grassy grave, beneath one of thewindows of the church, was a little girl, somewhat younger thanmyself apparently. With her head bent back she was gazing up at thesky and singing, while one of her little hands was pointing to a tinycloud that hovered like a golden feather over her head. The sun, which had suddenly become very bright, shining on her glossy hair(for she was bare-headed) gave it a metallic lustre, and it wasdifficult to say what was the colour, dark bronze or black. Socompletely absorbed was she in watching the cloud to which herstrange song or incantation seemed addressed, that she did notobserve me when I rose and went towards her. Over her head, high upin the blue, a lark that was soaring towards the same gauzy cloud wassinging, as if in rivalry. As I slowly approached the child, I couldsee by her forehead (which in the sunshine gleamed like a globe ofpearl), and especially by her complexion, that she was uncommonlylovely, and I was afraid lest she should look down before I got closeto her, and so see my crutches before her eyes encountered my face. She did not, however, seem to hear me coming along the grass (sointent was she with her singing) until I was close to her, andthrowing my shadow over her. Then she suddenly lowered her head andlooked at me in surprise. I stood transfixed at her astonishingbeauty. No other picture has ever taken such possession of me. In itsevery detail it lives before me now. Her eyes (which at one momentseemed blue grey, at another violet) were shaded by long blacklashes, curving backward in a most peculiar way, and these matchedin hue her eyebrows, and the tresses that were tossed about hertender throat and were quivering in the sunlight. All this picture I did not take in at once; for at first I could seenothing but those quivering, glittering, changeful eyes turned upinto my face. Gradually the other features (especially the sensitivefull-lipped mouth) grew upon me as I stood silently gazing. Hereseemed to me a more perfect beauty than had ever come to me in myloveliest dreams of beauty beneath the sea. Yet it was not her beautyperhaps, so much as the look she gave me, that fascinated me, meltedme. As she gazed in my face there came over hers a look of pleasedsurprise, and then, as her eyes passed rapidly down my limbs and upagain, her face was not overshadowed with the look of disappointmentwhich I had waited for--yes, waited for, like a pinioned criminal forthe executioner's uplifted knife; but the smile of pleasure was stillplaying about the little mouth, while the tender young eyes weremoistening rapidly with the dews of a kind of pity that was new tome, a pity that did not blister the pride of the lonely woundedsea-gull, but soothed, healed, and blessed. Remember that I was a younger son--that I was swarthy--that I was acripple--and that my mother--had Frank. It was as though my heartmust leap from my breast towards that child. Not a word had shespoken, but she had said what the little maimed 'fighting Hal'yearned to hear, and without _knowing_ that he yearned. I restrained myself, and did not yield to the feeling that impelledme to throw my arms round her neck in an ecstasy of wonder anddelight. After a second or two she again threw back her head to gazeat the golden cloud. 'Look!' said she, suddenly clapping her hands, 'it's over both of usnow. ' 'What is it?' I said. 'The Dukkeripen, ' she said, 'the Golden Hand. Sinfi and Rhona bothsay the Golden Hand brings luck: what _is_ luck?' I looked up at the little cloud which to me seemed more like a goldenfeather than a golden hand. But I soon bent my eyes down again tolook at her. While I stood looking at her, the tall figure of a man came out ofthe church. This was Tom Wynne. Besides being the organist of Raxton'New Church, ' Tom was also (for a few extra shillings a week)custodian of the 'Old Church, ' this deserted pile within whoseprecincts we now were. Tom's features wore an expression of virtuousindignation which puzzled me, and evidently frightened the littlegirl. He locked the door, and walked unsteadily towards us. He seemedsurprised to see me there, and his features relaxed into a blandcivility. 'This is (hiccup) Master Aylwin, Winifred, ' he said. The child looked at me again with the same smile. Her alarm had fled. 'This is my little daughter Winifred, ' said Tom, with a pompous bow. I was astonished. I never knew that Wynne had a daughter, forintimate as he and I had become, he had actually never mentioned hisdaughter before. 'My _only_ daughter, ' Tom repeated. He then told me, with many hiccups, that, since her mother's death(that is to say from her very infancy), Winifred had been brought upby an aunt in Wales. 'Quite a lady, her aunt is, ' said Tom proudly, 'and Winifred has come to spend a few weeks with her father. ' He said this in a grandly paternal tone--a tone that seemed meant toimpress upon her how very much obliged she ought to feel to him forconsenting to be her father; and, judging from the look the childgave him, she did feel very much obliged. Suddenly, however, a thought seemed to come back upon Tom, a thoughtwhich my unexpected appearance on the scene had driven from hisdrunken brain. The look of virtuous indignation returned, and staringat the little girl through glazed eyes, he said with the tremulousand tearful voice of a deeply injured parent, 'Winifred, I thought I heard you singing one of them heathen Gypsysongs that you learnt of the Gypsies in Wales. ' 'No, father, ' said she, 'it was the song they sing in Shire-Carnarvonabout the golden cloud over Snowdon and the spirits of the air. ' 'Yes, ' said Tom, 'but a little time ago you were singing a Gypsysong--a downright heathen Gypsy song. I heard it about half an hourago when I was in the church. ' The beautiful little head drooped in shame. 'I'm s'prised at you, Winifred. When I come to think whose daughteryou are. --mine!--I'm s'prised at you, ' continued Torn, whose virtuousindignation waxed with every word. 'Oh. I'm so sorry!' said the child. 'I won't do it any more. ' This contrition of the child's only fanned the flame of Tom'svirtuous indignation. 'Here am I, ' said he, 'the most (hiccup) respectable man in twoparishes, --except Master Aylwin's father, of course, --here am I, theorgan-player for the Christianest of all the Christian churches alongthe coast, and here's my daughter sings heathen songs just like aGypsy or a tinker. I'm s'prised at you, Winifred. ' I had often seen Tom in a dignified state of liquor, but the patheticexpression of injured virtue that again overspread his face sochanged it, that I had some difficulty myself in realising howentirely the tears filling his eyes and the grief at his heart wereof alcoholic origin. And as to the little girl, she began to sobpiteously. 'Oh dear, oh dear, what a wicked girl I am !' said she. This exclamation, however, aroused my ire against Tom; and as Ialways looked upon him as my special paid henchman, who, in returnfor such services as supplying me with tiny boxing-gloves, andfishing-tackle, and bait, during my hale days, and tame rabbits nowthat I was a cripple, mostly contrived to possess himself of mypocket-money, I had no hesitation in exclaiming, 'Why, Tom, you know you're drunk, you silly old fool!' At this Tom turned his mournful and reproachful gaze upon me, andbegan to weep anew. Then he turned and addressed the sea, upliftinghis hand in oratorical fashion:-- 'Here's a young gentleman as I've been more than a father to--yes, more than a father to--for when did his own father ever give him aferret-eyed rabbit, a real ferret-eyed rabbit thoroughbred?' 'Why, I gave you one of my five-shilling pieces for it, ' said I; 'andthe rabbit was in a consumption and died in three weeks. ' But Tom still addressed the sea. 'When did his own father give him, ' said he, 'the longest thigh-bonethat the sea ever washed out of Raxton churchyard?' 'Why, I gave you _two_ of my five-shilling pieces for_that_, ' said I, 'and next day you went and borrowed the bone, and sold it over again to Dr. Munro for a quart of beer. ' 'When did his own father _give_ him a beautiful skull for amoney-box, and make an oak lid to it, and keep it for him because hismother wouldn't have it in the house?' 'Ah, but where's the money that was in it, Tom? Where's the money?'said I, flourishing one of my crutches, for I was worked up to astate of high excitement when I recalled my own wrongs and Tom'sfrauds, and I forgot his relationship to the little girl. 'Where arethe bright new half-crowns that were _in_ the money-box when Ileft it with you--the half-crowns that got changed into pennies, Tom?Where are they? What's the use of having a skull for a money-box ifit's got no money in it? That's what _I_ want to know, Tom!' 'Here's a young gentleman, ' said Tom, 'as I've done all these thingsfor, and how does he treat me? He says, "Why, Tom, you know you'redrunk, you silly old fool. "' At this pathetic appeal the little girl sprang up and turned towardsme with the ferocity of a young tigress. Her little hands weretightly clenched, and her eyes seemed positively to be emitting bluesparks. Many a bold boy had I encountered on the sands before myaccident, and many a fearless girl, but such an impetuous antagonistas this was new. I leaned on my crutches, however, and looked at herunblenchingly. 'You wicked English boy, to make my father cry, ' said she, as soon asher anger allowed her to speak. 'If you were not lame I'd--I'd--I'dhit you. ' I did not move a muscle, but stood lost in a dream of wonder at heramazing loveliness. The fiery flush upon her face and neck, thebewitching childish frown of anger corrugating the brow, the dazzlingglitter of the teeth, the quiver of the full scarlet lips above andbelow them, turned me dizzy with admiration. Her eyes met mine, and slowly the violet flames in them began tosoften. Then they died away entirely as she murmured, 'You wicked English boy, if you hadn't--beautiful--beautiful eyes, I'd kill you. ' By this time, however, Tom had entirely forgotten his grievanceagainst me, and gazed upon Winifred in a state of drunken wonderment. 'Winifred, ' he said, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, 'how dare youspeak like that to Master Aylwin, your father's best friend, the onlyfriend your poor father's got in the world, the friend as I giveferret-eyed rabbits to, and tame hares, and beautiful skulls? Beg hispardon this instant, Winifred. Down on your knees and beg my friend'spardon this instant, Winifred. ' The poor little girl stood dazed, and was actually sinking down onher knees on the grass before me. I cried out in acute distress, 'No, no, no, no, Tom, pray don't let her--dear little girl! beautifullittle girl!' 'Very well, Master Aylwin, ' said Tom grandly, 'she sha'n't if youdon't like, but she _shall_ go and kiss you and make it up. ' At this the child's face brightened, and she came and laid her littlered lips upon mine. Velvet lips, I feel them now, soft and warm--Ifeel them while I write these lines. Tom looked on for a moment, and then left us, blundering away towardsRaxton, most likely to a beer-house. He told the child that she was to go home and mind the house until hereturned. He gave her the church key to take home. We two were leftalone in the churchyard, looking at each other in silence, eachwaiting for the other to speak. At last she said, demurely, 'Good-bye; father says I must go home. ' And she walked away with a business-like air towards the little whitegate of the churchyard, opening upon what was called 'The WildernessRoad. ' When she reached the gate she threw a look over her shoulderas she passed through. It was that same look again--wistful, frank, courageous. I immediately began to follow her, although I did notknow why. When she saw this she stopped for me. I got up to her, andthen we proceeded side by side in perfect silence along the dustynarrow road, perfumed with the scent of wild rose and honeysuckle. Suddenly she stopped and said, 'I have left my hat on the tower, ' and laughed merrily at her ownheedlessness. She ran back with an agility which I thought I had never seenequalled. It made me sad to see her run so fast, though once how itwould have delighted me! I stood still; but when she reached thechurch porch she again looked over her shoulder, and again Ifollowed her:--I did not in the least know why. That look I thinkwould have made me follow her through lire and water--it _has_ mademe follow her through fire and water. When I reached her she put thegreat black key in the lock. She had some difficulty in turning thekey, but I did not presume to offer such services as mine to sosuperior a little woman. After one or two fruitless efforts with bothher hands, each attempt accompanied with a little laugh and a littlemerry glance in my face, she turned the key and pushed open the door. We both passed into the ghastly old church, through the green glasswindows of which the sun was shining, and illuminating the brokenremains of the high-hacked pews on the opposite side. She ran alongtowards the belfry, and I soon lost her, for she passed up the stonesteps, where I knew I could not follow her. In deep mortification I stood listening at the bottom of thesteps--listening to those little feet crunching up the brokenstones--listening to the rustle of her dress against the narrow stonewalls, until the sounds grew fainter and fainter, and then ceased. Presently I heard her voice a long way up, calling out, 'Little boy, if you go outside you will see something. ' I guessed at once that shewas going to exhibit herself on the tower, where, before my accident, I and my brother Frank were so fond of going. I went outside thechurch and stood in the graveyard, looking up at the tower. In aminute I saw her on it. Her face was turned towards me, gilded by thegolden sunshine. I could, or thought I could, even at that distance, see the flash of the bright eyes looking at me. Then a little handwas put over the parapet, and I saw a dark hat swinging by itsstrings, as she was waving it to me. Oh! that I could have climbedthose steps and done that! But that exploit of hers touched a strangechord within me. Had she been a boy, I could have borne it in adefiant way; or had she been any other girl than this, my heart wouldnot have sunk as it now did when I thought of the gulf between herand me. Down I sat upon a grave, and looked at her with a feelingquite new to me. This was a phase of cripplehood I had not contemplated. She soon leftthe tower, and made her appearance at the church door again. Afterlocking it, which she did by thrusting a piece of stick through thehandle of the key, she came and stood over me. But I turned my eyesaway and gazed across the sea, and tried to deceive myself intobelieving that the waves, and the gulls, and the sails dreaming onthe sky-line, and the curling clouds of smoke that came now and thenfrom a steamer passing Dullingham Point were interesting me deeply. There was a remoteness about the little girl now, since I had seenher unusual agility, and I was trying to harden my heart against her. Loneliness I felt was best for me. She did not speak, but stoodlooking at me. I turned my eyes round and saw that she was looking atmy crutches, which were lying beside me aslant the green hillockwhere I sat. Her face had turned grave and pitiful. 'Oh! I forgot, ' she said. 'I wish I had not run away from you now. ' 'You may run where you like for what I care, ' I said. But the wordswere very shaky, and I had no sooner said them than I wished themback. She made no reply for some time, and I sat plucking thewild-flowers near my hands, and gazing again across the sea. At lastshe said, 'Would you like to come in our garden? It's such a nice garden. ' I could resist her no longer. That voice would have drawn me had shespoken in the language of the Toltecs or the lost Zamzummin. Todescribe it would of course be impossible. The novelty of her accent, the way in which she gave the 'h' in 'which, ' 'what, ' and 'when, ' theWelsh rhythm of her intonation, were as bewitching to me as the_timbre_ of her voice. And let me say here, once for all, that when Isat down to write this narrative, I determined to give the Englishreader some idea of the way in which, whenever her emotions weredeeply touched, her talk would run into soft Welsh diminutives; but Isoon abandoned the attempt in despair. I found that to use colloquialWelsh with effect in an English context is impossible withoutwearying English readers and disappointing Welsh ones. Here, indeed, is one of the great disadvantages under which this bookwill go out to the world. While a story-teller may reproduce, bymeans of orthographical devices, something of the effect of Scottishaccent, Irish accent, or Manx accent, such devices are powerless torepresent Welsh accent. I got up in silence, and walked by her side out of the churchyardtowards her father's cottage, which was situated between the newchurch and the old, and at a considerable distance from the town ofRaxton on one side, and the village of Graylingham on the other. Hereager young limbs would every moment take her ahead of me, for shewas as vigorous as a fawn. But by the time she was half a yard inadvance, she would recollect herself and fall back; and every timeshe did so that same look of tenderness would overspread her face. At last she said, 'What makes you stare at me so, little boy?' I blushed and turned my head another way, for I had been feasting myeyes upon her complexion, and trying to satisfy myself as to what itreally was like. Indeed, I thought it quite peculiar then, when I hadseen so few lovely faces, as I always did afterwards, when I had seenas many as most people. It was, I thought, as though underneath thesunburn the delicate pink tint of the hedge-rose had become mingledwith the bloom of a ripening peach, and yet it was like neither peachnor rose. But this tone, whatever it was, did not spread higher thanthe eyebrows. The forehead was different. It had a singular kind ofpearly look, and her long slender throat was almost of the same tone:no, not the same, for there was a transparency about her throatunlike that of the forehead. This colour I was just now thinkinglooked something like the inside of a certain mysterious shell uponmy father's library shelf. As she asked me her question she stopped, and looked straight at me, opening her eyes wide and round upon me. This threw a look ofinnocent trustfulness over her bright features which I soon learntwas the chief characteristic of her expression and was altogetherpeculiar to herself. I knew it was very rude to stare at people as Ihad been staring at her, and I took her question as a rebuke, although I still was unable to keep my eyes off her. But it was notmerely her beauty and her tenderness that had absorbed my attention. I had been noticing how intensely she seemed to enjoy the delights ofthat summer afternoon. As we passed along that road, where sea-scentsand land-scents were mingled, she would stop whenever the sunshinefell full upon her face; her eyes would sparkle and widen withpleasure, and a half-smile would play about her lips, as if some onehad kissed her. Every now and then she would stop to listen to thebirds, putting up her finger, and with a look of childish wisdom say, 'Do you know what that is? That's a blackbird--that's athrush--that's a goldfinch. Which eggs do you like best--agoldfinch's or a bullfinch's? _I_ know which _I_ like best. ' III While we were walking along the road a sound fell upon my ears whichin my hale days never produced any very unpleasant sensations, butwhich did now. I mean the cackling of the field people of both sexesreturning from their day's work. These people knew me well, and theyliked me, and I am sure they had no idea that when they ran past meon the road their looks and nods gave me no pleasure, but pain; and Ialways tried to avoid them. As they passed us they somewhat modifiedthe noise they were making, but only to cackle, chatter, and bawl andlaugh at each other the louder after we were left behind. 'Don't you wish, ' said the little girl meditatively, 'that men andwomen had voices more like the birds?' The idea had never occurred tome before, but I understood in a moment what she meant, andsympathised with her. Nature of course has been unkind to the lordsand ladies of creation in this one matter of voice. 'Yes, I do. ' I said. 'I'm so glad you do, ' said she. 'I've so often thought what a pity itis that God did not let men and women talk and sing as the birds do. I believe He did let 'em talk like that in the Garden of Eden, don'tyou?' 'I think it very likely, ' I said. 'Men's voices are so rough mostly and women's voices are so sharpmostly, that it's sometimes a little hard to love 'em as you love thebirds. ' 'It is, ' I said. 'Don't you think the poor birds must sometimes feel very muchdistressed at hearing the voices of men and women, especially whenthey all talk together?' The idea seemed so original and yet so true that it made me laugh; weboth laughed. At that moment there came a still louder, noisierclamour of voices from the villagers. 'The rooks mayn't mind. ' said the little girl, pointing upwards tothe large rookery close by. Whence came a noise marvellously likethat made by the field-workers. 'But I'm afraid the blackbirds andthrushes can't like it. I do so wonder what they say about it. ' After we had left the rookery behind us and the noise of thevillagers had grown fainter, we stood and listened to the blackbirdsand thrushes. She looked so joyous that I could not help saying, 'Little girl, I think you're very happy, ain't you?' 'Not quite, ' she said, as though answering a question she had justbeen putting to herself. 'There's not enough wind. ' 'Then do _you_ like wind?' I said in surprise and delight. 'Oh, I love it!' she said rapturously. 'I can't be quite happywithout wind, can _you_? I like to run up the hills in the wind andsing to it. That's when I am happiest. I couldn't live long withoutthe wind. ' Now it had been a deep-rooted conviction of mine that none but thegulls and I really and truly liked the wind. 'Fishermen are muffs, ' Iused to say; 'they talk about the wind as though it were an enemy, just because it drowns one or two of 'em now and then. Anybody canlike sunshine; muffs can like sunshine; it takes a gull or a man tolike the wind!' Such had been my egotism. But here was a girl who liked it! Wereached the gate of the garden in front of Tom's cottage, and thenwe both stopped, looking over the neatly-kept flower-garden and thewhite thatched cottage behind it, up the walls of which thegrape-vine leaves were absorbing the brilliance of the sunlight andsoftening it. Wynne was a gardener as well as an organist, and hadgardens both in the front and at the back of his cottage, which wassurrounded by fruit-trees. Drunkard as he was, his two passions, music and gardening, saved him from absolute degradation and ruin. His garden was beautifully kept, and I have seen him deftly pruninghis vines when in such a state of drink that it was wonderful how hemanaged to hold a priming-knife. Winifred opened the gate, and wepassed in. Wynne's little terrier, Snap, came barking to meet us. There was an air of delicious peacefulness about the garden. Thisalso tended to soften that hardness of temper which only cripples whohave once rejoiced in their strength can possibly know, I hope. 'I like to see you look so, ' said the little girl, as I meltedentirely under these sweet influences. 'You looked so cross beforethat I was nearly afraid of you. ' And she took hold of my hand, not hesitatingly, but frankly. Thelittle fingers clasped mine. I looked at them. They were much moresun-tanned than her face. The little rosy nails were shaped likefilbert nuts. 'Why were you not _quite_ afraid of me?' I asked. 'Because, ' said she, 'under the crossness I saw that you had greatlove-eyes like Snap's all the while. _I_ saw it!' she said, andlaughed with delight at her great wisdom. Then she said with a suddengravity, 'You didn't mean to make my father cry, did you, littleboy?' 'No, ' I said. 'And you love him?' said she. I hesitated, for I had never told a lie in my life. My businessrelations with Tom had been of an entirely unsatisfactory character, and the idea of any one's loving the beery scamp presented itself ina ludicrous light. I got out of the difficulty by saying, 'I mean to love Tom very much, if I can. ' The answer did not appear to be entirely satisfactory to the littlegirl, but it soon seemed to pass from her mind. That was the most delightful afternoon I had ever spent in my life. We seemed to become old friends in a few minutes, and in an hour ortwo she was the closest friend I had on earth. Not all the littleshoeless friends in Raxton, not all the beautiful sea-gulls I loved, not all the sunshine and wind upon the sands, not all the wild beesin Graylingham Wilderness, could give the companionship this childcould give. My flesh tingled with delight. (And yet all the while Iwas not Hal the conqueror of ragamuffins, but Hal the cripple!) 'Shall we go and get some strawberries?' she said, as we passed tothe back of the house. 'They are quite ripe. ' But my countenance fell at this. I was obliged to tell her that Icould not stoop. 'Ah! but I can, and I will pluck them and give them to you. I shouldlike to do it. Do let me, there's a good boy. ' I consented, and hobbled by her side to the verge of thestrawberry-beds. But when I foolishly tried to follow her, I stuckignominiously, with my crutches sunk deep in the soft mould of rottenleaves. Here was a trial for the conquering hero of the coast. Ilooked into her face to see if there was not, at last, a laugh uponit. That cruel human laugh was my only dread. To everything butridicule I had hardened myself; but against that I felt helpless. I looked into her face to see if she was laughing at my lameness. No:her brows were merely knit with anxiety as to how she might bestrelieve me. This surpassingly beautiful child, then, had evidentlyaccepted me--lameness and all--crutches and all--as a subject ofpeculiar interest. How I loved her as I put my hand upon her firm little shoulders, while I extricated first one crutch and then another, and at last gotupon the hard path again! When she had landed me safely, she returned to the strawberry-bed, and began busily gathering the fruit, which she brought to me in hersunburnt hands, stained to a bright pink by the ripe fruit. Such acharm did she throw over me, that at last I actually consented to herputting the fruit into my mouth. She then told me with much gravity that she knew how to 'curecrutches. ' There was, she said, a famous 'crutches-well' in Wales, kept by St. Winifred (most likely an aunt of hers, being of the samename), whose water could 'cure crutches. ' When she came from Walesagain she would be sure to bring a bottle of 'crutches-water. ' Shetold me also much about Snowdon (near which she lived), and how, onmisty days, she used to 'make believe that she was the Lady of theMist, and that she was going to visit the Tywysog o'r Niwl, thePrince of the Mist; it was _so_ nice!' I do not know how long we kept at this, but the organist returned andcaught her in the very act of feeding me. To be caught in thisridiculous position, even by a drunken man, was more than I couldbear, however, and I turned and left. As I recall that walk home along Wilderness Road. I live it asthoroughly as I did then. I can see the rim of the sinking sunburning fiery red low down between the trees on the left, and thensuddenly dropping out of sight. I can see on the right the lustre ofthe high-tide sea. I can hear the 'che-eu-chew, che-eu-chew. ' of thewood-pigeons in Graylingham Wood. I can smell the very scent of thebean flowers drinking in the evening dews. I did not feel that I wasgoing home as the sharp gables of the Hall gleamed through thechestnut-trees. My home for evermore was the breast of that lovelychild, between whom and myself such a strange delicious sympathy hadsprung up. I felt there was no other home for me. 'Why, child, where _have_ you been?' said my mother, as she saw metrying to slip to bed unobserved, in order that happiness such asmine might not he brought into coarse contact with servants. 'Child, where _have_ you been, and what has possessed you? Your face ispositively shining with joy, and your eyes, they alarm me, they areso unnaturally bright. I hope you are not going to have an illness. ' I did not tell her, but went to my room, which now was on the groundfloor, and sat watching the rooks sailing home in the sunset till thelast one had gone, and the voices of the blackbirds grew lessclamorous, and the trees began to look larger and larger in the dusk. IV The next day I was again at Wynne's cottage, and the next, and thenext. We two, Winifred and I, used to stroll out together through thenarrow green lanes, and over the happy fields, and about theWilderness and the wood, and along the cliffs, and then down thegangway at Flinty Point (the only gangway that was firm enough tosupport my crutches, Winifred aiding me with the skill of a woman andthe agility of a child), and then along the flints below FlintyPoint. She rapidly fell into my habits. She was an adept in findingbirds' nests and wild honey; and though she would not consent to mytaking the eggs, she had not the same compunction about the honey, and she only regretted with me that we could not be exactly like St. John, as Graylingham Wilderness yielded no locusts to eat with thehoney. Winifred, though the most healthy of children, had a passionfor the deserted church on the cliffs, and for the desolatechurchyard. It was one of those flint and freestone churches that are sprinkledalong the coast. Situated as it was at the back of a curve cut by thewater into the end of a peninsula running far into the sea, the towerlooked in the distance like a lighthouse. I observed after the firstday of our meeting that Winifred never would mount the tower stepsagain. And I knew why. So delicate were her feelings, so acute didher kind little heart make her, that she would not mount steps whichI could never mount. Not that Winifred looked upon me as her little lover. There was notmuch of the sentimental in her. Once when I asked her on the sands ifI might be her lover, she took an entirely practical view of thequestion, and promptly replied 'certumly, ' adding, however, like thewise little woman I always found her, that she 'wasn't _quite_ sureshe knew what a lover was, but if it was anything _very_ nice sheshould certumly like _me_ to be it. ' It was the child's originality of manner that people found socaptivating. One of her many little tricks and ways of an originalquaintness was her habit of speaking of herself in the third person, like the merest baby. 'Winifred likes this, ' 'Winifred doesn't likethat, ' were phrases that had an irresistible fascination for me. Another fascinating characteristic of hers was connected with hersuperstitions. Whenever on parting with her I exclaimed, as I oftendid. 'Oh, what a lovely day we have had, Winifred!' she would lookexpectantly in my eyes, murmuring, 'And--and--' This meant that Iwas to say. 'And shall have many more such days, ' as though therewere a prophetic power in words. She talked with entire seriousness of having seen in a place calledFairy Glen in Wales the Tylwyth Teg. And when I told her of Oberonand Titania, and _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, whose acquaintance Ihad made through Lamb's _Tales from Shakespeare_, she said that onebright moonlight night she, in the company of two of her Gypsyplaymates, Rhona Boswell and a girl called Sinfi, had visited thissame Fairy Glen, when they saw the Fairy Queen alone on a ledge ofrock, dressed in a green kirtle with a wreath of golden leaves abouther head. Another subject upon which I loved to hear her talk was that of the'Knockers' of Snowdon, the guardians of undiscovered copper mines, who sometimes by knocking on the rocks gave notice to individualsthey favoured of undiscovered copper, but these favoured ones weremostly children who chanced to wander up Snowdon by themselves. Shehad, she said, not only heard but seen these Knockers. They werethick-set dwarfs, as broad as they were long. One Knocker, an elderlyfemale, had often played with her on the hills. Knockers' Llyn, indeed, was very much on Winifred's mind. When a golden cloud, likethe one on which she was singing her song at the time I first sawher, shone over a person's head at Knockers' Llyn, it was a sign ofgood fortune. She was sure that it was so, because the Welsh peoplebelieved it, and so did the Gypsies. Not a field or a hedgerow was unfamiliar to us. We were most learnedin the structure of birds' nests, in the various colours of birds'eggs, and in insect architecture. In all the habits or the wildanimals of the meadows we were most profound little naturalists. Winifred could in the morning, after the dews were gone, tell by thelook of a buttercup or a daisy what kind of weather was at hand, whenthe most cunning peasant was deceived by the hieroglyphics of thesky, and the most knowing seaman could 'make nothing of the wind. ' Her life, in fact, had been spent in the open air. There were people staying at the Hall, and they and Frank engrossedall my mother's attention. At least, she did not appear to notice myabsence from home. My brother Frank, however, was not so unobservant (he was two yearsolder than myself). Early one morning, before breakfast, curiosityled him to follow me, and he came upon us in Graylingham Wood as wewere sitting under a tree close to the cliff, eating the wild honeywe had found in the Wilderness. He stood there swinging a ground-ash cane, and looking at her in alordly, patronising way, the very personification no doubt of boyishbeauty. I became troubled to see him look so handsome. The contrastbetween him and a cripple was not fair, I thought, as I observed anexpression of passing admiration on little Winifred's face. Yet Ithought there was not the pleased smile with which she had firstgreeted me, and a weight of anxiety was partially removed, for it hadnow become quite evident to me that I was as much in love as anyswain of eighteen--it had become quite evident that without Winifredthe poor little shattered sea-gull must perish altogether. She wasliterally my world. Frank came and sat down with us, and made himself as agreeable aspossible. He tried to enter into our play, but we were too slow forhim; he soon became restless and impatient. 'Oh bother!' he said, andgot up and left us. I drew a sigh of relief when he was gone. 'Do you like my brother, Winifred?' I said. 'Yes. ' she said. 'Why?' 'Because he is so pretty and so nimble. I believe he could runup--' and then she stopped; but I knew what the complete sentencewould have been. She was going to say: 'I believe he could run up thegangways without stopping to take breath. ' Here was a stab; but she did not notice the effect of her unfinishedsentence. Then a question came from me involuntarily. 'Winifred, ' I said, 'do you like him as well as you like me?' 'Oh no, ' she said, in a tone of wonderment that such a questionshould be asked. 'But _I_ am not pretty and--' 'Oh, but you _are_!' she said eagerly, interrupting me. 'But, ' I said, with a choking sensation in my voice, 'I am lame. ' andI looked at the crutches lying among the ferns beside me. 'Ah, but I like you all the better for being lame, ' she said, nestling up to me. 'But you like nimble boys, ' I said, 'such as Frank. ' She looked puzzled. The anomaly of liking nimble boys and crippledboys at the same time seemed to strike her. Yet she felt it _was_ so, though it was difficult to explain it. 'Yes, I _do_ like nimble boys, ' she said at last, plucking with herfingers at a blade of grass she held between her teeth. 'But I thinkI like lame boys better, that is if they are--if they are--_you_. ' I gave an exclamation of delight. But she was two years younger thanI, and scarcely, I suppose, understood it. 'He is very pretty, ' she said meditatively, 'but he has not gotlove-eyes like you and Snap, and I don't think I could love anylittle boy so very, _very_ much now who wasn't lame. ' She loved me in spite of my lameness; she loved me because I waslame, so that if I had not fallen from the cliffs, if I had sustainedmy glorious position among the boys of Raxton and Graylingham as'Fighting Hal. ' I might never have won little Winifred's love. Herewas a revelation of the mingled yarn of life, that I remember struckme even at that childish age. I began to think I might, in spite of the undoubted crutches, resumemy old place as the luckiest boy along the sands. She loved mebecause I was lame! Those who say that physical infirmity does notfeminise the character have not had my experience. No more talk forme that morning. In such a mood as that there can be no talk. I satin a silent dream, save when a sweet sob of delight would come uplike a bubble from the heaving waters of my soul. I had passed intothat rare and high mood when life's afflictions are turned by love tolife's deepest, holiest joys. I had begun early to learn and know thegamut of the affections. 'When, you leave me here and go home to Wales you will never forgetme. Winnie?' 'Never, never!' she said, as she helped me from the ferns which werestill as wet with dew as though it had been raining. 'I will think ofyou every night before I go to sleep, and always end my prayers as Idid that first night after I saw you so lonely in the churchyard. ' 'And how is that, Winnie?' I said, as she adjusted my crutches forme. 'After I've said "Amen, " I always say, "And, dear Lord Jesus, don'tforget to love dear Henry, who can't get up the gangways without me, "and I will say that every night as long as I live. ' From that morning I considered her altogether mine. Her speaking ofme as the 'dear little English boy, ' however, as she did, marred thedelight her words gave me. I had from the first observed that thechild's strongest passion was a patriotism of a somewhat fiery kind. The word English in her mouth seemed some-times a word of reproach:it was the name of the race that in the past had invaded her sacredSnowdonia. I afterwards learnt that her aunt was answerable for this senselessprejudice. 'Winnie, ' I said, 'don't you wish I was a Welsh boy?' 'Oh yes, ' she said. 'Don't you?' I made no answer. She looked into my face and said, 'And yet I don't think I could lovea Welsh boy as I love you. ' She then repeated to me a verse of a Welsh song, which of course Idid not understand a word of until she told me what it meant inEnglish. It was an address to Snowdon, and ran something like this-- Mountain-wild Snowdon for me! Sweet silence there for the harp, Where loiter the ewes and the lambs In the moss and the rushes, Where one's song goes sounding up! And the rocks re-echo it higher and higher In the height where the eagles live. In this manner about six weeks slid away, and Winnie's visit to herfather came to an end. I ask, how can people laugh at the sorrows ofchildhood? The bitterness of my misery as I sat with that child onthe eve of her departure for Wales (which to me seemed at the extremeend of the earth) was almost on a par with anything I have sincesuffered, and that is indeed saying a great deal. It was in Wynne'scottage, and I sat on the floor with her wet cheeks close to mine, saying, 'She leaves me alone. ' Tom tried to console me by telling methat Winifred would soon come back. 'But when?' I said. 'Next year, ' said Tom. He might as well have said next century, for any consolation it gaveme. The idea of a year without her was altogether beyond my grasp. Itseemed infinite. Week after week passed, and month after month, and little Winifredwas always in my thoughts. Wynne's cottage was a sacred spot to me, and the organist the most interesting man in the world. I never tiredof asking him questions about her, though he, as I soon found, knewscarcely anything concerning her and what she was doing, and caredless; for love of drink had got thoroughly hold of him. Letters were scarce visitants to him, and I believe he never used tohear from Wales at all. V At the end of the year she came again, and I had about a year ofhappiness. I was with her every day, and every day she grew morenecessary to my existence. It was at this time that I made the acquaintance of Winnie's friendRhona Boswell, a charming little Gypsy girl. Graylingham Wood andRington Wood, like the entire neighbourhood, were favourite haunts ofa superior kind of Gypsies called Griengroes, that is to say, horse-dealers. Their business was to buy ponies in Wales and sellthem in the Eastern Counties and the East Midlands. Thus it was thatWinnie had known many of the East Midland Gypsies in Wales. Comparedwith Rhona Boswell, who was more like a fairy than a child, Winnieseemed quite a grave little person. Rhona's limbs were always on themove, and the movement sprang always from her emotions. Her laughseemed to ring through the woods like silver bells, a sound that itwas impossible to mistake for any other. The laughter of most Gypsygirls is full of music and of charm, and yet Rhona's laughter was asound by itself, and it was no doubt this which afterwards when shegrew up attracted my kinsman, Percy Aylwin, towards her. It seemed toemanate not from her throat merely, but from her entire frame. If onecould imagine a strain of merriment and fun blending with theecstatic notes of a skylark soaring and singing, one might form someidea of the laugh of Rhona Boswell. Ah, what days they were! Rhonawould come from Gypsy Dell, a romantic place in Rington Manor somemiles off, especially to show us some newly devised coronet offlowers that she had been weaving for herself. This induced Winnie toweave for herself a coronet of sea-weeds, and an entire morning waspassed in grave discussion as to which coronet excelled the other. A year had made a great difference in Winnie, a much greaterdifference than it had made in me. Her aunt, who was no doubt awell-informed woman, had been attending to her education. In a singleyear she had taught her French so thoroughly that Winnie was in themidst of Dumas' _Monte Cristo_. And apart from education in theordinary acceptation of the word, the expansion of her mind had beenrapid and great. Her English vocabulary was now far above mine, far above that of mostchildren of her age. This I discovered was owing to the fact that aliterary English lady of delicate health, Miss Dalrymple, whoseslender means obliged her to leave the Capel Curig Hotel, had beenstaying at the cottage as a lodger. She had taken I the greatestdelight in educating Winnie. Of course Winnie lost as well as gainedby this change. She was a little Welsh rustic no longer, but a littlelady unusually well equipped, as far as education went, for takingher place in the world. She understood fully now what I meant when I told her that we werebetrothed, and again showed that mingling of child-wisdom and poetrywhich characterised her by suggesting that we should be married onSnowdon, and that her wedding-dress should be the green kirtle andwreath of the fairies, and that her bridesmaids should be her Gypsyfriends, Sinfi Lovell and Rhona Boswell. This I acceded to withalacrity. It was now that I fully realised for the first time her extraordinarygift of observation and her power of describing what she had observedin the graphic language that can never be taught save by the teacherNature herself. In a dozen picturesque words she would flash upon myvery senses the scene that she was describing. So vividly did shebring before my eyes the scenery of North Wales, that when at last Iwent there it seemed quite familiar to me. And so in describingindividuals, her pictures of them were like photographs. Graylingham Wood was our favourite haunt. This place and theadjoining piece of waste land, called the Wilderness, had for us allthe charms of a primeval forest. Here in the early spring we used tocome and watch the first violet uplifting its head from the dark greenleaves behind the mossy boles, and listen for the first note of theblackcap, the nightingale's herald, and the first coo of thewood-pigeons among the bare and newly-budding trees. And here, in thesummer, we used to come as soon as breakfast was over with as manystory-books as we could carry, and sit on the grass and revel in thewonders of the _Arabian Nights_. The _Tales of the Genii_, and the_Seven Champions of Christendom_, till all the leafy alleys of thewood were glittering with armed knights and Sinbads and Aladdins. Thestory of Camaralzaman and Badoura was, I think, Winnie's chieffavourite. She could repeat it almost word for word. The idea of thetwo lovers being carried to each other by genii through the air andover the mountain tops had an especial fascination for her. I wasCamaralzaman and she Badoura, and the genii would carry me to her asshe sat by Knockers' Llyn, or, as she called it, Llyn Coblynau, onthe lower slopes of Snowdon. But above all, there was the sea on the other side of the wood, ofthe presence of which we were always conscious--the sea, of which wecould often catch glimpses between the trees, lending a sense offreedom and wonder and romance such as no landscape can lend. Ourgreat difficulty of course was in connection with my lameness. Fewchildren would have tried to convey a pair of crutches and a lame legdown the cliff to the long level brown sands that lay, farther thanthe eye could reach, stretched beneath miles on miles of browncrumbling cliffs, whose jagged points and indentations had the kindof spectral look peculiar to that coast. For, alas! the holy waterWinifred brought did not 'cure the crutches. ' Yet we used to masterthe difficulty, always selecting the firmer gangway at Flinty Point, and always waiting, before making the attempt, until there was no onenear to see us toiling down. Once down on the hard sands just belowthe Point, we were happy, paddling and enjoying ourselves till thesunset told us that we must begin our herculean labour of hoistingthe leg and crutches up the gangway back to the wood. I haveperformed many athletic feats since my cure, but nothing comparableto the feat of climbing with crutches up those paths of yieldingsand. Once we found on the sand a newly shot gull. She took it in herlap and mourned over it. I guessed who was the poor bird'smurderer--her father! We knew Nature in all her moods. In every aspect we found the sea, the wood, and the meadows happy and beautiful--in winter as insummer, in storm as in sunshine. In the foggy days of November, inthe sharp winds of March, in the snows and sleet and rain ofFebruary, we used to hear other people complain of the bad weather;we used to hear them fret for change. But we despised them for theirignorance where we were so learned. There was no bad weather for us. In March, what so delicious as breasting together the brave wind, andfeeling it tingle our cheeks and beat our ears till we laughed ateach other with joy? In rain, what so delicious as to stand under atree or behind a hedge and listen to the drops pattering overheadamong the leaves, and see the fields steaming up to meet them? Thenagain the soft falling of snow upon the lonely fields, while the verysheep looked brown against the whiteness gathering round them. Allbeautiful to us two, and beloved! VI 'But where was this little boy's mother all this time?' you naturallyask; 'where was his father? In a word, who was he? and what were hissurroundings?' I will answer these queries in as brief a fashion as possible. My father, Philip Aylwin, belonged to a branch of an ancient familywhich had been satirically named by another branch of the same family'The Proud Aylwins. ' It is a singular thing that it was the proud Aylwins who had aconsiderable strain of Gypsy blood in their veins. My great-grandfatherhad married Fenella Stanley, the famous Gypsy beauty, about whom somuch was written in the newspapers and magazines of that period. Shehad previously when a girl of sixteen married a Lovell who died andleft a child. Fenella's portrait in the character of the Sibyl ofSnowdon was painted by the great portrait painter of that time. This picture still hangs in the portrait gallery of Raxton Hall. As a child it had an immense attraction for me, and no wonder, for itwas original to actual eccentricity. It depicted a dark young womanof dazzling beauty standing at break of day among mountain scenery, holding a musical instrument of the guitar kind, but shaped like aviolin, upon the lower strings of which she was playing with thethumb of the left hand. Through the misty air were seen all kinds of shadowy shapes, whoseeyes were fixed on the player. I used to stand and look at thispicture by the hour together, fascinated by the strange beauty of thesinger's face and the mysterious, prophetic expression in the eyes. And I used to try to imagine what tune it was that could call fromthe mountain air the 'flower sprites' and 'sunshine elves' of morningon the mountain. Fenella Stanley seems in her later life to have set up as a positiveseeress, and I infer from certain family papers and diaries in mypossession that she was the very embodiment of the wildest Romanybeliefs and superstitions. I first became conscious of the mysterious links which, bound me tomy Gypsy ancestress by reading one of her letters to mygreat-grandfather, who had taught her to write: nothing apparentlycould have taught her to spell. It was written during a short stayshe was making away from him in North Wales. It described in thesimplest (and often the most uncouth) words that Nature-ecstasy whichthe Romanies seem to feel in the woodlands. It came upon me like arevelation, for it was the first time I had ever seen embodied inwords the sensations which used to come to me in Graylingham Wood oron the river that ran through it. After long basking among thecowslips, or beneath the whispering branches of an elm, whose shade Iwas robbing from the staring cows around, or lying on my hack in aboat on the river, listening to the birds and the insect hum and allthe magic music of summer in the woodlands, I used all at once tofeel as though the hand of a great enchantress were being wavedbefore me and around me. The wheels of thought would stop; all thesenses would melt into one, and I would float on a tide ofunspeakable joy, a tide whose waves were waves neither of colour, norperfume, nor melody, but new waters born of the mixing of these; andthrough a language deeper than words and deeper than thoughts, Iwould seem carried at last close to an actual consciousness--aconsciousness which, to my childish dreams, seemed drawing me closeto the bosom of a mother whose face would brighten into that ofFeuella. My father lived upon moderate means in the little seaside town ofRaxton. My mother was his second wife, a distant cousin of the samename. She was not one of the 'Proud Aylwins, ' and yet she must havehad more pride in her heart than all the 'Proud Aylwins' puttogether. Her feeling in relation to the strain of Gypsy blood in thefamily into which she had married was that of positive terror. Sheassociated the word 'Gypsy' with everything that is wild, passionate, and lawless. One great cause undoubtedly of her partiality for Frank and herdislike of me was that Frank's blue-eyed Saxon face showed no signwhatever of the Romany strain, while my swarthy face did. As I write this, she lives before me with more vividness than myfather, for the reason that her character during my childhood, beforeI came to know my father thoroughly--before I came to know what amarvellous man he was--seemed to be a thousand times more vivid thanhis. With her bright grey eyes, her patrician features, I shall seeher while memory lasts. The only differences that ever arose betweenmy father and my other were connected with the fact that my fatherhad a former wife. Now and then (not often) my mother would lose herstoical self-command, and there would come from her an explosion ofjealous anger, stormy and terrible. This was on occasions when sheperceived bat my father's memory retained too vividly the impressionleft on it of his love for the wife who was dead--dead, but a rivalstill. My father lived in mortal fear of this jealousy. Yet my motherwas a devoted and a fond wife. I remember in especial the flash thatwould come from her eyes, the fiery flush that would overspread herface, whenever she saw my father open certain antique silver casketwhich he kept in his escritoire when at home, and carried about withhim when travelling. The casket (I soon learned) contained momentosof his first wife, between whom and himself there seems to have beena deep natural sympathy such did not exist between my mother and him. This first wife he had lost under peculiarly painful circum-stances, which it is necessary that I should briefly narrate. She had beendrowned before his very eyes that cove beneath the church which Ihave already described. This semicircular indentation at the end of the peninsula or headlandon which the church stood was specially dangerous in two ways. It wasa fatal spot where sea and land were equally treacherous. On thesands the tide, and on the cliffs the landslip, imperilled the livesof the unwary. Half, at least, of the churchyard had been condemnedas 'dangerous, ' and this very same spot was the only one on the coastwhere the pedestrian along the sands ran any serious risk of beingentrapped by the tide; for the peninsula on which the church stoodjutted out for a considerable distance into the sea, and then wasscooped out in the form of a boot-jack, and so caught the full forceof the waves. One corner, as already mentioned, was called FlintyPoint, the other Needle Point, and between these two points there wasno gangway within the semicircle up the wall of cliff. Indeed, withinthe cove the cliff was perpendicular, or rather overhanging, as faras such crumbling earth would admit of its overhanging. To reach agangway, a person inside the cove would have to leave the cliff wallfor the open sands, and pass round either Needle Point or FlintyPoint. Hence the cove was sometimes called Mousetrap Cove, becausewhen the tide reached so high as to touch these two points, a personon the sands within the cove was caught as in a mousetrap, and theonly means of extrication was by boat from the sea. It was theirresistible action of the sea upon the peninsula (called ChurchHeadland) that had doomed church and churchyard to certaindestruction. Dangerous as was this cove, there was something peculiarlyfascinating about it. The black, smooth, undulating boulders thatdotted the sand here and there formed the most delightful seats uponwhich to meditate or read. It was a favourite spot with my father'sfirst wife, who had been a Swiss governess. She was a great readerand student, but it was not till after her death that my fatherbecame one. The poor lady was fond of bringing her books to the cove, and pursuing her studies or meditations with the sound of the sea'schime in her ears. My father, at that time I believe a simple, happycountry squire, but showing strong signs of his Romany ancestry, hadoften warned her of the risk she ran, and one day he had the agony ofseeing her from the cliff locked in the cove, and drowning before hiseyes ere a boat could be got, while he and the coastguard stoodpowerless to reach her. The effect of this shock demented my father for a time. How it wasthat he came to marry again I could never understand. During mychildhood he had, as far as I could see, no real sympathy withanything save his own dreams. In after years I came to know thetruth. He was kind enough in disposition, but he looked upon us, hischildren, as his second wife's property, his dreams as his own. Onceevery year he used to go to Switzerland and stay there for severalweeks; and, as the object of these journeys was evidently to revisitthe old spots made sacred to him by reminiscences of his romanticlove for his first wife, it may he readily imagined that they werenot looked upon with any favour by my mother. She never accompaniedhim on these occasions, nor would she let Frank do so--another proofof the early partiality she showed for my brother. As I was of lessimportance, my father (previous to my accident) used to take me, tomy intense delight and enjoyment; but during the period of mylameness he went to Switzerland alone. It was during one of my childish visits to Switzerland that I learntan important fact in connection with my father and his firstwife--the fact that since her death he had become a mystic and hadjoined a certain sect of mystics founded by Lavater. This is how I came to know it. My attention had been arrested by abook lying on my father's writing-table--a large book called '_TheVeiled Queen_, by Philip Aylwin'--and I began to read it. Thestatements therein were of an astounding kind, and the idea of abeautiful woman behind a veil completely fascinated my childish mind. And the book was full of the most amazing stories collected from allkinds of outlandish sources. One story, called 'The Flying Donkey ofthe Ruby Hills, ' riveted my attention so much that it possessed me, and even now I feel that I can repeat every word of it. It was astory of a donkey-driver, who, having lost his wife Alawiyah, wentand lived alone in the ruby hills of Badakhshan, where the Angel ofMemory fashioned for him out of his own sorrow and tears an image ofhis wife. This image was mistaken by a townsman named Hasan for hisown wife, and Ja'afar was summoned before the Ka'dee. Afterwards, when _The Veiled Queen_ came into my possession, I noticed that thisstory was quoted for motto on the title-page: 'Then quoth the Ka'dee, laughing until his grinders appeared:"Rather, by Allah, would I take all the punishment thou dreadest, thou most false donkey-driver of the Ruby Hills, than believe thisstory of thine--this mad, mad story, that she with whom thou wastseen was not the living wife of Hasan here (as these four legalwitnesses have sworn), but thine own dead spouse, Alawiyah, refashioned for thee by the Angel of Memory out of thine own sorrowand unquenchable fountain of tears. " 'Quoth Ja'afar, bowing low his head: "Bold is the donkey-driver, O Ka'dee! and bold the Ka'dee who dares say what he will believe, what disbelieve--not knowing in any wise the mind of Allah--notknowing in any wise his own heart and what it shall some daysuffer. "' This story so absorbed me that when my father re-entered the houseI was perfectly unconscious of his presence. He took the book fromme, saying that it was not a book for children. It possessed my mindfor some days. What I had read in it threw light upon certainconversations in French and German which I had heard between myfather and his Swiss friends, and the fact gradually dawned upon methat he believed himself to be in direct communication with thespirit of his dead wife. This so acted upon my imagination that Ibegan to feel that she was actually alive, though invisible. I toldFrank when I got home that we had another mother in Switzerland, andthat I our father went to Switzerland to see her. Having at that time a passionate love for my mother (a love none theless passionate because somewhat coldly returned), I felt great angeragainst this resuscitated rival; but Frank only laughed and called mea stupid little fool. Luckily Frank forgot my story in a minute, and it never reached mymother's ears. I Some years after this an odd incident occurred. The I idea of aveiled lady had, as I say, fascinated me. One Raxton fair-day Iinduced Winnie to be photographed on the sands, wearing a crown ofsea-flowers in imitation of Rhona Boswell's famous wild-flowercoronet, and a necklace of seaweed, with Frank and another boylifting from her head a long white veil of my mother's. My fatheraccidentally saw this photograph, and was so taken with it that headorned the title-page of the third edition of _The Veiled Queen_with a small woodcut of it. These vagaries of my father's had an influence upon my destiny of themost tragic, yet of the most fantastic kind. He had the reputation, I believe, of being one of the most learnedmystics of his time. He was a fair Hebrew scholar, and also had aknowledge of Sanscrit, Arabic, and Persian. His passion for philologywas deep-rooted. He was a no less ardent numismatist. Moreover, hewas deeply versed in amulet-lore. He wrote a treatise upon 'amulets'and their inscriptions. All this was after the death of his firstwife. He had a large collection of amulets, Gnostic gems, andabraxas stones. That he really believed in the virtue of amulets willbe pretty clearly seen as my narrative proceeds. Indeed, the subjectof amulets and love-tokens became a mania with him. After his deathit was said that his collection of amulets, Egyptian, Gnostic, andother, was rarer, and his collection of St. Helena coins larger, than any other collection in England. Though my mother did not know of the spiritualistic orgies inSwitzerland, she knew that my father was a spiritualist. And thisvexed her, not only because she conceived it to be visionary folly, but because it was 'low. ' She knew that it led him to join anewly-formed band of Latter-Day mystics which had been organised atRaxton, but luckily she did not know that through them he believedhimself to be holding communication with his first wife. The membersof this body were tradespeople of the town, and I quite think that inmy mother's eyes all tradespeople were low. As to her indifference towards me, --that is easily explained. I wasan incorrigible little bohemian by nature. She despaired of everchanging me. During several years this indifference distressed me, though it in no way diminished my affection for her. At last, however, I got accustomed to it and accepted it as inevitable. Butthe remarkable thing was that Frank's affection for his mother was ofthe most languid kind. He was an open-hearted boy, and never tookadvantage of my mother's favouritism. Thus I was left entirely to myown resources. My little love-idyl with Winifred was for a long timeunknown to my mother, and no amount of ocular demonstration couldhave made it known (in such a dream was he) to my father. On one occasion, however, my mother, having been struck by her beautyat church, told Wynne to bring her to the house, little thinking whatshe was doing. Accordingly, Winifred came one evening and charmed mymother, charmed the entire household, by her grace of manner. Mymother, upon whom what she called 'style' made a far greaterimpression than anything else, pronounced her to be a perfect littlelady, and I heard her remark that she wondered how the child of sucha scapegrace as Wynne could have been so reared. Unfortunately I was not old enough to disguise the transports ofdelight that set my heart beating and my crippled limbs trembling asI saw Winifred gliding like a fairy about the house and gardens, andpetted even by my proud and awful mother. My mother did not fail tonotice this, and before long she had got from Frank the history ofour little loves, and even of the 'cripple water' from St. Winifred'sWell. I partly heard what Frank was telling her, and I was the onlyone to notice the expression of displeasure that overspread herfeatures. She did not, however, show it to the child, but she neverinvited her there again, and from that evening was much more vigilantover my movements, lest I should go to Wynne's cottage. I still, however, continued to meet Winifred in Graylingham Wood during herstay with her father; and at last, when she again left me, I feltdesolate indeed. I wrote her a letter, and took it to him to address. He was very fondof showing his penmanship, which was remarkably good. He had indeedbeen well educated, though from his beer-house associations he hadentirely caught the rustic accent. I saw him address it, and took itmyself to the post-office at Rington, where I was not so well knownas at Raxton, but I never got any reply. And who was Tom Wynne? Though the organist of the new church atRaxton, and custodian of the old deserted church on the cliffs, hewas the local ne'er-do-well, drunkard, and scapegrace. He was, however, a well-connected man, reduced to his present position bydrink. He had lived in Raxton until he returned to Wales, which washis birthplace--having obtained there some appointment the nature ofwhich I never could understand. In Wales he had got married; andthere his wife had died shortly after the birth of Winnie. It was nodoubt through his intemperate habits that he lost his post in Wales. It was then that he again came to Raxton, leaving the child with hissister-in-law. Raxton stands on that part of the coast where the land-springs mostpersistently disintegrate the hills and render them helpless againstthe ravages of the sea. Perhaps even within the last few centuriesthe spot called Mousetrap Cove, scooped out of the peninsula on whichthe old church stands, was dry land. The old Raxton church at the endof this peninsula had, not many years since, to be deserted for a newone, lest it should some day carry its congregation with it when itslides, as it soon will slide, into the sea. But as none had dared topull down the old church, a custodian had to be found who for apittance would take charge of it and of the important monuments itcontains. Such a custodian was found in Wynne, who lived in thecottage already described on the Wilderness Road. Along this road(which passed both the new church and the old) I was frequentlyjourneying, and Wynne's tall burly form and ruddy face were, evenbefore I knew Winnie, a certain comfort to me. He was said to be the last remnant of an old family that once ownedmuch land in the neighbourhood, and he was still the recipient of asmall pension. My father used to say that Wynne's family was evenexceptionally good, that it laid claim to being descended from astill older Welsh family. But my mother scorned the idea, and alwaystreated the organist as belonging to the lower classes. It was Wynnewho had taught me swimming. It was really he, and not my groom, whohad taught me how to ride a horse along the low-tide sands so as notto distress him or damage his feet. It was about this time that my uncle Aylwin of Alvanley, my mother'sbrother, who had quarrelled with her, became reconciled to her, andcame to Raxton. He at once recommended that a friend of his, a famousLondon surgeon, should he consulted about my lameness. I accordinglywent with him to London to be placed under the treatment of theeminent man. Had this been done earlier, what a world of sufferingmight have been spared me! The man of science pronounced my ailmentto be quite curable. He performed an operation upon the leg, and after a long and carefulcourse of treatment in town, advised that I should go to Margate fora long stay, and avail myself of that change of air. I went, accompanied by my mother and brother, and stayed there severalmonths. My father used to come to see us once a month or so, stay fora week, and then go back. I now wrote another letter to Winifred, and after a long delay, got areply, but it consisted mainly of descriptions of the way in whichshe paddled in the Welsh brooks and of lessons in the shawl-dancewhich she was taking from Shuri Lovell, the mother of her Gypsyfriend. So vividly did she describe these lessons that her pictureshaunted me. I wrote in reply to this a letter burning with myever-growing love, but to this I got no reply. As the surgeon had prophesied, I made such advance that I was after awhile able to walk with tolerable ease without my crutches, by theaid of a walking-stick; and as time went on, the tonic effect ofMargate air, aiding the remedies prescribed by the surgeon, workedsuch a change in me that I was pronounced well, and the doctor said Imight return home. I returned to Raxton a cripple no longer. I returned cured. I say. But how entangled is this web of our life!How almost impossible is it that good should come unmixed with evil, or evil unmixed with good! At Margate, where the bracing air didmore, I doubt not, towards my restoration to health than all themedicines, --at Margate my brother drank in his death-poison. During the very last days of our stay he caught scarlet fever. In afortnight he was dead. The shock to me was very severe. It laid mymother prostrate for months. I was now by the death of Frank the representative of our branch ofthe family, and a little fellow of uncomfortable importance. My uncleAylwin of Alvanley. Being childless, was certain to leave me hislarge estates, for he had dropped entirely away from the Aylwins ofRington Manor, and also from the branch of the Aylwin familyrepresented by my kinsman Cyril. II THE MOONLIGHT CROSS OF THE GNOSTICS I My mother had some prejudice against a public school, and I was sentto a large and important private one at Cambridge. And go, with Winifred on my mind, I went one damp winter's morning toDullingham, our nearest railway station, on my way to Cambridge. As concerns my school-days, I feel that all that will interest thereader is this: as I rode through mile upon mile of the flat, wide-stretching country, I made to myself a vow in connection withWinifred, --a vow that when I left school I would do a certain thingin relation to her, though Fate itself should say, 'This thing shallnot be done. ' I did not know then, as I know now, how weak is humanwill enmeshed in that web of Circumstance that has been a-weavingsince the beginning of the world. I left school without the slightest notion as to what my futurecourse in life was to be. I was to take my rich uncle's property. That was understood now. And although my mother never talked of thematter, I could see in the pensive gaze she bent on me anever-present consciousness of a future for me more golden still. But now I formed a new intimacy, and one of a very singular kind--anintimacy with my father, who suddenly woke up to the fact that I wasno longer a child. It occurred on my making some pertinent inquiriesabout a certain Gnostic amulet representing the Gorgon's head, aprize of which he had lately become the happy possessor. On histelling me that the Arabic word for amulet was _hamalet_, and thatthe word meant 'that which is suspended, ' I said in a perfectlythoughtless way that very likely one of the learned societies towhich he belonged might be able to trace some connection between'hamalet' and the 'Hamlet' of Shakespeare. These idle and ignorantwords of mine fell, as I found, upon a mind ripe to receive them. Helooked straight before him at the bust of Shakespeare on thebookshelves as he always looked when his rudderless imagination wasonce well launched, and I heard him mutter, 'Hamlet--the Amleth ofSaxo-Grammaticus, --hamalet, "that which is suspended. " The world, toHamlet's metaphysical mind, _was_ "suspended" in the wide region ofNowhere--in an infinite ocean of Nothing. Why did I not think of thisbefore? Strange that this child should hit upon it. ' Then looking atme as though he had just seen me for the first time in his life, hesaid. 'How old are you, child?' 'Eighteen, father, I said. 'Eighteen_years_?' he asked. 'Yes, father, ' I said with some pique. 'Did yousuppose I meant eighteen months?' 'Only eighteen years, ' he muttered, 'a mere baby, in short; and yet he has hit upon what weShakespearians have been boggling over for many year?--the symbolicalmeaning involved in Hamlet's name. Henry, I prophesy great things foryou. ' An intimacy was cemented between us at once. One of the results ofthis conversation was my father's elaborate paper, read before one ofhis societies, in which he maintained that Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ wasa metaphysical poem, the great central idea of which was involved inthe name Hamlet, Amleth, or Hamalet--the idea that the universe, suspended in the wide region of Nowhere, lies, an amulet, upon thebreast of the Great Latona, --a paper that was the basis of hisreputation in 'the higher criticism. ' Shortly after this my father and I spent the autumn in various partsof Switzerland. One night, when we were sitting outside the chalet inthe full light of the moon, I was the witness of a display of passionon the part of one whom I had always considered to be a dreamybook-worm--a passionless, eccentric mystic--that simply amazed me. Aflickering tongue from the central fires suddenly breaking up throughthe soil of an English vegetable garden could hardly have been a moreunexpected phenomenon to me than what occurred on that memorablenight. The incident I am going to relate showed me how rash it is to supposethat you have really fathomed the personality of any human creature. The mementos of his first wife, which accompanied him whithersoeverhe went, absorbed his attention in Switzerland, and especially in thelittle place where she was born, far more than they had done at home. He was for ever peeping furtively into his escritoire to enjoy thesight of them, and then looking over his shoulder to see if he wasbeing watched by my mother, though she was far away in Raxton Hall. On the night in question he showed me the silver casket containingcertain of these mementos--mementos which I felt to be almost toointimate to be shown even to his son. 'And now, Henry, ' said he, 'I am going to show you something that noone else has ever seen since she died--the most sacred possession Ihave upon this earth. ' He then opened his shirt and his vest, andshowed me lying upon his naked bosom a beautiful jewelled cross of aconsiderable size. 'This, ' said he, lifting it up, 'is an ancientGnostic amulet. It is called the "Moonlight Cross" of the Gnostics. Igave it to her on the night of our betrothal. She was a RomanCatholic. It is made of precious stones cut in facets, with rubiesand diamonds and beryls so cunningly set that, when the moonlightfalls on them, the cross flashes almost as brilliantly as when thesunlight falls on them and is kindled into living fire. Thesedeep-coloured crimson rubies--almost as clear as diamonds--are not ofthe ordinary kind. They are true "Oriental rubies, " and the jewellerswould tell you that the mine which produced them has been lost duringseveral centuries. But look here when I lift it up; the mostwonderful feature of the jewel is the skill with which the diamondsare cut. The only shapes generally known are what are called the"brilliant" and the "rose, " but here the facets are arranged in anentirely different way, and evidently with the view of throwing lightinto the very hearts of the rubies, and producing this peculiarradiance. ' He lifted the amulet again (which was suspended from his neck by abeautifully worked cord made of soft brown hair) into the rays fromthe moon. The light the jewel emitted was certainly of a strange andfascinating kind. The cross had been worn with the jewelled frontupon his bosom instead of the smooth back, and the sharp facets ofthe cross had lacerated the scarred flesh underneath in a most cruelmanner. He saw me shudder and understood why. 'Oh, I like that!' he said, with an ecstatic smile. 'I like to feelit constantly on my bosom. It cannot cut deep enough for me. This isher hair, ' he said, taking the hair-cord between his fingers andkissing it. 'How do you manage to exist, father, ' I said, 'with that heavysharp-edged jewel on your breast? you who cannot bear the gout withpatience?' 'Exist? I could not exist _without_ it. The gout is pain--this is notpain; it is joy, bliss, heaven! When I am dead it must lie for everon my breast as it lies now, or I shall never rest in my grave. ' Hehad been talking about amulets in the most quiet and matter-of-factway during that morning; but the I moment he produced this cross astrange change came over his face, something like the change thatwill come over a dull wood-fire when blown by the wind into a brightlight of flame. 'Ha!' he muttered to himself, as his eyes widened and sparkled with alook of intense eagerness and his hand shook, sending the light ofthe beautiful jewel all about the room, 'it is a sad pity he was nother son. How I should have loved him then! I like him now very much;but how I should have loved him then, for he is a brave boy. Oh, if Ihad only been born brave like him!' Then, suddenly recollectinghimself, he closed his vest, and said: 'Don't tell your mother, Hal;don't tell your mother that I have shown you this. ' Then he took itout again. 'She who is dead cherished it, ' he continued, half tohimself--'she cherished it above all things. She died, boy, and Icouldn't help her. She used to wear the cross in the bosom of herdress; and there she was in the cove kissing it when the tide sweptover her. I ought to have jumped down and died with her. _You_ wouldhave done it, Hal; your eyes say so. Oh, to be an Aylwin without theAylwin courage!' After a little time he said: 'This has lain on her bosom, Hal, herbosom! It has been kissed by her, Hal, oh, a thousand thousand times!It had her last kiss. When I took it from the cold body which hadbeen recovered, this cross seemed to be warm with her life and love. ' And then he wept, and his tears fell thick upon his bosom and uponthe amulet. The truth was clear enough now. The appalling death ofhis first wife, his love for her, and his remorse for not havingjumped down the cliff and died with her, had affected his brain. Hewas a monomaniac, and all his thoughts were in some way clusteredround the dominant one. He had studied amulets because the 'MoonlightCross' had been cherished by her; he came to Switzerland every yearbecause it was associated with her; he had joined the spiritualistbody in the mad hope that perhaps there might be something in it, perhaps there might be a power that could call her back to earth. Even the favourite occupation of his life, visiting cathedrals andchurches and taking rubbings from monumental brasses, had begunafter her death; it had come from the fact (as I soon learned) thatshe had taken interest in monumental brasses, and had begun thecollection of rubbings. And yet this martyr to a mighty passion bore the character of adreamy student; and his calm, un-furrowed face, on common occasions, expressed nothing but a rather dull kind of content! Here was arevelation of what, afterwards, was often revealed to me, that humanpersonality is the crowning wonder of this wonderful universe, andthat the forces which turn fire-mist into stars are not moreinscrutable than is human character. He lifted up his head and gazedat me through his tears. 'Hal, ' he said, 'do you know why I have shown you this? It _must_, MUST be buried with me at my death; and there is no one upon whoseenergy, truth, courage, and strength of will I can rely as I can uponyours. You must give me your word, Hal, that you will see it and thiscasket containing her letters buried with me. ' I hesitated to become a party to such an undertaking as this. Itsavoured of superstition, I thought. Now, having at that very timeabandoned all the superstitions and all the mystical readings of theuniverse which as a child I had inherited from ancestors, Romany andEnglish, having at that very time begun to take a delight in thewonderful revelations of modern science, my attitude towardssuperstition--towards all super-naturalism--oscillated between angerand simple contempt. 'But, ' I said, 'you surely will not have this beautiful old crossburied?' And as I looked at it, and the light fell upon it, therecame from it strange flashes of fire, showing with what extraordinaryskill the rubies and diamonds had been adjusted so that their facetsshould catch and concentrate the rays of the moon. 'Yes, ' he said, taking the cross again in his hand and fondling itpassionately, 'it must never be possessed by any one after me. ' 'But it might be stolen, father--stolen from your coffin. ' 'That would indeed he a disaster, ' he said with a shudder. Then alook of deadly vengeance overspread his face and brought out all itsRomany characteristics as he said: 'But with it there will be burieda curse written in Hebrew and English--a curse upon the despoiler, which will frighten off any thief who is in his senses. ' And he showed me a large parchment scroll, folded exactly like atitle-deed, with the following curse and two verses from the 109thPsalm written upon it in Hebrew and English. The English versionwas carefully printed by himself in large letters:-- 'He who shall violate this tomb. --he who shall steal this amulet, hallowed as a love-token between me and my dead wife, --he who shall dare to lay a sacrilegious hand upon this cross, stands cursed by God. Cursed by love, and cursed by me. Philip Aylwin, lying here. "Let there be no man to pity him, nor to have compassion upon his fatherless children.... Let his children be vagabonds, and beg their bread; let them seek it also out of desolate places. " Psalm cix. So saith the Lord. Amen. ' 'I have printed the English version in large letters, ' he said, 'sothat any would-be despoiler must see it and read it at once by thedimmest lantern light. ' 'But, father, ' I said, 'is it possible that you, an educated man, really believe in the efficacy of a curse?' 'If the curse comes straight from the heart's core of a man, as thiscurse comes from mine, Hal, how can it fail to operate by the mereforce of will? The curse of a man who loved as I love upon the wretchwho should violate a love-token so sacred as this--why, thedisembodied spirits of all who have loved and suffered would combineto execute it!' 'Spirits!' I said. 'Really, father, in times like these to talk ofspirits!' 'Ah, Henry!' he replied, 'I was like you once. I could once becontent with Materialism--I could find it supportable once; but, should you ever come to love as I have loved (and, for your ownhappiness, child, I hope you never may), you will And thatMaterialism is intolerable, is hell itself, to the heart that hasknown a passion like mine. You will And that it is madness, Hal, madness, to believe in the word "never"! you will And that you_dare_ not leave untried any creed, howsoever wild, that offersthe heart a ray of hope. Every object she cherished has becomespiritualised, sublimated, has become alive--alive as this amuletis alive. See, the lights are no natural lights. ' And again he heldit up. 'If on my death-bed, ' he continued, 'I thought that this belovedcross and these sacred relics would ever get into other hands--wouldever touch other flesh--than mine, I should die a maniac, Hal, and myspirit would never be released from the chains of earth. ' It was thesuperstitious tone of his talk that irritated and hardened me. He sawit, and a piteous expression overspread his features. 'Don't desert your poor father, ' he said. 'What I want is the wordof an Aylwin that those beloved relics shall be buried with me. If Ihad _that_, I should be content to live, and content to die. Oh, Hal!' He threw such an imploring gaze into my face as he said 'Oh, Hal!'that, reluctant as I was to be mixed up with superstition, I promisedto execute his wishes; I promised also to keep the secret from allthe world during his life, and after his death to share it with thosetwo only from whom, for family reasons, it could not be kept--myuncle Aylwin of Alvanley and my mother. He then put away the amulet, and his face resumed the look of placid content it usually wore. Hewas feeling the facets of the mysterious 'Moonlight Cross'! The most marvellous thing is this, however: his old relations towardsme were at once resumed. He never alluded to the subject of his firstwife again, and I soon found it difficult to believe that theconversation just recorded ever took place at all. Evidently hismonomania only rose up to a passionate expression when fanned intosudden flame by talking about the cross. It was as though the shockof his first wife's death had severed his consciousness and his lifein twain. II Naturally this visit to Switzerland cemented our intimacy, and itwas on our return home that he suggested my accompanying him on oneof his 'rubbing expeditions. ' 'Henry, ' he said, 'your mother has of late frequently discussed withme the question of your future calling in life. She suggests aParliamentary career. I confess that I find questions about careersexceedingly disturbing. ' 'There is only one profession I should like, father, ' I said, 'andthat is a painter's. ' In fact, the passion for painting had come onme very strongly of late. My dreams had from the first been ofwandering with Winnie in a paradise of colour, and these dreams hadof late been more frequent: the paradise of colour had been growingricher and rarer. He shook his head gravely and said, 'No, my dear; your mother wouldnever allow it. ' 'Why not?' I said; 'is painting low too?' 'Cyril Aylwin is low, at least so your mother and aunt say, especiallyyour aunt. I have not perceived it myself, but then your mother'sperceptive faculties are extraordinary--quite extraordinary. ' 'Did the lowness come from his being a painter, father?' I asked. 'Really, child, you are puzzling me. But I have observed you now forsome weeks, and I quite believe that you would make one of the bestrubbers who ever held a ball. I am going to Salisbury next week, andyou shall then make your _début_. ' This was in the midst of a very severe winter we had some years ago, when all Europe was under a coating of ice. 'But, father, ' I said, 'shan't we find it rather cold?' 'Well, ' said my father, with a bland smile, 'I will not pretend thatSalisbury Cathedral is particularly warm in this weather, but inwinter I always rub in knee-caps and mittens. I will tell Hodder toknit you a full set at once. ' 'But, father, ' I said, 'Tom Wynne tells me that rubbing is the mostpainful of all occupations. He even goes so far sometimes as to saythat it was the exhaustion of rubbing for you which turned him todrink. ' 'Nothing of the kind, ' said my father. 'All that Tom needed to makehim a good rubber was enthusiasm. I am strongly of opinion thatwithout enthusiasm rubbing is of all occupations the most irksome, except perhaps for the quadrumana (who seem more adapted for thisexercise), the most painful for the spine, the most cramping for thethighs, the most numbing for the fingers. It is a profession, Henry, demanding, above every other, enthusiasm in the operator. Now Tom'senthusiasm for rubbing as an art was from the first exceedinglyfeeble. ' I was on the eve of revolting, but I remembered what there waslacerating his poor breast, and consented. And when I heard hints ofour 'working the Welsh churches' my sudden enthusiasm for therubber's art astonished even my father. 'My dear, ' he said to my mother at dinner one day, 'what do youthink? Henry has developed quite a sudden passion for rubbing. ' I saw an expression of perplexity and mystification overspread mymother's sagacious face. 'And in the spring, ' continued my father, 'we are going into Walesto rub. ' 'Into Wales, are you?' said my mother, in a tone of that soft voicewhose meaning I knew so well. My thoughts were continually upon Winifred, now that I was alone inthe familiar spots. I had never seen her nor heard from her since weparted as children. She had only known me as a cripple. What wouldshe think of me now? Did she ever think of me? She had not answeredmy childish letter, and this had caused me much sorrow andperplexity. We did not go into Wales after all. But the result of thisconversation took a shape that amazed me. I was sent to stay with myAunt Prue in London in order that I might attend one of the Schoolsof Art. Yes, my mother thought it was better for me even to run therisk of becoming bohemianised like Cyril Aylwin, than to brood overWinnie or the scenes that were associated with our happy childhood. In London I was an absolute stranger. We had no town house. On thefew occasions when the family had gone to London, it was to stay inBelgrave Square with my Aunt Prue, who was an unmarried sister of mymother's. 'Since the death of the Prince Consort, to go no further back, ' sheused to say, 'a dreadful change has come over the tone of society;the love of bohemianism, the desire to take up any kind of people, ifthey are amusing, and still more if they are rich, is levellingeverything. However, I'm nobody now; I say nothing. ' What wonder that from my very childhood my aunt took a prejudiceagainst me, and predicted for me a career 'as deplorable as CyrilAylwin's, ' and sympathised with my mother in her terror of the Gypsystrain in my father's branch of the family? Her tastes and instincts being intensely aristocratic, she suffered amartyrdom from her ever present consciousness of this disgrace. Shehad seen very much more of what is called Society than my mother hadever an opportunity of seeing. It was not, however, aristocracy, butRoyalty that won the true worship of her soul. Although she was immeasurably inferior to my mother in everything, her influence over her was great, and it was always for ill. Ibelieve that even my mother's prejudice against Tom Wynne was largelyowing to my aunt, who disliked my relations towards Wynne simplybecause he did not represent one of the great Wynne families. But theremarkable thing was that, although my mother thus yielded to myaunt's influence, she in her heart despised her sister's ignoranceand her narrowness of mind. She often took a humorous pleasure inseeing my aunt's aristocratic proclivities baffled by some vexing_contretemps_ or by some slight passed upon her by people of superiorrank, especially by those in the Royal circle. There have been so many descriptions of art schools, from the famous'Gandish's' down to the very moment at which I write, that I do notintend to describe mine. It would be very far from my taste to use a narrative like this, anarrative made sacred by the spiritual love it records, as a means ofadvertising efforts of such modest pretensions as mine when placed incomparison with the work of the illustrious painters my friendshipwith whom has been the great honour of my life. And if I allude hereto the fact of my being a painter, it is in order that I may not bemistaken for another Aylwin. My cousin Percy, who in some unpublishedpoems of his which I have seen has told how a sailor was turned intoa poet by love--love of Rhona Boswell. In the same way, these pagesare written to tell how I was made a painter by love of her whom Ifirst saw in Raxton churchyard, her who filled my being as Beatricefilled the being of Dante when 'the spirit of life, which hath itsdwelling in the secretest chamber of the heart, began to tremble soviolently that the least pulses of his body shook therewith. ' III Time went by, and I returned to Raxton. Just when I had determinedthat, come what would, I would go into Wales, Wynne one day told methat Winnie was coming to live with him at Raxton, her aunt havinglately died. 'The English lady, ' said he, 'who lived with them solong and eddicated Winifred, has gone to live at Carnarvon to get thesea air. ' This news was at once a joy and a perplexity. Wynne, though still the handsomest and finest man in Raxton, had sunkmuch lower in intemperance of late. He now generally wound up aconversation with me by a certain stereotyped allusion to the drynessof the weather, which I perfectly understood to mean that he feltthirsty, and that an offer of half-a-crown for beer would not beunacceptable. He was a proud man in everything except in reference tobeer. But he seemed to think there was no degradation in asking formoney to get drunk with, though to have asked for it to buy breadwould, I suppose, have wounded his pride. I did not then see soclearly as I now do the wrong of giving him those half-crowns. Hisannuity he had long since sold. Spite of all his delinquencies, however, my father liked him; so didmy uncle Aylwin of Alvanley. But my mother seemed positively to hatehim. It was the knowledge of this that caused my anxiety aboutWinifred's return. I felt that complications must arise. At this time I used to go to Dullingham every day. The clergymanthere was preparing me for college. On the Sunday following the day when I got such momentous news fromWynne, I was met suddenly, as my mother and I were leaving the churchafter the service, by the gaze of a pair of blue eyes that arrestedmy steps as by magic, and caused the church and the churchgoers tovanish from my sight. The picture of Winifred that had dwelt in my mind so long was that ofa beautiful child. The radiant vision of the girl before me came onme by surprise and dazzled me. Tall and slim she was now, but thecomplexion had not altered at all; the eyes seemed young andchildlike as ever. When our eyes met she blushed, then turned pale, and took hold of thetop of a seat near which she was standing. She came along the aisleclose to us, gliding and slipping through the crowd, and passed outof the porch. My mother had seen my agitation, and had moved on in astate of haughty indignation. I had no room, however, at that momentfor considerations of any person but one. I hurried out of thechurch, and, following Winifred, grasped her gloved hand. 'Winifred, you are come, ' I said; 'I have been longing to see you. ' She again turned pale and then blushed scarlet. Next she looked downme as if she had expected to see something which she did not see, andwhen her eyes were upraised again something in them gave me a strangefancy that she was disappointed to miss my crutches. 'Why didn't you write to me from Wales, Winifred? Why didn't youanswer my letter years ago?' She hesitated, then said, 'My aunt wouldn't let me, sir. ' 'Wouldn't let you answer it! and why?' Again she hesitated-- 'I--I don't know, sir. ' 'You _do_ know, Winifred. I see that you know, and you shall tell me. Why didn't your aunt let you answer my letter?' Winifred's eyes looked into mine beseechingly. Then that light ofplayful humour, which I remembered so well, shot like a sunbeamacross and through them as she replied-- 'My aunt said we must both forget our pretty dream. ' Almost before the words were out, however, the sunbeam fled from hereyes and was replaced by a look of terror. I now perceived that mymother, in passing to the carriage, had lingered on the gravel-pathclose to us, and had, of course, overheard the dialogue. She passedon with a look of hate. I thought it wise to bid Winifred good-byeand join my mother. As I stepped into the carriage I turned round and saw that Winifredwas again looking wistfully at some particular part of me--lookingwith exactly that simple, frank, 'objective' expression with which Iwas familiar. 'I knew it was the crutches she missed, ' I said to myself as I satdown by my mother's side; 'she'll have to love me now because I am_not_ lame. ' I also knew something else: I must prepare for a conflict with mymother. My father, at this time in Switzerland, had written to saythat he had been suffering acutely from an attack of what he called'spasms. ' He had 'been much subject to them of late, but no oneconsidered them to be really dangerous. ' During luncheon I felt that my mother's eyes were on me. After it wasover she went to her room to write in answer to my father's letter, and then later on she returned to me. 'Henry, ' she said, 'my overhearing the dialogue in the churchyardbetween you and Wynne's daughter was, I need not pay, quiteaccidental, but it is perhaps fortunate that I did overhear it. ' 'Why fortunate, mother? You simply heard her say that her aunt inWales had forbidden her to answer a childish letter of mine writtenyears ago. ' 'In telling you which, the girl, I must say, proclaimed her aunt tobe an exceedingly sensible and well-conducted woman, ' said my mother. 'On that point, mother, ' I said, 'you must allow me to hold adifferent opinion. I, for my part, should have said that Winifred'sstory proclaimed her aunt to be a worthy member of a flunkey societylike this of ours--a society whose structure, political and moral andreligious, is based on an adamantine rock of paltry snobbery. ' It was impossible to restrain my indignation. 'I am aware, Henry, ' replied my mother calmly, 'that it is one of thefashions of the hour for young men of family to adopt the language ofRadical newspapers. In a country like this the affectation does nogreat harm, I grant, and my only serious objection to it is that itimplies in young men of one's own class a lack of originality whichis a little humiliating. I am aware that your cousin, Percy Aylwin, of Rington Manor, used to talk in the same strain as this, and endedby joining the Gypsies. But I came to warn you, Henry, I came to urgeyou not to injure this poor girl's reputation by such scenes as thatI witnessed this morning. ' I remained silent. The method of my mother's attack had taken me bysurprise. Her sagacity was so much greater than mine, her power offence was so much greater, her stroke was so much deadlier, that inall our encounters I had been conquered. 'It is for the girl's own sake that I speak to you, ' continued mymother. 'She was deeply embarrassed at your method of address, andwell she might be, seeing that it will be, for a long time to come, the subject of discussion in all the beer-houses which her fatherfrequents. ' 'You speak as though she were answerable for her father's faults, ' Isaid, with heat. 'No, ' said my mother; 'but _your_ father is the owner of Raxton Hall, which to her and her class is a kind of Palace of the Cæsars. Youbelong to a family famous all along the coast; you are well known tobe the probable heir of one of the largest landowners in England; youmay be something more important still; while she, poor girl, what isshe that you should rush up to her before all the churchgoers of theparish and address her as Winifred? The daughter of a penniless, drunken reprobate. Every attention you pay her is but a slur upon hergood name. ' 'There is not a lady in the county worthy to unlace her shoes, ' Icried, unguardedly. Then I could have bitten off my tongue for sayingso. 'That may be, ' said my mother, with the quiet irony peculiar to her;'but so monstrous are the customs of England, Henry, so barbaric isthis society you despise, that she, whose shoes no lady in the countyis worthy to unlace, is in an anomalous position. Should she onceagain be seen talking familiarly with you, her character will havefled, and fled for ever. It is for you to choose whether you are setupon ruining her reputation. ' I felt that what she said was true. I felt also that Winifred herselfhad recognised the net of conventions that kept us apart in spite ofthat close and tender intimacy which had been the one great fact ofour lives. In a certain sense I was far more of a child of Naturethan Winifred herself, inasmuch as, owing to my remarkable childishexperience of isolation, I had imbibed a scepticism about thesanctity of conventions such as is foreign to the nature of woman, beshe ever so unsophisticated, as Winifred's shyness towards me hadtestified. As a child I had been neglected for the firstborn, I had enjoyedthrough this neglect an absolute freedom with regard to associatingwith fisher-boys and all the shoeless, hatless 'sea-pups' of thesands, and now, when the time had come to civilise me, my mother hadfound that it was too late. I was bohemian to the core. My childishintercourse with Winifred had been one of absolute equality, and Icould not now divest myself of this relation. These were my thoughtsas I listened to my mother's words. My great fear now, however, was lest I should say something tocompromise myself, and so make matter worse. Before another word uponthe subject should pass between my mother and me I must seeWinifred--and then I had something to say to her which no power onearth should prevent me from saying. So I merely told my mother thatthere was much truth in what she had said, and proceeded to askparticulars about my father's recent illness. After giving me theseparticulars she left the room, perplexed, I thought, as to what hadbeen the result of her mission. IV I remained alone for some time. Then I told the servants that I wasgoing to walk along the cliffs to Dullingham Church, where there wasan evening service, and left the house. I hastened towards thecliffs, and descended to the sands, in the hope that Winifred mightbe roaming about there, but I walked all the way to Dullinghamwithout getting a glimpse of her. The church service did not interestme that evening. I heard nothing and saw nothing. When the servicewas over I returned along the sands, sauntering and lingering in thehope that, late as it was now growing, the balmy evening might haveenticed her out. The evening grew to night, and still I lingered. The moon was nearlyat the full, and exceedingly bright. The tide was down. The scene wasmagical; I could not leave it. I said to myself, 'I will go and standon the very spot where Winifred stood when she lisped "certumly" tothe proposal of her little lover. ' It was not, after all, till this evening that I really knew howentirely she was a portion of my life. I went and stood by the black boulder where I had received the littlechild's prompt reply. There was not a grain left, I knew, of thatsame sand which had been hallowed by the little feet of Winifred, butit served my mood just as well as though every grain had felt thebeloved pressure. For that the very sands had loved the child, I halfbelieved. I said to myself, as I sat down upon the boulder, 'At this verymoment she is here, she is in Raxton. In a certain little cottagethere is a certain little room. ' And then I longed to leave thesands, to go and stand in front of Wynne's cottage and dream there. But that would be too foolish. 'I must get home, ' I thought. 'Thenight will pass somehow, and in the morning I shall, as sure as fate, see her flitting about the sands she loves, and then what I havesworn to say to her I will say, and what I have sworn to do I willdo, come what will. ' Then came the puzzling question, how was I to greet her when we met?Was I to run up and kiss her, and hear her say, 'Oh, I'm so pleased!'as she would sometimes say when I kissed her of yore? No: herdeportment in the morning forbade _that_. Or was I to raise my hatand walk up to her saying, 'How do you do, Miss Wynne? I'm glad tosee you back, Miss Wynne, ' for she was now neither child nor youngwoman, she was a 'girl. ' Perhaps I had better rush up to her in abluff, hearty way, and say: 'How do you do, Miss Winifred? Delightedto see you back to Raxton. ' Finally, I decided that circumstance mustguide me entirely, and I sat upon the boulder meditating. After a while I saw, or thought I saw, in the far distance, close tothe waves, a moving figure among the patches of rocks and stones(some black and some white) that break the continuity of the sand onthat shore at low water. When the figure got nearer I perceived it to be a woman, a girl, who, every now and then, was stooping as if to pick up something from thepools of water left by the ebbing tide imprisoned amid the encirclingrocks. At first I watched the figure, wondering in a lazy and dreamyway what girl could be out there so late. But all at once I began to catch my breath and gasp The sea-smellshad become laden with a kind of paradisal perfume, ineffably sweet, but difficult to breathe all of a sudden. My heart too--what wasamiss with that? And why did the muscles of my body seem to melt likewax?' The lonely wanderer by the sea could be none other thanWinifred. 'It is she!' I said. 'There is no beach-woman or shore-prowling girlwho, without raising an arm to balance her body, without a totter ora slip, could step in that way upon stones some of which are asslippery as ice with gelatinous weed and slime, while others are assharp as razors. To walk like that the eye must be my darling's, thatis to say, an eye as sure as a bird's the ball of the foot must bethe ball of a certain little foot I have often had in my hand wetwith sea-water and gritty with sand. For such work a mountaineer or acragsman, or Winifred, is needed. ' Then I recalled her love of marinecreatures, her delight in seaweed, of which she would weave the mostastonishing chaplets and necklaces coloured like the rainbow. 'seawood boas' and seaweed turbans, calling herself the princess ofthe sea (as indeed she was), and calling me her prince. 'Yes, ' saidI, 'it is certainly she'; and when at last I espied a little dog byher side, Tom Wynne's little dog Snap (a descendant of the originalSnap of our never-to-be-forgotten seaside adventures)--when I espiedall these things I said, 'Then the hour is come. ' By this time my heart had settled down to a calmer throb, theparadisal scent had become more supportable, and I grew master ofmyself again. I was going towards her, when I stayed my steps, forshe was already making her way, entirely unconscious of my presence, towards the boulder where I sat. 'I know what I will do. ' I said; 'I will fling myself flat on thesands behind the boulder and watch her. I will observe her withoutbeing myself observed. ' I was in the mood when one tries sportfully to deceive one's self asto the depth and intensity of the emotion within. Perhaps I would andperhaps I would not speak to her at all that night; but if I didspeak, I would say and do what (on that day when I set out forschool) I had sworn to say and do. So there I lay hidden by the boulder and watched her. She made thecircuit of each pool that lay across her path towards thecliffs, --made it apparently for the childish enjoyment of balancingherself on the stones and snapping her fingers at the dog, who lookedon with philosophic indifference at such a frivolous waste of force. Yes, though a tall girl of seventeen, she was the same incomparablechild who had coloured my life and stirred the entire air of myimagination with the breezes of a new heaven. The voice of thetumbling sea in the distance, the caresses of the tender breeze, thewistful gaze of the great moon overhead, were companionship enoughfor her--for her whose loveliness would have enchanted a world. Shehad no idea that there was at this moment stepping round those blackstones the loveliest woman then upon the earth. If she had had thatidea she would still have been the star of all womanhood, but shewould not have been Winifred. A charm superior to all other women'scharm she still would have had; but she would not have been Winifred. When she left the rocks and came upon the clear sand, she stoppedand looked at her sweet shadow in the moonlight. Then, with theself-pleasing playfulness of a kitten, she stood and put herselfinto all kinds of postures to see what varying silhouettes they wouldmake on the hard and polished sand (that shone with a soft lustrelike satin); now throwing up one arm, now another, and at last makinga pirouette, twirling her shawl round, trying to keep it in ahorizontal position by the rapidity of her movements. The interest of the philosophic Snap was aroused at last. He beganwheeling and barking round her, tearing up the sand as he went like alittle whirlwind. This induced Winifred to redouble her gymnasticexertions. She twirled round with the velocity of an engine wheel. Atlast, finding the enjoyment it gave to Snap, she changed theperformance by taking off her hat, flinging it high in the air, catching it, flinging it up again and again, while the moving shadowit made was hunted along the sand by Snap with a volley of deafeningbarks. By this time she had got close to me, but she was too busy tosee me. Then she began to dance--the very same dance with which sheused to entertain me in those happy days. I advanced from my stone, dodging and slipping behind her, unobserved even by Snap, so intentwere these two friends upon this entertainment, got up, one wouldthink, for whatsoever sylphs or gnomes or water sprites might belooking on. How could I address in the language of passion which alone would haveexpressed my true feelings, a dancing fairy such as this? 'Bravo!' I said, as she stopped, panting and breathless. 'Why, Winifred, you dance better than ever!' She leaped away in alarm and confusion; while Snap, on the contrary, welcomed me with much joy. 'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, ' she said, not looking at me with theblunt frankness of childhood, as the little woman of the old daysused to do, but drooping her eyes. 'I didn't see you. ' 'But _I_ saw _you_, Winifred; I have been watching you for the lastquarter of an hour. ' 'Oh, you never have!' said she, in distress; 'what could you havethought? I was only trying to cheer up poor Snap, who is out ofsorts. What a mad romp you must have thought me, sir!' 'Why, what's the matter with Snap?' 'I don't know. Poor Snap' (stooping down to fondle him, and at thesame time to hide her face from me, for she was talking against timeto conceal her great confusion and agitation at seeing me. _That_ wasperceptible enough. ) Then she remembered she was hatless. 'Oh dear, where's my hat?' said she, looking round. I had picked upthe hat before accosting her, and it was now dangling behind me. I, too, began talking against time, for the beating of my heart beganagain at the thought of what I was going to say and do. 'Hat!' Isaid; 'do _you_ wear hats, Winifred? I should as soon have thought ofhearing the Queen of the Tylwyth Teg ask for her hat as you, aftersuch goings-on as those I have just been witnessing. You see I havenot forgotten the Welsh you taught me. ' 'Oh, but my hat--where is it?' cried she, vexed and sorely ashamed. So different from the unblenching child who loved to stand hatlessand feel the rain-drops on her bare head! 'Well, Winifred, I've found a hat on the sand, ' I said; 'here it is. ' 'Thank you, sir, ' said she, and stretched out her hand for it. 'No, ' said I, 'I don't for one moment believe in its belonging toyou, any more than it belongs to the Queen of the "Fair People. " Butif you'll let me put it on your head I'll give you the hat I'vefound, ' and with a rapid movement I advanced and put it on her head. I had meant to seize that moment for saying what I had to say, butwas obliged to wait. An expression of such genuine distress overspread her face, that Iregretted having taken the liberty with her. Her bearing altogetherwas puzzling me. She seemed instinctively to feel as I felt, thatraillery was the only possible attitude to take up in a situation soextremely romantic--a meeting on the sands at night between me andher who was neither child nor woman--and yet she seemed distressed atthe raillery. Embarrassment was rapidly coming between us. There was a brief silence, during which Winifred seemed trying tomove away from me. 'Did you--did you see me from the cliffs, sir, am; come down?' saidWinifred. 'Winifred, ' said I, 'the polite thing to say would be "Yes"; but youknow "Fighting Hal" never was remarkable for politeness, so I willsay frankly that did not come down from the cliff's on seeing you. But when I did see you, I wasn't very likely to return withoutspeaking to you. ' 'I am locked out, ' said Winifred, in explanation of her moonlightramble. 'My father went off to Dullingham with the key in his pocketwhile I and Snap were in the garden, so we have to wait till hisreturn. Good-night, sir, ' and she gave me her hand. I seemed to feelthe fingers around my heart, and knew that I was turning very pale. 'The same little sunburnt fingers. ' I said, as I retained them inmine 'just the same, Winifred! But it's not "good-night" yet. No, no, it's not good-night yet; and, Winifred if you dare to call me "sir"again, I declare I'll kiss you where you stand. I will, Winifred. I'll put my arms right round that slender waist and kiss you underthat moon, as sure as you stand on these sands. ' 'Then I will not call you "sir. "' said Winifred laughingly. 'Certainly I will not call you "sir, " if that is to be the penalty. ' 'Winifred, ' said I, 'the last time that I remember to have heard yousay "certainly" was on this very spot. You then pronounced it"certumly, " and that was when I asked you if I might be your lover. You said "certumly" on that occasion without the least hesitation. ' Winifred, as I could see, even by the moonlight, was blushing. 'Ah, those childish days!' she said. 'How delightful they were, sir!' '"Sir" again!' said I. 'Now, Winifred, I am going to execute mythreat--I am indeed. ' She put up her hands before her face and said, 'Oh, don't! please don't. ' The action no doubt might seem coquettish, but the tone of her voicewas so genuine, so serious--so agitated even--that I paused:--Ipaused in bewilderment and perplexity concerning us both. I observedthat her fingers shook as she held them before her face. That sheshould be agitated at seeing me after so long a separation did notsurprise me, I being deeply agitated myself. It was the _nature_ ofher emotion that puzzled me, until suddenly I remembered my mother'swords. I perceived then that, child of Nature as she still was, some one hadgiven her a careful training which had transfigured my little Welshrustic into a lady. She had not failed to apprehend the anomaly ofher present position--on the moonlit sands with me. Though could notbreak free from the old equal relations between us. Winifred had beenable to do so. 'To her, ' I thought with shame, 'my offering to kiss her at such aplace and time must have seemed an insult. The very fact of myattempting to do so must have seemed to indicate an offensiveconsciousness of the difference of our social positions. It musthave, seemed to show that I recognised a distinction between thedrunken organist's daughter and a lady. ' I saw now, indeed, that she felt this keenly; and I knew that it wasnothing but the sweetness of her nature, coupled with the fondrecollection of the old happy days, that restrained that high spiritof hers, and prevented her from giving expression to her indignationand disgust. All this was shown by the appealing look on her sweet, fond face, andI was touched to the heart. 'Winifred--Miss Wynne, ' I said, 'I beg your pardon most sincerely. The shadow-dance has been mainly answerable for my folly. You didlook so exactly the little Winifred, my heart's sister, that I feltit impossible to treat you otherwise than as that dear child-friendof years ago. ' A look of delight broke over her face. 'I felt sure it was so, ' she said. 'But it is a relief that you havesaid it. ' And the tears came to her eyes. 'Thank you, Winifred, for having pardoned me. I feel that you wouldhave forgiven no one else as you have forgiven me. I feel that youwould not have forgiven any one else than your old child-companion, whom on a memorable occasion you threatened to hit, and then had notthe heart to do so. ' 'I don't think I _could_ hit _you_, ' said she, in a meditative toneof perfect unconsciousness as to the bewitching import of her speech. 'Don't you think you could?' I said, drawing nearer, but governing mypassion. 'No, ' said she, looking now for the first time with those wide-openconfiding eyes which, as a child, were the chief characteristic ofher face. 'I don't think I could hit you, whatever you did. ' 'Couldn't you, Winifred?' I said, coming still nearer, in order todrink to the full the wonder of her beauty, the thrill at my heartbringing, as I felt, a pallor to my cheek. 'Don't you think you couldhit your old playfellow, Winifred?' 'No, ' she said, still gazing in the same dreamy, reminiscent waystraight into my eyes as of yore. 'As a child you were so delightful. And then you were so kind to me!' At that word 'kind' from _her_ to _me_ I could restrain myself nolonger; I shouted with a wild laughter of uncontrollable passion as Igazed at her through tears of love and admiration and deepgratitude--gazed till I was blind. My throat throbbed till it ached:I Could get out no more words; I could only gaze. At my shoutWinifred stood bewildered and confused. She did not understand a moodlike that. Having got myself under control, I said, 'Winifred, it is not my doing; it is Fate's doing that we meet hereon this night, and that I am driven to say here what I had as aschoolboy sworn should be said whenever we should meet again. ' 'I think, ' said Winifred, pulling herself up with the dignity of aqueen, 'that if you have anything important to say to me it hadbetter be at a more seasonable time than at this hour of night, andat a more seasonable place than on these sands. ' 'No, Winifred, ' said I, 'the time is _now_, and the place ishere--here on this very spot where, once on a time, you said"certumly" when a little lover asked your hand. It is now and here, Winifred, that I will say what I have to say. ' 'And what is that, sir?' said Winifred, much perplexed and disturbed. 'I have to say, Winifred, that the man does not live and never _has_lived, ' said I, with suppressed vehemence, who loved a woman as Ilove you. ' Oh, sir! oh, Henry!' returned Winifred, trembling, then standingstill and whiter than the moon. 'And the reason why no man has everloved a woman as I love you, Winifred, is because your match, oranything like your match, has never trod the earth before. ' 'Oh, Henry, my dear Henry! you _must_ not say such things to me, yourpoor Winifred. ' 'But that isn't all that I swore I'd say to you, Winifred. ' 'Don't say any more--not to-night, not to-night. ' 'What I swore I would ask you, Winifred, is this: Will you be Henry'swife?' She gave one hysterical sob, and swayed till she nearly fell on thesand, and said, while her face shone like a pearl, 'Henry's wife!' She recovered herself and stood and looked at me; her lips moved, butI waited in vain--waited in a fever of expectation--for her answer. None came. I gazed into her eyes, but they now seemed rilled withvisions--visions of the great race to which she belonged--visions inwhich her English lover had no place. Suddenly, and for the firsttime, I felt that she who had inspired within me this all-conqueringpassion, though the penniless child of a drunken organist, was adaughter of Snowdon--a representative of the Cymric race that wasonce so mighty, and is still more romantic in its associations thanall others. Already in the little talk I had had with her I began toguess what I realised before the evening was over, that owing to theinfluence of the English lady, Miss Dalrymple, who had lodged at thecottage with her, she was more than my own equal in culture, andcould have held her own with almost any girl of her own age inEngland. It was only in her subjection to Cymric superstitions thatshe was benighted. 'Winnie, ' I murmured, 'what have you to say?' After a while her eyes seemed to clear of the visions, and she said, 'What changes have come upon us both, Henry. Since that childishbetrothal on the sands!' 'Happy changes for one of the child-lovers, ' I said--'happy changesfor the one who was then a lonely cripple shut out from all sympathysave that which the other child-lover could give. ' 'And yet you then seemed happy, Henry--happy with Winnie to help youup the gangways. And how happy Winnie was! But now the child-lover isa cripple no longer: he is very, very strong--he is so strong that hecould carry Winnie up the gangways in his arms, I think. ' The thrill of natural pride which such recognition of my physicalpowers would otherwise have given me was quelled by a something inthe tone in which she spoke. 'And he is powerful in every way, ' she went on, as if talking toherself. 'He is a great rich Englishman to whom (as auntie was nevertired of saying) that childish betrothal must needs seem a dream--aquaint and pretty dream. ' 'And so your aunt said that, Winnie. How far from the truth she wasyou see to-night. ' 'Yes, she thought you would forget all about me; and yet she couldnot have felt quite confident about it, for she made me promise thatif you should not forget me--if you should ever ask me what you havejust asked--she made me promise--' 'What, Winnie? what? She did not make promise that you would refuseme?' 'That is what she asked me to promise. ' 'But you did not. ' 'I did not. ' 'No, no! you did not, Winnie. My darling refused to make any suchcruel, monstrous promise as that. ' 'But I promised her that I would in such an event wait a year--atleast a year--before betrothing myself to you. ' 'Shame! shame! What made her do this cruel thing? A year! wait for ayear!' 'She brought forward many reasons, Henry, but upon two of them shewas constantly dwelling. ' 'And what were these?' 'Well, the news of the death of your brother Frank of course reachedus in Shire-Carnarvon, and how well I remember hearing my aunt say, "Henry Aylwin will be one of the wealthiest landowners in England. "And I remember how my heart sank at her words, for I was alwaysthinking of the dear little lame boy with the language of sufferingin his eyes and the deep music of sorrow in his voice. ' 'Your heart sank, Winnie, and why?' 'I felt as if a breath of icy air had blown between us, dividing usfor ever. And then my aunt began to talk about you and your future. ' After some trouble I persuaded Winnie to tell me what was the homilythat this aunt of hers preached _à propos_ of Frank's death. And asshe talked I could not help observing what, as a child, I had onlyobserved in a dim, semi-conscious way--a strange kind of doublepersonality in Winnie. At one moment she seemed to me nothing but thedancing fairy of the sands, objective and unconscious as a younganimal playing to itself, at another she seemed the mouthpiece of thenarrow world-wisdom of this Welsh aunt. No sooner had she spoken ofherself as a friendless, homeless girl, than her brow began to shinewith the pride of the Cymry. 'My aunt, ' said she, 'used to tell me that until disaster came uponmy uncle, and they were reduced to living upon a very narrow income, he and she never really knew what love was--they never really knewhow rich their hearts were in the capacity of loving. ' 'Ah, I thought so, ' I said bitterly. 'I thought the text was, Love in a hut, with water and a crust. ' 'No, ' said Winifred firmly, 'that was not the text. She believed thatthe wolf must not be very close to the door behind which love isnestling. ' 'Then what did she believe? In the name of common-sense, Winnie, whatdid she believe?' 'She believed, ' said Winnie, her cheek flushing and her eyesbrightening as she went on, 'that of all the schemes devised by man'sevil genius to spoil his nature, to make him self-indulgent, andluxurious, and tyrannical, and incapable of understanding what theword "love" means, the scheme of showering great wealth upon him isthe most perfect. ' 'Ah, yes, yes; the old nonsense. Easier for a camel to pass throughthe eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of love. And in what way did she enlarge upon this most charitable theme?' 'She told me dreadful things about the demoralising power of richesin our time. ' 'Dreadful things! What were they, Winnie?' 'She told me how insatiable is the greed for pleasure at this time. She told me that the passion of vanity--"the greatest of all thehuman passions, " as she used to say--has taken the form ofmoney-worship in our time, sapping all the noblest instincts of menand women, and in rich people poisoning even parental affection, making the mother thirst for the pleasures which in old days shewould only have tried to win for her child. She told mestories--dreadful stories--about children with expectations of greatwealth who watched the poor grey hairs of those who gave them birth, and counted the years and months and days that kept them from thegold which modern society finds to be more precious than honour, family, heroism, genius, and all that was held precious in lessmaterialised times. She told me a thousand other things of this kind, and when I grew older she put into my hand what has been written onthe subject. ' 'Good God! Has the narrow-minded tomfoolery got a literature?' Winnie went on with her eloquent account of her aunt's doctrines, andto my surprise I found that there actually _was_ a literature of thesubject. Winnie's bright eyes had actually pored over old and long Chartisttracts translated into Welsh, and books on the Christian Socialism ofCharles Kingsley, and pamphlets on more' recent kinds of Socialism. As she went on I could not help murmuring now and then, 'Whatsurroundings for my Winnie!' 'And the result of all this was, Winnie, that your aunt asked you topromise not to marry a man demoralised by privileges and madecontemptible by wealth. ' 'That is what she wanted me to promise; but as I have said, I didnot. But I did promise to wait for a year and see what effect wealthwould have upon you. ' 'Did your aunt not tell you also that the man who marries you cannever be unmanned by wealth, because he will know that everything hecan give is as dross when set against Winnie's love and Winnie'sbeauty: Did she not also tell you that?' 'Love and beauty!' said Winnie. 'Even if a woman's beauty did notdepend for its existence upon the eyes that look upon it, I shouldwant to give more to my hero than love and beauty. I should want togive him help in the battle of life, Henry. I should want to buckleon his armour, and sharpen the point of his lance, and whet the edgeof his sword; a rich man's armour is bank-notes, and Winnie knowsnothing of such paper. His spear, I am told, is a bullion bar, andWinnie's fingers scarcely know the touch of gold. ' 'Then you agree, Winnie, with these strange views of your aunt?' 'I do partly agree with them now. Ever since I saw you to-day in thechurchyard I have partly agreed with them. ' 'And why?' 'Because already prosperity or bodily vigour or something has changedyour eyes and changed the tone of your voice. ' 'You mean that my eyes are no longer so full of trouble; and as to myvoice--how should my voice not change, seeing that it was the voiceof a child when you last listened to it?' 'It is impossible for me even now, after I have thought about it somuch, to put into words that expression in your eyes which won me asa child. All I knew at the time was that it fascinated me. And as Inow recall it, all I know is that your gaze then seemed full ofsomething which I can give a name to now, though I did not understandit then--the pathos and tenderness and yearning, which come, as Ihave been told, from suffering, and that your voice seemed to havethe same message. That expression and that tone are gone--they will, of course, never return to you now. Your life is, and will be, tooprosperous for that. But still I hope and believe that in a year'stime prosperity will not have worked in you any of the mischief thatmy aunt feared. For you have a noble nature, Henry, and to spoil youwill not be easy. You will never be the dear little Henry I loved, but you will still be nobler and greater than other men, I think. ' 'Do you really mean that my lameness was a positive attraction toyou? Do you really mean that the very change in me which I thoughtwould strengthen the bond between us--my restoration tohealth--weakens it? That is impossible, Winnie. ' She remained silent for a time, as though lost in thought, and thensaid, 'I do not believe that any woman can understand the movementsof her own heart where love is concerned. My aunt used to say I was astrange girl, and I am afraid I am strange and perverse. She used tosay that in my affections I was like no other creature in the world. ' 'How should Winifred be like any other creature in the world?' Isaid. 'She would not be Winifred if she were. But what did your auntmean?' 'When I was quite a little child she noticed that I was neglecting afavourite mavis which I used to delight to listen to as he warbledfrom his wicker cage. She watched me, and found that my attention wasall given to a wounded bird that I had picked up on the Capel Curigroad. "Winnie, " she said, "nothing can ever win your love until ithas first won your pity. A bird with a broken wing would be alwaysmore to you than a sound one!"' 'Your aunt was right, ' I said, 'as no one should know better than I. For was it not the new kind of pity shining in those eyes of yoursthat revealed to me a new heaven in my loneliness? And when mybrother Frank on that day in the wood stood over us in all the prideof his boyish strength, do I not remember the words you spoke?' 'What were they? I have quite forgotten them. ' 'You said, "I don't think I could love any one very much who was notlame. "' V I wonder what words could render that love-dream on the dear silveredsands, with the moon overhead, the dark shadowy cliffs and the oldchurch on one side, and the North Sea murmuring a love-chime on theother! Suffice it to record that Winifred, with a throb in her throat (athrob that prevented her from pronouncing her n's with the claritythat some might have desired), said 'certumly' again to Henry'ssuit, --'Certumly, if in a year's time you seek me out in themountains, and your eyes and voice show that prosperity has notspoiled you, but that you are indeed my Henry. ' And this beingsettled in strict accordance with her aunt's injunctions, she nevertried to disguise how happy she was, but told Henry again and againin answer to his importunate questions--told him with her frankcourage how she had loved him from the first in the old churchyard asa child--loved him for what she called his love-eyes; told him--ah!what did she not tell him? I must not go on. These things should notbe written about at all but for the demands of my story. And how soon she forgot that the betrothal was all on one side! Icould write out every word of that talk. I remember every accent ofher voice, every variation of light that came and went in her eyes, every ripple of love-laughter, every movement of her body, lissome asa greyhound's, graceful as a bird's. For fully an hour it lasted. Andremember, reader, that it was on the silvered sands, every inch ofwhich was associated with some reminiscence of childhood; it wasbeneath a moon smiling as fondly and brightly as she ever smiled onthe domes of Venice or between the trees of Fiesole; it was by themargin of waves whose murmurs were soft and perfumed as Winifred'sown breathing's when she slept; and remember that the girl wasWinifred herself, and that the boy--the happy boy--had Winifred'slove. Ah! but that last element of that hour's bliss is just whatthe reader cannot realise, because he can only know Winifred throughthese poor words. That is the distressing side of a task like mine. The beloved woman here called Winifred (no phantom of an idleimagination, but more real to me and dear to me than this soul andbody I call my own)--this Winifred can only live for you, reader, through my feeble, faltering words; and yet I ask you to listen tothe story of such a love as mine. 'Winnie, ' I said, 'you have often as a child sung songs of Snowdon tome and told me of others you used to sing. I should love to hear oneof these now, with the chime of the North Sea for an accompanimentinstead of the instrument you tell me your Gypsy friend used to play. Before we go up the gangway, do sing me a verse of one of thosesongs. ' After some little persuasion she yielded and sang in a soft undertonethe following verse:-- 'I met in a glade a lone little maid, At the foot of y Wyddfa the white; Oh, lissom her feet as the mountain hind, And darker her hair than the night; Her cheek was like the mountain rose, But fairer far to see, As driving along her sheep with a song, Down from the hills came she. ' [Welsh translation] 'Mi gwrddais gynt a morwynig, Wrth odreu y Wyddfa wen, Un ysgafn ei throed fel yr ewig A gwallt fel y nos ar ei phen; Ei grudd oedd fel y rhosyn, Un hardd a gwen ei gwawr; Yn canu cân, a'i defaid mân, O'r Wyddfa'n d'od i lawr. ' 'What a beautiful world it is!' said she, in a half-whisper, as wewere about to part at the cottage door, for I had refused to leaveher on the sands or even at the garden-gate. 'I should like to livefor ever, ' she whispered; 'shouldn't you, Henry?' 'Well, that all depends upon the person I lived with. For instance, Ishouldn't care to live for ever with Widow Shales, the pale-facedtailoress, nor yet with her humpbacked son, whose hump was such aconstant source of wistful wonder and solicitude to you as a child. ' She gave a merry little laugh of reminiscence. Then she said, 'But youcould live with _me_ for ever, couldn't you, Henry?' plucking a leaffrom the grape-vine on the wall and putting it between her teeth. 'For ever and ever, Winifred. ' 'It fills me with wonder, ' said she, after a while, 'the thought ofbeing Henry's wife. It is so delightful and yet so fearful. ' By this I knew she had not forgotten that look of hate on my mother'sface. She put her hand on the latch and found that the door was nowunlocked. 'But where is the fearful part of it, Winifred?' I said. 'I am not acannibal. ' 'You ought to marry a great English lady, dear, and I'm only a poorgirl; you seem to forget all about that, you silly fond boy. Youforget I'm only a poor girl--just Winifred, ' she continued. 'Just Winifred, ' I said, taking her hand and preventing her fromlifting the latch. 'I've lived, ' said she, 'in a little cottage like this with my auntand Miss Dalrymple and done everything. ' 'Everything's a big word, Winifred. What may everything include inyour case?' 'Include!' said Winifred; 'oh, everything, housekeeping and--' 'Housekeeping!' said I. 'Racing the winds with Rhona Boswell andother Gypsy children up and down Snowdon--that's been _your_housekeeping. ' 'Cooking, ' said Winifred, maintaining her point. 'Oh, what a fib, Winifred! These sunburnt fingers may have pickedwild fruits, but they never made a pie in their lives. ' 'Never made a pie! I make beautiful pies and things; and when we'remarried I'll make your pies--may I, instead of a conceited man-cook?' 'No, Winifred. Never make a pie or do a bit of cooking in _my_ house, I charge you. ' 'Oh, why not?' said Winifred, a shade of disappointment overspreadingher face. 'I suppose it's unladylike to cook. ' 'Because, ' said I, 'once let me taste something made by these tannedfingers, and how could I ever afterwards eat anything made by aman-cook, conceited or modest? I should say to that poor cook, "Whereis the Winifred flavour, cook? I don't taste those tanned fingershere. " And then, suppose you were to die first, Winifred, why Ishould have to starve, just for want of a little Winifred flavour inthe pie-crust. Now I don't want to starve, and you sha'n't cook. ' 'Oh, Hal, you dear, dear fellow!' shrieked Winifred, in an ecstasy ofdelight at this nonsense. Then her deep love overpowered her quite, and she said, her eyes suffused with tears, 'Henry, you can't thinkhow I love you. I'm sure I couldn't live even in heaven without you. ' Then came the shadow of a lich-owl, as it whisked past us towards theapple-trees. 'Why, you'd be obliged to live without me, Winifred, if I were stillat Raxton. ' 'No, ' said she, 'I'm quite sure I couldn't. I should have to come inthe winds and play round you on the sands. I should have to peep overthe clouds and watch you. I should have to follow you about whereveryou went. I should have to beset you till you said, "Bother Winnie! Iwish she'd keep in heaven. "' I saw, however, that the owl's shadow had disturbed her, and I liftedthe latch of the cottage door for her. We were met by a noise so loudthat it might have come from a trombone. 'Why, what on earth is that?' I said. I could see the look of shamebreak over Winifred's features as she said, 'Father. ' Yes, it was thesnoring of Wynne in a drunken sleep: it filled the entire cottage. The poor girl seemed to feel that that brutal noise had, somehow, coarsened _her_, and she actually half shrank from me as I gave hera kiss and left her. Wondering how I should at such an hour get into the house withoutdisturbing my mother and the servants, I passed along that same roadwhere, as a crippled child, I had hobbled on that, bright afternoonwhen love was first revealed to me. Ah, what a different love wasthis which was firing my blood, and making dizzy my brain! Thatchild-love had softened my heart in its deep distress, and widenedmy soul. This new and mighty passion in whose grasp I was, thisirresistible power that had seized and possessed my entire being, wrought my soul in quite a different sort, concentrating andnarrowing my horizon till the human life outside the circle of ourlove seemed far, far away, as though I were gazing through the wrongend of a telescope. I had learned that he who truly loves is indeedborn again, becomes a new and a different man. Was it only a fewshort hours ago, I asked myself, that I was listening to my mother'sattack upon Winifred? Was it this very evening that I was sitting inDullingham Church? How far away in the past seemed those events! And as to my mother'sanger against Winifred, that anger and cruel scorn of class which hadconcerned me so much, how insignificant now seemed this and everyother obstacle in love's path! I looked up at the moonlit sky; Ileaned upon a gate and looked across the silent fields where Winifredand I used to gather violets in spring, hedge-roses in summer, mushrooms in autumn, and I said, '_I_ will marry her; she shall bemine; she _shall_ be mine, though all the powers on earth, all thepowers in the universe, should say nay. ' As I spoke I saw that lights were flashing to and fro in the windowsof the Hall. 'My poor father is dead, ' I said. I turned and ran upthe road. 'Oh, that I could have seen him once again!' At the halldoor I was met by a servant, and learnt that, while I had beenlove-making on the sands, a message had come from the Continent withnews of my father's death. VI There was no meeting Winifred on the next night. It was decided that my uncle's private secretary should go toSwitzerland to bring the body to England. I (remembering my promiseabout the mementos) insisted on accompanying him. We started on themorrow, preceded by a message to my father's Swiss friends orderingan embalmment. Before starting I tried to see Winifred; but she hadgone to Dullingham. On our arrival at the little Swiss town, we found that the embalmmenthad been begun. The body was still in the hands of a famousembalmer--an Italian Jew settled at Geneva, the only successful rivalthere of Professor Laskowski. He was celebrated for having revivedthe old Hebraic method of embalmment in spices, and improving it bythe aid of the modern discoveries in antiseptics of Laskowski, SignerFranchina of Naples, and Dr. Dupré of Paris. This physician told methat by his process the body would, without the peculiarly-sealedcoffin used by the Swiss embalmers, last 'firm and white as Carraramarble for a thousand years. ' The people at the chalet had naturally been much astonished to findupon my father's breast a jewelled cross lying. As soon as I enteredthe house they handed it to me. For some reason or another this amulet and the curse had haunted myimagination as much as if I believed in amulets and curses, though myreason told me that everything of the kind was sheer nonsense. Icould not sleep for thinking about it, and in the night I rose frommy bed, and, opening the window, held up the cross in the moonlight. The facets caught the silvery rays and focussed them. The amuletseemed to shudder with some prophecy of woe. It was now that, for thefirst time, I began to feel the signs of that great struggle betweenreason and the inherited instinct of superstition which afterwardsplayed so important a part in my life. I then took up the parchmentscroll, and opened it and re-read the curse. The great letters inwhich the English version was printed seemed to me larger by thelight of the moon than they had seemed by daylight. We had to wait for some time in Switzerland. In a locked drawer Ifound the casket and a copy of _The Veiled Queen_. I read much in thebook. Every word I found there was in flat contradiction to my ownmode of thought. Did the shock of this dreadful catastrophe drive Winifred from mymind? No, nothing could have done that. My soul seemed, as I havesaid, to be new-born, and all emotions, passions, and sentiments thatwere not connected with her seemed to be shadowy and distant, likeante-natal dreams. It would be hypocrisy not to confess this frankly, regardless of the impression against me it may make on the reader'smind. Yet I had a real affection for my father. In spite of hisextraordinary obliviousness of my very existence till the last yearof his life, I was strongly attached to him, and his death made mesee nothing but his virtues; yet my soul was so filled with mypassion for Winifred as to have but little room for sorrow. As to mymother, her attachment to my father knew no bounds, and her grief ather bereavement knew none. A day or two before the funeral my uncle Aylwin of Alvanley arrived, and his presence was a great comfort to her. Owing to my father'sposition in the county a great deal of funereal state was considerednecessary, and there was much hurry and bustle. My uncle having known Wynne when quite a young man, beforeintemperance had degraded him, took an interest in him still. He hadcalled at the cottage as he passed along Wilderness Road towardsRaxton, and the result of this was that the organist came to speak tohim at our house upon some matter in connection with the funeralservice. My mother was greatly vexed at this. Her conduct on theoccasion alarmed me. Ever since Frank's death had made it evident notonly that I should succeed to all the property of my uncle Aylwin ofAlvanley, but that I might even succeed to something greater, to theearldom which was the glory and pride of the Aylwins, my mother hadkept a jealous and watchful eye upon me, being, as I afterwardslearned, not unmindful of the early child-loves of Winifred andmyself; and the advent to Raxton of Winifred, as a beautiful tallgirl, had aroused her fears as well as her wrath. The day of the funeral came, and the question of the casket and theamulet was on my mind. The important thing, of course, was that thematter should be kept absolutely secret. The valuables must be placedin secrecy with the embalmed corpse at the last moment, before thescrewing down of the coffin, when servants and undertakers were outof sight and hearing. My mother knew what had been my father's instructions to me, and wasdesirous that they should be fulfilled, though she scorned thesuperstition. She and I placed the casket and the scroll hearing thewritten curse upon it beneath my father's head, and hung the chain ofthe amulet around his neck, so that the cross lay with the jewelsuppermost upon his breast. Then the undertakers were called in toscrew down the coffin in my presence. My mother afterwards called meto her room, and told me that she was much troubled about the cross. The amulet being of great value, my uncle Aylwin of Alvanley hadtried to dissuade her from carrying into execution what he called'the absurd whim of a mystic'; but my mother urged my promise, andthere had been warm words between them, as my mother told me--adding, however, 'and the worst of it is, that scamp Wynne, whom your uncleintroduced into this house without my knowledge or sanction, waspassing the door while your uncle was talking, and if he did not hearevery word about the jewelled cross, drink must have stupefied himindeed. _He_ is my only fear in connection with the jewels. ' Herdislike of Wynne had made her forget for the moment the effect herwords must have upon me. 'Mother, ' I said, 'your persistent prejudice and injustice towardsthis man astonish me. Wynne, though poor and degraded now, is agentleman born, and is no more likely to violate a tomb than the bestAylwin that ever lived. ' I will not dwell upon the scene at the funeral. I saw my father'scoffin placed in the crypt that spread beneath the deserted church. It was by the earnest wish of my father that he was buried in achurch already deserted because the grip of the resistless sea wasupon it. At this very time a very large slice of the cliff behind thechurch was pronounced dangerous, and I perceived that new rails werelying on the grass ready to be fixed up, further inland than ever. VII My mother retired to her room immediately on our return to the house. My uncle stayed till just before dinner, and then left. I seemed tobe alone in a deserted house, so still were the servants, so quietseemed everything. But now what was this sense of undefined dreadthat came upon me and would not let me rest? Why did I move from roomto room? and what was goading me? Something was stirring like a blindcreature across my brain, and it was too hideous to confront. Why_should_ I confront it? Why scare one's soul and lacerate one's heartat every dark fear that peeps through the door of imagination, whenexperience teaches us that out of every hundred such dark fearsninety-nine are sure to turn out mere magic-lantern bogies? The evening wore on, and yet I _would_ not face this phantom fear, though it refused to quit me. The servants went to bed quite early that night, and when the butlercame to ask me if I should 'want anything more, ' I said 'only acandle, ' and went up to my bedroom. 'I will turn into bed, ' I said, 'and sleep over it. The idea is afigment of an over-wrought brain. Destiny would never play any man atrick like that which I have dared to dream of. Among humancalamities it would be at once the most shocking and the mostwhimsical--this imaginary woe that scares me. Destiny is merciless, but who ever heard of Destiny playing mere cruel practical jokes uponman? Up to now the Fates have never set up as humorists. Now, for aman to love, to dote upon, a girl whose father is the violator of hisown father's tomb--a wretch who has called down upon himself the mostterrible curse of a dead man that has ever been uttered--_that_ wouldbe a fate too fantastically cruel to be permitted by Heaven--by anygoverning power whose sanctions were not those of a whimsicalcruelty. ' Yet those words of my mother's about Wynne, and her suspicions ofhim, were flitting about the air of the room like fiery-eyed bats. The air of the room--ah! it was stifling me. I opened the window andleant out. But that made matters a thousand times worse, for the moonwas now at the very full, and staring across--staring atwhat?--staring across the sea at the tall tower of the old church onthe cliff, where perhaps the sin--the 'unpardonable sin, ' accordingto Cymric ideas--of sacrilege--sacrilege committed by _her_ fatherupon the grave of mine--might at this moment be going on. The body ofthe church was hidden from me by the intervening trees, and nothingbut the tall tower shone in the silver light. So intently did themoon stare at it, that it seemed to me that the inside of the church, with its silent aisles, arches, and tombs, was reflected on her disc. The moon oppressed me, and when I turned my eyes away I seemed to seehanging in the air the silent aisles of a church, through whosewindows the moonlight was pouring, flooding them with a radiance moreghastly than darkness, concentrating all its light on the chancel, beneath which I knew that my father was lying in the dark crypt witha cross on his breast. I turned for relief to look in the room, andthere, in the darkness made by the shadow of the bed, I seemed toread, written in pale, trembling flame, the words: 'LET THERE BE NO MAN TO PITY HIM, NOR TO HAVE COMPASSION UPON HIS FATHERLESS CHILDREN.... LET HIS CHILDREN BE VAGABONDS, AND BEG THEIR BREAD: LET THEM SEEK IT ALSO OUT OF DESOLATE PLACES. ' I returned to the window for relief from the bedroom. 'Now, let me calmly consider the case in all its bearings, I said tomyself, drawing a chair to the window and sitting down with my elbowsresting on the sill. 'Suppose Wynne really did overhear thealtercation between my mother and my uncle, which seems scarcelyprobable, has drink really so demoralised him, so brutalised him, that for drink he would commit the crime of sacrilege? There are nosigns of his having sunk so low as that. But suppose the crime werecommitted, what then? Do I really believe that the curse of my fatherand of the Psalmist would fall upon Winifred's pure and innocenthead? Certainly not. I do not believe in the effect of curses at all. I do not belief in any supernatural interference with the naturallaws of the universe. ' Ah! but this thought about the futility of the curse, about the follyof my father's superstitions, brought me no comfort. I knew that, brave as Winifred was as a child, she was, when confronting thematerial world, very superstitious. I remembered that as a child, whenever I said, 'What a happy day it has been!' she would not restuntil she had made me add, 'and shall have many more, ' because of herfeeling of the prophetic power of words. I knew that thesuperstitions of the Welsh hills awed her. I knew that it had beenher lot to imbibe, not only Celtic, but Romany superstitions. I knewthat the tribe of Gypsies with whom she had been thrown into contact, the Lovells and the Boswells, though superior to the rest, of theRomany race, are the most superstitious of all, and that Winifred hadbecome an object of strong affection to the most superstitious evenamong that tribe, one Sinfi Lovell. I knew from something that hadonce fallen from her as a child on the sands, when prattling aboutSinfi Lovell and Rhona Boswell, that especially powerful with her wasthe idea (both Romany and Celtic) about the effect of a dead man'scurse. I knew that this idea had a dreadful fascination for her--thefascination of repulsion. I knew also that reason may strive withsuperstition as with the other instincts, but it will strive in vain. I knew that it would have been worse than idle for me to say toWinifred, 'There is no curse in the matter. The dreaming mystic whobegot and forgot me, what curse could he call down on a soul like myWinifred's?' Her reason might partly accept my arguments; butstraightway they would be spurned by her instincts and hertraditional habits of thought. The terrible voice of the Psalmistwould hush every other sound. Her sweet soul would pine under theblazing fire of a curse, real or imaginary; her life would behenceforth but a bitter penance. Like the girl in Coleridge's poem of'The Three Graves, ' her very flesh would waste before the fires ofher imagination. 'No, ' said I, 'such a calamity as this which I dreadHeaven would not permit. So cruel a joke as this Hell itself wouldnot have the heart to play. ' My meditations were interrupted by a sound, and then by a sensationsuch as I cannot describe. Whence came that shriek? It was like acoming from a distance--loud _there_, faint _here_, and yet it seemedto come from _me_! It was as though I were witnessing some dreadfulsight unutterable and intolerable. And then it seemed the voice ofWinifred, and then it seemed her father's voice, and finally itseemed the voice of my own father struggling in his tomb. My horrorstopped the pulses of my heart for a moment, and then it passed. 'It comes from the church or from behind the church, ' I said, as theshriek was followed by an angry murmur as of muffled thunder. All hadoccurred within the space of half a second. I quickly but cautiouslyopened my bedroom door, extinguishing my light before doing so, andbegan to creep downstairs, fearing to wake my mother. My shoescreaked, so I took them off and carried them. Crossing the hall, Isoftly drew the bolts of the front door; then I passed into themoonlight. The gravel of the carriage-drive cut through my stockings, and a pebble bruised one of my heels so that I nearly fell. When Igot safely under the shadow of the large cedar of Lebanon in themiddle of the lawn, I stopped and looked up at my mother's window tosee if she were a watcher. The blinds were down, there was nomovement, no noise. Evidently she was asleep. I put on my shoes andhurried across the lawn towards the high road. I walked at a sharppace towards the old church. The bark of a distant dog or the baa ofa waking sheep was the only sound. When I reached the churchyard, Ipeered in dread over the lich-gate before I opened it. Neither Wynnenor any living creature was to be seen in the churchyard. The soothing smell of the sea came from the cliffs, making me wonderat my fears. On the loneliest coast, in the dunnest night, a sense ofcompanionship comes with the smell of seaweed. At my feet spread thegreat churchyard, with its hundreds of little green hillocks andwhite gravestones, sprinkled here and there with square, box-liketombs. All quietly asleep in the moonlight! Here and there an agedheadstone seemed to nod to its neighbour, as though muttering in itsdreams. The old church, bathed in the radiance, seemed larger than ithad ever done in daylight, and incomparably more grand and lonely. On the left were the tall poplar trees, rustling and whispering amongthemselves. Still, there might be at the back of the church mischiefworking. I walked round thither. The ghostly shadows on the longgrass might have been shadows thrown by the ruins of Tadmor, soquietly did they lie and dream. A weight was uplifted from my soul. A balm of sweet peace fell upon my heart. The noises I had heard hadbeen imaginary, conjured up by love and fear; or they might have beenan echo of distant thunder. The windows of the church no doubt lookedghastly, as I peered in to see whether Wynne's lantern was movingabout. But all was still. I lingered in the churchyard close by thespot where I had first seen the child Winifred and heard the Welshsong. I went to look at the sea from the cliff. Here, however, there wassomething sensational at last. The spot where years ago I had satwhen Winifred's song had struck upon my ear and awoke me to a newlife--_was gone_! 'This then was the noise I heard, ' I said; 'therumbling was the falling of the earth; the shriek was the tearingdown of trees. ' Another slice, a slice weighing thousands of tons, had slipped sincethe afternoon from the churchyard on to the sands below. 'Perhaps thetread of the townspeople who came to witness the funeral may havegiven the last shake to the soil, ' I said. I stood and looked over the newly-made gap at the great hungry water. Considering the little wind, the swell on the North Sea wastremendous. Far away there had been a storm somewhere. The moon waslaying a band of living light across the vast bosom of the sea, likea girdle. Only a month had elapsed since that never-to-be-forgottenmoonlight walk with Winifred. But what a world of emotion since then! VIII I walked along the cliff to the gangway behind Flinty Point, anddescended in order to see what havoc the landslip had made with thegraves. I looked across the same moonlit sands where I had seen Winifred soshort a time before, when I had a father. To my delight and surprise, there she was again. There was Winifred, walking thoughtfully towardsChurch Cove with Snap by her side, who seemed equally thoughtful andsedate. The relief of finding that my fears about her father weregroundless added to my joy at seeing her. With my own dead fatherlying within a few roods of me, I ran towards her in a state of highexhilaration, forgetting everything but her. With sympathetic looksfor my bereavement she met me, and we walked hand-in-hand in silence. After a little while she said: 'My father told me he was very busyto-night, and wished me to come on the sands for a walk, but I littlehoped to meet you; I am very pleased we have met, for to-morrow I amgoing to London. ' 'To London?' I said, in dismay at the thought of losing her so soon. 'Why are you going to London. Winnie?' 'Oh, ' said she, with the same innocent look of business-likeimportance which, at our first meeting as children, had so impressedme when she pulled out the key to open the church door, 'I'm going onbusiness. ' 'On business! And how long do you stay?' 'I don't stay at all; I'm coming back immediately. ' 'Come, ' I exclaimed, 'there's a little comfort in that, at least. Snap and I can wait for one day. ' 'Good-night, ' said Winifred. 'Have you not seen the great landslip at the churchyard?' I asked, taking her hand and pointing to the new promontory which the _débris_of the fall had made. 'Another landslip?' said she. 'Poor dear old churchyard, it will soonall be gone! Snap and I must have been far away when that fell. But Iremember saying to him, 'Hark at the thunder. Snap!' and then I hearda sound like a shriek that appalled me. It recalled a sound I onceheard in Shire-Carnarvon. ' 'What was it, Winnie?' 'You've heard me when I was a little girl talk of my Gypsy sisterSinfi?' 'Often, ' I said. 'She loves me more than anybody else in the whole world, ' saidWinifred simply. 'She says she would lay down her life for me, and Ireally believe she would. Well, there is not far from where I used tolive a famous cascade called the Swallow Falls, where the water dropsdown a chasm of great depth. If you listen to the noise of thecataract, you may hear mingled with it a peculiar kind of wail asfrom a man in great agony. It is said to be the wail of a Sir JohnWynn, of Gwydir, whose spirit is under a curse, and is imprisoned atthe bottom of the falls on account of his cruelty and misdeeds onearth. On those rare nights when the full moon shines down thechasm, the wail becomes an agonised shriek. Once on a brightmoonlight night Sinfi and I went to see these falls. The moonlight onthe cascade had exactly the same supernatural appearance that it hasnow falling upon these billows. Sinfi sings some of our Welsh songs, and accompanies herself on a peculiar obsolete Welsh instrumentcalled a crwth, which she always carries with her. While we werelistening to the cataract and what she called the Wynn wail, shebegan to sing the wild old air. Then at once the wail sprang into aloud shriek; Sinfi said the shriek of a cursed spirit; and theshriek was exactly like the sound I heard from the cliffs a littlewhile ago. ' 'I heard the same noise, Winnie. It was simply the rending andcracking of the poor churchyard trees as they fell. ' She turned back with me to the water-mark to see the waves cometumbling in beneath the moon. We sauntered along the sea-marginagain, heedless of the passage of time. And again (as on that betrothal night) Winifred prattled on, while I listened to the prattle, craftily throwing in a word or two, now and then, to direct the course of the sweet music into suchchannels as best pleased my lordly whim, --when suddenly, against mywill and reason, there came into my mind that idea of the sea'sprophecy which was so familiar to my childhood, but which my studieshad now made me despise. The sea then threw up to Winifred's feet a piece of seaweed. It was along band of common weed, that would in the sunlight have shone abright red. And at that very moment--right across the sparkling barthe moon had laid over the sea--there passed, without any cloud tocast it, a shadow. And my father's description of his love-tragedyhaunted me, I knew not why. And right across my life, dividing it intwain like a burn-scar, came and lay for ever that strip of redseaweed. Why did my father's description of his own love-tragedyhaunt me? Before recalling the words that had fallen from my father inSwitzerland, I was a boy: in a few minutes afterwards, I was a manwith an awful knowledge of Destiny in my eyes--a man struggling withcalamity, and fainting in the grip of dread. My manhood, I say, datesfrom the throwing up of that strip of seaweed. Winifred picked up theweed and made a necklace of it, in the old childish way, knowing howmuch it would please me. 'Isn't it a lovely colour?' she said, as it glistened in themoonlight. 'Isn't it just as beautiful and just as precious as if itwere really made of the jewels it seems to rival?' 'It is as red as the reddest ruby, ' I replied, putting out my handand grasping the slippery substance. 'Would you believe, ' said Winnie, 'that I never saw a ruby in mylife? And now I particularly want to know all about rubies. ' 'Why do you want particularly to know?' 'Because, ' said Winifred, 'my father, when he wished me to come outfor a walk, had been talking a great deal about rubies. ' 'Your father had been talking about rubies, Winifred--how very odd!' 'Yes, ' said Winifred, 'and he talked about diamonds too. ' 'THE CURSE!' I murmured, and clasped her to my breast. 'Kiss me, Winifred!' There had come a bite of sudden fire at my heart, and I shudderedwith a dreadful knowledge, like the captain of an unarmed ship, who, while the unconscious landsmen on board are gaily scrutinising a sailthat like a speck has appeared on the horizon, shudders with theknowledge of what the speck is, and hears in imagination the yells, and sees the knives, of the Lascar pirates just starting in pursuit. As I took in the import of those innocent words, falling fromWinifred's bright lips, falling as unconsciously as water-drops overa coral reef in tropical seas alive with the eyes of a thousandsharks, my skin seemed to roughen with dread, and my hair began tostir. At first she resisted my movement, but looking in my eyes and seeingthat something had deeply disturbed me, she let me kiss her. 'Whatdid you say, Henry?' 'That I love you so, Winnie, and cannot let you go just yet. ' 'What a dear fellow it is!' she said; 'and all this ado about a poorgirl with scarcely shoes to her feet. ' Then, after an instant'spause, she said: 'But I thought you said something very different. Ithought you said something about a curse, and _that_ scared me. ' 'Scared Winifred!' I said. 'Fancy anything scaring Winnie, whothreatens to hit people when they offend her. ' 'Ah! but I am scared, ' said she, 'at things from the other world, andespecially at a curse. ' 'Why, what do you know about curses, Winifred?' 'Oh, a good deal. I have never forgotten that shriek of a cursedspirit which I heard at the Swallow Falls. And only a short time agoSinfi Lovell nearly frightened me to death by a story of a wholeGypsy tribe having withered, one after the other--grandfathers, fathers, and children--through a dead man's curse. But what is thematter with you, Henry? You surely have turned very pale!' 'Well, Winnie, ' said I, 'I _am_ a little, just a little faint. Afterthe funeral I could take no dinner. But it will he over in a minute. Let us go back a few yards and sit down upon the dry sand, and havea little more chat. ' We went and sat down, and my heart slowly resumed its function. 'Let me see, Winnie, what were we talking about? About rubies anddiamonds, I think, were we not? You said that when your father badeyou come out for a walk to-night, he had just been talking aboutrubies and diamonds. What was he saying about them, Winnie? But comeand lay your head here while you tell me; lay it on my breast, Winnie, as you used to do in Graylingham Wood, and on these samesands. ' Evidently the earnestness of my manner and the suppressed passion inmy voice drove out of her mind all her wise saws about the perils ofwealth and all her wise determinations about the postponed betrothal, for she came and sat by my side and laid her head upon my breast. 'Yes. Like _that_, ' I said; 'and now tell me what your father wassaying about precious stones; for I, too, take an interest in jewels, and have a great knowledge of them. ' 'My father, ' said Winifred, 'is going to have some diamonds andrubies given to him to-night by a friend of his, a sailor, who hascome from India, and I am to go to London to-morrow to sell some ofthem; for you know, dear, we are very poor. That is why I amdetermined to go back to Shire-Carnarvon and see if I can get asituation as governess. Miss Dalrymple's recommendation will be ofgreat aid. Poverty afflicts father more than it afflicts most people, and the rubies and diamonds and things will be of no use to us, youknow. ' I could make her no answer. 'It seems a very strange kind of present from my father's friend, 'she continued, meditatively; 'but it is a very kind one for all that. But, Henry, you surely are still very unwell; your heart is thumpingunderneath my ear like a fire-engine. ' 'They are all love-thumps for Winifred, ' I said, with pretendedjocosity; 'they are all love-thumps for my Winnie. ' 'But of course, ' said she, 'this is quite a secret about the preciousstones. My father enjoined me to tell no one, because the temptationto people is so great, and the cottage might be robbed, or I might bewaylaid going to London. But of course I may tell you; he neverthought of _you_. ' 'No, Winnie, he never thought of me. You are very fond of him; veryfond of your father, are you not?' 'Oh yes, ' said she, 'I love him more than all the world--next toyou. ' 'Then he is kind to you, Winnie?' 'Ye--yes, as kind as he canbe--considering--' 'Considering what, Winnie?' 'Considering that he's often--unwell, you know. ' 'Winnie. ' I said, as I gazed in the innocent eyes, 'whom are youconsidered to be the most like, your father or your mother?' 'I never knew my mother, but I am said to be partly like her. Why doyou ask?' 'Only an idle question. You love me, Winnie?' 'What a question!' 'And you will do what I ask you to do, if I ask you very earnestly, Winnie?' 'Certumly, ' said Winifred, giving, with a forced laugh, the lisp withwhich that word had been given on a now famous occasion. 'Well, Winifred, I told you that I feel an interest in preciousstones, and have some knowledge of them. There are certain stones towhich I have the greatest antipathy: diamonds and rubies are thechief of these. Now I want you to promise that diamonds and rubies and beryls shallnever touch these fingers, these dear fingers, Winnie, which aremine, you know; they are mine now, ' and I drew the smooth nailsslowly along my lips. 'You are mine now, every bit. ' 'Every bit, ' said Winifred, but she looked perplexed. She saw, however, by my face that, for some reason or other, I wasdeeply in earnest. She gave the promise. And I knew at least thatthose fingers would not be polluted, come what would. As to her goingto London with the spoil, I knew how to prevent that. But what course of action was I now to take? At this very momentperhaps Winifred's father was violating my father's tomb, unlessindeed the crime might even yet he prevented. There was one hope, however. The drunken scoundrel whose daughter was my world I knew tobe a procrastinator in everything. His crime might, even yet, be onlya crime in intent; and, if so, I could prevent it easily enough. Myfirst business was to hurry to the church, and, if not yet too late, keep guard over the tomb. But to achieve this I must get quit ofWinifred without a moment's delay. Now Winifred's most direct path tothe cottage was the path I myself must take to the church, thegangway behind Flinty Point. Yet _she_ must not pass the church withme, lest an encounter with her father should take place. There wasthus but one course open. I must induce her to take the gangwaybehind the other point of the cove; and how was this to be compassed?That was what I was racking my brain about. 'Winifred, ' I said at last, as we sat and looked at the sea, 'I beginto fear we must be moving. ' She started up, vexed that the hint to move had come from me. 'The fact is, ' I said, 'I particularly want to go into the oldchurch. ' 'Into the old church to-night?' said Winifred, with a look ofastonishment and alarm that I could not understand. 'Yes; something was left undone there this afternoon at the funeral, and I must go at once. But why do you look so alarmed?' 'Oh, don't go into the old church to-night, ' said Winifred. I stood and looked at her, puzzled and strangely disturbed. 'Henry, ' said she, 'I know you will think me very foolish, but I havenot yet got over the fright that shriek gave me, the shriek we bothheard the moment before the landslip. That shriek was not a noisemade by the rending of trees, Henry. No, no; we both know better thanthat, Henry. ' I gave a start; for, try as I would, I had not really succeeded inpersuading myself that what I had heard was anything but a humanvoice in terror or in pain. 'What do you think the noise was, then?' said I. 'I don't know; but I know what I felt as it came shuddering along thesand, and then went wailing over the sea. ' 'What did you feel, Winnie?' 'My heart stood still, for it seemed to me to be the call from thegrave. ' 'The call from the grave! and pray what is that? I feel how sadly myeducation has been neglected. ' 'Don't scoff, Henry. It is said that when the fate of an old familyis at stake, there will sometimes come to him who represents it acall from the grave, and when I saw Snap standing stock still, hishair bristling with terror, I knew that it was no earthly shriek. Ifelt sure it was a call from the grave, and I knelt on the sands andprayed. Henry, Henry, don't go in the church to-night. ' That Winifred's words affected me profoundly I need not say. Theshriek, whatever it was, had been responded to by her soul and bymine in the same mysterious way. But the important thing to do was toprevent her from imagining that her superstitious terrors hadaffected me. 'Really, Winnie, ' I said, 'this double-voiced shriek of yours, whichis at once the shriek of the Welshman at the bottom of the swollenfalls and the Celtic call from the grave, is the most dramatic shriekI ever heard of. It would make its fortune on the stage. But with allits power of being the shriek of two different people at once, itmust not prevent my going into the church to do my duty; so we hadbetter part here at this very spot. You go up the cliffs by NeedlePoint, and _I_ will take Flinty Point gangway. ' 'But why not ascend the cliffs together?' said Winifred. 'Why, the prying coastguard might be passing, and might wonder tosee us in the churchyard on the night of my father's funeral (hemight take us for two ghosts in love, you know). However, we need notpart just yet. We can walk on a little farther into the cove beforeour paths diverge. ' Winifred made no demur, though she looked puzzled, as we were thenmuch nearer to the gangway I had selected for myself than to thegangway I had allotted to her. IX Winifred and I were in the little horseshoe curve called 'ChurchCove, ' but also called sometimes 'Mousetrap Cove, ' because, as I havealready mentioned, a person imprisoned in it by the tide could onlyescape by means of a boat from the sea. Needle Point was at one extremity of the cove and Flinty Point at theother. In front of us, therefore, at the very centre of the cliffthat surrounded the cove, was the old church, which I was to reach assoon as possible. To reach a gangway up the cliff it was necessary topass quite out of the cove, round either Flinty Point or NeedlePoint; for the cliff _within_ the cove was perpendicular, and in someparts actually overhanging. When we reached the softer sands near the back of the cove, where thewalking was difficult, I bade Winifred good-night, and she turnedsomewhat demurely to the left on her way to Needle Point, betweenwhich and the spot where we now parted she would have to pass belowthe church on the cliff, and close by the great masses of debris fromthe new landslip that had fallen from the churchyard. This landslip(which had taken place since she had left home for her moonlightwalk) had changed the shape of the cove into a figure something likethe Greek epsilon. I walked rapidly towards Flinty Point, which I should have to doublebefore I could reach the gangway I was to take. So feverishlypossessed had I become by the desire to prevent the sacrilege, ifpossible, that I had walked some distance away from Winifred before Iobserved how high the returning tide had risen in the cove. When I now looked at Flinty Point, round which I was to turn, I sawthat it was already in deep water, and that I could not reach thegangway outside the cove. It was necessary, therefore, to turn backand ascend by the gangway Winifred was making for, behind NeedlePoint, which did not project so far into the sea. So I turned back. As I did so, I perceived that she had reached the projecting mass ofdebris in the middle of the semicircle below the churchyard, and waslooking at it. Then I saw her stoop, pick up what seemed a paperparcel, open it, and hold it near her face to trace out the lettersby the moonlight. Then I saw her give a start as she read it. Iwalked towards her, and soon reached the landslip. Evidently what sheread agitated her much. She seemed to read it and re-read it. Whenshe saw me she put it behind her back, trying to conceal it from me. 'What have you picked up, Winifred?' I said, in much alarm; for myheart told me that it was in some way connected with her father andthe shriek. 'Oh, Henry!' said she, 'I was in hopes you had not seen it. I am sogrieved for you. This parchment contains a curse written in largeletters. Some sacrilegious wretch has broken into the church andstolen a cross placed in your father's tomb. ' God!--It was the very same parchment scroll from my father's tomb onwhich was written the curse! I was struck dumb with astonishment anddismay. The whole terrible truth of the situation broke in upon me atone flash. The mysterious shriek was explained now. Wynne hadevidently broken open the tomb as soon as his daughter was out of theway. He had then, in order to reach the cottage without running therisk of being seen by a chance passenger on the Wilderness Road, blundered about the edge of the cliff at the very moment when it wasgiving way, and had fallen with it. It was his yell of despair amidthe noise of the landslip that Winifred and I had both heard. My solethought was for Winifred. She had read the curse; but where was thedead body of her father that would proclaim upon whose head the cursehad fallen? I stared around me in dismay. She saw how deeply I wasdisturbed, but little dreamed the true cause. 'Oh, Henry, ' said she, 'to think that you should have such a grief asthis; your dear father's tomb violated!' and she sat down and sobbed. 'But there is a God in heaven, ' she added, rising with greatsolemnity. 'Whoever has committed this dreadful crime against God andman will rue the day he was born:--the curse of a dead man who hasbeen really wronged no penance or prayer can cure, --so my aunt inWales used to say, and so Sinfi says;--it clings to the wrongdoer andto his children. That cry I heard was the voice of vengeance, and itcame from your father's tomb. ' 'It is a most infamous robbery, ' I said; 'but as to the curse, thatis of course as powerless to work mischief as the breath of a baby. 'And again I anxiously looked around to see where was the dead body ofWynne, which I knew must be close by. 'Oh, Henry!' said she, 'listen to these words, these awful words ofyour dead father, and the words of the Bible too. ' And she held up to her eyes, as though fascinated by it, theparchment scroll, and read aloud in a voice so awe-struck that it didnot seem to be her voice at all: '_He who shall violate this tomb, --he who shall steal this amulet, hallowed as a love-token between me and my dead wife, --he who shall dare to lay a sacrilegious hand upon this cross, stands cursed by God, cursed by love, and cursed by me, Philip Aylwin, lying here. "Let there be no man to pity him, nor to have compassion upon his fatherless children.... Let his children be vagabonds, and beg their bread: let them seek it also out of desolate places. "--Psalm cix. So saith the Lord_. Amen. ' 'I am in the toils, ' I murmured, with grinding teeth. 'What a frightful curse!' she said, shuddering. 'It terrifies me tothink of it. How hard it seems, ' she continued, 'that the childrenshould be cursed for the father's crimes. ' 'But, Winifred, they are NOT so cursed, ' I cried. 'It is all ahideous superstition: one of Man's idiotic lies!' 'Henry, ' said she, shocked at my irreverence, 'it _is_ so; the Biblesays it, and all life shows it. Ah! I wonder what wretch committedthe sacrilege, and why he had no pity on his poor innocent children!' While she was talking, I stooped and picked up the casket from whichthe letters had been forced by the fall. She had not seen it. I putit in my pocket. 'Henry, I am so grieved for you, ' said Winifred again, and she cameand wound her fingers in mine. Grieved for _me_! But where was her father's dead body? That was thethought that appalled me. Should we come upon it in the _débris_?What was to be done? Owing to the tide, there was no turning back nowto Flinty Point. The projecting debris must be passed. There was nodallying for a moment. If we lingered we should be caught by the tidein Mousetrap Cove, and then nothing could save us. Suppose in passingthe _débris_ we should come upon her father's corpse. The idea wasinsupportable. 'Thank God, however, I murmured, 'she will not even_then_ know the very worst; she will see the corpse of her father whohas fallen with the cliff, but she need not and will not associatehim with the sacrilege and the curse. ' As I picked up the letters that had been scattered from the casket, she said, 'I cannot get that dreadful curse out of my head; to think that thechildren of the despoiler should be cursed by God, and cursed by yourfather, and yet they are as innocent as I am. ' 'Best to forget it, ' said I, standing still, for I dared not movetowards the _débris_. 'We must get on, Henry, ' said she, 'for look, the tide is unusuallyhigh to-night. You have turned back, I see, because Flinty Point isalready deep in the water. ' 'Yes, ' I said, 'I must turn Needle Point with you. But as to thesacrilege, let us dismiss it from our minds; what cannot be helpedhad better be forgotten. ' I then cautiously turned the corner of the _débris_, leading herafter me in such a way that my body acted as a screen. Then my eyesencountered a spectacle whose horror chilled my blood, and haunts meto this day in my dreams. About twelve feet above the general levelof the sand, buried to the breast behind a mass of green sward fallenfrom the graveyard, stood the dead body of Wynne, amid a confusedheap of earth, gravestones, trees, shrubs, bones, and shatteredcoffins. Bolt upright it stood, staring with horribly distortedfeatures, as in terror, the crown of the head smashed by a fallengravestone. Upon his breast glittered the rubies and diamonds andberyls of the cross, sparkling in the light of the moon, and seemingto be endowed with conscious life. It was evident that he had, whilegroping his way out of the crypt, slung the cross around his neck, inorder to free his hands. I shudder as I recall the spectacle. Thesight would have struck Winifred dead, or sent her raving mad, on thespot; but she had not turned the corner, and I had just time to wheelsharply round, and thrust my body between her and the spectacle. Thedog saw it, and, foaming with terror, pointed at it. 'I beg your pardon, Winifred, ' I said, falling upon her and pushingher back. Then I stood paralysed as the full sinister meaning of the situationbroke in upon my mind. Had the _débris_ fallen in any other way Imight have saved Winifred from seeing the most cruel feature of thehideous spectacle, the cross, the evidence of her father's sacrilege. I might, perhaps, on some pretence, have left her on this side the_débris_, and turning the corner, have mounted the heap and removedthe cross gleaming in hideous mockery on the dead man's breast, andgiving back the moonbeams in a cross of angry fire. One glance, however, had shown me that before this could be done, there was awall of slippery sward to climb, for the largest portion of thechurchyard soil had broken off in one lump. In falling, it had turnedbut _half_ over, and then had slid down sideways, presenting to theclimber a facet or sward nearly perpendicular and a dozen feet high. Wedged in between the jaggy top of this block and the wall of thecliff was the corpse, showing that Wynne had been standing by thefissure of the cliff at the moment when it widened into a landslip. Nor was that all; between that part of the _débris_ where the corpsewas perched and the sand below was one of those long pools ofsea-water edged by shingles, which are common features of that coast. It seemed that Destiny or Circumstance, more pitiless than Fate andHell, determined on our ruin, had forgotten nothing. The contour of the cove; the way in which the debris had been thrownacross the path we now must follow in order to reach the only placeof egress; the way in which the hideous spectacle of Wynne and theproof of his guilt had been placed, so that to pass it without seeingit the passenger must go blindfold; the brilliance of the moon, intensified by being reflected from the sea; the fulness of the hightide, and the swell--all was complete! As I stood there with clenchedteeth, like a rat in a trap, a wind seemed to come blowing through mysoul, freezing and burning. I cursed Superstition that was slaying usboth. And I should have cursed Heaven but for the touch of Winnie'sclasping fingers, silky and soft as when I first felt them as a childin the churchyard. 'What has happened?' asked she, looking into my face. 'Only a slip of my foot, ' I said, recovering my presence of mind. 'But why do you turn back?' 'I cannot bring myself to part from you under this delicious moon, Winnie, if you will stay a few minutes longer. Let us go and sit onthat very boulder where little Hal proposed to you. ' 'But you want to go into the church, ' said Winifred, as we moved backtowards the boulder. 'No, I will leave that till the morning. I would leave _anything_till the morning, to have a few minutes longer with you on the sands. Try to imagine that we are children again, and that I am not thedespised rich man but little Hal the cripple. ' Winifred's eyes, which had begun to look very troubled, sparkled withdelight. 'But, ' said she with a sigh, as we sat down on the boulder, 'I'mafraid we sha'n't be able to stay long. See how the tide is rising, and the sea is wild. The tides just now, father says, come right upto the cliff in the cove, and once locked in between Flinty Point andNeedle Point there is no escape. ' 'Yes, darling, ' I muttered to myself, drawing her to me and buryingmy face in her bosom, 'there is one escape, only one. ' For death seemed to me the only escape from a tragedy far, far worsethan death. If she made me any answer I heard it not; for, as I sat there withclosed eyes, schemes of escape fluttered before me and were dismissedat the rate of a thousand a second. A fiery photograph of the covewas burning within my brain, my mind was absorbed in examining everycranny and every protuberance in the semicircular wall of the cliffthere depicted; over and over again I was examining thatbrain-picture, though I knew every inch of it, and knew there was notin the cliff-wall foothold for a squirrel. X The moon mocked me, and seemed to say: 'The blasting spectacle shining there on the other side of that heapof earth must be passed, or Needle Point can never be reached; andunless it is reached instantly you and she can never leave the cove. ' 'Then we will never leave it, ' I whispered to myself, jumping up. As I did so I found for the first time that her forehead had beenresting against my head; for the furious rate at which the wheels ofthought were moving left no vital current for the sense of touch, andmy flesh was numbed. 'Something has happened, ' she said. 'And why did you keep whispering"yes, yes"? Whom were you whispering to?' The truth was that, in that dreadful trance, my conscience had beensaying to me, 'Have you a right to exercise your power over this girlby leading her like a lamb to death?' and my love had replied, 'Yes, ten thousand times yes. ' 'Winifred, ' I said, 'I would die for you. ' 'Yes, Henry, ' said she, 'I know it; but what have we to do with deathnow?' 'To save you from harm this flesh of mine would rejoice atcrucifixion; to save you from death this soul and body of mine wouldrejoice to endure a thousand years of hell-fire. ' She turned pale, amazed at the delirium into which I had passed. 'To save you from harm, dear, I would, ' said I, with a quietfierceness that scared her, 'immolate the whole human race--mothers, and fathers, and children; I would make a hecatomb of them all tosave this body of yours, this sweet body, alive. ' But I could not proceed. What I had meant to say was this, -- 'And yet, Winnie, I have brought you here to this boulder to die!' But I could not say it--my tongue rebelled and would not say it. Winifred was so full of health and enjoyment of life that, courageousas she was. I felt that the prospect of certain and imminent deathmust appal her; and to see the look of terror break over her faceconfronting death was what I could not bear. And yet the thing mustbe said. But at this very moment, when my perplexity seemed direst, ablessed thought came to me--a subterfuge holier than truth. I knewthe Cymric superstition about 'the call from the grave, ' for had notshe herself just told me of it? 'I will turn Superstition, accursed Superstition itself, to account, 'I muttered. 'I will pretend that I am enmeshed in a web of Fate, anddoomed to die here myself. Then, if I know my Winifred, she will, ofher own free mind, die with me. ' 'Winnie, ' I said, 'I have to tell you something that I know mustdistress you sorely on my account--something that must wring yourheart, dear, and yet it must be told. ' She turned her head sharply round with a look of alarm that almostsilenced me, so pathetic was it. On that courageous face I had notseen alarm before, and this was alarm for evil coming to me. It shookmy heart--it shook my heart so that I could not speak. 'I felt, ' said she, 'that something awful had happened. And itaffects yourself, Henry?' 'It affects myself. ' 'And very deeply?' 'Very deeply, Winnie. ' Then, pulling from my pocket the silver casket and the parchmentscroll, I said, 'It has relation to these. ' '_That_ I felt, ' said she; 'how could it be otherwise? Oh, themiscreant! I curse him; I curse him!' 'Winifred, ' I said, 'between me and this casket, and the crossmentioned in this scroll, there is a mysterious link. The cross is anamulet, an heirloom of dreadful potency for good and ill. It has beendisturbed; it has been stolen from my father's grave, and there isbut one way of setting right that disturbance. To avert unspeakablecalamity from falling upon two entire families (the family of Aylwinand that of her to whom this amulet was given) a sacrifice isdemanded. ' 'Henry, you terrify me to death. What is the sacrifice? Oh God! OhGod!' 'My father's son must die, Winnie. ' She turned ashen pale, but struggling to be playful, she said, 'Ifear that the family of Aylwin and the family of somebody else musteven take the calamity and bear it; for I don't mean my Henry to die, let me assure both families of _that_. ' 'Ah! but, Winnie, I am under a solemn oath and pledge to bear thispenalty; and we part to-night, That shriek which so appalled you--' 'Well, well, the shriek?' said she, in a frenzy of impatience. I made no answer, but she answered herself. 'That shriek was a call to you, ' she cried, and then burst into apassion of tears. 'It _cannot_ be, ' she said. 'It cannot and shallnot be; God is too good to suffer it, ' Then she fixed her eyes uponme, and sobbed: 'Ah, it is _true_! I feel it is all true! Yes, theyare calling you, and that is why my soul answered the call. Ah, whenI saw you just now lift your head from my breast with a face grey andwizened as an old man's--when I saw you look at me, I knew thatsomething dreadful had happened. Oh, I knew, I knew! but I thought ithad happened to _me_. The love and pity in your eyes when you openedthem upon me made me think it was my trouble, and not yours, thatdisturbed you. And now I know it is yours, and you are going to die!They are calling you. Yes, you are going to let the tide drown you!Oh, my love my love!' and her grief was so acute that I knew not atfirst whether in this I had done well after all. 'Winifred, ' I said, 'you must bear this. I have always been ready totake death when it should come. I have at least had one blessed timewith Winifred on the sands--Winifred the beloved and beautifulgirl--one night, as the crown to the happy days that have been minewith Winifred the beloved and beautiful child. And that night, as wewere walking by the sea, it seemed to me that such happiness as wasours can come but once--that never again could there be a night equalto that. ' Smiles broke through her tears as she listened to me. I had struckthe right chord. 'And _I_ thought so too, ' she said. 'It was indeed a night of bliss. Indeed, indeed God has been good to us, Henry, ' and she fell into myarms again. 'And now, Winnie, ' I said, 'we must kiss and part--part for ever. ' Yes, I had struck the right chord. As she lay in my arms I felt hersoft bosom moving with a little hysterical laugh of derision when Isaid we must part. And then she rose and sat beside me upon theboulder, looking calm and fearless at the tide as it got nearer andnearer to Needle Point. 'Yes, dear, ' I said, looking in the same direction, 'you must begoing; see how the waves are surrounding the Point. You must run, Winnie--you must run, and leave me. ' 'Yes, ' said she, still gazing across to the Point, 'as you say, Imust run, but not yet, dear; plenty of time yet, ' and she smiled toherself as she used to do in the old days, when as a child she hadmade up her mind to do something. Then without another word she took her shawl from her shoulders, andpulled it out to see its length. And soon I felt her fingers stealingmy penknife from my waistcoat-pocket, and saw her deftly cut up theshawl, strip after strip, and weave it and knot it into a rope, andtie the rope around her waist, and then she stooped to tie it aroundme. It was when I felt her warm breath about my neck as she stooped overme to tie that rope, that love was really revealed to me; it wasthen, and not till then, that all my previous love for Winifredseemed as the flicker of a rushlight to Sálamán's cloak of fire; anda feeling of bliss unutterable came upon me, and the night air seemedfull of music, and the sky above seemed opening, as she whispered, 'Henry, Henry, Henry, in a few minutes you will be mine. ' But thevery confidence with which she spoke these simple words startled meas from a dream. 'Suppose, ' I thought, 'suppose my last drop of blisswith Winnie were being tasted now!' In a moment I felt like a coward. But then there came a loud crash and a thunder from behind thelandslip. 'The settlement!' I cried. 'The coming in of the tide has made thelandslip settle!' When I sat with closed eyes examining my fiery photograph, I hadcalculated the 'settlement' at the return of the tide as being amongthe chances of escape. But feeling myself to be engaged in a duelwith Circumstance (more cruel than the fiends), I believed that thesettlement would come too late for us, or even if it did not come toolate, it might not hide away the spectacle. The settlement had come;what had it done for us? This I must know at once. 'Untie the rope, ' I said; 'quick, untie the rope, there is asettlement of the landslip. ' 'But what has the settlement to do with us?' said Winnie. 'It _has_ to do with us, dear; untie the rope. It has much to do withus, Winnie, ' I said; for now the determination to save her life cameon me stronger than ever. When the rope was untied, I said, 'Wait till I call, ' and I ran roundthe corner of the _débris_. The great upright wall of earth andsward, from which had stared the body of Wynne, had fallen, hidinghim and his crime together! To return round the corner of the landslip and call Winifred was thework of an instant, and, quick as she was in answering my call, bythe time she had reached me I had thrown off my coat and boots. 'Now for a run and a tussle with the waves, Winnie, ' I said. 'Then we are not going to die?' 'We are going to live. Run; in six more returns of a wave like thatthere will he four feet of water at the Point. ' 'Come along, Snap, ' said Winifred, and she flew along the sandswithout another word. Ah, she could run!--faster than I could, with my bruised heel! Shewas there first. 'Leap in, Winnie, ' I cried, 'and struggle towards the Point; it willsave time. I shall he with you in a second. ' Winifred plunged into the tide (Snap following with a bark), andfought her way so bravely that my fear now was lest she should be outof her depth before I could reach her, and then, clad as she was, shewould certainly drown. But never tor a moment did her good senseleave her. When she was nearly waist-high she stopped and turnedround, gazing at me as I tore through the shallow water--gazing witha wistful, curious look that her face would have worn had we beenplaying. To get round the Point and pull Winifred round was no slight task, for the water was nearly up to my breast, and a woman's clothingseems designed for drowning her. Any other woman than Winifred_would_ have been drowned, and would have drowned me with her. But instraits of this kind the only safety lies in courage. 'What a night's adventures!' said Winifred, after we had turned thePoint, and were walking through the shallow water towards thegangway. We hurried towards the cottage as fast as our wet clothes wouldpermit. On reaching it we found the door unlocked, and entered. 'Father has again gone to bed, ' said Winifred, 'and left no candleburning for me. ' And without seeing her face, I knew by the tremor of the hand Iclasped that she was listening with shame for the drunken snore thatshe would never hear again. I lighted a match, which with a candle I found on a chair. 'Your father is no doubt sound asleep, ' I said; 'you will scarcelyawake him to-night?' 'Oh dear, no, ' said Winifred. 'Good-night. You look quite ill. Eversince you lifted up your head from my breast, when you were thinkingso hard, you have looked quite ill. ' Suddenly I remembered that I must be up and on the sands betimes inthe morning, to see whether the tide had washed away the fallen earthso as to expose Wynne's body. To prevent Winifred from seeing thestolen cross was now the one important thing in the world. I bade her good-night and walked towards home. XI She was right: those few minutes of concentrated agony had in truthmade me ill. My wet clothes clinging round my body began to chill menow, and as I crept into the house and upstairs to my room, my teethwere chattering like castanets. As I threw off my wet clothes and turned into bed, I was partiallyforewarned by the throbbing at my temples, the rolling fire at theback of my eyeballs, the thirst in my parched throat, that some kindof illness, some kind of fever, was upon me. And no wonder, aftersuch a night! In that awful trance, when I had sat with my face buried onWinifred's breast, not only had the physiognomy of the cove, butevery circumstance of our lives together, been photographed in mybrain in one picture of fire. When, after the concentrated agony ofthose first moments of tension, I looked up into Winifred's face, asthough awakening from a dream, my flesh had 'appeared, ' she told me, 'grey and wizened, like the flesh of an old man. ' The mental andphysical effects of this were now gathering around me and upon me. From a painful slumber I awoke in about an hour with red-heat at mybrain and with a sickening dread at my heart. 'It is fever, ' thoughtI; 'I am going to be ill; and what is there to do in the morning atthe ebb of the tide before Winifred can go upon the sands? I oughtnot to have come home at all, ' I said. 'Suppose illness were toseize me and prevent my getting there?' The dreadful thought aloneparalysed me quite. Under it I lay as under a nightmare. I scarcelydared try to get out of bed, lest I should find my fearswell-grounded. At last, cautiously and timorously, I put one leg outof bed and then the other, till at length I felt the little ridges ofthe carpet; but my knees gave way, my head swam, my stomach heavedwith a deadly nausea, and I fell like a log on the floor. As I lay there I knew that I was indeed in the grasp of fever. Inearly went crazed from terror at the thought that in a few minutes Ishould perhaps lapse into unconsciousness and be unable torise--unable to reach the sands in the morning and seek for Wynne'sbody--unable even to send some one there as a substitute to performthat task. But then whom was I to send? whom could I entrust withsuch a commission? I was under a pledge to my dead father never todivulge the secret of the amulet save to my mother and uncle. Andbesides, if I would effectually save Winifred from the harm Idreaded, the hideous sacrilege committed by her father must be kept asecret from servants and townspeople. Whom then could I send on thiserrand? At the present moment, there were but four people in theworld who knew that the cross and casket had been placed in thecoffin--my mother, my uncle, myself, and now, alas! Winifred. Mymother was the one person who could do what I wanted done. Hersagacity I knew; her courage I knew. But how could I--how dare I, broach such a matter to her? I felt it would be sheer madness to doso, and yet, in my dire strait, in my terror at the illness I wasfighting with, I did it, as I am going to tell. By this time the noise of my fall had brought up the servants. Theylifted me into bed and proposed fetching our medical man. But Iforbade them to do so, and said, 'I want to speak to my mother. ' 'She is herself unwell, sir, ' said the man to whom I spoke. 'I know, ' I replied. 'Call her maid and tell her that my businesswith my mother is very important, or I would not have dreamed ofdisturbing her; but see her I must. ' The man looked dubious, but observing my wet clothes on a chair heseemed to think that something had happened, and went to do mybidding. In a very short time my mother entered the room. I felt that mymoments of consciousness were brief, and began my story as soon as wewere alone. I told her how the sudden dread that Wynne would stealthe amulet had come upon me; I told her how I had run down to thechurchyard and discovered the landslip; I told her how, on seeing thelandslip, I had descended the gangway and found the body of Wynne, the amulet, the casket, and the written curse. But I did not tell herthat I had met Winifred on the sands. Excited as I was, I had thepresence of mind not to tell her that. As I proceeded with my narrative, with my mother sitting by mybedside, a look of horror, then a look of loathing, then a look ofscorn, swept over her face. I knew that the horror was of thesacrilege. I knew that the loathing and the haughty scorn expressedher feeling towards the despoiler--the father of her whose cause Imight have to plead; and I began to wish from the bottom of my heartthat I had not taken her into my confidence. When I got to thefinding of Tom's body, and the look of terror stamped upon his face, a new expression broke over hers--an expression of triumphant hatethat was fearful. 'Thank God at least for that!' she said. Then she murmured, 'But thatdoes not atone. ' Ah! how I regretted now that I had consulted her on a subject whereher proud imperious nature must be so deeply disturbed. But it wastoo late to retreat. 'Henry, ' she said, 'this is a shocking story you tell me. Afterlosing my husband this is the worst that could have happened tome--the violation of his sacred tomb. Had I only hearkened to my ownmisgiving about the miscreant! Yet I wonder you did not wait till themorning before telling me. ' 'Wait till the morning?' I said, forgetting that she did not knowwhat was at my heart. 'Doubtless the matter is important, Henry, ' said she. 'Still, themischief is done, the hideous crime has been committed, and the newsof it could have waited till morning. ' 'But, mother, unless my father's words are idle breath, it isimportant, most important, that the amulet should again be buriedwith him. I meant to go to the sands in the morning and wait for theebbing tide--I meant to take the cross from the breast of the deadman, and to replace it in my father's coffin. That, mother, was whatI meant to do. But I am too ill to move; I feel that in an hour orso, or in a few minutes, I shall be delirious. And then, mother! Oh, _then_!--'My mother looked astonished at my vehemence upon thesubject. 'Henry, ' she said, 'I had no idea that you felt such an interest inthe matter; I have certainly misjudged your character entirely. Andnow, what do you want me to do?' 'Nobody, ' I said, 'must know of the cross but ourselves. I want you, mother, to do what I cannot do: I want you to go on the sands andwait for the turn of the tide; I want you to take the cross fromWynne's breast, if the body should be exposed, and secure it insecret till it can be replaced in the coffin. ' '_I_ do this, Henry?' said my mother, with a look of bewilderment atmy earnestness. 'Yet there is reason in what you say, and grievous asthe task would be for me, I must consider it. ' 'But will you engage to do it, mother?' 'Really, Henry, you forget yourself, --you forget your mother too. Forme to go down to the sands and watch the ebbing of the tide, and thendefile myself by touching the body of this wretch, is a task Inaturally shrink from. Still if, on thinking it over, I find it myduty to do it, it will not be needful for me to enter into a compactwith my son that my duty to my dead husband shall be performed. Good-night. I quite think you will be better in the morning. I see nosigns myself of the fever you seem to dread, and, alas! I am not, asyou know, ignorant of the way in which a fever begins. ' She was going out of the room when I exclaimed, in sheer desperation, 'Mother, I have something else to say to you. You remember the littlegirl, the little blue-eyed girl, Wynne's daughter, who came hereonce, and you were so kind to her, so gracious and so kind'; and Iseized her hand and covered it with kisses, for I was beside myselfwith alarm lest my one hope should go. ' The sudden little laugh of bitter scorn that came from my mother'slips, the sudden spasm that shook her frame, the sudden shadow as ofnight that swept across her features, should at once have hushed myconfession. But I went on: my tongue would not stop now: I felt thatmy eloquence, the eloquence of Winifred's danger, must conquer, mustsoften even the hard pride of her race. 'And she has never forgotten your graciousness to her, mother. ' 'Well?' said my mother, in a tone whose velvet softness withered me. 'Well, mother, she is in all things the very opposite of her father. This very night she told me'--and I was actually on the verge ofrepeating poor Winifred's prattle about her resembling her mother, and not her father (for already my brain had succumbed to the forceof the oncoming fever, and the catastrophe I was dreading made of mea frank and confiding child). 'Well?' said my mother, in a voice softer and more velvety still. 'What did she tell you?' That tone ought to have convinced me of the folly, the worse thanfolly, of saying another word to her. 'But I can conquer her, ' I thought; 'I can conquer her yet. When shecomes to know all the piteousness of Winifred's case, she _must_yield. ' 'Yes, mother, ' I cried, 'she is in all things the very opposite ofTom. She has such a horror of sacrilege; she has such a dread of acrime and a curse like this; she has such a superstitious belief inthe power of a dead man's curse to cling to the delinquent'soffspring, that, if she knew of what her father had done, she wouldgo mad--raving mad, mother--she would indeed!' And I fell hack on thepillow exhausted. 'Well, Henry, and is this what you summoned me from my bed to tellme--that Wynne's daughter will most likely object to share theconsequences of her father's crime? A very natural objection, and Iam really sorry for her; but further than that I have certainly noaffair with her. ' 'But, mother, the body of her father lies beneath the _débris_ on theshore; the ebbing tide may leave it exposed, and the poor girl, missing her father in the morning, will seek him perhaps on the shoreand find him--find him with the proof of his crime on his breast, andknow that she inherits the curse--my father's curse! Oh, think of_that_, mother--think of it. And you only can prevent it. ' For a few moments there was intense silence in the room. I saw thatmy mother was reflecting. At last she said: 'You say that Wynne's daughter told you something to-night. Where didyou see her?' 'On the sands. ' 'At what hour?' 'At--at--at--about eleven, or twelve, or one o'clock. ' I felt that I was getting into a net, but was too ill to know what Iwas doing. My mother paused for awhile; I waited as the prisonertried for his life waits when the jury have retired to consult. Iclutched the bedclothes to stay the trembling of my limbs. On a chairby my bedside was my watch, which had been stopped by the sea-water. I saw her take it up mechanically, look at it, and lay it down again. In the agony of my suspense I yet observed her smallest movement. 'And in what capacity am I to undertake this expedition?' said she atlength, in the same quiet tone, that soul-quelling tone she alwaysadopted when her passion was at white-heat. 'Is it in the capacity ofyour father's wife executing his wishes about the amulet? Or is it asthe friend, protectress, and guardian of Miss Wynne?' She sat down again by my bedside, and communed withherself--sometimes fixing an abstracted gaze upon me, sometimeslooking across me at the very spot where in the shadow beside my bedI bad seemed to see the words of the Psalmist's curse written inletters of fire. At last she said quietly, 'Henry, I will undertakethis commission of yours. ' 'Dear mother!' I exclaimed in my delight. 'I will undertake it, 'pursued my mother in the same quiet tone, 'on one condition. ' 'Any condition in the world, mother. There is nothing I will not do, nothing I will not sacrifice or suffer, if you will only aid me insaving this poor girl. Name your condition, mother; you can namenothing I will not comply with. ' 'I am not so sure of that, Henry. Let me be quite frank with you. Ido not wish to entrap you into making an engagement you cannot keep. You have corroborated to-night what I half suspected when I saw youtalking to the girl in the churchyard; there is a very vigorousflirtation going on between you and this wretched man's daughter. ' 'Flirtation? 'I said, and the incongruity of the word as applied tosuch a passion as mine did not vex or wound me; it made me smile. 'Well, for her sake, I hope it is nothing more, ' said my mother. 'Inview of the impassable gulf between her and you, I do for her sakesincerely hope that it is nothing more than a flirtation. ' 'Pardon me, mother, ' I said, 'it was the word "flirtation" that mademe smile. ' 'We will not haggle about words, Henry; give it what name may pleaseyou, it is all the same to me. But flirtations of this kind willsometimes grow serious, as the case of Percy Aylwin and the Gypsygirl shows. Now, Henry, I do not accuse you of entertaining the madidea of really marrying this girl, though such things, as you know, have been in our family. But you are my only son, and I do love you, Henry, whatever may be your opinion on that point; and, because Ilove you, I would rather, far rather, be a lonely, childless woman inthe world, I would far rather see you dead on this floor, than seeyou marry Winifred Wynne. ' 'Ah! mother, the cruelty of this family pride has always been thecurse of the Aylwins. ' 'It seems cruel to you now, because you are a boy, a generous boy. You think it the romantic, poetic thing to elevate a low girl to yourown station--perhaps even to show your superiority to conventions bymarrying the daughter of the miscreant who has desecrated your ownfather's tomb. But, Henry, I know the race to which you and I belong. In five years' time--in three years, or perhaps in two--you willthank me for this; you will say: "My mother's love was not cruel, butwise. "' 'Oh, mother!' I said, '_any_ condition but that. ' 'I see that you know what my condition is before I utter it. If youwill give me your word--and the word of an Aylwin is an oath--if youwill give me your word that you will never marry Winifred Wynne, Iwill do as you desire. I will myself go upon the sands in themorning, and if the body has been exposed by the tide I will securethe evidence of her father's guilt, in order to save the girl fromthe suffering which the knowledge of that guilt would cause her, asyou suppose. ' 'As I suppose!' 'Again I say, Henry, we will not quarrel about words. ' I turned sick with despair. 'And on no other terms, mother?' 'On no other terms, ' said she. 'Oh, mercy, mother! mercy! you know not what you do. I could not livewithout her; I should die without her. ' 'Better die then!' exclaimed my mother, with an expression ofineffable scorn, and losing for the first time her self-possession;'better die than marry like that. ' 'She is my very life now, mother. ' 'Have I not said you had better die then? On no other terms will I goon those sands. But I tell you frankly what I think about thismatter. I think that you absurdly exaggerate the effect the knowledgeof her father's crime will have upon the girl. ' 'No, no; I do not. Mercy, dear mother, mercy! I am your only child. ' 'That is the very reason why you, who may some day be the heir of oneof the first houses in England, must never marry Winifred Wynne. ' 'But I don't want to be heir of the Aylwins; I don't want my uncle'sproperty, ' I retorted. 'Nor do I want the other bauble prizes of theAylwins. ' 'Providence has taken Frank, and says you must stand where youstand, ' replied my mother solemnly. 'You may even some day, shouldCyril be childless, succeed to the earldom, and then what an alliancewould this be!' 'Earldom! I'd not have it. I'd trample on the coronet. Gingerbread!I'd trample it in the mud, if it were to sever me from Winifred. ' 'You must succeed to it should Cyril Aylwin, who seems disinclined tomarry, die childless, ' said my mother quietly; 'and by that time youmay perhaps have reached man's estate. ' 'Pity, mother, pity!' I cried in despair, as I looked at the strongwoman who bore me. 'Pity upon whom? Have pity upon me, and upon the family you nowrepresent. As to all the fearful effects that the knowledge of thissacrilege will have upon the girl, _that_ is a subject upon which youmust allow me to have my own opinion. God tempers the wind to theshorn lamb, and provides thick skins for the _canaille_. What willconcern her chiefly, perhaps entirely, will be the loss of herfather, and she will soon know of that, whether she finds the body onthe sands or not. This kind of person is not nearly so sensitive asmy romantic Henry supposes. However, my condition will not bedeparted from. If you consent to give up this girl I will go on thesands; I will defile my fingers; I will secure the stolen amulet atthe ebb of the tide, should the corpse become exposed. If you will_not_ consent to give her up, there is an end of the matter, andwords are being wasted between us. ' 'Give up Winifred, mother? That is not possible. ' 'Then there is no more to be said. We will not waste our time indiscussing impossibilities. And I am really so depressed and unwellthat I must return to my room. I hope to hear you are better in themorning, and I think you will be. The excitement of this night andyour anxiety about the girl have unstrung your nerves, and you havelost that courage and endurance which are yours by birthright. ' And she left the room. But she had no sooner gone than there came before my eyes theinsupportable picture of a slim figure walking along the sandsstooping to look at some object among the _débris_, standing aghastat the sight of her dead father with the evidence of his hideouscrime on his own breast; there came the sound of a cry to 'Henry' forhelp! I beat my head against the bedstead till I was nearly stunned. I yelled and bellowed like a maniac: 'Mother, come back!' When she returned to my bedside my eyes were glaring so that mymother stood appalled, and (as she afterwards owned to me) was nearlyyielding her point. 'Mother, ' I said, 'I consent to your condition: I will give herup--but oh, save her! Let there be no dallying, let there be no risk, mother. Let nothing prevent your going upon the sands in themorning--early, quite early--and every morning at the ebbing of thetide. ' 'I will keep my word, ' she said. 'You will use the fullest and best means to save her?' 'I will keep my word, ' she said, and left the room. 'I have saved her!' I cried over and over again, as I sank back on mypillow. Then the delirium of fever came upon me, and I lay tossing asupon a sea of fire. XII Weak in body and in mind as an infant, I woke again to consciousness. Through the open window the sunlight, with that tender golden-yellowtone which comes with morning in England, was pouring between thecurtains, and illuminating the white counterpane. Then a soft breezecame and slightly moved the curtains, and sent the light and shadowsabout the bed and the opposite wall--a breeze laden with the scent Ialways associated with Wynne's cottage, the scent of geraniums. Iraised myself on my elbows, and gazed over the geraniums on thewindow-sill at the blue sky, which was as free of clouds as though itwere an Italian one, save that a little feathery cloud of a palishgold was slowly moving towards the west. 'It is shaped like a hand, ' I said dreamily, and then came thepicture of Winifred in the churchyard singing, and pointing to justsuch a golden cloud, and then came the picture of Tom Wynne reelingtowards us from the church porch, and then came everything inconnection with him and with her; everything down to the verylast words which I had spoken about her to my mother beforeunconsciousness had come upon me. But what I did _not_ know--what Iwas now burning to know without delay--was what time had passed sincethen. I called out 'Mother!' A nurse, who was sitting in the room, buthidden from me by a large carved and corniced oak wardrobe, sprang upand told me that she would go and fetch my mother. 'Mother, ' I said, when she entered the room, 'you've been?' 'Yes, ' said she, taking a seat by my bedside, and motioning the nurseto leave us. 'And you were in time, mother!' 'More than in time, ' said she. 'There was nothing to do. I haverealised, however, that your extraordinary and horrible story wastrue. It was not a fever-dream. The tomb has been desecrated. ' 'But, mother, you went as you promised to the sands in Church Cove, and you waited for the ebb of the tide?' 'I did. ' 'And you found--' 'Nothing; no corpse exposed. ' 'And you went again the next day?' 'I did. ' 'And you found--' 'Nothing. ' 'But how many days have passed, mother? How many days have I beenlying here?' 'Seven. ' 'And no sign of--of the body was to be seen?' 'None. The wretch must have been buried for ever beneath the greatmass of the fallen cliff. I went no more. ' 'Oh, mother, you should have gone every day. Think of the frightfulrisk, mother. On the very day after you ceased your visits the bodymight have been turned up by the tide, and she might have gone andseen it. ' The picture was too terrible. I fell back exhausted. I revived, however, in a somewhat calmer mood. When my mother came into the roomagain, I returned at once to the subject. I reproached her bitterlyfor not having gone every day. She listened to my reproaches inentire calmness. 'It was idle to keep repeating these visits every day, ' said she, 'and I consider that I have fully performed my part of the compact. Iexpect you to fulfil yours. ' I remained silent, preparing for a deadly struggle with the onlybeing on earth I had ever really feared. 'I have fully kept my word, Henry, ' said she, 'and have done for youmore than my duty to your father's memory warranted me in doing. ' 'But, mother, you did not do all that you promised to do; you did notprevent all risk of Winifred's finding it. She may find it even yet. ' 'That is not likely now. I have performed my part of the compact, andI expect you to perform yours. ' 'You did not use all means to save my Winifred from worse thandeath--from madness; you did not use all means to save me from dyingof self-murder or of a broken heart; and the compact is broken. Whether or not I could have kept my faith with you by breaking trothwith her, it is you who have set me free. Mother, ' I said, fiercely, 'in such a compact it must be the letter of the bond. ' 'Mean subterfuge, unworthy of your descent, ' said my mother quietly, but with one of those looks of hers that used to frighten me once. 'No, no, mother; you have not kept the letter of the bond, and I amfree. You did _not_ take the fullest and best means to save Winifred. Your compact was to save her from the risk I told you of. And, mother, mother, listen to me!' I cried, in a state of crazyexcitement now: 'in the darkest moment of my life, when I wasprostrate and helpless, you were pitiless as Pride. Listen, mother:Winifred Wynne shall be mine. Not all the Aylwins that have evereaten of wheat and fattened the worms shall prevent that. She shallbe mine. I say, she shall be mine!' 'The daughter of the man who desecrated my husband's tomb!' 'And my father's! That man's daughter shall be my wife, ' I said, sitting up in bed and looking into those eyes, bright and proud, which had been wont to make all other eyes blink and quail. 'Cursed by your father, and cursed by God--' 'That curse--for what it may be worth--I take upon my own head; thecurse shall be mine. Even if I believed the threat about the"desolate places, " I would be there; if bare-footed she had to begfrom door to door, rest assured, mother, that an Aylwin would holdthe wallet--would leave the whole Aylwin brood, their rank, theirmoney, and their stupid, vulgar British pride, to walk beside thebeggar. ' The look on my mother's face would have terrified most people. Itwould have terrified me once, but in the frenzy into which I had thenpassed, nothing would have made me quail. 'Your services, mother, are no longer needed, ' I said. 'Wynne'scorpse might have been washed up by the tide, and your compact was tobe there to see; but now, most likely, it is hidden, not under theloose fragments as I had feared, but under the great mass ofearth, --hidden for ever. ' 'But you forget, ' said my mother, 'that the amulet has to berecovered. ' 'Mother, ' I said, in the state of wild suspiciousness concerning herand her motives into which I had now passed, 'I know what your wordsimply, --that Winifred is not yet out of danger; the evidence of thecurse and the crime can be dug up. ' 'I have no wish to harm the girl, Henry. You mistake me. ' 'Then, mother, we must _not_ mistake each other in this matter, ' Isaid. 'You have alluded to the word of an Aylwin. With me, as withthe best of us, the word of an Aylwin is an oath. Wynne's corpse isnow hidden; the cross is now hidden; I give you the word of an Aylwinthat the man who digs up that corpse I will kill. I will not considerthat he is an irresponsible agent of yours; I will kill him, and hisblood shall be upon the head of her who sends him, knowing, to hisdeath. ' 'And be hanged, ' said my mother. 'Perhaps. But after her father's crime has been exposed, the firstthing for me is--to kill!' 'Why, boy, there's murder in your eyes!' said my mother, taken offher guard. 'Oh, mother, mother, can you not see that no wolf with a stolen lambin its mouth was ever more pitilessly shot down by the owner of thatlamb than any hireling wolf of yours would be shot down by me?' 'Boy, are you quite demented?' 'Listen, mother. To prevent Winifred from knowing that her father hadstolen that amulet, and so brought down upon her the curse, I wouldhave drowned her with myself in the tide. We sat waiting for the tideto drown us, when the settlement came at the last moment and buriedit away from her. Is it likely that I should hesitate to kill aclodhopper, or a score, if only to take my vengeance on you and Fate?The homicide now will be yours. ' She left, giving me a glance of defiance; but before our eyes endedthat conflict, I saw which of us had conquered. 'Hate is strong, ' I murmured, as I sank down on my pillow, 'anddestiny is strong; but oh, Winnie, Winnie--stronger than hate, andstronger than destiny and death, is love. She knows, Winnie, that thelife of the man who should dig up that corpse would not be worth anhour's purchase; she knows, Winnie, that in the court of conscienceshe alone is answerable now for what may befall; and you are safe!But poor mother! My poor dear mother, whom once I loved so dearly, was it indeed you I struggled with just now? Mother, mother, was ityou?' This interview retarded my recovery, and I had a serious relapse. The fever was a severe one. The symptoms were aggravated by thesemost painful and trying interviews with my mother, and by myincreasing anxiety about the fate of Winifred. Yet my vigorousconstitution began to show signs of conquering. Of Winifred I couldlearn nothing, save what could be gleaned from the servants inattendance, who seemed merely to have heard that Tom Wynne wasmissing, that he had probably fallen drunk over the cliff and beenwashed out to sea, and that his daughter was seeking him everywhere. As the days passed by, however, and no hint reached me that thecorpse had been found on the sands, I concluded that, when the largermass finally settled on the night of the landslip, the corpse hadfallen immediately beneath it, and was buried under the main mass. Yet, from what I had seen of the corpse's position, in the rapid viewI had of it, perched on the upright mass of sward, I did notunderstand how this could be. And so anxiety after anxiety delayed my progress. Still, on thewhole, I felt that the body would not now be dislodged by the tides, and that Winifred would at least be spared a misery compared withwhich even her uncertainty about her father's fate would be bearable. But how I longed to be up and with her! Dr. Mivart, who attended me, a young medical man of much ability whohad finished his medical education in Paris, and had lately settledat Raxton, came every day with great punctuality. One day, however, he arrived three hours behind his usual time, andseemed to think that some explanation was necessary. 'I must apologise, ' said he, 'for my unpunctuality to-day, but thefact is that, at the very moment of starting, I was delayed by one ofthe most interesting--one of the most extraordinary cases that evercame within my experience, even at the Salpêtrière Hospital, where wewere familiar with the most marvellous cases of hysteria--a seizurebrought on by terror in which the subject's countenance mimics theappearance of the terrible object that has caused it. A trulywonderful case! I have just written to Marini about it. ' He seemed so much interested in his case, that he aroused a certaininterest in me, though at that time the word 'hysteria' conveyed animpression to me of a very uncertain and misty kind. 'Where did it occur?' I asked. 'Here, in your own town, ' said Mivart. 'A most extraordinary case. Myreport will delight Marini, our great authority, as you no doubt areaware, on catalepsy and cataleptic ecstasy. ' 'Strange that I have heard nothing of it!' I said. 'Oh!' replied Mivart, 'it occurred only this morning. Some fishermenpassing below the old church were attracted, first by a shriek of apeculiarly frightful and unearthly kind, and then by some unusualappearance on the sands, at the spot where the last landslip tookplace. ' My pulses stopped in a moment, and I clung to the back of my chair. 'What--did--the fishermen see?' I gasped. 'The men landed, ' continued Mivart, --too much interested in the caseto observe my emotion, --'and there they found a dead body--the bodyof the missing organist here, who had apparently fallen with thelandslip. The face was horribly distorted by terror, the skullshattered, and around the neck was slung a valuable cross made ofprecious stones. But the most interesting feature of the case isthis, that in front of the body, in a fit of a remarkable kind, squatted his daughter--you may have seen her, an exceedingly prettygirl lately come from Wales or somewhere--and on her face wasreflected and mimicked, in the most astonishing way, the horribleexpression on the face of the corpse, while the fingers of her righthand were so closely locked around the cross--' I felt that from my mouth there issued a voice not mine--a longsmothered shriek like that which had seemed to issue from my mouth onthat awful night when, looking out of the window, I had heard thenoise of the landslip. Then I felt myself whispering 'The Curse!'Then I knew no more. XIII I had another dangerous relapse, and was delirious for two days, Ithink. When I came to myself, the first words I uttered to Mivart, whom I found with me, were inquiries about Winifred. He was loth atfirst to revive the subject, though he supposed that the effect ofhis narrative upon me had arisen partly from my weakness and partlyfrom what he called his 'sensational way' of telling the story. (Mymother had been very careful to drop no hint of the true state of thecase. ) At last, however, Mivart told me all he knew about Winifred, while I hid my face in my pillow and listened. 'In the seizures (which are recurrent) the girl, ' he said, 'mimicsthe expression of terror on her father's face. Between the paroxysmsshe lapses into a strange kind of dementia. It is as though her ownmind had fled and the body had been entered by the soul of a child. She will then sing snatches of songs, sometimes in Welsh andsometimes in English, but with the strange, weird intonation of aperson in a dream. I have known something like this to take placebefore, but it has been in seizures of an epileptic kind, very unlikethis case in their general characteristics. The mental processes seemto have been completely arrested by the shock, as the wheels of awatch or a musical box are stopped if it falls. ' He could tell me nothing about her, he said, nor what had become ofher since she had left his hands. 'The parish officer is taking his holiday, ' he added. 'I mean toinquire about her. I wish I could take her to Paris to theSalpêtrière, where Marini is treating such cases by transmittingthrough magnetism the patient's seizure to a healthy subject. ' 'Will she recover?' 'Without the Salpêtrière treatment?' 'Will she recover?' I asked, maddened beyond endurance by all thiscold-blooded professional enthusiasm about a case which was simply acase of life and death to Winnie and me. 'She may, unless the seizures become too frequent for the strength ofthe constitution. In that event, of course, she would succumb. She isentirely harmless, let me tell you. ' He told me that she was at the cottage, where some good soul wasseeing after her. 'I'll get up, ' I said, trying to rise. 'Get up!' said the doctor, astonished; 'why do you want to get up?You are not strong enough to sit in a chair yet. ' This was, alas! but too true, and my great object now was to concealmy weakness; for I determined to get out as soon as my legs couldcarry me, though I should drop down dead on the road. I gathered from the doctor and the servants that the sacrilege hadnow become publicly known, and had caused much excitement. Wynne hadevidently been slightly intoxicated when he committed it, and hadtaken no care to conceal the proofs that the grave had been tamperedwith. At the inquest the amulet had been identified and claimed by mymother. It was some days before I got out, and then I went at once to thecottage. It was a lovely evening as I walked down Wilderness Road. Itwas not till I reached the little garden-gate that I began fully tofeel how weak my illness had left me. The gate was half open, and Ilooked over into the garden, which was already forlorn and deserted. Some instinct told me she was not there. The little flower-bedslooked shaggy, grass-grown, and uncared for. In the centre, among thegeraniums, phlox-beds, and French marigolds, sat a dirty-white hen, clucking and calling a brood of dirty-white chickens. Thebox-bordered gravelled paths, which Wynne, in spite of hisdrunkenness, used to keep always so neat, were covered with leaves, shaken by the wind from the trees surrounding the garden. One of thedark green shutters was unfastened, and stood out at right-anglesfrom the wall--a token of desertion. On the diamond panes of theupper windows, round which the long tendrils of grape-vines weredrooping, the gorgeous sunset was reflected, making the glass gleamas though a hundred little fires were playing behind it. When Ireached the door, the paint of which seemed far more cracked with thesun than it had looked a few weeks before, I found on knocking thatthe cottage was empty. I did not linger, but went at once into thetown to inquire about her. In place of giving me the information I was panting for, the wholetown came cackling round me with comments on the organist and thesacrilege. I turned into the 'Fishing Smack' inn, a likely place toget what news was to be had, and found the asthmatical old landlordharanguing some fishermen who were drinking their ale on a settle. 'It's my b'lief, ' said the old man, 'that Tom was arter somethinkelse besides that air jewelled cross. I'm eighty-five year old comenext Dullingham fair, and I regleck as well as if it wur yisterdywhen resur-rectionin' o' carpuses wur carried on in the oldchurchyard jes' like one o'clock, and the carpuses sent up to Lunnonreg'lar, and it's my 'pinion as that wur part o' Tom's game, dang'im; and if I'd a 'ad _my_ way arter the crouner's quest, he'd nevera' bin buried in the very churchyard as he went and blast-phemed. ' 'Where would you 'a buried 'im, then, Muster Lantoff?' asked afisher-boy in a blue worsted jerkin. 'Buried 'im? why, at the cross-ruds, with a hedge-stake through hisguts, to be sure. If there's a penny agin' 'im on that air slate'(pointing to a slate hung up on the door) 'there must be tenshillins, dang 'im. ' 'You blear-eyed, ignorant old donkey, ' I cried, coming suddenlyupon him, 'what do you suppose he could have done with a dead body inthese days? Here's your wretched ten shillings, --for which you'd sellall the corpses in Raxton churchyard. ' And I gave him half-a-sovereign, feeling, somehow, that I was doinghonour to Winifred. 'Thankee for the money, Mister Hal, anyhow, ' said the old creature. 'You was allus a liberal 'un, you was. But as to what Tom could 'adun with the carpus, I'm allus heer'd that you may dew anythink_with_ any-think, if you on'y send it carriage-paid to Lunnon, ' I left the house in anger and disgust. No tidings could I get ofWinifred in Raxton or Graylingham. By this time I was thoroughly worn out, and obliged to go home. Myanxiety had become nearly insupportable. All night I walked up anddown my bedroom, like a caged animal, cursing Superstition, cursingConvention, and all the other follies that had combined to destroyher. It was not till the next day that the true state of the case wasmade known to me in the following manner: At the end of the townlived the widow of Shales, the tailor. Winifred and I had often, inour childish days, stood and watched old Shales, sitting cross-leggedon a board in the window, at his work, when Winifred would whisper tome, 'How nice it must be to be a tailor!' As I passed this shop I now saw that on the same board was sitting aperson in whom Winifred had taken still stronger interest. This was adiminutive imitation of the deceased, in the person of hishump-backed son, a little man of about twenty-four, who might, as faras appearance went, have been any age from twenty to eighty, with apale anxious face like his mother's. He was stitching at a coat with, apparently, the same pair of scissors by his side that used todelight us two children. Standing by the side of the board, andlooking on with a skilled intelligence shining from her pale eyes, was Mrs. Shales, with an infant in her arms--a wasted littlegrandchild wrapt in a plaid shawl, apparently smoking a chibouque, but in reality sucking vigorously at the mouthpiece of a baby'sbottle, which it was clasping deftly with its pink little fingers. Mrs. Shales beckoned me mysteriously into her shop, and then into thelittle parlour behind it, where she used to sit and watch thecustomers through the green muslin blind of the glass door, like aspider in its web. Young Shales, who left his board, followed us, andthey then gave me some news that at once decided my course of action. They told me that one morning, after her frightful shock, Winifredhad encountered Shales, who was taking, a holiday, and employing itin catching young crabs among the stones. Winifred, who had a greatliking for the hump-backed tailor, had come up to him and talked in adazed way. Shales, pitying her condition, had induced her to go homewith him; and then it had occurred to him to go and inquire at theHall what suggestion could be made concerning her at a house whereher father had been so well known. He could not see me; I was ill inbed. He saw my mother, who at once suggested that Winifred should betaken to Wales, to an aunt with whom, according to Wynne, she hadbeen living. (No one but myself knew anything of Wynne's affairs, andmy mother, though she had heard of the aunt, had not, as I thenbelieved, heard of her death. ) She proposed that Shales himselfshould contrive to take Winifred to Wales. 'She had reasons, ' shesaid, 'for wishing that Winifred should not be handed over to thelocal parish officer. ' She offered to pay Shales liberally for going. _I_, however, was to know nothing of this. Her object, of course, was to get Winifred out of my way. The aunt's address was furnishedby a Mr. Lacon of Dullingham, an old friend of Wynne's, who also, itseems, was ignorant of the aunt's death. This aunt, a sister ofWinifred's mother, named Davies, the widow of a sea captain who hadonce known better days, resided in an old cottage between Bettws yCoed and Capel Curig. Shales had found no difficulty in persuadingWinifred to go with him, for she had now sunk into a condition ofdazed stupor, and was very docile. They started on their long journey across England by rail, andeverything went well till they got into Wales, when Winifred's stuporseemed to be broken into by the familiar scenery; her wits becamealive again. Then an idea seemed to seize her that she was pursued byme, as the messenger bearing my dead father's curse. The appearanceof any young man bearing the remotest resemblance to me frightenedher. At last, before they reached Bettws y Coed, she had escaped, andwas lost among the woods. Shales had made every effort to find her, but without avail, and was compelled at last, by the demands of hisbusiness, to give up the quest. He had returned on the previousevening, and my mother had enjoined him not to tell me what had beendone, though she seemed much distressed at hearing that Winnie waslost, and was about to send others into Wales in order to find her, if possible. Shales, however, had determined to tell me, as thematter, he said, lay upon his conscience. On getting this news I went straight home, ordered a portmanteau tobe packed, and placed in it all my ready cash. Before starting I satdown to write a letter to my uncle. On hearing of my movements, mymother came to me in great agitation. In her eyes there was thathaggard expression which I thought I understood. Already she hadbegun to feel that she and she alone was responsible for whatsoevercalamities might fall upon the helpless deserted girl she had sentaway. Already she had begun to feel the pangs of that remorse whichafterwards stung her so cruelly that not all Winnie's woes, nor allmine, were so dire as hers. There are some natures that feelthemselves responsible for all the unforeseen, as well as for all theforeseen, consequences of their acts. My mother was one of these. Irose as she entered, offered her a seat, and then sat down again. She inquired whither I was going. 'To North Wales, ' I said. She stood aghast. But she now understood that grief had made me aman. 'You are going, ' said she, 'after the daughter of the scoundrel whodesecrated your father's tomb?' 'I am going after the young lady whom I intend to marry. ' 'Wynne's daughter marry my only son! Never!' I proceeded with my letter. 'I will write to your uncle Aylwin at once. I will tell him you aregoing to marry that miscreant's daughter, and he will disinherityou. ' 'In that case, mother, ' I said, rising from the table, 'I need nottrouble myself to finish my letter; for I was writing to him, tellinghim the same thing. Still, perhaps I had better send mine too, ' Icontinued. 'I should like at least to remain on friendly terms withhim, he is so good to me'; and I resumed my seat at thewriting-table. 'Henry, ' said my mother, after a second or two, 'I think you hadbetter _not_ write to your uncle; it might only make matters worse. You had better leave it to me. ' 'Thank you, mother, the letter is finished, ' I replied as I sealed itup, 'and will be sent. Good-bye, dear, ' I said, taking her hand andkissing it. 'You knew not what you did, and I know you did it for thebest. ' 'When do you return, Henry?' asked she, in a conquered and sad tone, that caused me many a pang to remember afterwards. 'That is altogether uncertain, ' I answered. 'I go to follow Winifred. If I find her alive I shall marry her, if she will marry me, unlesspermanent insanity prove a barrier. If she is dead'--(I restrainedmyself from saying aloud what I said to myself)--'I shall stillfollow her. ' 'The daughter of the scoundrel!' she murmured, her lips grey withsuppressed passion. 'Mother, ' I said, 'let us not part in anger. The sword of Fate isbetween us. When I was at school I made a certain vow. The vow wasthat I would woo and win but one woman upon earth--the daughter ofthe man who has since violated my father's tomb. I have lately made asecond vow, that, until she is found, I shall devote my life to thequest of Winifred Wynne. If you think that I am likely to be deterredby fears of being disinherited by your family, open and read myletter to my uncle. I have there told him whom I intend to marry. ' 'Mad, mad boy!' said my mother. 'Society will--' 'You have once or twice before mentioned society, mother. If I findWinifred Wynne, I shall assuredly marry her, unless prevented by theone obstacle I have mentioned. If I marry her I shall, if it soplease me and her, take her into society. ' 'Into society!' she replied, with ineffable scorn. 'And I shall say to society, "Here is my wife. '" 'And when society asks, "Who _is_ your wife?'" 'I shall reply, "She is the daughter of the drunken organist whodesecrated my father's tomb, though that concerns you not:--her ownspeciality, as you see, is that she is the flower of all girlhood. "' 'And when society rejects this earthly paragon?' 'Then I shall reject society. ' 'Reject society, boy!' said my mother. 'Why, Cyril Aylwin himself, the bohemian painter who has done his best to cheapen and vulgariseour name, is not a more reckless, lawless leveller than you. And, good heavens! to him, and perhaps afterwards to you, will come--thecoronet. ' And she left the room. III WINIFRED'S DUKKERIPEN I I need not describe my journey to North Wales. On reaching Bettws yCoed I turned into the hotel there--'The Royal Oak'--famished; for, as fast as trains could carry me, I had travelled right acrossEngland, leaving rest and meals to chance. I found the hotel full ofEnglish painters, whom the fine summer had attracted thither asusual. The landlord got me a bed in the village. A six-o'clock _tabled'hôte_ was going on when I arrived, and I joined it. Save myself, the guests were, I think, landscape painters to a man. They had beensketching in the neighbourhood. I thought I had never met so genialand good-natured a set of men, and I have since often wondered whatthey thought of me, who met such courteous and friendly advances asthey made towards me in a temper that must have seemed to them moroseor churlish and stupid. Before the dinner was over another touristentered--a fresh-complexioned young Englishman in spectacles, who, sitting next to me, did at length, by force of sheer good-humour, contrive to get into a desultory kind of conversation with me, and, as far as I remember, he talked well. He was not an artist, I found, but an amateur geologist and antiquary. His hobby was not like thatfatal antiquarianism of my father's, which had worked so muchmischief, but the harmless quest of flint implements. His talk abouthis collection of flints, however, sent my mind off to Flinty Pointand the never-to-be-forgotten flint-built walls of Raxton church. After dinner, coffee, liquors, and tobacco being introduced into thedining-room, I got up, intending to roam about outside the hotel tillbedtime; but the rain, I found, was falling in torrents. I wascompelled to return to my friend of the 'flints. ' At that moment oneof the artists plunged into a comic song, and by the ecstatic look ofthe company I knew that a purgatorial time was before me. I resignedmyself to my fate. Song followed song, until at last even my friendof the flints struck up the ballad of _Little Billee_, whoselugubrious refrain seemed to 'set the table in a roar'; but to me itwill always be associated with sickening heartache. As soon as the rain ceased I left the hotel and went to the room inthe little town the landlord had engaged for me. There, with the roarin my ears of the mountain streams (swollen by the rains), I went tobed and, strange to say, slept. Next morning I rose early, breakfasted at 'The Royal Oak' as soon asI could get attended to, and proceeded in the direction in which, according to what I had gathered from various sources, Mrs. Davieshad lived. This led me through a valley and by the side of a stream, whose cascades I succeeded, after many efforts, in crossing. After awhile, however, I found that I had taken a wrong track, and was soonwalking in the contrary direction. I will not describe that longdreary walk in a drenching rain, with nothing but the base of themountain visible, all else being lost in clouds and mist. After blundering through marshy and boggy hillocks for miles, I foundmyself at last in the locality indicated to me. Arriving at aroadside public-house, I entered it, and on inquiry was vexed to findthat I had again been misdirected. I slept there, and in the morningstarted again on my quest. I was now a long way off my destination, but had at least the satisfaction of knowing that I was on the rightroad at last. In the afternoon I reached another wayside inn, verysimilar to that in which I had slept. I walked up at once to thelandlord (a fat little Englishman who looked like a Welshman, withblack eyes and a head of hair like a black door-mat), and asked himif he had known Mrs. Davies. He said he had, but seemed anxious toassure me that he was a Chester man and 'not a Taffy. ' She had died, he told me, not long since. But he had known more of her niece, Winifred Wynne (or, as most people called her, Winifred Davies); for, said he, 'she was a queer kind of outdoor creature that everybodyknew. --as fond of the rain and mist as sensible folk are fond ofsunshine. ' 'Where did she live?' I inquired. 'You must have passed the very door, ' said the man. And then heindicated a pretty little cottage by the roadside which I had passed, not far from the lake. Mrs. Davies (he told me) had lived there withher niece till the aunt died. 'Then you knew Winifred Wynne?' I said. There was to me a romantickind of interest about a man who had seen Winifred in Wales. 'Knew her well, ' said he. 'She was a Carnarvon gal--tremenjus fond o'the sea--and a rare pretty gal she was. ' 'Pretty gal she _is_, you might ha' said, Mr. Blyth, ' a woman's voiceexclaimed from the settle beneath the window. 'She's about in theseparts at this very moment, though Jim Burton there says it's herghose. But do ghoses eat and drink? that's what _I_ want to know. Besides, if anybody's like to know the difference between WinnieWynne and Winnie Wynne's ghose, I should say it's most likely me. ' I turned round. A Gypsy girl, dressed in fine Gypsy costume, verydark but very handsome, was sitting on a settle drinking from a potof ale, and nursing an instrument of the violin kind, which she wasfondling as though it were a baby. She was quite young, not aboveeighteen years of age, slender, graceful--remarkably so, even for aGypsy girl. Her hair, which was not so much coal-black as blue-black, was plaited in the old-fashioned Gypsy way, in little plaits thatlooked almost as close as plaited straw, and as it was of anunusually soft and fine texture for a Gypsy, the plaits gave it alustre quite unlike that which unguents can give. As she sat there, one leg thrown over the over, displaying a foot which, even in theheavy nailed boots, would have put to shame the finest foot of thefinest English lady I have ever seen, I could discern that she waspowerful and tall; her bosom, gently rising and falling beneath thelayers of scarlet and yellow and blue handkerchiefs, which filled upthe space the loose-fitting gown of bright merino left open, was of abreadth fully worthy of her height. A silk handkerchief of deepblood-red colour was bound round her head, not in the modern Gypsyfashion, but more like an Oriental turban. From each ear wassuspended a massive ring of red gold. Round her beautiful, towering, tanned neck was a thrice-twisted necklace of half-sovereigns andamber and red coral. She looked me full in the face. Then came asomething in the girl's eyes the like of which I had seen in noother Gypsy's eyes, though I had known well the Gypsies who usedto camp near Rington Manor, not far from Raxton, for my kinsmanPercy Aylwin, the poet, had lately fallen in love with Winnie's earlyfriend, Rhona Boswell. It was not exactly an 'uncanny' expression, yet it suggested a world quite other than this. It was an expressionsuch as one might expect to see in a 'budding spae-wife, ' or in aRoman Sibyl. And whose expression was it that it now reminded me of?But the remarkable thing was that this expression was intermittent;it came and went like the shadows the fleeting clouds cast along thesunlit grass. Then it was followed by a look of steady self-relianceand daring. This last variation of expression was what now suddenlycame into her eyes as she said, scrutinising me from head to foot: 'Reia, you make a good git-up for a Romany-chal. Can you rokkraRomanes? No, I see you can't. I should ha' took you for the rightsort. I should ha' begun the Romany rokkerpen with you, only youain't got the Romany glime in your eyes. It's a pity he ain't got theRomany glime, ain't it, Jim?' She turned to a young Gypsy fellow who was sitting at the other endof the settle, drinking also from a pot of ale, and smoking a cuttypipe. 'Don't ax me about no mumply Gorgio's eyes, ' muttered the man, striking the leather legging of his right leg with a silver-headedwhip he carried. 'You're allus a-takin' intrust in the Gorgios, andyet you're allus a-makin' believe as you hate 'em. ' 'You say Winifred Wynne is back again?' I cried in an eager voice. 'That's jist what I _did_ say, and I ain't deaf, my rei. How shemanaged to get back here puzzles me, poor thing, for she's jist forall the world like Rhona's daddy's daddy, Opi Bozzell, what buriedhis wits in his dead wife's coffin. She's even skeared at _me_. ' 'Why, you don't mean to say Winnie's back!' cried the landlord. 'Tothink that I shouldn't have heard about Winnie Wynne bein' back. Whendid you see her, Sinfi?' 'I see her fust ever so many nights ago. I was comin' down this road, when what do I see but a gal a-kicking at the door of Mrs. Davies'semp'y house, and a-sobbin' she was jist fit to break her heart, and Isez to myself, as I looked at her--"Now, if it was possible for that'ere gal to be Winifred Wynne, she'd be Winifred Wynne, but as itain't possible for her to be Winifred Wynne, it _ain't_ WinifredWynne, and any mumply Gorgie [Footnote] as _ain't_ Winifred Wynne maykick and sob for a blue moon for all me. "' [Footnote: Gorgio, a man who is not a Gypsy. Gorgie, a woman who isnot a Gypsy. ] 'But it was Winnie Wynne, I s'pose?' said the landlord, in a statenow of great curiosity. 'It was Winnie Wynne, ' replied the Gypsy, handing her companion herempty beer-pot, and pointing to the landlord as a sign that the manwas to pass it on to him to be refilled. 'Up I goes to her, and Isays, "Why, sister, who's bin a-meddlin' with you? I'll tear thewindpipe out o' anybody wot's been a-meddlin' with you. "' When the girl used the word 'sister' a light broke in upon me. 'Are you Sinfi Lovell?' I cried. 'That jist my name, my rei; but as I said afore, I ain't deaf. Jistlet Jim pass my beer across and don't interrup' me, please. ' 'Don't rile her, sir, ' whispered the landlord to me; 'she's got thereal witch's eye, and can do you a mischief in a twink, if she likes. She's a good sort, though, for all that. ' 'What are you two a-whisperin' about me?' said the girl in a menacingtone that seemed to alarm the landlord. 'I was only tellin' the gentleman not to rile you, because you was afightin' woman, ' said the man. The Gypsy looked appeased and even gratified at the landlord'sexplanation. 'But what did Winnie Wynne do then, Sinfi?' asked the landlord. 'She turns round sharp, ' said the Gypsy; 'she looks at me as skearedas the eyes of a hotchiwitchi [Footnote] as knows he's a-bein'uncurled for the knife. "_Father!_" she cries, and away she boltslike a greyhound; and I know'd at oust as she wur under a cuss. Now, you see, Mr. Blyth, that upset me, _that_ did, for Winnie Wynne wasthe only one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, ever I liked. No offence, Mr. Blyth, it isn't your fault you was born one; but, ' continued thegirl, holding up the foaming tankard and admiring the froth as itdropped from the rim upon her slender brown hand on its way to thefloor, 'Winnie Wynne was the only one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, everI liked, and that upset me, _that_ did, to see that 'ere beautifulcretur a-grinnin' and jabberin' under a cuss. The Romanies is gittin'too fond by half o' the Gorgios, and will soon be jist like mumplyGorgios themselves, speckable and silly; but Gorgio or Gorgie, shewas the only one on 'em ever I liked, was Winnie Wynne; and when sheturned round on me like _that_, with them kind eyes o' hern (suchkind eyes _I_ never seed afore) lookin' like _that_ at me (and Iknow'd she was under a cuss)--I tell you, ' she said, still addressingthe beer, 'that it's made me fret ever since--that's what it's done!' [Footnote: Hedgehog. ] About the truth of this last statement there could be no doubt, forher face was twitching violently in her efforts to keep down heremotion. 'And did you follow her?' said the landlord. 'Not I; what was the good?' 'But what did you do, Sinfi?' 'What did I do? Well, don't you mind me comin' here one night andbuyin' a couple of blankets off you, and some bread and meat andthings?' 'In course I do, Sinfi, and you said you wanted them for the vans. ' The Gypsy smiled and said, 'I knowed she was bound to come back, soI pulls up the window and in I gets, and then opens the door and offI comes to you, as bein' the nearest neighbour, for the blankets andthings, and I puts 'em in the house, and I leaves the door uncatched, and I hides myself behind the house, and, sure enough, back shecomes, poor thing! I hears her kick, kick, kickin' at the door, andthen I hears her go in when she finds it give way. So I waits a goodwhile, till I thinks she's eat some o' the vittles and gone to sleepmaybe, and then round the house I creeps, and in the door I peeps, and soon I hears her breathin' soft, and then I shuts the door andgoes away to the place. ' [Footnote] [Footnote: Camping-place. ] 'But why didn't you tell _us_ all this, Sinfi?' asked the landlord. 'My wife would ha' went and seen arter her, and we wouldn't ha'touched a farthin' for they blankets and things, not we, Sinfi, notwe. ' 'Ah, you _would_, though, ' said the girl, ''cause I'd ha' _made_ youtake it. Winnie Wynne was the only one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, everI liked, and nobody's got no right to see arter her only me, andthat's why I'm about here _now_, if you _must_ know; but nobody'sgot no right to see arter her only me, and nobody sha'n't nuther. They might go and skear her to run up the hills, and she might dashherself all to flactions in no time. ' 'Don't take on so, Sinfi, ' said the landlord. 'When they are in thatway they allus turns agin them as they was fond on. ' 'Then you noticed as she was fond o' me, Mr. Blyth, ' said the girlwith great earnestness. 'Of course she was fond on you, Sinfi; everybody knows that. ' 'Yes, ' said the girl, now much affected, '_every_ body knowed it, _every_ body knowed as she was fond o' me. And to see her look at melike _that_--it was a cruel sight, Mr. Blyth, I can tell you. Such alook you never see'd in all your life, Mr. Blyth. ' 'Then I take it she's in the house now?' said the landlord. 'She goes prowlin' about all day among the hills, as if she wasa-lookin' for somebody; and she talks to somebody as she calls theTywysog o'r Niwl, an' I know that's Welsh for the "Prince o' theMist"; but back she comes at night. She talks to herself a good deal;and she sings to herself the Welsh gillies what Mrs. Davies larnt herin a v'ice as seems as if she wur a-singin' in her sleep, but it'svery sweet to hear it. Yesterday I crep' near her when she wasa-sittin' down lookin' at herself in that 'ere llyn where the water'sso clear, "Knockers' Llyn, " as they calls it, where her and me andRhona Boswell used to go. And I heard her say she was "cussed byHenry's feyther. " And then I heard her talk to somebody agin, as shecalled the Prince of the Mist; but it's herself as she's a-talkin'to all the while. ' 'Cursed by Henry's father! What curse could any superstitious mysticcall down upon the head of Winifred? The heaven that would answer acall of that kind would be a heaven for zanies and tomfools!' Ishouted, in a paroxysm of rage against the entire besotted humanrace. '_That_ for the curse!' I cried, snapping my fingers. '_I_ amHenry, and I am come to share the curse, if there is one. ' 'Young man, ' interposed the landlord, 'such blas-pheémous langige asthat must not be spoke here; I ain't a-goin' to have _my_ good beerturned to vinegar by blasphemin' them as owns the thunder, I can tellyou. ' But the effect of my words upon the Gypsy was that of a spark in apowder-mine. 'Henry?' she said, 'Henry? are _you_ the fine rei as she used to talkabout? Are you the fine cripple as she was so fond on? Yes, Beng tetassa mandi if you ain't Henry his very self. ' 'Don't, ' remonstrated the landlord, 'don't meddle with the gentleman, Sinfi. He ain't a cripple, as you can see. ' 'Well, cripple or no cripple, he's _Henry_. I half thought it as soonas he began askin' about her. Now, my fine Gorgio, what do you andyour fine feyther mean by cussin' Winnie Wynne? You've jist aboutbroke her heart among ye. If you want to cuss you'd better cuss me;'and she sprang up in an attitude that showed me at once that she wasa skilled boxer. The male Gypsy rose and buttoned his coat over his waistcoat. Ithought he was going to attack me. Instead of this, he said to thelandlord: '_She's_ in for a set-to agin. She's sure to quarrel with me if Iinterferes, so I'll just go on to the place and not spile sport. Don't let her kill the chap, though, Mr. Blyth, if you can anywayshelp it. Anyhows, _I_ ain't a-goin' to be called in for witness. ' With that he left the house. The Gypsy girl looked at me from head to foot, and exclaimed, 'Lucky for you, my fine fellow, that I'm a duke's chavi, an' mustn'tfight, else I'd pretty soon ask you outside and settle this off in notime. But you'd better keep clear of Mrs. Davies's cottage, I cantell you. Every stick in that house is mine. ' And, forgetting in her rage to pay her score, she picked up herstrange-looking musical instrument, put it into a bag, and stalkedout. 'She's got a queer temper of her own, ' said the landlord; 'but sheain't a bad sort for all that. She's clever, too: she's the onlywoman in Wales, they say, as can play on the crwth now since Mrs. Davies is dead, what larnt her to do it. ' 'The crwth?' 'The old ancient Welsh fiddle what can draw the Sperrits o' Snowdonwhen it's played by a vargin. I dessay you've often heard the sayin'"The sperrits follow the crwth. " She makes a sight o' money byplayin' on that fiddle in the houses o' the gentlefolk, and she's asproud as the very deuce. Ain't a bad sort, though, for all that. ' II That I determined to cultivate the acquaintance of Sinfi Lovell Ineed scarcely say. But my first purpose was to see the cottage. Thelandlord showed me the way to it. He warned me that a storm wascoming on, but I did not let that stay me. Masses of dark clouds weregathering, and there was every sign of a heavy rainstorm as I wentout along the road in the direction indicated. There was a damp boisterous wind, that seemed blowing from all pointsof the compass at once, and in a minute I was caught in a swirl ofblinding rain. I took no heed of it, however, but hurried along thelonely road till I reached the cottage, which I knew at once was theone I sought. It was picturesque, but had a deserted look. It was not till I stood in front or the door that I began to considerwhat I really intended to do in case I found her there. A heedless, impetuous desire to see her--to get possession of her--had brought meto Wales. But what was to be my course of action if I found her I hadnever given myself time to think. If I could only clasp her in my arms and tell her I was Henry, I feltthat she must, even in madness, know me and cling to me. I could notrealise that any insanity could estrange her from me if I could onlyget near her. I put my thumb upon the old-fashioned latch, and found that the doorwas not locked. It yielded to my touch, and with a throbbing of everypulse, I pushed it open and looked in. In front of me rose a staircase, steep and narrow. There wassufficient evening light to enable me to see up the staircase, and todistinguish two black bedroom doors, now closed, on the landing. Istood on the wet threshold till my nerves grew calmer. On my rightand on my left the doors of the two rooms on the ground floor wereopen. I could see that the one on my left was stripped of furniture. I entered the room on my right--a low room of some considerablelength, with heavy beams across the ceiling, which in that lightseemed black. Two or three chairs and a table were in it. There was abrisk fire, and over it a tea-kettle of the kind much favoured byGypsies, as I afterwards learnt. There was no grate, but an openhearth, exactly like the one in Wynne's cottage, where Winifred and Iused to stand in summer evenings to see the sky, and the starstwinkling above the great sooty throat of the open chimney. I nowperceived the crwth and bow upon the table. Sinfi Lovell hadevidently been here since we parted. On the walls hung a few of thosehighly coloured prints of Scriptural subjects which, at one time, used to be seen in English farm-houses, and are still the only worksof art with the Welsh peasants and a few well-to-do Welsh Gypsies whowould emulate Gorgio tastes. On the left-hand side of the room was an arched recess, in which, nodoubt, had stood at one time a sideboard, or some such piece offurniture. There was no occupant of the room, however, and I grewcalmer as I stood before the fire, which drew from my wet clothes acloud of steam. The ruddy fingers of the fire-gleam playing upon thewalls made the colours of the pictures seem bright as the tints ofstained glass. The pathetic message of those flickering rays flowedinto my soul. The red mantle of the Prodigal Son, in which he wasfeeding the swine, shone as though it had been soaked in sorrow andblood-red sin. The house was apparently empty; the tension of mypassion became for the first time relaxed, and I passed into astrange mood of pathos, dreamy, but yet acute, in which Winifred'sfate, and my mother's harshness, and my father's scarred breast, seemed all a mingled mystery of reminiscent pain. I had not stood more than a minute, however, when I was startled intoa very different mood. I thought I heard a sobbing noise, whichseemed to me to come from some one overhead, some one lying upon theboards of the room above me. I was rooted to the spot where I stood, for the sob seemed scarcely human, and yet it seemed to be hers. Anew feeling about Winifred's madness came upon me. I recalledMivart's horrible description of the mimicry. My God! what was Iabout to see? I dared not turn and go upstairs: the fire and thesinging tea-kettle were, at least, companions. But something impelledme to take the bow and draw it across the crwth-strings. Presently Ithought I heard a door overhead softly open, and this was followed bythe almost inaudible creak of a light footstep descending the stairs. With paralysed pulses I kept my eyes fixed on the half-open door, inthe certainty of seeing her pass along the little passage leadingfrom the staircase to the front door. But as I heard the dearfootsteps descend stair after stair my horror left me, and I nearlybegan to sob myself. My thoughts now were all for her safety. Islipped into the recess, fearing to take her by surprise. Soon the slim girlish figure passed into the room. And as I saw herglide along I was stunned, as though I had not expected to see her, as though I had not known the footstep coming down the stairs. With her eyes fixed on the fireplace, she brushed past me withoutperceiving me, took a chair, and sat down in front of the fire, herelbows resting on her knees, and her face meditatively sunk betweenher hands. Her sobbing bad ceased, and unless my ears deceived me, had given place to an occasional soft happy gurgle of childishlaughter. I stepped out from the shelter of my archway into the middle of theroom, dubious as to what course to pursue. I thought that, on thewhole, the movement that would startle her least would be to slipquietly out of the room and out of the house while she was in thereverie, then knock at the door. She would arouse herself then, expecting to see some one, and would not be so entirely taken bysurprise at the sight of my face as she would have been at findingme, without the slightest warning, standing behind her in the room. I did this: I slipped out at the door and knocked, gently at first, but got no answer; then a little louder--no answer; then louder andlouder, till at last I thundered at the door in a state of growingalarm; still no answer. 'She is stone deaf, ' I thought; and now I remembered having noticed, as she brushed past me, a far-off gaze in her eyes, such as somestone-deaf people show. I re-entered the house. There she was, sitting immovably before thefire, in the same reverie. I coughed and hemmed, softly at first, then more loudly, finally with such vigour that I ran the risk ofdamaging my throat, and still there was no movement of that head bentover the fire and resting in the palms of the hands. At last I made astep forward, then another, finally finding myself on the knittedcloth hearthrug beside her. I now had the full view of her profile. That she should be still unconscious of my presence wasunaccountable, for I stood at the end of the rug gazing at her. AgainI coughed and hemmed, but without producing the smallest effect. ThenI determined to address her; but I thought it would be safer to do soas a stranger than to announce myself at once as Henry. 'I beg pardon, ' I said, 'but is there any one at home?' No answer. 'Is this the way to Capel Curig? No answer. 'Will you give me shelter?' I said; and finally I gave a desperate'halloo. ' My efforts had not produced the slightest effect. I was now in astate of great agitation. That she was stone deaf seemed evident. Butwas she not in some kind of fit, though without the contortions offace Mivart had described to me--contortions which haunted me as muchas though I had seen them? I stooped down and gazed into her face. There was now no terror there, nor even sorrow. I could see in hereyes sparks of pleasure, as in the eyes of an infant when it seems tosee in the air pictures or colours to which our eyes are blind. Roundabout her cheek and mouth a little dimple was playing, exactly likethe dimple that plays around the mouth of a pleased child. Thismarvellous expression on her face recalled to me what Mivart had saidas to the form her dementia assumed between one paroxysm and another. 'Thank God, ' thought I, 'she's not in a fit: she's only deaf. ' Driven to desperation, however, I seized her shoulder and shook it. This aroused her. She started up with violence, at the same timeoverturning the chair upon which she had been sitting. She stared atme wildly. The danger of what I had done struck me now. A fortunateinspiration caused me to say, 'Tywysog o'r Niwl. ' Then there brokeover her face a sweet smile of childish pleasure. She made a gracefulcurtsey, and said, 'You've come at last; I was thinking about you allthe while. ' Shall I ever forget her expression? Her eyes were alive with lightand pleasure. It was as though Winifred's soul had fled or the soulof her childhood had re-entered and taken possession of her body. Butthe witchery of her expression no words can describe. Never had Iseen her so lovely as now. Often when a child I had seen the boatmenon the sands look at us as we passed--seen them stay in the midst oftheir toil, their dull faces brightening with admiration, as though abar of unexpected sunlight had fallen across them. In the fields Ihad seen labourers, sitting at their simple dinner under the hedges, stay their meal to look after the child--so winning, dazzling, andstrange was her beauty. And when I had first met her again, a childno longer, in the churchyard, my memory had accepted her at once asfulfilling, and more than fulfilling, all her childhood's promise. But never had she looked so bewitching as now--a poor mad girl whohad lost her wits from terror. For some time I could only keep murmuring: 'More lovely mad thansane!' 'As if I didn't _know_ the Prince!' said she. 'You who, in fineweather or cloudy, wet or dry, are there on the hills to meet me! Asif I don't know the Prince of the Mist when I see him! But how kindof you to come down here and see poor Winnie, poor lonely Winnie, athome!' She fetched a chair, placed it in front of the fire, pointed to itwith the same ravishingly childlike smile, indicating that it was forme, and then, when she saw me mechanically sit down, picked up herchair and came and sat close beside me. In a second she was lost in a reverie as profound as that from whichI had aroused her; and the only sound I heard was the rain on thewindow and the fitful gusts of wind playing around the cottage. The wind having blown open the door, I got up to shut it. Winifredrose too, and again taking hold of my hand, she looked up into myface with a smile, and said, 'Don't go; I'm so lonely--poor Winnie'sso lonely. ' As I held her hand in mine, and closed my other hand over it, Imurmured to myself, 'If God will only give her to me like this--madlike this--I will be content. ' 'Dearest, ' I said, longing to put my arm round her waist--to kiss herown passionless lips--but I dared not, lest I might frighten heraway, 'I will not leave you. I will never leave you. You shall neverbe lonely any more. ' I closed the door, and we resumed our seats. Can I put into words what passed within my soul as we two sat by thefire, she holding my hand in her own--holding it as innocently as achild holds the hand of its mother? Can I put into words my mingledfeelings of love and pity and wild grief, as I sat looking at her andmurmuring, 'Yes; if God will only give her to me like _this_, I willbe content'? 'Prince, ' said she, 'your eyes look very kind!--Sweet, sweet eyes, 'she continued, looking at me. 'The Prince of the Mist has love-eyes, 'she repeated, as she placed the seats before the fire again. Then I heard her murmur, 'Love-eyes! love-eyes! Henry's love-eyes!'Then a terrible change came over her. She sprang up and came andpeered in my face. An indescribable expression of terror overspreadher features, her nostrils expanded, her lips were drawn tightly overher teeth, her eyes seemed starting from their sockets; her throatsuddenly became fluted like the throat of an aged woman, then veinedwith knotted, cruel cords. Then she stood as transfixed, and her facewas mimicking that appalling look on her father's face which I hadseen in the moonlight. With a yell of 'Father!' she leapt from me. Then she rushed from the house, and I could hear her run by thewindow, crying, 'Cursed, cursed, cursed by Henry's father!' For an instant the movement took away my breath; but I soon recoveredand sprang after her to the door. There, in the distance, I saw her in the rain, running along theroad. My first impulse was to follow her and run her down. Butluckily I considered the effect this might have in increasing herterror, and stopped. She was soon out of sight. I wandered about theroad calling her name, and calling on Heaven to have a little pity--alittle mercy. III I decided to return to the house, but found that I had lost my way inthe obscurity and pelting rain. For hours I wandered about, withoutthe slightest clue as to where I was. I was literally soaked to theskin. Several times I fell into holes in a morass, and was up to myhips in moss and mud and water. Then I began to call out forassistance till I was hoarse. I might as well have called out on anuninhabited island. The night wore on, and the darkness grew so intense that I couldscarcely see my hand when I held it up. Every star in the heavens washid away as by a thick-pall. The darkness was positively benumbing tothe faculties, and added, if possible, to the misery I was in onaccount of Winifred. Suddenly my progress was arrested. I had fallenviolently against something. A human body, a woman! I thrust out myhand and seized a woman's damp arm. 'Winifred, ' I cried, 'it's Henry. ' 'I thought as much. ' said the voice of the Gypsy girl I had met atthe wayside inn, and she seized me by the throat with a fearful grip. 'You've been to the cottage and skeared her away, and now she's seedyou there she'll never come back; she'll wander about the hills tillshe drops down dead, or falls over the brinks. ' 'O God!' I cried, as I struggled away from her. 'Winifred! Winifred! There was silence between us then. 'You seem mighty fond on her, young man, ' said the Gypsy at length, in a softened voice, 'and you don't strike out at me for grabbin'your throat. ' 'Winifred! Winifred!' I said, as I thought of her on the hills on anight like this. 'You seem mighty fond on her, young man, ' repeated the girl's voicein the darkness. But I could afford no words for her, so cruelly was misery laceratingme. 'Reia, ' said the Gypsy, 'did I hurt your throat just now? I hope Ididn't; but you see she was the only one of 'em ever I liked, Gorgioor Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, lad or wench. I know'd her as a child, and arterwards, when a fine English lady, as poor as a church-mouse, tried to spile her, a-makin' _her_ a fine lady too, I thought she'dforget all about me. But not she. I never once called at Mrs. Davies's house with my crwth, as she taught me to play on, but outWinnie would come with her bright eyes an' say, "Oh, I'm so glad!"She meant she was glad to see me, bless the kind heart on her. An'when I used to see her on the hills, she'd come runnin' up to me, andshe'd put her little hand in mine, she would, an' chatter away, shewould, as we went up an' up. An' one day, when she heard me callin'one o' the Romany chies sister, she says, "Is that your sister?" an'when I says, "No; but the Romany chies call each other sister, " thensays she, pretending not to know all about our Romany ways, "Sinfi, I'm very fond on you, may _I_ call you sister?" An' she had sichways; an' she's the only Gorgio or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davies, as Iever liked, lad or wench. ' The Gypsy's simple words came like a new message of comfort and hope, but I could not speak. 'Young man, ' she continued, 'are you there?' and she put out her handto feel for me. I took hold of the hand. No words passed; none were needed. Never hadI known friendship before. After a short time I said, 'What shall we do, Sinfi?' 'I shall wait a bit, till the stars are out, ' said she. 'I knowthey're a-comin' out by the feel o' the wind. Then I shall walk up apath as Winnie knows. The sun'll be up ready for me by the time I getto the part I wants to go to. You know, young man, I _must_ find her. She'll never come back to the cottage no more, now she's been skearedaway from it. ' 'But I must accompany you, ' I said. 'No, no, you mustn't do that, ' said the Gypsy; 'she might take frightand fall and be killed. Besides, ' said she, 'Winifred Wynne's undera cuss; it's bad luck to follow up anybody under a cuss. ' 'But you are following her, ' I said. 'Ah, but that's different. "Gorgio cuss never touched Romany, " as mymammy, as had the seein' eye, used to say. ' 'But, ' I exclaimed vehemently, 'I _want_ to be cursed with her. Ihave followed her to be cursed with her. I mean to go with you. ' 'Young man, ' said she, 'are there many o' your sort among theGorgios?' 'I don't know and I don't care, ' said I. ''Cause, ' said she, 'that sayin' o' yourn is a fine sight liker aRomany chi's nor a Romany chal's. It's the chies as sticks to thedials, cuss or no cuss. I wish the chals 'ud stick as close to thechies. ' After much persuasion, however, I induced the Gypsy to let meaccompany her, promising to abide implicitly by her instructions. Even while we were talking the rain had ceased, and patches of starswere shining brilliantly. These patches got rapidly larger. SinfiLovell proposed that we should go to the cottage, dry our clothes, and furnish ourselves with a day's provisions, which she said acertain cupboard in the cottage would supply, and also with hercrwth, which she appeared to consider essential to the success of theenterprise. 'She's fond o' the crwth, ' she said. 'She allus wanted Mrs. Davies tolarn her to play it, but her aunt never would, 'cause when it'splayed by a maid on the hills to the Welsh dukkerin' gillie, [Footnote 1] the spirits o' Snowdon and the livin' mullos[Footnote 2] o' them as she's fond on will sometimes come and showthemselves, and she said Winnie wasn't at all the sort o' gal to feelcomfable with spirits moving round her. She larnt me it, though. It'sonly when the crwth is played by a maid on the hills that the spiritscan follow it. ' [Footnote 1: _Dukkerin gillie_, incantation song. ] [Footnote 2: _Livin' mullos_, wraiths. ] We did as Shift suggested, and afterwards began our search. Sheproposed that we should go at once to Knockers' Llyn, where she hadseen Winifred the day before sitting and talking to herself. Weproceeded towards the spot. IV The Gypsy girl was as lithe and active as Winifred herself, andvastly more powerful. I was wasted by illness and fatigue. Along therough path we went, while the morning gradually broke over the east. Great isles and continents of clouds were rolled and swirled frompeak to peak, from crag to crag, across steaming valley and valley;iron-grey at first, then faintly tinged with rose, which grew warmerand richer and deeper every moment. 'It's a-goin' to be one of the finest sunrises ever seed, ' said theGypsy girl. 'Dordi! the Gorgios come to see our sunrises, ' shecontinued, with the pride of an owner of Snowdon. 'You know this isthe only way to see the hills. You may ride up the Llanberis side ina go-cart. ' Racked with anxiety as I was. I found it a relief during the ascentto listen to the Gypsy's talk about Winifred. She gave me a string ofreminiscences about her that enchained, enchanted, and yet harrowedme. A strong friendship had already sprung up between me and mycompanion; and I was led to tell her about the cross and the curse, the violation of my father's tomb and its disastrous consequences. She was evidently much awed by the story. 'Well, ' said she, when I had stopped to look round, 'it's my beliefas the cuss is a-workin' now, and'll have to spend itself. If itcould ha' spent itself on the feyther as did the mischief, why allwell an' good, but, you see, he's gone, an' left it to spend itselfon his chavi; jist the way with 'em Gorgio feythers an' Romanydaddies. It'll have to spend itself, though, that cuss will, I'mafeard. ' 'But, ' I said, 'you don't mean that you think for her father's crimeshe'll have to beg her bread in desolate places. ' 'I do though, wusser luck, ' said the Gypsy solemnly, stoppingsuddenly, and standing still as a statue. 'And this, ' I ejaculated, 'is the hideous belief of all races in alltimes! Monstrous if a lie--more monstrous if true! Anyhow I'll findher. I'll traverse the earth till I find her. I'll share her lot withher, whatever it may be, and wherever it may be in the world. Ifshe's a beggar, I'll beg by her side. ' 'Right you are, brother, ' said the Gypsy, breaking inenthusiastically. 'I likes to hear a man say that. You're liker aRomany chi nor a Romany chal, the more I see of you. What I says toour people is:--"If the Romany chals would only stick by the Romanychies as the Romany chies sticks by the Romany chals, where 'ud theGorgios be then? Why, the Romanies would be the strongest people onthe arth. " But you see, reia, about this cuss--a cuss has to workitself out, jist for all the world like the bite of a sap. '[Footnote] [Footnote: _Sap_, a snake. ] Then she continued, with great earnestness, looking across thekindling expanse of hill and valley before us: 'You know, the verydead things round us, --these here peaks, an' rocks, an' lakes, an'mountains--ay, an' the woods an' the sun an' the sky above ourheads, --cusses us when we do anythink wrong. You may see it by theway they looks at you. Of course I mean when you do anythink wrongaccordin' to us Romanies. I don't mean wrong accordin' to theGorgios: they're two very different kinds o' wrongs. ' 'I don't see the difference, ' said I; 'but tell me more aboutWinifred. ' 'You don't see the difference?' said Sinfi. 'Well then, I do. It'swrong to tell a lie to a Romany, ain't it? But is it wrong to tell alie to a Gorgio? Not a bit of it. And why? 'Cause most Gorgios isfools and wants lies, an' that gives the poor Romanies a chance. Butthis here cuss is a very bad kind 'o cuss. It's a dead man's cuss, and what's wuss, him as is cussed is dead and out of the way, and soit has to be worked out in the blood of his child. But when she'sdone that, when she's worked it out of her blood, things'll comeright agin if the cross is put back agin on your father's buzzum. ' 'When she has done what?' I said. 'Begged her bread in desolate places, ' said the Gypsy girl solemnly. 'Then if the cross is put back agin on your feyther's buzzum, Ibelieve things'll all come right. It's bad the cusser was yourfeyther though. ' 'But why?' I asked. 'There's nobody can't hurt you and them you're fond on as your ownbreed can. As my poor mammy used to say, "For good or for ill youmust dig deep to bury your daddy. " But you know, brother, the wust o'this job is that it's a trúshul as has been stole. ' 'A trúshul?' 'What you call a cross. There's nothin' in the world so strong forcussin' and blessin' as a trúshul, unless the stars shinin' in theriver or the hand in the clouds is as strong. Why, I tell you there'snothin' a trúshul can't do, whether it's curin' a man as is bit by asap, or wipin' the very rainbow out o' the sky by jist layin' twosticks crossways, or even curin' the cramp in your legs by jistsettin' your shoes crossways; there's nothin' for good or bad atrúshul _can't_ do if it likes. Hav'n't you never heer'd o' thedukkeripen o' the trúshul shinin' in the sunset sky when the lighto' the sinkin' sun shoots up behind a bar o' clouds an' makes a kindo fiery cross? But to go and steal a trushul out of a dead man'stomb--why, it's no wonder as the Wynnes is cussed, feyther andchild. ' I could not have tolerated this prattle about Gypsy superstitions hadI not observed that through it all the Gypsy was on the _qui vive_, looking for the traces of her path that Winifred had unconsciouslyleft behind her. Had the Gypsy been following the trail with thesilence of an American Indian, she could not have worked morecarefully than she was now working while her tongue went rattling on. I afterwards found this to be a characteristic of her race, as Iafterwards found that what is called the long sight of the Gypsies(as displayed in the following of the _patrin_ [Footnote: Trail]) isnot long sight at all, but is the result of a peculiar faculty theGypsies have of observing more closely than Gorgios do everythingthat meets their eyes in the woods and on the hills and along theroads. When we reached the spot indicated by the Gypsy as beingWinifred's haunt, the ledge where she was in the habit of coming forher imaginary interviews with the 'Prince of the Mist, ' we did notstay there, but for a time still followed the path, which from thispoint became rougher and rougher, alongside deep precipices andchasms. Every now and then she would stop on a ledge of rock, and, without staying her prattle for a moment, stoop down and examine theearth with eyes that would not have missed the footprint of a rat. When I saw her pause, as she sometimes would in the midst of herscrutiny, to gaze inquiringly down some gulf, which then seemed awfulto my inexperienced eyes, but which later on in the day, when I cameto see the tremendous chasms of that side of Snowdon, seemedinsignificant enough, the circulation of my blood would seem to stop, and then rush again through my body more violently than before. Andwhile the 'patrin-chase' went on, and the morning grew brighter andbrighter, the Gypsy's lithe, catlike tread never faltered. The riseand fall of her bosom were as regular and as calm as in thepublic-house. Such agility and such staying power in a womanastonished me. Finding no trace of Winnie, we returned to the littleplateau by Knockers' Llyn. 'This is the place, ' said the Gypsy; 'it used to be called in oldtimes the haunted llyn, because when you sings the Welsh dukkeringillie here or plays it on a crwth, the Knockers answers it. I daresay you've heard o' what the Gorgios call the triple echo o' LlynDdu'r Arddu. Well, it's somethin' like that, only bein' done by theknocking sperrits, it's grander and don't come 'cept when they hearsthe Welsh dukkerin gillie. Now, you must hide yourself somewhereswhile I go and touch the crwth in her favourite place. I think she'llcome to that. I wish though I hadn't brought ye, ' she continued, looking at me meditatively; 'you're a little winded a-ready, and weain't begun the rough climbing at all. Up to this 'ere pool Winnieand me and Rhona Boswell used to climb when we was children; itneeded longer legs nor ourn to get farther up, and you're windeda-ready. If she should come on you suddent, she's liker than not torun for a mile or more up that path where we've just been and then tojump down one of them chasms you've just seed. But if she does popon ye, don't you try to grab her, whatever you do; leave me alone forthat. You ain't got strength enough to grab a hare; you ought to bein bed. Besides, she won't be skeared at me. But, ' she continued, turning round to look at the vast circuit of peaks stretching away asfar as the eye could reach, 'we shall have to ketch her to-daysomehow. She'll never go back to the cottage where you went andskeared her; and if she don't have a fall, she'll run about thesehere hills till she drops. We shall have to ketch her to-day somehow. I'm in hopes she'll come to the sound of my crwth, she's so uncommonfond on it; and if she don't come in the flesh, p'rhaps her livin'mullo will come, and that'll show she's alive. ' She placed me in a crevice overlooking the small lake, or pool, whichon the opposite side was enclosed in a gorge, opening only by a cleftto the east. Then she unburdened herself of a wallet containing thebreakfast, saying, 'When I come back we'll fall to and breakfiss. 'She then, as though she were following the trail, made a circuit ofthe pool and disappeared through the gorge. All round the pool therewas a narrow ragged ledge leading to this eastern opening. I stoodconcealed in my crevice and looked at the peaks, or rather at thevast masses of billowy vapours enveloping them, as they sometimesboiled and sometimes blazed, shaking--when the sun struck one andthen another--from brilliant amethyst to vermilion, shot occasionallywith purple, or gold, or blue. A radiance now came pouring through the eastern opening down thegorge or cwm itself, and soon the light vapours floating about thepool were turned to sailing gauzes, all quivering with differentdyes, as though a rainbow had become torn from the sky and woven intogossamer hangings and set adrift. Fatigue was beginning to numb my senses and to conquer my brain. Theacuteness of my mental anguish had consumed itself in its own intensefires. The idea of Winifred's danger became more remote. Themist-pageants of the morning seemed somehow to emanate from Winnie. 'No one is worthy to haunt such a scene as this, ' I murmured, sinkingagainst the rock, 'but Winifred--so beautiful of body and pure ofsoul. Would that I were indeed her "Prince of the Mist, " and that wecould die here together with Sinfi's strains in our ears. ' Then I felt coming over me strange influences which afterwards becamefamiliar to me--influences which I can only call the spells ofSnowdon. They were far more intense than those strange, sweet, wild, mesmeric throbs which I used to feel in Graylingham Wood, and whichmy ancestress, Fenella Stanley, seems also to have known, but theywere akin to them. Then came the sound of Sinfi's crwth and song, andin the distance repetitions of it, as though the spirits of Snowdonwere, in very truth, joining in a chorus. At once a marvellous change came over me. I seemed to be listening tomy ancestress, Fenella Stanley, and not to Sinfi Lovell. I washearing that strain which in my childhood I had so often tried toimagine, and it was conjuring up the morning sylphs of the mountainair and all the 'flower-sprites' and 'sunshine elves' of Snowdon. V I shook off the spell when the music ceased; then I began to wonderwhy the Gypsy did not return. I was now faint and almost famished forwant of food. I opened the Gypsy's wallet. There was the substantialand tempting breakfast she had brought from the cottagecupboard--cold beef and bread, and ale. I spread the breakfast on theground. Scarcely had I done so when a figure appeared at the opening of thegorge and caught the ruddy flood of light. It was Winifred, bare-headed. I knew it was she, and I waited in breathless suspense, crouching close up into the crevice, dreading lest she should see meand be frightened away. She stood in the eastern cleft of the gorgeagainst the sun for fully half a minute, looking around as a stagmight look that was trying to give the hunters the slip. 'She has seen the Gypsy, ' I thought, 'and been scared by her. ' Thenshe came down and glided along the side of the pool. At first she didnot see me, though she stood opposite and stopped, while theopalescent vapours from the pool steamed around her, and she shone asthrough a glittering veil, her eyes flashing like sapphires. Thepalpitation of my heart choked me; I dared not stir, I dared notspeak; the slightest movement or the slightest sound might cause herto start away. There was she whom I had travelled and toiled tofind--there was she, so close to me, and yet must I let her pass andperhaps lose her after all--for ever? Where was the Gypsy girl? I was in an agony of desire to see her orhear her crwth, and yet her approach might frighten Winifred to herdestruction. But Winifred, who had now seen me, did not bound away with thatheart-quelling yell of hers which I had dreaded. No, I perceived tomy astonishment that the flash of the eyes was not of alarm, but ofgreeting to me--pleasure at seeing me! She came close to the water, and then I saw a smile on her face through the misty film--a flash ofshining teeth. 'May I come?' she said. 'Yes, Winifred, ' I gasped, scarcely knowing what I said in mysurprise and joy. She came slipping round the pool, and in a few seconds was by myside. Her clothes were saturated with last night's rain, but thoughshe looked very cold, she did not shiver, a proof that she had notlain down on the hills, but had walked about during the whole night. There was no wildness of the maniac--there was no idiotic stare. Butoh the witchery of the gaze! If one could imagine the look on the face of a wanderer from thecloud-palaces of the sylphs, or the gaze in the eyes of a statuenewly animated by the passion of the sculptor who had fashioned it, or the smile on the face of a wondering Eve just created upon theearth--any one of these expressions would, perhaps, give the ideaof that on Winifred's face as she stood there. 'May I sit down, Prince?' said she. 'Yes, Winnie, ' I replied; 'I've been waiting for you. ' 'Been waiting for poor Winnie?' she said, her eyes sparkling anewwith pleasure; and she sat down close by my side, gazing hungrily atthe food--her hands resting on her lap. I laid my hand upon one of hers; it was so damp and cold that it mademe shudder. 'Why, Winifred, ' I said, 'how cold you are!' 'The hills are _so_cold!' said she, '_so_ cold when the stars go out, and the redstreaks begin to come. ' 'May I warm your hands in mine, Winnie?' I said, longing to clasp thedear fingers, but trembling lest anything I might say or do shouldbring about a repetition of last night's catastrophe. '_Will_ you, Prince?' said she. 'How very, very kind!' and in amoment the hand was between mine. Remembering that it was through looking into my eyes that sherecognised me in the cottage, I now avoided looking straight intohers. All this time she kept gazing wistfully at the food spread outon the ground. 'Are you hungry, Winifred?' I said. 'Oh yes; _so_ hungry!' said she, shaking her head in a sad meditativeway. 'Poor Winifred is so hungry and cold and lonely!' 'Will you breakfast with the Prince of the Mist, Winifred?' 'Oh, may I, Prince?' she asked, her face beaming with delight. 'To be sure you may, Winnie. You may always breakfast with the Princeof the Mist if you like. ' 'Always? Always?' she repeated. 'Yes, Winnie, ' I said, as I handed her some bread and meat, which shedevoured ravenously. 'Yes, dear Winnie, ' I continued, handing her a foaming horn ofSinfi's ale, to which she did as full justice as she was doing to thebread and meat. 'Yes, I want you to breakfast with me and dine withme always. ' 'Do you mean _live_ with you, Prince?' she asked, looking me dreamilyin the face--'live with you behind the white mist? Is this ourwedding breakfast, Prince?' 'Yes, Winnie. ' Then her eyes wandered down over her dress, and she said, 'Ah! howstrange I did not notice my green fairy kirtle before. And I declareI never felt till this moment the wreath of gold leaves round myforehead. Do they shine much in the sun?' 'They quite dazzle me, Winnie, ' I said, arching my hand above myeyes, as if to protect them from the glare. 'Do you have a nice fire there when it's very cold?' she said. 'Yes, Winifred, ' I said. She then sank into silence, while I kept plying her with food. After she had appeased her hunger she sat looking into the pool, quite unconscious, apparently, of my presence by her side, and lostin a reverie similar to that which I had seen at the cottage. The form her dementia had taken was unlike anything that I had everconceived. Madness seemed too coarse a word to denote so wonderfuland fascinating a mental derangement. Mivart's comparison to amusical-box recurred to me, and seemed most apt. She was in a wakingdream. The peril lay in breaking through that dream and bringing herreal life before her. There was a certain cogency of dreamland in allshe said and did. And I found that she sank into silent reveriesimply because she waited, like a person in sleep, for the current ofher thoughts to be directed and dictated by external phenomena. Asshe sat there gazing in the pool, her hand gradually warming betweenmy two hands, I felt that never when sane, never in her mostbewitching moments, had she been so lovable as she was now. This newkind of spell she exercised over me it would be impossible todescribe. But it sprang from the expression on her face of thatabsolute freedom from all self-consciousness which is the great charmin children, combined with the grace and beauty of her own matchlessgirlhood. A desire to embrace her, to crush her to my breast, seizedme like a frenzy. 'Winifred, ' I said, 'you are very cold. ' But she was now insensible to sound. I knew from experience now thatI must shake her to bring her back to consciousness, for evidently, in her fits of reverie, the sounds falling upon her ear were notconveyed to the brain at all. I shook her gently, and said, 'The Prince of the Mist. ' She started back to life. My idea had been a happy one. My words hadat once sent her thoughts into the right direction for me. 'Pardon me, Prince, ' said she, smiling; 'I had forgotten that youwere here. ' 'Winifred, I've warmed this hand, now give me the other. ' She stretched her other hand across her breast and gave it to me. This brought her entire body close to me, and I said, 'Winnie, youare cold all over. Won't you let the Prince of the Mist put his armsround you and warm you?' 'Oh, I should like it so much, ' she said. 'But are you warm, Prince?are you really warm?--your mist is mostly very cold. ' 'Quite warm, Winifred, ' I said, as with my heart swelling in mybreast, and with eyelids closing over my eyes from very joy, I drewher softly upon my breast once more. 'Yes--yes, ' I murmured, as the tears gushed from my eyes and droppedupon the soft hair that I was kissing. 'If God will but let me haveher _thus_! I ask for nothing better than to possess a maniac. ' As we sat locked in each other's arms the head of Sinfi appearedround the eastern cliff of the gorge where I had first seen Winifred. The Gypsy had evidently been watching us from there. I perceivedthat she was signalling to me that I was not to grasp Winifred. ThenI saw Sinfi suddenly and excitedly point to the sky over the rockbeneath which we sat. I looked up. The upper sky above us was nowclear of morning mist, and right over our heads, Winifred's and mine, there hung a little morning cloud like a feather of flickering rosygold. I looked again towards the corner of jutting rock, but Sinfi'shead had disappeared. 'Dear Prince, ' said Winifred, 'how delightfully warm you are! Howkind of you! But are not your arms a little too tight, dear Prince?Poor Winnie cannot breathe. And this thump, thump, thump, likea--like a--fire-engine--_ah_!' Too late I knew what my folly had done. The turbulent action of myheart had had a sympathetic effect upon hers. It seemed as if hersenses, if not her mind, had remembered another occasion, when, asshe was lying in my arms, the beating of my heart had disturbed her. In one lightning-flash her real life and all its tragedy brokemercilessly in upon her. The idea of the 'Prince of the Mist' fled. She started up and away from me. The awful mimicry of her father'sexpression spread over her face. With a yell of 'Fy Nhad, ' and then ayell of 'Father!' she darted round the pool, and then, bounding upthe rugged path like a chamois, disappeared behind a corner ofjutting rock. At the same moment the head of the Gypsy girl reappeared round theeastern cleft of the gorge. Sinfi came quickly up to me andwhispered, 'Don't follow. ' 'I will, ' I said. 'No, you won't, ' said she, seizing my wrist with a grip of iron. 'Ifyou do she's done for. Do you know where she is running to? A coupleof furlongs up that path there's another that branches off on theright; it ain't more nor a futt-an'-a-half wide along a precipussmore nor a hundred futt deep. She knows it well. She'll make forthat. The cuss is on her wuss nor ever, judgin' from the gurn and theflash of her teeth. ' I waited for two or three seconds in the wildest impatience. 'Let's follow her now, ' I said. 'No, no, ' she whispered, 'not yet, 'less you want to see her tumbledown the cliff. ' After a few minutes Sinfi and I went up the mainpathway. Winnie seemed to have slackened her pace when she was out ofsight, for we saw her just turning away on the right at the pointindicated by Sinfi. 'Give her time to get along that path, ' said she, 'and then she'll be all right. ' In a state of agonised suspense I stood there waiting. At last Isaid: 'I must go after her. We shall lose her--I know we shall lose her. ' Sinfi demurred a moment, then acceded to my wish, and we went up themain pathway and peered round the corner of the jutting rock whereWinifred had last been visible. There, along a ragged shelfbordering a yawning chasm--a shelf that seemed to me scarce wideenough for a human foot--Winifred was running and balancing herselfas surely as a bird over the abyss. 'Mind she doesn't turn round sharp and see you, ' said the Gypsy. 'Ifshe does she'll lose her head and over she'll fall!' I crouched and gazed at Winifred as she glided along towards a vastmountain of vapour that was rolling over the chasm close to her. Shestood and looked into the floating mass for a moment, and then passedinto it and was lost from view. VI '_Now_ I can follow her, ' said Sinfi; 'but you mustn't try to comealong here. Wait till I come back. I suppose you've given her all thebreakfiss. Give me a drop of brandy out o' your flask. ' I gave her some brandy and took a long draught of the burning liquormyself, for I was fainting. 'I shall go with you, ' I said. 'Dordi, ' said the Gypsy, 'how quickly you'd be a-layin' at the bottomthere!' and she pointed down into the gulf at our feet. 'I shall go with you, ' I said. 'No, you won't, ' said the Gypsy doggedly; ''cause _I_ sha'n't go. Ishall git round and meet her. I know where we shall strike across herslot. She'll be makin' for Llanberis. ' 'I let her escape, ' I moaned. 'I had her in my arms once; but yousignalled to me not to grip her. ' 'If you had ha' grabbed her, ' said the Gypsy, 'she'd ha' pulled youalong like a feather--she's so mad strong. You go hack to the llyn. ' The Gypsy girl passed along the shelf and was soon lost in the veilof vapour. I returned to the llyn and threw myself down upon the ground, for mylegs sank under me, but the dizziness of fatigue softened the effectof my distress. The rocks and peaks were swinging round my head. SoonI found the Gypsy bending over me. 'I can't find her, ' said she. 'We had best make haste and strikeacross her path as she makes for Llanberis. I have a notion as she'ssure to do that. ' As fast as we could scramble along those rugged tracks we made ourway to the point where the Gypsy expected that Winifred would pass. We remained for hours, beating about in all directions in search ofher, --Sinti every now and then touching her crwth with the bow, --butwithout any result. 'It's my belief she's gone straight down to Llanberis, ' said Sinfi;'and we'd best lose no time, but go there too. ' We went right to the top of the mountain and rested for a little timeon y Wyddfa, Sinfi taking some bread and cheese and ale in the cabinthere. Then we descended the other side. I had not sense then tonotice the sunset-glories, the peaks of mountains melting into a skyof rose and light-green, over which a phalanx of fiery clouds wasfiling; and yet I see it all now as I write, and I hear what I didnot seem to hear then, the musical chant of a Welsh guide ahead ofus, who was conducting a party of happy tourists to Llanberis. When we reached the village, we spent hours in making searches andinquiries, but could find no trace of her. Oh, the appalling thoughtof Winifred wandering about all night famishing on the hills! I wentto the inn which Sinfi pointed out to me, while she went in quest ofsome Gypsy friends, who, she said, were stopping in theneighbourhood. She promised to come to me early in the morning, inorder that we might renew our search at break of day. When I turned into bed after supper I said to myself: 'There will beno sleep for me this night. ' But I was mistaken. So great was myfatigue that sleep came upon me with a strength that was sudden andirresistible; when the servant came to call me at sunrise, I felt asthough I had but just gone to bed. It was, no doubt, this soundsleep, and entire respite from the tension of mind I had undergone, which saved me from another serious illness. I found the Gypsy already waiting for me below, preparing for thelabours before her by making a hearty meal on salt beef and ale. 'Reia, ' said she, pointing to the beef with her knife, 'we sha'n'tget bite nor sup, 'cept what we carry, either inside or out, fortwelve hours, --perhaps not for twenty-four. Before I give up thisslot there ain't a path, nor a hill, nor a rock, nor a valley, nor aprecipuss as won't feel my fut. Come! set to. ' I took the Gypsy's advice, made as hearty a breakfast as I could, andwe left Llanberis in the light of morning. It was not till we hadreached and passed a place called Gwastadnant Gate that the pathalong which we went became really wild and difficult. The Gypsyseemed to know every inch of the country. We reached a beautiful lake, where Sinfi stopped, and I began toquestion her as to what was to be our route. 'Winnie know'd, ' said she, 'some Welsh folk as fish in this 'erelake. She might ha' called 'em to mind, poor thing, and come offhere. I'm a-goin' to ask about her. ' Sinfi's inquiries here--her inquiries everywhere that day--ended innothing but blank and cruel disappointment. Remembering that Winifred's very earliest childhood was passed nearCarnarvon, I proposed to the Gypsy that we should go thither at once. After sleeping again at Llanberis, we went to Carnarvon, but soonreturned to the other side of Snowdon, for at Carnarvon we could findno trace of her. 'Oh, Sinfi, ' I said; as we stood watching the peculiar bright yellowtrout in Lake Ogwen, 'she is starving--starving on the hills--whilemillions of people are eating, gorging, wasting food. I shall gomad!' Sinfi looked at me mournfully, and said: 'It's a bad job, reia, but if poor Winnie Wynne's a-starvin' it ain'tthe fault o' them as happens to ha' got the full belly. There ain't aRomany in Wales, nor there ain't a Gorgio nuther, as wouldn't giveWinnie a crust, if wonst we could find her. ' 'To think of this great, rich world, ' I exclaimed (to myself, not tothe Gypsy), 'choke-full of harvest, bursting with grain, whilefamishing on the hills for a mouthful is she--the one!' 'Reia, ' said Sinfi, with much solemnity, 'the world's full o'vittles; what's wanted is jist a hand as can put the vittles and themouths where they ought to be--cluss togither. That's what the hungryRomany says when he snares a hare or a rabbit. ' We walked on. After a while Sinfi said: 'A Romany knows more o' thesehere kinds o' things, reia, than a Gorgio does. It's my belief asWinnie Wynne ain't a-starvin' on the hills; she ain't got to starve;she's on'y got to beg her bread. She'll have to do that, of course;but beggin' ain't so bad as starvin', after all! There's some as begsfor the love on it. Videy does. ' I knew by this time that it was useless to battle against Sinfi'sconviction that the curse would have to be literally fulfilled, so Ikept silence. While she was speaking I was suddenly struck by athought that ought to have come before. 'Sinfi, ' I said, 'didn't you know an English lady named Dalrymple, who lodged with Mrs. Davies for some years?' 'Yis, ' said Sinfi, 'and I did think o' her. She went to live atCarnarvon. But supposin' that Winnie had gone to the Englishlady--supposin' that she know'd where to find her--the lady 'udnever ha' let her go away, she was so fond on her. It was MissDalrymple as sp'ilt Winnie, a-givin' her lady-notions. ' However, I determined to see Miss Dalrymple, and started alone forCarnarvon at once. By making inquiries at the Carnarvon post-officeI found Miss Dalrymple, a pale-faced, careworn lady of extraordinaryculture, who evinced the greatest affection for Winifred. She hadseen nothing of her, and was much distressed at the fragments ofWinifred's story which I thought it well to give her. When she bademe good-bye, she said, 'I know something of your family. I know yourmother and aunt. The sweet girl you are seeking is in my judgment oneof the most gifted young women living. Her education, as you may beaware, she owes mainly to me. But she took to every kind ofintellectual pursuit by instinct. Reared in a poor Welsh cottage asshe was, there is, I believe, almost no place in society that she isnot fitted to fill. ' On leaving Carnarvon I returned to Sinfi Lovell. But why should I weary the reader by a detailed account of mywanderings and searchings with my strange guide that day, and thenext, and the next? Why should I burthen him with the mental agoniesI suffered as Sinfi and I, during the following days, explored thecountry for miles and miles--right away beyond the Cross Foxes, asfar as Dolgelley and the region of Cader Idris? At last, one evening, when I and Rhona Boswell and some of her family were walking downSnowdon towards Llanberis, Sinfi announced her conviction thatWinifred was no longer in the Snowdon region at all, perhaps not evenin Wales at all. 'You mean, I suppose, that she is dead, ' I said. 'Dead?' said Sinfi, the mysterious sibylline look returningimmediately to her face, that had just seemed so frank and simple. 'She ain't got to _die_; she's only got to beg. But I shall ha' toleave you now. I can't do you no more good. And besides, my daddy'sgoin' into the Eastern Counties with the Welsh ponies, and so isJasper Bozzell and Rhona. Videy and me are goin' too, in course. ' With deep regret and dismay I felt that I must part from her. Howwell I remember that evening. I feel as now I write the delicioussummer breeze of Snowdon blowing on my forehead. The sky, which forsome time had been growing very rich, grew at every moment rarer incolour, and glassed itself in the llyns which shone with an enjoymentof the beauty like the magic mirrors of Snowdonian spirits. Theloveliness indeed was so bewitching that one or two of theGypsies--a race who are, as I had already noticed, among the fewuncultivated people that show a susceptibility to the beauties ofnature--gave a long sigh of pleasure, and lingered at the llyn of thetriple echo, to see how the soft iridescent opal brightened andshifted into sapphire and orange, and then into green and gold. As asmall requital of her valuable services I offered her what money Ihad about me, and promised to send as much more as she might requireas soon as I reached the hotel at Dolgelley, where at the moment myportmanteau was lying in the landlord's charge. '_Me_ take money for tryin' to find my sister, Winnie Wynne?' saidSinfi, in astonishment more than in anger. 'Seein', reia, as I'd jistsell everythink I've got to find her, I should like to know how manygold balansers [sovereigns] 'ud pay me. No, reia, Winnie Wynne ain'tin Wales at all, else I'd never give up this patrin-chase. So fare yewell;' and she held out her hand, which I grasped, reluctant to letit go. 'Fare ye well, reia, ' she repeated, as she walked swiftly away; 'Iwonder whether we shall ever meet agin. ' 'Indeed, I hope so, ' I said. Her sister Videy, who with Rhona Boswell was walking near us, waspresent at the parting--a bright-eyed, dark-skinned little girl, ahead shorter than Sinfi. I saw Videy's eyes glisten greedily at sightof the gold, and, after we had parted, I was not at all surprised, though I knew her father, Panuel Lovell, a frequenter of Raxtonfairs, to be a man of means, when she came back and said, with acoquettish smile, 'Give the bright balansers to Lady Sinfi's poor sister, my rei; givethe balansers to the poor Gypsy, my rei. ' Rhona, however, instead of joining Videy in the prayer forbacksheesh, ran down the path in the footsteps of Sinfi. What money I had about me I was carrying loose in my waistcoatpocket, and I pulled it out, gold and silver together. I pickedout the sovereigns (five) and gave them to her, retaininghalf-a-sovereign and the silver for my use before returning to thehotel at Dolgelley. Videy took the sovereigns and then pointed, witha dazzling smile, to the half-sovereign, saying, 'Give Lady Sinfi'spoor sister the posh balanser [half-sovereign], my rei. ' I gave her the half-sovereign, ' when she immediately pointed to ahalf-crown in my hand, and said, 'Give the poor Gypsy theposh-courna, my rei. ' So grateful was I to the very name of Lovell, that I was hesitatingwhether to do this, when I was suddenly aware of the presence ofSinfi, who had returned with Rhona. In a moment Videy's wrist was ina grip I had become familiar with, and the money fell to the ground. Sinfi pointed to the money and said some words in Romany. Videystooped and picked the coins up in evident alarm. Sinfi then saidsome more words in Romany, whereupon Videy held out the money to me. I felt it best to receive it, though Sinfi never once looked at me;and I could not tell what expression her own honest face wore, whether of deadly anger or mortal shame. The two sisters walked offin silence together, while Rhona set up a kind of war-dance behindthem, and the three went down the path. In a few minutes Sinfi again returned and, pointing in greatexcitement to the sunset sky, cried, 'Look, look! The Dukkeripen ofthe trúshul. ' [Footnote] And indeed, the sunset was now making aspectacle such as might have aroused a spasm of admiration in themost prosaic breast. As I looked at it and then turned to look atSinfi's noble features, illumined and spiritualised by a light thatseemed more than earthly, a new feeling came upon me as though yWyddfa and the clouds were joining in a prophecy of hope. [Footnote: Cross. ] VII After losing Sinfi I hired some men to assist me in my search. Dayafter day did we continue the quest; but no trace of Winifred couldbe found. The universal opinion was that she had taken sudden alarmat something, lost her foothold, and fallen down a precipice, as somany unfortunate tourists had done in North Wales. One day I and oneof my men met, on a spur of the Glyder, the tourist of the flintimplements with whom I had conversed at Bettws y Coed. He was alone, geologising or else searching for flint implements on the hills. Evidently my haggard appearance startled him. But when he learnt whatwas my trouble he became deeply interested. He told me that one dayafter our meeting at 'The Royal Oak, ' Bettws y Coed, he had met awild-looking girl as he was using his geologist's hammer on themountains. She was bareheaded, and had taken fright at him, and hadrun madly in the direction of the most dangerous chasm on the range;he had pursued her, hoping to save her from destruction, but lostsight of her close to the chasm's brink. The expression on his facetold me what his thoughts were as to her fate. He accompanied me tothe chasm. It was indeed a dreadful place. We got to the bottom by awinding path, and searched till dusk among the rocks and torrents, finding nothing. But I felt that in wild and ragged pits like those, covered here and there with rough and shaggy brushwood, and full ofwild cascades and deep pools, a body might well be concealed tilldoomsday. My kind-hearted companion accompanied me for some miles, and did hisbest to dispel my gloom by his lively and intelligent talk. We partedat Pen y Gwryd. I never saw him again. I never knew his name. Shouldthese lines ever come beneath his eyes he will know that though thegreat ocean of human life rolls between his life-vessel and mine, Ihave not forgotten how and where once we touched. But how could I rest? Though Hope herself was laughing my hopes toscorn, how could I rest? How could I cease to search? Bitter as it was to wander about the hills teasing my soul bydelusions which other people must fain smile at, it would have beenmore bitter still to accept for certainty the intolerable truth thatWinifred had died famished, or that her beloved body was a mangledcorpse at the bottom of a cliff. If the reader does not understandthis, it is because he finds it impossible to understand a sorrowlike mine. I refused to return to Raxton, and took Mrs. Davies'scottage, which was unoccupied, and lived there throughout the autumn. Every day, wet or dry, I used to sally out on the Snowdonian range, just as though she had been lost but yesterday, making inquiries, bribing the good-natured Welsh people (who needed no bribing) to aidme in a search which to them must have seemed monomaniacal. The peasants and farmers all knew me. 'Sut mae dy galon? (How is thyheart?)' they would say in the beautiful Welsh phrase as I met them. 'How is my heart, indeed!' I would sigh as I went on my way. Before I went to Wales in search of Winifred I had never set foot inthe Principality. Before I left it there was scarcely a Welshman whoknew more familiarly than I every mile of the Snowdonian country. Never a trace of Winifred could I find. At the end of the autumn I left the cottage and removed to Pen yGwryd, as a comparatively easy point from which I could reach themountain llyn where I had breakfasted with Winifred on that morning. Afterwards I took up my abode at a fishing-inn, and here I stayed thewinter through--scarcely hoping to find her now, yet chained toSnowdon. After my labours during the day, scrambling among slipperyboulders and rugged rocks, crossing swollen torrent-beds, amid rainand ice and snow and mist such as frightened away the Welshthemselves--after thus wandering, because I could not leave theregion, it was a comfort to me to turn into the low, black-beamedroom of the fishing-inn, with drying hams, flitches of bacon, andfishing-rods for decorations, and hear the simple-hearted Cymric folktalking, sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, but always withthat kindness and that courtesy which go to make the poetry of Welshcommon life. Meantime, I had, as I need scarcely say, spared neither trouble norexpense in advertising for information about Winifred in the Welshand the West of England newspapers. I offered rewards for herdiscovery, and the result was merely that I was pestered by lettersfrom people (some of them tourists of education) suggesting tracesand clues of so wild, and often of so fantastic a kind, that Iarrived at the conviction that of all man's faculties his imaginationis the most lawless, and at the same time the most powerful. It wasperfectly inconceivable to me that the writers of some of theseletters were not themselves demented, so wild or so fanciful were theclues they suggested. Yet. When I came to meet them and talk withthem (as I sometimes did), I found these correspondents to be of theordinary prosaic British type. All my efforts were to no purpose. Among my longer journeys from the fishing-inn, the most frequent werethose to Holywell, near Flint, to the Well of St. Winifred--thereader need not be told why. He will recollect how little Winnie, while plying me with strawberries, had sagely recommended the holywater of this famous well as a 'cure for crutches. ' She had actuallybrought me some of it in a lemonade bottle when she returned toRaxton after her first absence, and had insisted on rubbing my anklewith it. She had, as I afterwards learnt from her father, importunedand at last induced her aunt (evidently a good-natured and worthysoul) to take her to visit a friend at Holywell, a journey of manymiles, for the purpose of bringing home with her a bottle of the holywater. Whenever any ascent of the gangways had proved to be moresuccessful than usual, Winifred had attributed the good luck to thevirtues contained in her lemonade bottle. Ah! superstition seemedpretty enough then. At first in the forlorn hope that memory might have attracted herthither, and afterwards because there was a fascination for me in thewell on account of its association with her, my pilgrimages toHolywell were as frequent as those of any of the afflicted devoteesof the olden time, whose crutches left behind testified to thegenuineness of the Saint's pretensions. Into that well Winnie'sinnocent young eyes had gazed--gazed in the full belief that the holywater would cure me--gazed in the full belief that the crimson stainsmade by the _byssus_ on the stones were stains left by hermartyr-namesake's blood. Where had she stood when she came and lookedinto the well and the rivulet? On what exact spot had rested herfeet--those little rosy feet that on the sea-sands used to flashthrough the receding foam as she chased the ebbing billows to amuseme, while I sat between my crutches in the cove looking on? It was, Ifound, possible to gaze in that water till it seemed alive withher--seemed to hold the reflection of the little face which years agopeered anxiously into it for the behoof of the crippled child-loverpining for her at Raxton, and unable to 'get up or down the gangwayswithout her. ' Holywell grew to have a fascination for me, and in the followingspring I left the fishing-inn beneath Snowdon, and took rooms in thisinteresting old town. VIII One day, near the rivulet that runs from St. Winifred's Well, Isuddenly encountered Sinfi Lovell. 'Sinfi, ' I said, 'she's dead, she's surely dead. ' 'I tell ye, brother, she ain't got to die!' said Sinfi, as she cameand stood beside me. 'Winnie Wynne's on'y got to beg her bread. She'salive. ' 'Where is she?' I cried. 'Oh, Sinfi, I shall go mad!' 'There you're too fast for me, brother, ' said she, 'when you ask me_where_ she is; but she's alive, and I ain't come quite emp'y-handedof news about her, brother. ' 'Oh, tell me!' said I. 'Well, ' said Sinfi, 'I've just met one of our people, Euri Lovell, assays that, the very mornin' after we seed her on the hills, he mether close to Carnarvon at break of day. ' 'Then she _did_ go to Carnarvon, ' I said. 'What a distance for thosedear feet!' 'Euri knowed her by sight, ' said Sinfi, 'but didn't know about herbein' under the cuss, so he jist let her pass, sayin' to hisself, "She looks jist like a crazy wench this mornin', does Winnie Wynne. "Euri was a-goin' through Carnarvon to Bangor, on to Conway andChester, and never heerd a word about her bein' lost till he gotback, six weeks ago. ' 'I must go to Carnarvon at once, ' said I. 'No use, brother, ' said Sinfi. 'If _I_ han't pretty well workedCarnarvon, it's a pity. I've bin there the last three weeks on thepatrin-chase, and not a patrin could I find. It's my belief as shenever went into Carnarvon town at all, but turned off and went intoLlanbeblig churchyard. ' 'Why do you think so, Sinfi?' ''Cause her aunt, bein' a Carnarvon woman, was buried among her ownkin in Llanbeblig churchyard. Leastwise, you won't find a ghose of a trace on her at Carnarvon, andit'll be a long kind of a wild-goose chase from here; but if youwill go, go you must. ' She could not dissuade me from starting for Carnarvon at once; and, as I would go, she seemed to take it as a matter of course that shemust accompany me. Our journey was partly by coach and partly afoot. My first impulse on nearing Carnarvon was to go--I could not havesaid why--to Llanbeblig churchyard. Among a group of graves of the Davieses we easily found that ofWinifred's aunt, beneath a newly-planted arbutus tree. After lookingat the modest mound for some time, and wondering where Winifred hadstood when the coffin was lowered--as I had wondered where she hadstood at St. Winifred's Well--I roamed about the churchyard withSinfi in silence for a time. At last she said, 'I mind comin' here wonst with Winnie, and I mindher sayin': "There's no place I should so much like to be buried inas Llanbeblig churchyard. The graves of them as die unmarried do lookso beautiful. "' 'How did she know the graves of those who die unmarried?' Sinfi looked over the churchyard and waved her hand. 'Wherever you see them beautiful primroses, and them shinin'snowdrops, and them sweet-smellin' vi'lets, that's allus the grave ofa child or else of a young Gorgie as died a maid; and wherever yousee them laurel trees, and box trees, and 'butus trees, that's thegrave of a pusson as ain't nuther child nor maid, an' the Welsh folkthink nobody else on'y child'n an' maids ain't quite good enough tobe turned into the blessed flowers o' spring. ' 'Next to the sea, ' I said, 'she loved the flowers of spring. ' 'And _I_ should like to be buried here too, brother, ' said Sinfi, aswe left the churchyard. 'But a fine strong girl like you, Sinfi, is not very likely to dieunmarried while there are Romany bachelors about. ' 'There ain't a-many Romany chals, ' she said, 'as du'st marry SinfiLovell, even supposing as Sinfi Lovell 'ud marry _them_, an' a Gorgioshe'll never marry--an' never can marry. And to lay here aneath theflowers o 'spring, wi' the Welsh sun a-shinin' on 'em as it'sa-shinin' now, that must be a sweet kind of bed, brother, and foranythink as I knows on, a Romany chi 'ud make as sweet a bed o'vi'lets as the beautifullest Gorgie-wench as wur ever bred inCarnarvon, an' as shinin' a bunch o' snowdrops as ever the Welshspring knows how to grow. ' At any other time this extraordinary girl's talk would haveinterested me greatly; now, nothing had any interest for me that didnot bear directly upon the fate of Winifred. Little dreaming how this quiet churchyard had lately been one of thebattle-grounds of that all-conquering power (Destiny, orCircumstance?) which had governed Winnie's life and mine, I went withSinfi into Carnarvon, and made inquiry everywhere, but without theslightest result. This occupied several days, during which time Sinfistayed with some acquaintances encamped near Carnarvon, while Ilodged at a little hotel. 'You don't ask me how you happened to meet me at Holywell, brother, 'said she to me, as we stood looking across the water at CarnarvonCastle, over whose mighty battlements the moon was fighting with anarmy of black, angry clouds, which a wild wind was leading furiouslyagainst her--'you don't ask me how you happened to meet me atHolywell, nor how long I've been back agin in dear old Wales, norwhat I've been a-doin' on since we parted; but that's nuther here northere. I'll tell you what I think about Winnie an' the chances o'findin' her, brother, and that'll intrust you more. ' 'What is it, Sinfi?' I cried, waking up from the reminiscences, bitter and sweet, the bright moon had conjured up in my mind. 'Well, brother, Winnie, you see, was very fond o' me. ' 'She was, and good reason for being fond of you she had. ' 'Well, brother, bein' very fond o' me, _that_ made her very fond o'_all_ Romanies; and though she took agin me at fust, arter the cuss, as she took agin you because we was her closest friends (that's whatMr. Blyth said, you know, they allus do), she wouldn't take aginRomanies in general. No, she'd take to Romanies in general, and she'dgo hangin' about the different camps, and she'd soon be snapped up, being so comely, and they'd make a lot o' money out on her jisthavin' her with 'em for the "dukkerin'. "' 'I don't understand you, ' I said. 'Well, you know, ' said Sinfi, 'anybody as is under the cuss is halfwith the sperrits and half with us, and so can tell the _real_"dukkerin'. " Only it's bad for a Romany to have another Romany in the"place" as is under the cuss; but it don't matter a bit about havinga Gorgio among your breed as is under a cuss; for Gorgio cuss can'tnever touch Romany. ' 'Then you feel quite sure she's not dead, Sinfi?' 'She's jist as live as you an' me somewheres, brother. There's twothings as keeps _her_ alive: there's the cuss, as says she's got tobeg her bread, and there's the dukkeripen o' the Golden Hand onSnowdon, as says she's got to marry you. ' 'But, Sinfi, I mean that, apart from all this superstition of yours, you have reason to think she's alive? and you think she's with theRomanies?' 'I know she's alive, and I think she's with the Romanies. She _must_be, brother, with the Shaws, or the Lees, or the Stanleys, or theBoswells, or some on 'em. ' 'Then, ' said I, 'I'll turn Gypsy; I'll be the second Aylwin to ownallegiance to the blood of Fenella Stanley. I'll scour Great Britaintill I find her. ' 'You can jine _us_ if you like, brother. We're goin' all through theWest of England with the gries. You're fond o' fishin' an' shootin', brother, an' though you're a Gorgio, you can't help bein' a Gorgio, and you ain't a mumply 'un, as I've said to Jim Burton many's thetime; and if you can't give the left-hand body-blow like me, thereain't a-many Gorgios nor yit a-many Romanies as knows better nor youwhat their fistes wur made for, an' altogether, brother, Beng tetassa mandi if I shouldn't be right-on proud to see ye jine ourbreed. There's a coachmaker down in Chester, and he's got for salethe beautifullest livin'-waggin in all England. It's shinyorange-yellow with red window-blinds, an' if there's a colour in anyrainbow as _can't_ be seed in the panels o' the front door, it's akind o' rainbow I ain't never seed nowheres. He made it for JerichoBozzell, the rich Griengro as so often stays at Raxton and at GypsyDell; but Rhona Bozzell hates a waggin and allus will sleep in atent. They do say as the Prince o' Wales wants to buy thatlivin'-waggin, only he can't spare the balansers just now--his familybein' so big an' times bein' so bad. How much money ha' you got? Canyou stan' a hundud an' fifty gold balansers for the waggin besidesthe fixins? 'Shift, ' I said. 'I'm prepared to spend more than that in seekingWinnie. ' 'Dordi, brother, you must be as rich as my dad, an' lie's the richestGriengro arter Jericho Bozzell. You an' me'll jist go down toChester, ' she continued, her eyes sparkling with delight at theprospect of bargaining for the waggon, 'an' we'll fix up sich alivin'-waggin as no Romany rei never had afore. ' 'Agreed!' I said, wringing her hand. 'An' now you an' me's right pals, ' said Sinfi. We went to Chester, and I became owner of the famous 'livin'-waggin'coveted (according to Sinfi) by the great personage whom, on accountof his name, she always spoke of as a rich, powerful, but mysteriousand invisible Welshman. One of the monthly cheese-fairs was going onin the Linen Hall. Among the rows of Welsh carts standing in front ofthe 'Old Yacht Inn, ' Sinfi introduced me to a 'Griengro' (one of theGypsy Locks of Gloucestershire), of whom I bought a bay mare ofextraordinary strength and endurance. IX It was, then, to find Winifred that I joined the Gypsies. And yet Iwill not deny that affinity with the kinsfolk of my ancestressFenella Stanley must have had something to do with this passage in myeccentric life. That strain of Romany blood which, according to mymother's theory, had much to do with drawing Percy Aylwin and RhonaBoswell together, was alive and potent in my own veins. But I must pause here to say a few words about Sinfi Lovell. Some ofmy readers must have already recognised her as a famous character inbohemian circles. Sinfi's father was a 'Griengro, ' that is to say, ahorse-dealer. She was, indeed, none other than that 'Fiddling Sinfi'who became famous in many parts of England and Wales as a violinist, and also as the only performer on the old Welsh stringed instrumentcalled the 'crwth, ' or cruth. Most Gypsies are musical, but Sinfi wasa genuine musical genius. Having become, through the good-nature ofWinifred's aunt Mrs. Davies, the possessor of a crwth, and havingbeen taught by her the unique capabilities of that rarely seeninstrument, she soon learnt the art of fascinating her Welsh patronsby the strange, wild strains she could draw from it. This obsoletesix-stringed instrument (with two of the strings reaching beyond thekey-board, used as drones and struck by the thumb, the bow only beingused on the other four, and a bridge placed, not at right angles tothe sides of the instrument, but in an oblique direction), though insome important respects inferior to the violin, is in other respectssuperior to it. Heard among the peaks of Snowdon, as I heard themduring our search for Winifred, the notes of the crwth have awonderful wildness and pathos. It is supposed to have the power ofdrawing the spirits when a maiden sings to its accompaniment amysterious old Cymric song or incantation. Among her own people it was as a seeress, as an adept in the realdukkering--the dukkering for the Romanies, as distinguished from thefalse dukkering, the dukkering for the Gorgios--that Sinfi's fame wasgreat. She had travelled over nearly all England--wherever, in short, there were horse-fairs--and was familiar with London, where in thestudios of artists she was in request as a face model ofextraordinary value. Nor were these all the characteristics thatdistinguished her from the common herd of Romany chies: she was oneof the few Gypsies of either sex who could speak with equal fluencyboth the English and Welsh Romanes, and she was in the habitsometimes of mixing the two dialects in a most singular way. Thoughshe had lived much in Wales, and had a passionate love of Snowdon, she belonged to a famous branch of the Lovells whose haunt had forages been in Wales and also the East Midlands, and she had caughtentirely the accent of that district. Among artists in London, as I afterwards learnt, she often went bythe playful name of 'Lady Sinfi Lovell, ' for the following reason: She was extremely proud, and believed the 'Kaulo Camloes' torepresent the aristocracy not only of the Gypsies, but of the world. Moreover, she had of late been brought into close contact with acertain travelling band of Hungarian Gypsy-musicians, who visitedEngland some time ago. Intercourse with these had fostered her pridein a curious manner. The musicians are the most intelligent and mostwidely-travelled not only of the Hungarian Gypsies, but of all theRomany race. They are darker than the sátoros czijányok, or tentedGypsies. The Lovells being the darkest of all the Gypsies of GreatBritain (and the most handsome, hence called Kaulo Camloes), it waseasy to make out an affinity closer than common between the Lovellsand the Hungarian musicians. Sinfi heard much talk among theHungarians of the splendours of the early leaders of the continentalRomanies. She was told of Romany kings, dukes, and counts. Sheaccepted, with that entire faith which characterised her, the storiesof the exploits of Duke Michael, Duke Andreas, Duke Panuel, and therest. It only needed a hint from one of her continental friends, thather father, Panuel Lovell, was probably a descendant of Duke Panuel, for Sinfi to consider him a Duke. From that moment she felt asstrongly as any Gorgie ever felt the fine sentiment expressed in thephrase, _noblesse oblige_; and to hear her say, 'I'm a duke's chavi[daughter], and mustn't do so and so, ' was a delightful andrefreshing experience to me. Poor Panuel groaned under these honours, for Sinfi insisted now on his dressing in a brown velveteen coat, scarlet waistcoat with gold coins for buttons, and the high-crowned, ribbon-bedizened hat which prosperous Gypsies once used to wear. Sheseemed to consider that her sister Videy (whose tastes were low for aWelsh Gypsy) did not belong to the high aristocracy, though born ofthe same father and mother. Moreover, 'dook' in Romanes means spirit, ghost, and very likely Sinfi found some power of association in thisfact; for Videy was a born sceptic. One of the special charms of Gypsy life is that a man fully admittedinto the Romany brotherhood can be on terms of close intimacy with aGypsy girl without awaking the smallest suspicion of love-making orflirtation; at least it was so in my time. Under my father's will, a considerable legacy had come to me, and, after going to London to receive this, I made the circuit of the Westof England with Sinfi's people. No sign whatever of Winifred did Ifind in any of the camps. I was for returning to Wales, where mythoughts always were; but I could not expect Sinfi to leave herfamily, so I started thither alone, leaving my waggon in theircharge. Before I reached Wales, however, I met in the eastern part ofCheshire, not far from Moreton Hall, some English Lees, with whom Igot into talk about the Hungarian musicians, who were here then onanother flying visit to England. Something that dropped from one ofthe Lees as to the traditions and superstitions of the HungarianGypsies with regard to people suffering from dementia set methinking; and at last I came to the conclusion that if I reallybelieved Winifred to have taken shelter among the Romanies, it wouldbe absurd not to follow up a band like these Hungarians. AccordinglyI changed my course, and followed them up. On coming upon them in afamous English camping-place I found the Lovells and the Boswells. Rhona, dressed in gorgeous attire, evidently purchased at somesecond-hand shop, was rehearsing the shawl-dance for a great occasionat a neighbouring fair. But no Winifred. My health was now much impaired by sleeplessness (the inevitableresult of my anxiety), and by a narcotic, which from the commencementof my troubles I had been in the habit of taking in ever-increasingdoses--a terrible narcotic, one of whose multitudinous effects isthat of sending all the patient's thoughts circling around onecentral idea like planets round the sun. Painful and agonising as hadbeen my suspense, --my oscillation between hope and dread, --during mywanderings with the Lovells, these wanderings had not been withouttheir moments of comfort, for all of which I had been indebted toSinfi. She would sit with me in an English lane, under a hedge ortree, on a balmy summer evening, or among the primroses, wildhyacinths, buttercups and daisies of the sweet meadows, chatteringher reminiscences of Winifred. She would mostly end by saying:'Winnie was very fond on ye, brother, and we shall find her yit. TheGolden Hand on Snowdon wasn't there for nothink. The dukkeripen saysyou'll marry her yit; a love like yourn can follow the tryenestpatrin as ever wur laid. ' Then she would play on her crwth and say, 'Ah, brother, I shall be able to make this crwth bring ye a sight o'Winnie's livin' mullo if she's alive, and there ain't a sperrit ofthe hills as wouldn't answer to it. ' Of Gorgios generally, however, Sinfi had at heart a feeling somewhatakin to dread. I could not understand it. 'Why do you dislike the Gorgios, Sinfi?' I said to her one day onLake Ogwen, after the return of the Lovells to Wales. We weretrout-fishing from a boat anchored to a heavy block of granite whichshe had fastened to a rope and heaved overboard with a strength thatwould have surpassed that of most Englishwomen. 'That's nuther here nor there, brother, ' she replied mysteriously. Somonths and months dragged by, and brought no trace of Winifred. IV THE LEADER OF THE AYLWINIANS I One day as Sinfi and I were strolling through the lovely gladesbetween Capel Curig and Bettws y Coed, on our way to a fishing-place, we sat down by a stream to eat some bread and cheese we had broughtwith us. The sunlight, as it broke here and there between the thick foliage, was playing upon the little cascades in such magical fashion--turningthe water into a torrent that seemed as though molten rubies andsapphires and opals were ablaze in one dancing faery stream, --thateven the dark tragedy of human life seemed enveloped for a moment inan atmosphere of poetry and beauty. Sinfi gazed at it silently, thenshe said: 'This is the very place where Winnie wonst tried to save a hernshawas wur wounded. She wur tryin' to ketch hold on it, as the water wurcarryin' it along, and he pretty nigh beat her to death wi' his wingsfor her pains. It wur then as she come an' stayed along o' us for abit, an' she got to be as fond o' my crwth as you be's, an' she usedto say that if there wur any music as 'ud draw her sperrit hack tothe airth arter she wur dead it 'ud be the sound o' my crwth; butthere she wur wrong as wrong could be: Romany music couldn't nevertouch Gorgio sperrit; 'tain't a bit likely. But it can draw herlivin' mullo [wraith]. ' And as she spoke she began to play her crwth_pizzicato_ and to sing the opening bars of the old Welsh incantationwhich I had heard on Snowdon on that never-to-be-forgotten morning. This, as usual, sent my mind at once back to the picture of FenellaStanley calling round her by the aid of her music the spirits ofSnowdon. And then a strange hallucination came upon me, that made meclutch at Sinfi's arm. Close by her, reflected in a little glassypool divided off from the current by a ring of stones, two blue eyesseemed gazing. Then the face and the entire figure of Winifredappeared, but Winifred dressed as a beggar girl in rags, Winifredstanding at a street corner holding out matches for sale. 'Winifred!' I exclaimed; and then the hallucination passed, andSinfi's features were reflected in the water. My exclamation had thestrangest effect upon Sinfi. Her lips, which usually wore apeculiarly proud and fearless curve, quivered, and were losing thebrilliant rosebud redness which mostly characterised them. The littleblue tattoo rosettes at the corners of her mouth seemed to be growingmore distinct as she gazed in the water through eyes dark andmysterious as Night's, but, like Night's own eyes, ready, I thought, to call up the throbbing fires of a million stars. 'What made you cry out "Winifred"?' she said, as the music ceased. 'What you told me about the spirits following the crwth was causingthe strangest dream, ' I answered. 'I thought I saw Winnie's facereflected in the water, and I thought she was in awful distress. Andall the time it was your face. ' 'That wur her livin' mullo, ' said Sinfi solemnly. Convinced though I was that the hallucination was the natural resultof Sinfi's harping upon the literal fulfilment of the curse, itdepressed me greatly. Close to this beautiful spot we came suddenly upon two touristssketching. And now occurred one of those surprises of which I havefound that real life is far more full than any fiction dares to be. As we passed the artists, I heard one call out to the other, with a'burr' which I will not attempt to render, having never lived in the'Black Country': 'You have a true eye for composition; what do you think of thistree?' The speaker's remarkable appearance attracted my attention. 'Well, ' said I to Sinfi, 'that's the first time I ever saw a paintershaven and dressed in a coat like a Quaker's. ' Sinfi looked across at the speaker through the curling smoke from mypipe, gave a start of surprise, and then said: 'So you've never seed_him_? That's because you're a country Johnny, brother, and don'tknow nothink about Londra life. That's a friend o' mine from Londraas has painted me many's the time. ' 'Painted you?' I said; 'the man in black, with the goggle eyes, squatting there under the white umbrella? What's his name?' 'That's the cel'erated Mr. Wilderspin, an' he's painted me many's thetime, an' a rare rum 'un he is too. Dordi! it makes me laugh to thinkon him. Most Gorgios is mad, more or less, but he's the maddest 'un Iever know'd. ' We had by this time got close to the painter's companion, who, sitting upright on his camp-stool, was busy with his brush. Withoutshifting his head to look at us, or removing his eyes from his work, he said, in a voice of striking power and volume: 'Nothing but animperfect experience of life, Lady Sinfi, could have made youpronounce our friend there to be the maddest Gorgio living. ' 'Dordi!' exclaimed Sinfi, turning sharply round in greatastonishment. 'Fancy seein' both on 'em here!' 'Mad our friend is, no doubt, Lady Sinfi, ' said the painter, withoutlooking round, 'but not so mad as certain illustrious Gorgios I couldname, some of them born legislators and some of them (apparently)born. R. A. 's. ' 'Who should ha' thought of seein' 'em both here?' said Sinfi again. 'That, ' said the painter, without even yet turning to look at us orstaying the movement of his brush, 'is a remark I never make in alittle dot of a world like this, Lady Sinfi, where I expect to seeeverybody everywhere. But, my dear Romany chi, ' he continued, nowturning slowly round, 'in passing your strictures upon the Gorgioworld, you should remember that you belong to a very limitedaristocracy, and that your remarks may probably fall upon ears of anentirely inferior and Gorgio convolution. ' 'No offence, I hope. ' said Sinfi. 'Offence in calling the Gorgios mad? Not the smallest, save that youhave distinctly plagiarised from me in your classification of theGorgio race. ' His companion called out again. 'Just one moment! Do come and look atthe position of this tree. ' 'In a second, Wilderspin, in a second, ' said the other. 'An oldfriend and myself are in the midst of a discussion. ' 'A discussion!' said the person addressed as Wilderspin. 'And withwhom, pray?' 'With Lady Sinfi Lovell, --a discussion as to the exact value of yourown special kind of madness in relation to the tomfooleries of theGorgio mind in general. ' 'Kekka! kekka!' said Sinfi, 'you shouldn't have said that. ' 'And I was on the point of proving to her ladyship that in thesedays, when Art has become genteel, and even New Grub Street"decorates" her walls--when success means not so much painting finepictures as building fine houses to paint in--the greatest complimentyou can pay to a man of genius is surely to call him either a beggaror a madman. ' The peculiarity of this 'chaff' was that it was uttered in a simpleand serious tone, in which not the faintest tinge of ironical intentwas apparent. The other artist looked across and said: 'Dear me!Sinfi Lovell! I am pleased to see you, Sinfi. I will ask you for asitting to-morrow. A study of your head would be very suggestiveamong the Welsh hills. ' The man who had been 'chaffing' Sinfi then rose and walked towardshis Quaker-like companion, and I had an opportunity of observing himfully. I saw that he was a spare man, wearing a brown velvet coat anda dark felt hat. The collar of the coat seemed to have been madecarefully larger than usual, in order to increase the apparent widthof his chest. His hair was brown and curly, but close cut. Hisfeatures were regular, perhaps handsome. His complexion wasbright, --fair almost, --rosy in hue, and his eyes were brown. He shook hands with Sinfi as he passed us, and gave me a glance ofthat rapid and all-comprehending kind which seems to take in, atonce, a picture in its every detail. 'What do you think of him?' said Sinfi to me, as he passed on and wetwo sat down on the grass by the side of the stream. 'I am puzzled, ' I replied, 'to know whether he is a young man wholooks like a middle-aged one, or a middle-aged man who looks like ayoung one. How's his hair under the hat?' 'Thinnish atop, ' said Sinfi laconically. 'And I'm puzzled, ' I added, still looking at him as he walked over the grass, 'as to whether he'sa little man who looks middle-sized, or a middle-sized man who lookslittle. ' 'He's a little big 'un, ' said Sinfi; 'about the height o' RhonaBozzell's Tarno Rye. ' 'Altogether he puzzles me, Sinfi!' 'He puzzled me same way at fust. ' What was it that made me take an interest so strange, strong, andsudden in this man? Without a hint of hair upon his face, whilejuvenile curls clustered thick and short beneath his wide-awake, hehad at first struck me as being not much more than a lad, till, as hegave me that rapid, searching glance in passing, I perceived thelittle crow's-feet round his eyes, and he then struck me immediatelyas being probably on the verge of thirty-five. His figure was slimand thin, his waist almost girlish in its fall. I should haveconsidered him small had not the unusually deep, loud, manly, andsonorous voice with which he had accosted Sinfi conveyed animpression of size and weight such as even big men do not oftenproduce. This deep voice, coupled with that gaunt kind of cheek whichwe associate with the most demure people, produced an effect ofsedateness such as I should have expected to find (and did not find)in the other man--the man of the shaven cheek and Quaker costume;but, in the one glance I had got from those watchful, sagacious, twinkling eyes, there was an expression quite peculiar to them, quite inscrutable, quite indescribable. II 'Can you reckon him up, brother?' said Sinfi, taking my meerschaumfrom my lips to refill it for me, as she was fond of doing. 'No. ' 'Nor I nuther, ' said Sinfi. 'Nor I can't pen his dukkerin' nuther, though often's the time I've tried it. ' During this time the two friends seemed to have finished theircolloquy upon 'composition'; for they both came up to us. Sinfi rose;I sat still on the grass, smoking my pipe, listening to the chatterof the water as it rushed over the rocks. By this time my curiosityin the younger man had died away. My mind was occupied with thedream-picture of a little blue-eyed girl struggling with a woundedheron. I had noticed, however, that he of the piercing eyes did notlook at me again, having entirely exhausted at a glance such interestas I had momentarily afforded him; while his companion seemed quiteunconscious of my presence as he stood there, his large, full, deep, brown eyes gazing apparently at something over my head, a long wayoff. Also I had noticed that 'Visionary' was stamped upon this man'severy feature--that he seemed an inspired baby of forty, talkingthere to his companion and to Sinfi, the sun falling upon his long, brown, curly hair, mixed with grey, which fell from beneath his hat, and floated around his collar like a mane. When my reverie had passed, I found the artists trying to arrangewith Sinfi to give an open-air sitting to one of them, the manaddressed as Wilderspin. Sinfi seemed willing enough to come toterms; but I saw her look round at me as if saying to herself, 'Whatam I to do with you?' 'I should like for my brother to sit too, ' I heard her say. 'Surely!' said Wilderspin. 'Your brother would be a great gain to mypicture. ' Sinfi then came to me, and said that the painter wanted me to sit tohim. 'But, ' said I in an undertone, 'the Gorgios will certainly find outthat I am no Romany. ' 'Not they, ' said Sinfi, 'the Gorgios is sich fools. Why, bless you, aGorgio ain't got eves and ears like a Romany. You don't suppose as aGorgio can hear or see or smell like a Romany can?' 'But you forget, Sinfi, that I am a Gorgio, and there are not manyRomanies can boast of better senses than your brother Hal. ' 'Dordi!' said Sinfi, 'that's jist like your mock-modesty. Yourgreat-grandmother wur a Romany, and it's my belief that if you onlywent back fur enough, you'd find you had jist as good Romany blood inyour veins as I have, and my daddy is a duke, you know, a real, reg'lar, out-an'-out Romany duke. ' 'I'm afraid you flatter me, sister, ' I replied. 'However, let's trythe Gorgios;' and I got up and walked with her close to the twosketchers. Wilderspin was on the point of engaging me, when the other man, without troubling to look at me again, said: 'He's no more a Romany than I am. ' 'Ain't a Romany?' said Sinfi. 'Who says my brother ain't a Romany?Where did you ever see a Gorgio with a skin like that?' she said, triumphantly pulling up my sleeve and exposing one of my wrists. 'That ain't sunburn, that's the real Romany brown, an' we's twinses, only I'm the biggest, an' we's the child'n of a duke, a real, reg'lar, out-an'-out Romany duke. ' He gave a glance at the exposed wrist. 'As to the Romany brown, ' said he, 'a little soap would often make achange in the best Romany brown--ducal or other. ' 'Why, look at his neck, ' said Sinfi, turning down my neckerchief; 'isthat sunburn, or is it Romany brown, I should like to know?' 'I assure you, ' said the speaker, still addressing her in the samegrave, measured voice, 'that the Romanies have no idea what a littlesoap can do with the Romany brown. ' 'Do you mean to say, ' cried Sinfi, now entirely losing her temper(for on the subject of Romany cleanliness she, the most cleanly ofwomen, was keenly sensitive)--'do you mean to say as the Romany dialsan' the Romany dries don't wash theirselves? I know what you fineGorgios _do_ say, --you're allus a-tellin' lies about us Romanies. Brother, ' she cried, turning now to me in a great fury, 'I'm a duke'schavi, an' mustn't fight no mumply Gorgios; why don't _you_ take an'make his bed for him?' And certainly the man's supercilious impertinence was beginning toirritate me. 'I should advise you to withdraw that about the soap, ' I saidquietly, looking at him. 'Oh! and if I don't?' 'Why, then I suppose I must do as my sister bids, ' said I. 'I mustmake your bed, ' pointing to the grass beneath his feet. 'But I thinkit only fair to tell you that I am somewhat of a fighting man, whichyou probably are not. ' 'You mean... ?' said he (turning round menacingly, but with no morenotion of how to use his fists than a lobster). 'I mean that we should not be fighting on equal terms, ' I said. 'In other words, ' said he, 'you mean... ?' and he came nearer. 'In other words, I mean that, judging from the way in which you areadvancing towards me now, the result of such an encounter might nottend to the honour and glory of the British artist in Wales. ' 'But, ' said he, 'you are no Gypsy. Who are you?' 'My name is Henry Aylwin, ' said I; 'and I must ask you to withdrawyour words about the virtues of soap, as my sister objects to them. ' 'What?' cried he, losing for the first time his matchless_sang-froid_. 'Henry Aylwin?' Then he looked at me in silentamazement, while an expression of the deepest humorous enjoymentoverspread his features, making them positively shine as thoughoiled. Finally, he burst into a loud laugh, that was all the moreirritating from the manifest effort he made to restrain it. 'Did I hear His Majesty of Gypsydom aright?' he said, as soon as hishilarity allowed him to speak. 'Is the humble bed of a mere painterto be made for him by the representative of the proud Aylwins, thegenteel Aylwins, the heir-presumptive Aylwins--the most respectablebranch of a most respectable family, which, alas! has its ungenteel, its bohemian, its vulgar offshoots? Did I hear His Majesty ofGypsydom aright?' He leant against a tree, and gave utterance to peal after peal oflaughter. I advanced with rapidly rising anger, but his hilarity had soovermastered him that he did not heed it. 'Wilderspin, ' cried he, 'come here! Pray come here. Have I not oftentold you the reason why I threw up my engagement with my theatricalmanager, and missed my high vocation in ungenteel comedy? Have I notoften told you that it sprang from no disrespect to my friends, thecomic actors, but from the feeling that no comedian can hope to becomic enough to compete with the real thing--the true harlequinade ofeveryday life, roaring and screaming around me wherever I go?' Then, without waiting for his companion's reply, he turned to me, andgiving an added volume to his sonorous voice, said: 'And you, Sir King, do you know whose bed Your Majesty was going tomake at the bidding of--well, of a duke's chavi?' I advanced with still growing anger. 'Stay, King Bamfylde, stay, 'said he; 'shall the beds of the mere ungenteel Aylwins, "the outsideAylwins, " be made by the high Gypsy-gentility of Raxton?' A light began to break in upon me. 'Surely, ' I said, 'surely you arenot Cyril Aylwin, the------?' 'Pray finish your sentence, sir, and say the low bohemian painter, the representative of the great ungenteel--the successor to theAylwin peerage. ' The other painter, looking in blank amazement at my newly-foundkinsman's extraordinary merriment, exclaimed, 'Bless me! Then youreally can laugh aloud, Mr. Cyril. What has happened? What can havehappened to make my dear friend laugh aloud?' 'Well he may ask, ' said Cyril, turning to me. 'He knows that eversince I was a boy in jackets I have despised the man who, in a worldwhere all is so comic, could select any particular point of the farcefor his empty guffaw. But I am conquered at last. Let me introduceyou, Wilderspin, to my kinsman, Henry Aylwin of Raxton Hall, aliasLord Henry Lovell of Little Egypt--one of Duke Panuel's interestingtwinses. ' But Wilderspin's astonishment, apparently, was not at the_rencontre_: it was at the spectacle of his companion's hilarity. 'Wonderful!' he murmured, with his eyes still fastened upon Cyril. 'My dear friend can laugh aloud. Most wonderful! What can havehappened?' This is what had happened. By one of those strange coincidences whichmake the drama of real life far more wonderful than the drama of anystage, I, in my character of wandering Gypsy, had been thrown acrossthe path of the _bête noire_ of my mother and aunt, Cyril Aylwin, apainter of bohemian proclivities, who (under the name of 'Cyril') hadobtained some considerable reputation. This kinsman of mine had beenheld up to me as a warning from my very childhood, though wherein layhis delinquencies I never did clearly understand, save that he hadonce been an actor--before acting had become genteel. Often as I hadheard of this eccentric painter as the representative of the branchof the family which preceded mine in the succession to the covetedearldom, I had never seen him before. He stood and looked at me in a state of intense amusement, but didnot speak. 'So you are Cyril Aylwin?' I said. 'Still you must withdraw what yousaid to my sister about the soap. ' 'Delicious!' said he, grasping my hand. 'I had no idea that highgentility numbered chivalry among its virtues. Lady Sinfi, ' hecontinued, turning to her, 'they say this brother of yours is acharacter, and, by Jove! he is. And as to you, dear lady, I am proudof the family connection. The man who has two Romany Rye kinsmen maybe excused for showing a little pride. I withdraw every word aboutthe virtues of soap, and am convinced that it can do nothing with thetrue Romany-Aylwin brown. ' On that we shook hands all round. 'But, Sinfi, ' said I, 'why did younot tell me that this was my kinsman?' ''Cause I didn't know, ' said she. 'I han't never seed him since I'veknow'd you. I always heerd his friends call him Cyril, and so I usedto call him Mr. Cyril. ' 'But, Lady Sinfi, my Helen of Little Egypt, ' said Cyril, 'supposethat in my encounter with my patrician cousin--an encounter whichwould have been entirely got up in honour of you--suppose it hadhappened that I had made your brother's bed for him?' 'You make _his_ bed!' exclaimed Sinfi, laughing. 'Dordi! how you would ha' went down afore the Swimmin' Rei!'[Footnote] [Footnote: By the Welsh Gypsies, but few of whom can swim, I wascalled 'the Swimmin' Rei, ' a name which would have been far moreappropriately given to Percy Aylwin (Rhona Boswell's lover), one ofthe strongest swimmers in England; but he was simply called theTarno Rye (the young gentleman). ] 'But suppose that, on the contrary, he had gone down before me, ' saidCyril; 'suppose I had been the death of your Swimming Rei, I shouldhave been tried for the wilful murder of a prince of Little Egypt, the son of a Romany duke. Why, Helen of Troy was not half somischievous a beauty as you. ' 'You was safe enough, no fear, ' said Sinfi. 'It 'ud take six o' youto settle the Swimmin' Rei. ' I found that Cyril and his strange companion were staying at 'TheRoyal Oak, ' at Bettws y Coed. They asked me to join them, but when Itold them I 'could not leave my people, who were encamped about twomiles off, ' Cyril again looked at me with an expression of deepestenjoyment, and exclaimed 'delightful creature. ' Turning to Sinfi, he said: 'Then we'll go with you and call upon thenoble father of the twins, my old friend King Panuel. ' 'He ain't a king, ' said Sinfi modestly; 'he's only a duke. ' 'You'll give us some tea, Lady Sinfi?' said Cyril. 'No tea equal to Gypsy tea. ' 'Romany tea, Mr. Cyril, ' replied Sinfi, with perfect dignity andgrace. 'My daddy, the duke, will be pleased to welcome you. ' We all strolled towards the tents. I offered to carry an umbrella anda camp-stool. Cyril walked briskly away with Sinfi, leaving me to geton with Wilderspin as best I could. Before the other two were out ofearshot, however, I heard Cyril say, 'You shouldn't have taken so seriously my chaff about the soap, Sinfi. You ought to know me better by this time than to think that Iwould really insult you. ' 'How you would ha' went down afore the Swimmin' Rei!' replied Sinfiregretfully. III Between my new companion, Wilderspin, and myself there was an awkwardsilence for some time. He was evidently in a brown study. I had ampleopportunity for examining his face. Deeply impressed upon his foreheadthere was, as I now perceived, an ancient scar of a peculiar shape. Atlast, a lovely bit of scenery broke the spell, and conversation beganto flow freely. We had nearly got within sight of the encampment when he said, 'I am in some perplexity, sir, about the various branches of yourfamily. Aylwin, I need not tell you, was the name of the greatest manof this age, and I am anxious to know what is exactly your connectionwith him. ' 'You surprise me, ' I said. 'Out of our own family, in its variousbranches, there is, I have been told, no very large number ofAylwins, and I had no idea that one of them had become famous. ' 'I did not say famous, sir, but great; two very different words. Yet, in a certain deep sense, it may be said of Philip Aylwin's name thatsince his lamented death it has even become famous. The Aylwinians(of which body I am, as you are no doubt aware, founder andpresident) are, I may say, becoming--' 'Philip Aylwin!' I said. 'Why, that was my father. He famous!' The recollection of the essay upon 'Hamalet and Hamlet, ' the thoughtof the brass-rubbings, the kneecaps and mittens, came before me in anirresistibly humorous light, and I could not repress a smile. Thenarose upon me the remembrance of the misery that had fallen uponWinnie and myself from his monomania and what seemed to me hissuperstitious folly, and I could not withhold an angry scowl. Thencame the picture of the poor scarred breast, the love-token, and themartyrdom that came to him who had too deeply loved, and smile andfrown both passed from my face as I murmured, --'Poor father! hefamous! 'Philip Aylwin's son!' said Wilderspin, staring at me. Then, raisinghis hat as reverentially to me as if I had been the son ofShakespeare himself, he said, 'Mr. Aylwin, since Mary Wilderspin wenthome to heaven, the one great event of my life has been the readingof _The Veiled Queen_, your father's book of inspired wisdom upon themodern Renascence of Wonder in the mind of Man. To apply hisprinciples to Art, sir--to give artistic rendering to the profoundidea hinted at in the marvellous vignette on the title-page of histhird edition--has been, for some time past, the proud task of mylife. And you are the great man's son! Astonishing! Although hisgreat learning overwhelms my mind and appals my soul (whom, indeed, should it not overwhelm and appal?) there is not a pamphlet of histhat I do not know intimately, almost by heart. ' 'Including the paper on "Hamlet and Hamalet, and the wide region ofNowhere"?' 'Including that and everything. ' 'Did you know him, Mr. Wilderspin?' 'Not in the flesh; in the spirit, who knows him so well? Your motherI have had the pleasure of meeting at the house of Lord Sleaford, andindeed I have had the distinguished honour of painting her portrait;but the great author of _The Veiled Queen_--the inspired designer ofthe vignette symbolical of the Renascence of Wonder in Art--I neverhad the rapture of seeing. This very day, the anniversary of hisbirth, ' he continued, 'is a great day in the Aylwinian calendar. ' 'My father's birthday? Why, so it is!' 'Mr. Aylwin, is it possible that the anniversary of a day somomentous for the world is forgotten--forgotten by the very issue ofthe great man's loins?' 'The fact is, ' said I, in some confusion, 'I have been living withthe Gypsies, and, you see, Mr. Wilderspin, the passage of time--' 'The son of Philip Aylwin a Gypsy!' murmured Wilderspin meditatively, and unconscious evidently that he was speaking aloud--'a Gypsy! Stillit would surely be a mistake to suppose, ' he continued, perfectlyoblivious now of my presence, 'that the vagaries of his son canreally bring shame upon the head of the father. ' 'But, by God!' I cried, 'it is no mistake that the vagaries of thefather can bring shame and sorrow and misery upon the child. I couldname a couple of fathers--sleeping very close to each othernow--whose vagaries--' My sudden anger was carrying me away; but I stopped, recollectingmyself. 'Doubtless, ' said Wilderspin, 'there are fathers and fathers. The sonof Philip Aylwin has assuredly a right to be critical in regard toall other fathers than his own. ' I looked in his face; the expression of solemn earnestness was quiteunmistakable. 'It is not you, ' I said, 'it is Heaven, or else it is the blindjester Circumstance, that is playing this joke upon me!' 'To your honoured father, ' he continued, taking not the slightestnotice of my interjection, 'I owe everything. From his grave hesupports my soul; from his grave he gives me ideas; from his gravehe makes my fame. How should I fail to honour his son, even thoughhe--' Of course he was going to add--'even though he be a vagabondassociating with vagabonds, '--but he left the sentence unfinished. 'I confess, Mr. Wilderspin, ' said I, 'that you speak in such enigmasthat it would be folly for me to attempt to answer you. ' 'I wish, ' said Wilderspin, 'that all enigmas were as soluble as this. Let me ask you a question, sir. When you stood before my picture, "Faith and Love, " in Bond Street, did you not perceive that both itand the predella were inspired entirely by your father's great work, _The Veiled Queen_, or rather that they are mere pictorialrenderings and illustrations of that grand effort of man's soul inits loftiest development?' I had never heard of the picture in question. As for the book, myfather, perceiving my great dislike of mysticism, had always shrunkfrom showing me any effusion of his that was not of a simplyantiquarian kind. In Switzerland, however, after his death, whilewaiting for the embalmer to finish his work, I had become, during afew days' reading, acquainted with _The Veiled Queen_. It was a newedition containing an 'added chapter, ' full of subtle spiritualisticsymbols. Amid what had seemed to me mere mystical jargon about theveil of Isis being uplifted, not by Man's reason, not by suchresearches as those of Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, and the continentalevolutionists, but by Faith and Love, I had come across passages ofburning eloquence. 'I am sorry to say, ' I replied, 'that my Gypsy wanderings are againanswerable for my shortcomings. I have not yet seen your picture. When I do see it I--' 'Not seen "Faith and Love" and the equally wonderful predella at thefoot of it!' he exclaimed incredulously. 'Ah, but you have beenliving among the Gypsies. It is the greatest picture of the modernworld; for, Mr. Aylwin, it renders in Art the inevitable attitude ofits own time and country towards the unseen world, and renders it ascompletely as did the masterpiece of Polygnotus in the Lesche of the'Not in the flesh; in the spirit, who knows him so well? Your motherI have had the pleasure of meeting at the house of Lord Sleaford, andindeed I have had the distinguished honour of painting her portrait;but the great author of _The Veiled Queen_--the inspired designer ofthe vignette symbolical of the Renascence of Wonder in Art--I neverhad the rapture of seeing. This very day, the anniversary of hisbirth, ' he continued, 'is a great day in the Aylwinian calendar. ' 'My father's birthday? Why, so it is!' 'Mr. Aylwin, is it possible that the anniversary of a day somomentous for the world is forgotten--forgotten by the very issue ofthe great man's loins?' 'The fact is, ' said I, in some confusion, 'I have been living withthe Gypsies, and, you see, Mr. Wilderspin, the passage of time--' 'The son of Philip Aylwin a Gypsy!' murmured Wilderspin meditatively, and unconscious evidently that he was speaking aloud--'a Gypsy! Stillit would surely be a mistake to suppose, ' he continued, perfectlyoblivious now of my presence, 'that the vagaries of his son canreally bring shame upon the head of the father. ' 'But, by God!' I cried, 'it is no mistake that the vagaries of thefather can bring shame and sorrow and misery upon the child. I couldname a couple of fathers--sleeping very close to each othernow--whose vagaries--' My sudden anger was carrying me away; but I stopped, recollectingmyself. 'Doubtless, ' said Wilderspin, 'there are fathers and fathers. The sonof Philip Aylwin has assuredly a right to be critical in regard toall other fathers than his own. ' I looked in his face; the expression of solemn earnestness was quiteunmistakable. 'It is not you, ' I said, 'it is Heaven, or else it is the blindjester Circumstance, that is playing this joke upon me!' 'To your honoured father, ' he continued, taking not the slightestnotice of my interjection, 'I owe everything. From his grave hesupports my soul; from his grave he gives me ideas; from his gravehe makes my fame. How should I fail to honour his son, even thoughhe--' Of course he was going to add--'even though he be a vagabondassociating with vagabonds, '--but he left the sentence unfinished. 'I confess, Mr. Wilderspin, ' said I, 'that you speak in such enigmasthat it would be folly for me to attempt to answer you. ' 'I wish, ' said Wilderspin, 'that all enigmas were as soluble as this. Let me ask you a question, sir. When you stood before my picture, "Faith and Love, " in Bond Street, did you not perceive that both itand the predella were inspired entirely by your father's great work, _The Veiled Queen_, or rather that they are mere pictorialrenderings and illustrations of that grand effort of man's soul inits loftiest development?' I had never heard of the picture in question. As for the book, myfather, perceiving my great dislike of mysticism, had always shrunkfrom showing me any effusion of his that was not of a simplyantiquarian kind. In Switzerland, however, after his death, whilewaiting for the embalmer to finish his work, I had become, during afew days' reading, acquainted with _The Veiled Queen_. It was a newedition containing an 'added chapter, ' full of subtle spiritualisticsymbols. Amid what had seemed to me mere mystical jargon about theveil of Isis being uplifted, not by Man's reason, not by suchresearches as those of Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, and the continentalevolutionists, but by Faith and Love, I had come across passages ofburning eloquence. 'I am sorry to say, ' I replied, 'that my Gypsy wanderings are againanswerable for my shortcomings. I have not yet seen your picture. When I do see it I--' 'Not seen "Faith and Love" and the equally wonderful predella at thefoot of it!' he exclaimed incredulously. 'Ah, but you have beenliving among the Gypsies. It is the greatest picture of the modernworld; for, Mr. Aylwin, it renders in Art the inevitable attitude ofits own time and country towards the unseen world, and renders it ascompletely as did the masterpiece of Polygnotus in the Lesche of theCnidians at Delphi--as completely as did the wonderful frescoes ofAndrea Orcagna on the walls of the Campo Santo at Pisa. ' 'And you attribute your success to the inspiration you derived frommy father's hook?' 'To that and to the spirit of Mary Wilderspin in heaven. ' 'Then you are a Spiritualist?' 'I am an Aylwinian, the opposite (need I say?) of a Darwinian. ' 'Of the school of Blake, perhaps?' I asked. 'Of the school of Blake? No. He was on the right road; but he was awriter of verses! Art is a jealous mistress, Mr. Aylwin: the painterwho rhymes is lost. Even the master himself is so much the weaker byevery verse he has written. I never could make a rhyme in my life, and have faithfully shunned printer's ink, the black blight of thepainter. I am my own school; the school of the spirit world. ' 'I am very curious, ' I said, 'to know in what way my father and thespirits can have inspired a great painter. Of the vignette I mayclaim to know something. Of the spirits as artists I have of courseno knowledge, but as regards my father, he, I am certain, couldhardly have told a Raphael from a chromolithograph copy. He was, inspite of that same vignette, most ignorant of art. Raxton Hallpossesses nothing but family portraits. ' IV By this time we had reached the encampment, which was close by awaterfall among ferns and wild-flowers. Little Jerry Lovell, a childof about four years of age, came running to meet me with a deadwater-wagtail in his hand which he had knocked down. 'Me kill de Romany Chiriklo, ' said he, and then proceeded to tell mevery gravely that, having killed the 'Gypsy magpie, ' he was bound tohave a great lady for his sweetheart. 'Jerry, ' said I bitterly, 'you begin with love and superstitionearly; you are an incipient "Aylwinian": take care. ' When I explained to Wilderspin that this was one of the Romanybeliefs, he said that he did not at present see the connectionbetween a dead water-wagtail and a live lady, but that such aconnection might doubtless exist. Panuel Lovell now came forward togreet and welcome Wilderspin. Sinfi and Cyril had evidently walked ata brisk rate, for already tea was spread out on a cloth. The fire wasblazing beneath a kettle slung from the 'kettle-prop. ' The party werewaiting for us. Sinfi, however, never idle, was filling up the timeby giving lessons in riding to Euri and Sylvester Lovell, two duskyurchins in their early teens, while her favourite bantam-cockPharaoh, standing on a donkey's back, his wattles gleaming like coralin the sun, was crowing lustily. Cyril, who lay stretched among theferns, his chin resting in his hands and a cigarette in his mouth, was looking on with the deepest interest. As I passed behind him tointroduce Wilderspin to Videy Lovell (who was making tea), I heardCyril say, 'Lady Sinfi, you must and shall teach me how to make anadversary's bed--the only really essential part of a liberaleducation. ' 'Brother, ' said Sinfi, turning to me, 'your thoughts are a-flyin' offagin; keep your spirits up afore all these. ' The leafy dingle was recalling Graylingham Wilderness and 'FairyDell, ' where little Winifred used to play Titania to my childishOberon, and dance the Gypsy 'shawl-dance' Sinfi's mother had taughther! So much was I occupied with these reminiscences that I had notobserved that during our absence our camp had been honoured byvisitors. These were Jericho Boswell, christened, I believe, Jasper, his daughter Rhona, and James Herne, called on account of hisaccomplishments as a penman the Scollard. Although Jasper Boswell andPanuel Lovell were rival Griengroes, there was no jealousy betweenthem--indeed, they were excellent friends. There were many points of similarity between their characters. Eachhad risen from comparative poverty to what might be called wealth, and risen in the same way, that is to say, by straightforward dealingwith the Gorgios, although as regarded Jericho, Rhona was generallycredited with having acted as a great auxiliary in amassing hiswealth. All over the country the farmers and horse-dealers knew thatneither Jasper nor Panuel ever bishoped a gry, or indulged in anyother horse-dealing tricks. Their very simplicity of character haddone what all the crafty tricks of certain compeers of theirs hadfailed to do. They were also very much alike in their good-naturedand humorous, way of taking all the ups and downs of life. A very different kind of Romany was the Scollard--so different, indeed, that it was hard to think that he was of the same race:Romany guile incarnate was the Scollard. He suggested even in hispersonal appearance the typical Gypsy of the novel and the stage, rather than the true Gypsy as he lives and moves. The Scollard waswell known to be half-crazed with a passion for Rhona Boswell, whowas _the fiancée_ of that cousin of mine, Percy Aylwin, beforementioned. Percy was considered to be a hopelessly erratic character. Much against the wish of his parents, he had been brought up as asailor; but on seeing Rhona Boswell he promptly fell in love withher, and quitted the sea in order to be near her. And no man who everheard Rhona's laugh professed to wonder at Percy's infatuation. As aGriengro her father, Jericho Boswell, who had no son, was said tohave owed his prosperity to Rhona's instinctive knowledge ofhorseflesh. While our guests, Romany and Gorgio, were doing justice to the trout, Welsh brown bread and butter and jam which Videy had spread beforethem, Sinfi went to the back of the camp to look at the ponies, and Igot into conversation with Rhona Boswell, whom I remembered so wellas a child. At first she was shy and embarrassed, doubtful, as Iperceived, whether or not she ought to talk about Winnie. She waitedto see whether I introduced the subject, and finding that I did not, she began to talk about Sinfi and plied me with questions as to whatwe two had been doing and where we had been during our wanderingsthrough Wales. When tea was over and Cyril was in lively talk with Sinfi, Wilderspingrew restless, and I perceived that he wanted to resume hisconversation with me about his picture. I said to him: 'This idea of my father's which has inspired you, and resulted in such greatwork, what is its nature?' 'I am a painter, Mr. Aylwin, and nothing more, ' he replied. 'I couldonly express Philip Aylwin's ideas by describing my picture and thepredella beneath it. Will you permit me to do so?' 'May I ask you, ' I said, 'as a favour to do so?' Immediately his face became very bright, and into his eyes returnedthe far-off look already described. 'I will first take the predella, which represents Isis behind theVeil, ' said he. 'Imagine yourself thousands of years away from thistime. Imagine yourself thousands of miles away, among realEgyptians. ' 'Real 'Gyptians!' cried Sinfi. 'Who says the Romanies ain't real'Gyptians? Anybody as says my daddy ain't a real 'Gyptian duke'll ha'to set to with Sinfi Lovell. ' 'Nonsense, ' said Cyril, smiling, and playing idly with a coral amuletdangling from Sinfi's neck; 'he's talking about the ancientEgyptians: Egyptian mummies, you silly Lady Sinfi. You're not amummy, are you?' 'Well, no, I ain't a mummy as fur as I knows on, ' said Sinfi, onlyhalf-appeased; 'but my daddy's a 'Gyptian duke for all that, --ain'tyou, dad?' 'So it seems, Sin, ' said Panuel, 'but I ommust begin to wish Iworn't; it makes you feel so blazin' shy bein' a duke all of asuddent. ' 'Dabla!' said the guest Jericho Boswell. 'What, Pan, has she made adook on ye?' The Scollard began to grin. 'Pull that ugly mug o' yourn straight, Jim Herne, ' said Sinfi, 'elseI'll come and pull it straight for you. ' Wilderspin took no notice of the interruption, but addressed me asthough no one else were within earshot. 'Imagine yourself standing in an Egyptian city, where innumerablelamps of every hue are shining. It is one of the great lamp-fêtes ofSais, which all Egypt has come to see. There, in honour of the feast, sits a tall woman, covered by a veil. But the painting is sowonderful, Mr. Aylwin, that, though you see a woman's face expressedbehind the veil--though you see the warm flesh-tints and the light ofthe eyes through the aerial film--you cannot judge of the characterof the face--you cannot see whether it is that of woman in her noblest, or woman in her basest, type. The eyes sparkle, but you cannot saywhether they sparkle with malignity or benevolence--whether they arefired with what Philip Aylwin calls "the love-light of the seventhheaven, " or are threatening with "the hungry flames of the seventhhell"! There she sits in front of a portico, while, asleep, withfolded wings, is crouched on one side of her the figure of Love, withrosy feathers, and on the other the figure of Faith, with plumageof a deep azure. Over her head, on the portico, are written thewords:--"I am all that hath been, is, and shall be, and no mortalhath uncovered my veil. " The tinted lights falling on the group areshed, you see, from the rainbow-coloured lamps of Sais, which arecountless. But in spite of all these lamps, Mr. Aylwin, no mortal cansee the face behind that veil. And why? Those who alone could upliftit, the figures with folded wings--Faith and Love--are fast asleep atthe great Queen's feet. When Faith and Love are sleeping there, whatare the many-coloured lamps of science?--of what use are they to thefamished soul of man?' 'A striking idea!' I exclaimed. 'Your father's, ' replied Wilderspin, in a tone of such reverence thatone might have imagined my father's spectre stood before him. 'Itsymbolises that base Darwinian cosmogony which Carlyle spits at, andthe great and good John Ruskin scorns. But this design is only thepredella beneath the picture "Faith and Love. " Now look at thepicture itself, Mr. Aylwin, ' he continued, as though it were upon aneasel before me. 'You are at Sais no longer: you are now, as thearchitecture around you shows, in a Greek city by the sea. In thelight of innumerable lamps, torches, and wax tapers, a procession ismoving through the streets. You see Isis, as Pelagia, advancingbetween two ranks, one of joyous maidens in snow-white garments, adorned with wreaths, and scattering from their bosoms all kinds ofdewy flowers; the other of youths, playing upon pipes and flutes, mixed with men with shaven shining crowns, playing upon sistra ofbrass, silver, and gold. Isis wears a Dorian tunic, fastened on herbreast by a tasselled knot, --an azure-coloured tunic bordered withsilver stars, --and an upper garment of the colour of the moon atmoonrise. Her head is crowned with a chaplet of sea-flowers, andround her throat is a necklace of seaweeds, wet still with sea-water, and shimmering with all the shifting hues of the sea. On either sideof her stand the awakened angels, uplifting from her face a veilwhose folds flow soft as water over her shoulders and over the wingsof Faith and Love. A symbol of the true cosmogony which Philip Aylwingave to the world!' 'Why, that's esackly like the wreath o' seaweeds as poor Winnie Wynneused to make, ' said Rhona Boswell. 'The photograph of Raxton Fair!' I cried. 'Frank and Winnie, andlittle Bob Milford, and the seaweeds!' The terrible past came upon mysoul like an avalanche, and I leapt up and walked frantically towardsmy own waggon. The picture, which was nothing but an idealisation ofthe vignette upon the title-page of my father's book--the vignettetaken from the photograph of Winnie, my brother Frank, and one of myfisher-boy playmates--brought back upon me--all! Sinfi came to me. 'What is it, brother?' said she. 'Sinfi, ' I cried, 'what was that saying of your mother's aboutfathers and children?' 'My poor mammy's daddy, when she wur a little chavi, beat her socruel that she was a ailin' woman all her life, and she used to say, "For good or for ill, you must dig deep to bury your daddy. "' I went back and resumed my seat by Wilderspin's side, while Sinfireturned to Cyril. Wilderspin evidently thought that I had been overcome by themarvellous power of his description, and went on as though there hadbeen no interruption. 'Isis, ' said he, ' stands before you; Isis, not matronly and stern asthe mother of Horus, nor as the Isis of the licentious orgies; but(as Philip Aylwin says) "Isis, the maiden, gazing around her, withpure but mystic eyes. "' 'And you got from my father's book, --_The Veiled Queen_, all this'--Iwas going to add--'jumble of classic story and mediævalmysticism, '--but I stopped short in time. 'All this and more--a thousand times more than could be rendered bythe art of any painter. For the age that Carlyle spits at and thegreat and good John Ruskin scorns is gross, Mr. Aylwin; the age isgrovelling and gross. No wonder, then, that Art in our time hasnothing but technical excellence; that it despises conscience, despises aspiration, despises soul, despises even ideas--that it isworthless, all worthless. ' 'Except as practised in a certain temple of art in a certain part ofLondon that shall be nameless, whence Calliope, Euterpe, and all therhythmic sisters are banished, ' interposed Cyril. 'But how did you attain to this superlative excellence, Mr. Wilderspin?' I asked. 'That would indeed be a long story to tell, ' said he. 'Yet PhilipAylwin's son has a right to know all that I can tell. My dear friendhere knows that, though famous now, I climbed the ladder of Art fromthe bottom rung; nay, before I could even reach the bottom rung, whata toilsome journey was mine to get within sight of the ladder at all!The future biographer of the painter of "Faith and Love" will have torecord that he was born in a hovel; that he was nursed in a smithy;that his cradle was a piece of board suspended from the smithyceiling by a chain, which his mother--his widowed mother--keptswinging by an occasional touch in the intervals of her labours atthe forge. ' I did not even smile at this speech, so entirely was the effect ofits egotism killed by the wonderful way of pronouncing the word'mother. ' 'You have heard, ' he continued in a voice whose intense earnestnesshad an irresistible fascination for the ear, like that of a Hindoocharmer--'you have heard of the mother-bird who feeds her young fromthe blood of her own breast; that bird but feebly typifies her whomGod, in His abundant love of me, gave me for a mother. There were tenof us--ten little children. My mother was a female blacksmith of OldHill, who for four shillings and sixpence a week worked sixteen hoursa day for the fogger, hammering hot iron into nails. The scar upon myforehead--look! it is shaped like the red-hot nail that one day leaptupon me from her anvil, as I lay asleep in my swing above her head. Iwould not lose it for all the diadems of all the monarchs of thisworld. She was much too poor to educate us. When the wolf is at thedoor, Mr. Aylwin, and the very flesh and blood of the babes in dangerof perishing, what mother can find time to think of education, tothink even of the salvation of the soul, --to think of anything butfood--food? Have you ever wanted food, Mr. Aylwin?' he suddenly said, in a voice so magnetic from its very earnestness that I seemed forthe moment to feel the faintness of hunger. 'No, no, ' I said, a tide of grief rushing upon me; 'but there is onewho perhaps--there is one I love more dearly than your mother lovedher babes--' Sinfi rose, and came and placed her hand upon my shoulder andwhispered, 'She ain't a-starvin', brother; she never starved on the hills. She'sonly jest a-beggin' her bread for a little while, that's all. ' And then, after laying her hand upon my forehead, soft and soothing, she returned to Cyril's side. 'No one who has never wanted food knows what life is, ' saidWilderspin, taking but little heed of even so violent an interruptionas this. 'No one has been entirely educated, Mr. Aylwin--no one knowsthe real primal meaning of that pathetic word Man--no one knows thetrue meaning of Man's position here among the other living creaturesof this world, if he has never wanted food. Hunger gives a new seeingto the eyes. ' 'That's as true as the blessed stars, ' muttered old Mrs. Boswell, Rhona's beloved granny, who was squatting on a rug next to her sonJericho, with a pipe in her mouth, weaving fancy baskets, andlistening intently. 'The very airth under your feet seems to bea-sinkin' away, and the sweet sunshine itself seems as if it allbelonged to the Gorgios, when you're a-follerin' the patrin with theemp'y belly. ' 'I thank God, ' continued Wilderspin, 'that I once wanted food. ' 'More nor I do, ' muttered old Mrs. Boswell, as she went on weaving;'no mammy as ever felt a little chavo [Footnote 1] a-suckin' at herburk [Footnote 2] never thanked God for wantin' food: it dries themilk, or else it sp'iles it. ' [Footnote 1: Child. ] [Footnote 2: Bosom. ] 'In no way, ' said Wilderspin, 'has the spirit-world neglected theeducation of the apostle of spiritual beauty. I became a "blower" inthe smithy. As a child, from early sunrise till nearly midnight, Iblew the bellows for eighteen pence a week. But long before I couldread or write my mother knew that I was set apart for great things. She knew, from the profiles I used to trace with the point of a nailon the smithy walls, that, unless the heavy world pressed too heavilyupon me, I should become a great painter. Except anxiety about mymother and my little brothers and sisters, I, for my part, had nothought besides this of being some day a painter. Except love for herand for them, I had no other passion. By assiduous attendance atnight-schools I learnt to read and write. This enabled me to take abetter berth in Black Waggon Street, where I earned enough to takelessons in drawing from the reduced widow of a once prosperousfogger. But ah! so eager was I to learn, that I did not notice how mymother was fading, wasting, dying slowly. It was not till too latethat I learnt the appalling truth, that while the babes had beennourished, the mother had starved--starved! On a few ounces of breada day no woman can work the Oliver and prod the fire. Her lastwhispers to me were, "I shall see you, dear, a great painter yet;Jesus will let me look down and watch my boy. " Ah, Sinfi Lovell! thatmakes you weep. It is long, long since I ceased to weep at that. "Whatsoever is not of faith is sin. "' Rhona Boswell, down whose face also the tears were streaming, noddedin a patronising way to Wilderspin, and said, 'Reia, my mammy livesin the clouds, and I'll tell her to show you the Golden Hand, Iwill. ' 'From the moment when I left my mother in the grave, ' saidWilderspin, 'I had but one hope, that she who was watching myendeavours might not watch in vain. Art became now my religion:success in it my soul's goal. I went to London; I soon began todevelop a great power of design, in illustrating penny periodicals. For years I worked at this, improving in execution with every design, but still unable to find an opening for a better class of work. WhatI yearned for was the opportunity to exercise the gift of colour. That I did possess this in a rare degree I knew. At last I got acommission. Oh! the joy of painting that first picture! My progresswas now rapid. But I had few purchasers till Providence sent me agood man and great gentleman, my dear friend--' 'This is a long-winded speech of yours, _mon cher_, ' yawned Cyril. 'Lady Sinfi is going to strike up with the Welsh riddle unless youget along faster. ' 'Don't stop him, ' I heard Sinfi mutter, as she shook Cyril angrily;'he's mighty fond o' that mother o' his'n, an', if he's ever sich ahorn nataral, I likes him. ' 'I never exhibited in the Academy, ' continued Wilderspin, withoutheeding the interruption, 'I never tried to exhibit; but, thanks tothe dear friend I have mentioned, I got to know the Master himself. People came to my poor studio, and my pictures were bought from myeasel as fast as I could paint them. I could please my buyers, Icould please my dear friend, I could please the Master himself; Icould please every person in the world but one--myself. For years Ihad been struggling with what cripples so many artists--withignorance--ignorance, Mr. Aylwin, of the million points of detailwhich must be understood and mastered before ever the sweetness, theapparent lawlessness and abandonment of Nature can be expressed byArt. But it was now, when I had conquered these, --it was now that Iwas dissatisfied, and no man living was so miserable as I. I dare sayyou are an artist yourself, Mr. Aylwin, and will understand me when Isay that artists--figure-painters, I mean, --are divided into twoclasses--those whose natural impulse is to paint men, and those whoare sent into the world expressly to paint women. My mother's deathtaught me that my mission was to paint women, women whom I--being theson of Mary Wilderspin--love and understand better than other men, because my soul (once folded in her womb) is purer than other men'ssouls. ' 'Is not modesty a Gorgio virtue, Lady Sinfi?' murmured Cyril. 'Nothin' like a painter for thinkin' strong beer of hisself, ' shereplied; 'but I likes him--oh, I likes him. ' 'No man whose soul is stained by fleshly desire shall render in artall that there is in a truly beautiful woman's face, ' saidWilderspin. 'I worked hard at imaginative painting; I worked foryears and years, Mr. Aylwin, but with scant success. It shames me tosay that I was at last discouraged. Hut, after a time, I began tofeel that the spirit-world was giving me a strength of vision secondonly to the Master's own, and a cunning of hand greater than anyvouchsafed to man since the death of Raphael. This was oncestigmatised as egotism; but "Faith and Love, " and the predella "Isisbehind the Veil, " have told another story. I did not despair, I say;for I knew the cause of my failure. Two sources of inspiration werewanting to me--that of a superlative subject and that of asuperlative model. For the first I am indebted to Philip Aylwin; forthe second I am indebted to--' 'A greater still, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose Court, ' interjectedCyril. 'For the second I'm indebted to my mother. And yet something else waswanting, ' continued Wilderspin, 'to enable me for many months toconcentrate my life upon one work--the self-sacrificing generosity ofsuch a friend as I think no man ever had before. 'Wilderspin, ' said Cyril, rising, 'the Duke of Little Egypt sleeps, as you see. His Grace of the Pyramids snores, as you hear. Theautobiography of a man of genius is interesting; but I fear thatyours will have to be continued in our next. ' 'But Mr. Aylwin wants to hear--' 'He and our other idyllic friends are early to bed and early to rise;they have, in the morning, trout to catch for breakfast, and we havea good way to walk to-night. ' 'That's just like my friend, ' said Wilderspin. 'That's my friend allover. ' With this they left us, and we betook ourselves to our usual eveningoccupations. Next morning the two painters called upon us. Wilderspin sketchedalone, while Sinfi, Rhona, Cyril, and I went trout-fishing in one ofthe numerous brooks. 'What do you think of my friend by this time?' said Cyril to me. 'He is my fifth mystic, ' I replied; 'I wonder what the sixth will belike. Is he really as great a painter as he takes himself to he, ordoes his art begin and end with flowery words?' 'I believe, ' said Cyril, pointing across to where Wilderspin sat atwork, 'that the strange creature under that white umbrella is thegreatest artistic genius now living. The death of his mother bystarvation has turned his head, poor fellow, but turned it to goodpurpose: "Faith and Love" is the greatest modern picture in Europe. To be sure, he has the advantage of painting from the finest modelever seen, the lovely, if rather stupid, Miss Gudgeon, of PrimroseCourt, whom he monopolises. ' Cyril had already, during the morning, told me that my mother, whowas much out of health, was now staying in London, where he had forthe first time in his life met her at Lord Sleaford's house. Notwithstanding their differences of opinion, my mother and heseemed to have formed a mutual liking. He also told me that my uncleCecil Aylwin of Alvanley (who in this narrative must not, of course, be confounded with another important relative, Henry Aylwin, Earl ofAylwin) having just died and left me the bulk of his property, I hadbeen in much request. I consequently determined to start for Londonon the following day, leaving my waggon in charge of Sinfi, who wasto sit to Wilderspin in the open air. During this conversation Sinfi was absorbed in her fishing, andwandered away up the brook, and I could see that Cyril's eyes werefollowing her with great admiration. Turning to me and looking at me, he said, 'Lucky dog!' and then, looking again across at Sinfi, he said, 'The finest girl in England. ' V HAROUN-AL-RASCHID THE PAINTER I On reaching London and finding that it was necessary I should remainthere for some little time, I wrote to Cyril to say so, sending somemessages to Sinfi and her father about my own living-waggon. My mother was now staying at my aunt's house, whither I went to callupon her shortly after my arrival in town. Our meeting was a constrained and painful one. It was my mother'scruelty to Winifred that had, in my view, completely ruined twolives. I did not know then what an awful struggle was going on in herown breast between her pride and her remorse for having driven Winnieaway, to be lost in Wales. Afterwards her sad case taught me thatamong all the agents of soul-torture that have ever stung mankind tomadness the scorpion Remorse is by far the most appalling. But otherevents had to take place before she reached the state when thescorpion stings to death all other passions, even Pride and evenVanity, and reigns in the bosom supreme. We could hardly meet withoutsoftening towards each other. She was most anxious to know what hadoccurred to me since I left Raxton to search for Winnie. I gave herthe entire story from my first seeing Winnie in the cottage, to my_rencontre_ with her at Knockers' Llyn. At this time she hadaccidentally been brought into contact with Miss Dalrymple, who hadlately received a legacy and was now in better circumstances. MissDalrymple had spoken in high terms of Winnie's intelligence andculture, little thinking how she was making my mother feel moreacutely than ever her own wrongdoing. Knowing that I was very fond ofmusic, my mother persuaded me to take her on several occasions to theopera and the theatre. She with more difficulty persuaded me toconsult a medical man upon the subject of my insomnia; and at last Iagreed, though very reluctantly, to consult Dr. Mivart, late ofRaxton, who was now living in London. Mivart attributed my ailment(as I, of course, knew he would) to hypochondria, and I saw that hewas fully aware of the cause. I therefore opened my mind to him uponthe subject. I told him everything in connection with Winifred inWales. He pondered the subject carefully and then said: 'What you need is to escape from these terrible oscillations betweenhope and despair. Therefore I think it best to tell you frankly thatMiss Wynne is certainly dead. Even suppose that she did not fall downa precipice in Wales, she is, I repeat, certainly dead. So severe aform of hysteria as hers must have worn her out by this time. It isdifficult for me to think that any nervous system could withstand astrain so severe and so prolonged. ' I felt the terrible truth of his words, but I made no answer. 'But let this be your consolation, ' said he. 'Her death is a blessingto herself, and the knowledge that she is dead will be a blessing toyou. ' 'A blessing to me?' I said. 'I mean that it will save you from the mischief of these alternationsbetween hope and despair. You will remember that it was I who saw herin her first seizure and told you of it. Such a seizure having lastedso long, nothing could have given her relief but death or magnetictransmission of the seizure. It is a grievous case, but what concernsme now is the condition into which you yourself have passed. Nothingbut a successful effort on your part to relieve your mind from thedominant idea that has disturbed it can save you from--from--' 'From what?' 'That drug of yours is the most dangerous narcotic of all. Increaseyour doses by a few more grains and you will lose all command overyour nervous system--all presence of mind. Give it up, give it up andenter Parliament. ' I left Mivart in anger, and took a stroll through the streets, tryingto amuse myself by looking at the shop windows and recalling the fewsalient incidents that were connected with my brief experiences as anart student. Hours passed in this way, until one by one the shops were closed andonly the theatres, public bars, and supper-rooms seemed to be open. I turned into a restaurant in the Haymarket, for I had taken nodinner. I went upstairs into a supper-room, and after I had finishedmy meal, taking a seat near the window, I gazed abstractedly overthe bustling, flashing streets, which to me seemed far more lonely, far more remote, than the most secluded paths of Snowdon. In atrouble such as mine it is not Man but Nature that can givecompanionship. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I did not observe whetherI was or was not now alone in the room, till the name of Wilderspinfell on my ear and recalled me to myself. I started and looked round. At a table near me sat two men whom I had not noticed before. Theface of the man who sat on the opposite side of the table confrontedme. If I had one tithe of that objective power and that instinct fordescription which used to amaze me in Winifred as a child, I couldgive here a picture of a face which the reader could never forget. If it was not beautiful in detail it was illuminated by an expressionthat gave a unity of beauty to the whole. And what was theexpression? I can only describe it by saying that it was theexpression of genius; and it had that imperious magnetism which I hadnever before seen in any face save that of Sinfi Lovell. But strikingas was the face of this man, I soon found that his voice was morestriking still. In whatever assembly that voice was heard, itsindescribable resonance would have marked it off from all othervoices, and have made the ear of the listener eager to catch thesound. This voice, however, was not the one that had uttered the nameof Wilderspin. It was from his companion, who sat opposite to him, with his great broad back, covered with a smart velvet coat, towardsme, that the talk was now coming. This man was smoking cigarettes inthat kind of furious sucking way which is characteristic of greatsmokers. Much smoking, however, had not dried up his skin to theconsistence of blotting paper and to the colour of tobacco ash as itdoes in some cases, but tobacco juice, which seemed to ooze from hisface like perspiration, or rather like oil, had made his complexionof a yellow green colour, something like a vegetable marrow. Althoughhis face was as hairless as a woman's, there was not a feature in itthat was not masculine. Although his cheek-bones were high and hisjaw was of the mould which we so often associate with theprizefighter, he looked as if he might somehow be a gentleman. Andwhen I got for a moment a full view of his face as he turned round, Ithought it showed power and intelligence, although his foreheadreceded a good deal, a recession which was owing mainly to the boneabove the eyes. Power and intelligence too were seen in every glanceof his dark bright eyes. In a few minutes Wilderspin's name was againuttered by this man, and I found he was telling anecdotes of theeccentric painter--telling them with great gusto and humour, in aloud voice, quite careless of being overheard by me. Then followedother anecdotes of other people--artists for the most part--in whichthe names of Millais, Ruskin, Watts, Leighton, and others came up inquick succession. That he was a professional anecdote-monger of extraordinarybrilliancy, a _raconteur_ of the very first order, was evidentenough. I found also that as a story-teller he was reckless andwithout conscience. He was, I thought, inventing anecdotes to amusehis companion, whose manifest enjoyment of them rather weakened theimpression that his own personality had been making upon me. After a while the name of Cyril Aylwin came up, and I soon found theman telling a story of Cyril and a recent escapade of his which Iknew must be false. He then went rattling on about other people, mentioning names which, as I soon gathered, were those of femalemodels known in the art world. The anecdotes he told of these weremostly to their disadvantage. I was about to move to another table, in order to get out of earshot of this gossip, when the name 'LadySinfi' fell upon my ears. And then I heard the other man--the man of the musical voice--talkabout Lady Sinfi with the greatest admiration and regard. He wound upby saying, 'By the bye, where is she now? I should like to use her inpainting my new picture. ' 'She's in Wales; so Kiomi told me. ' 'Ah yes! I remember she has an extraordinary passion for Snowdon. ' 'Her passion is now for something else, though. ' 'What's that?' 'A man. ' 'I never saw a girl so indifferent to men as Lady Sinfi. ' 'She is living at this moment as the mistress of a cousin of CyrilAylwin. ' My blood boiled with rage. I lost all control of myself. I longed tofeel his face against my knuckles. 'That's not true, ' I said in a rather loud voice. He started up, and turned round, saying in a hectoring voice, 'Whatwas that you said to me? Will you repeat your words?' 'To repeat one's words, ' I said quietly, 'shows a limitedvocabulary, so I will put it thus, --what you said just now aboutSinfi Lovell being the mistress of Cyril Aylwin's cousin is a lie. ' 'You dare to give me the lie, sir? And what the devil do you mean bylistening to our conversation?' The threatening look that he managed to put into his face was soentirely histrionic that it made me laugh outright. This seemed todamp his courage more than if I had sprung up and shown fight. Theman had a somewhat formidable appearance, however, as regards build, which showed that he possessed more than average strength. It was themanifest genuineness of my laugh that gave him pause. And when I satwith my elbows on the table and my face between my palms, takingstock of him quietly, he looked extremely puzzled. The man of themusical voice sat and looked at me as though under a spell. 'I am a young man from the country, ' I said to him. 'To what theatreis your histrionic friend attached? I should like to see him in abetter farce than this. ' 'Do you hear that, De Castro?' said the other. 'What is yourtheatre?' 'If he is really excited, ' I said, 'tell him that people at a publicsupper-room should speak in a moderate tone or their conversation islikely to be overheard. ' 'Do you hear this young man from the country, De Castro?' said he. 'You seem to be the Oraculum of the hay-fields, sir, ' he continued, turning to me with a delightfully humorous expression on his face. 'Have you any other Delphic utterance?' 'Only this, ' I said, 'that people who do not like being given the lieshould tell the truth. ' 'May I be permitted to guess your Christian name, sir? Is it Martin, perchance?' 'Yes, ' I replied, 'and my surname is Tupper. ' He then got up and laidhis hand on the _raconteur's_ shoulder, and said, 'Don't be a fool, De Castro. When a man looks at another as the author of the_Proverbial Philosophy_ is looking at you, he knows that he can usehis fists as well as his pen. ' 'He gave me the lie. Didn't you hear?' 'I did, and I thought the gift as entirely gratuitous, _mon cher_, as giving a scuttleful of coals to Newcastle. ' The anecdote-monger stood silent, quelled by this man's voice. Then turning to me, the man of the musical voice said, 'I suppose youknow something about my friend Lady Sinfi?' 'I do, ' I said, 'and I am Cyril Aylwin's kinsman, whom you call hiscousin, so perhaps, as every word your friend has said about SinfiLovell and me is false, you will allow me to call him a liar. ' A look of the greatest glee at the discomfiture of his companionoverspread his face. 'Certainly, ' he said with a loud laugh. 'You may call him that, youmay even qualify the noun you have used with an adjective if theauthor of the _Proverbial Philosophy_ can think of one that isproperly descriptive and yet not too unparliamentary. So you areCyril Aylwin's kinsman. I have heard him, ' he said, with a smile thathe tried in vain to suppress, 'I have heard Cyril expatiate on thevarious branches of the Aylwin family. ' 'I belong to the proud Aylwins, ' I said. The twinkle in his eye made me adore him as he said--'The proudAylwins. A man who, in a world like this, is proud and knows it, andis proud of confessing his pride, always interests me, but I will notask you what makes the proud Aylwins proud, sir. ' 'I will tell you what makes me proud, ' I said: 'my great-grandmotherwas a full-blooded Gypsy, and I am proud of the descent. ' He came forward and held out his hand and said, 'It is long since Imet a man who interested me'--he gave a sigh--'very long; and I hopethat you and I may become friends. ' I grasped his hand and shook it warmly. The anecdote-monger began talking at once about Sinfi, Wilderspin, and Cyril Aylwin, speaking of them in the most genial andaffectionate terms. In a few minutes, without withdrawing a word hehad said about either of them, he had entirely changed the spirit ofevery word. At first I tried to resist his sophistry, but it was notto be resisted. I ended by apologising to him for my stupidity inmisunderstanding him. 'My dear fellow, ' said he, 'not a word, not a word. I admired the wayin which you stood up for absent friends. Didn't you, D'Arcy?' At this the other broke out into another mellow laugh. 'I did. How'syour kinsman, and how's Wilderspin?' he said, turning to me. 'Did youleave them well?' We soon began, all three of us, to talk freely together. Of course Iwas filled with curiosity about my new friends, especially about theliar. His extraordinary command of facial expression, coupled withthe fact that he wore no hair on his face, made me at first think hewas a great actor; but being at that time comparatively ignorant ofthe stage, I did not attempt to guess what actor it was. After awhile his prodigious acuteness struck me more than even hishistrionic powers, and I began to ask myself what Old Baileybarrister it was. Turning at last to the one called D'Arcy, I said. 'You are an artist;you are a painter?' 'I have been trying for many years to paint, ' he said. 'And you?' I said, turning to his companion. 'He is an artist too, ' D'Arcy said, 'but his line is not painting--heis an artist in words. ' 'A poet?' I said in amazement. 'A romancer, the greatest one of his time unless it be old Dumas. ' 'A novelist?' 'Yes, but he does not write his novels, he speaks them. ' De Castro, evidently with a desire to turn the conversation fromhimself and his profession, said, pointing to D'Arcy, 'You see beforeyou the famous painter Haroun-al-Raschid, who has never been known toperambulate the streets of London except by night, and in me you seehis faithful vizier. ' It soon became evident that D'Arcy, for some reason or other, hadthoroughly taken to me--more thoroughly, I thought, than De Castroseemed to like, for whenever D'Arcy seemed to be on the verge ofasking me to call at his studio, De Castro would suddenly lead theconversation off into another channel by means of some amusinganecdote. However, the painter was not to be defeated in hisintention; indeed I noticed during the conversation that althoughD'Arcy yielded to the sophistries of his companion, he did sowilfully. While he forced his mind, as it were, to accept thesesophistries there seemed to be all the while in his consciousness aperception that sophistries they were. He ended by giving me hisaddress and inviting me to call upon him. 'I am only making a brief stay in London, ' he said; 'I am workinghard at a picture in the country, but business just now calls me toLondon for a short time. ' With this we parted at the door of the restaurant. II It was through the merest accident that I saw these two men again. One evening I had been dining with my mother and aunt. I think I maysay that I had now become entirely reconciled to my mother. I used tocall upon her often, and at every call I could not but observe howdire was the struggle going on within her breast between pride andremorse. She felt, and rightly felt, that the loss of Winifred amongthe Welsh hills had been due to her harshness in sending the strickengirl away from Raxton, to say nothing of her breaking her word withme after having promised to take my place and watch for the exposureof the cross by the wash of the tides until the danger was certainlypast. But against my aunt I cherished a stronger resentment every day. Sheit was, with her inferior intellect and insect soul, who had in mychildhood prejudiced my mother against me and in favour of Frank, because I showed signs of my descent from Fenella Stanley while Frankdid not. She it was who first planted in my mother's mind the seedsof prejudice against Winnie as being the daughter of Tom Wynne. The influence of such a paltry nature upon a woman of my mother'sstrength and endowments had always astonished as much as it hadirritated me. I had not learnt then what I fully learnt afterwards, that in thislife it is mostly the dull and stupid people who dominate the cleverones--that it is, in short, the fools who govern the world. I should, of course, never have gone to Belgrave Square at all had itnot been to see my mother. Such a commonplace slave of convention wasmy aunt, that, on the evening I am now mentioning, she had scarcelyspoken to me during dinner, because, having been detained at thesolicitor's, I had found it quite impossible to go to my hotel todress for her ridiculous seven o'clock dinner. When I found that my mother had actually taken this inferior womaninto her confidence in regard to my affairs and told her all aboutWinnie and the cross, my dislike of her became intensified, and onthis evening my mother very much vexed me in the drawing-room bytaking the cross from a cabinet and saying to me, 'What is now to be done with this? All along the coast there are suchnotions about its value that to replace it in the tomb would besimple madness. ' I made no reply. 'Indeed, ' she continued, looking atthe amulet as she might have looked at a cobra uprearing its head tospring at her, 'it must really be priceless. And to think that allthis was to be buried in the coffin of--! It is your charge, however, and not mine. ' 'Yes, mother, ' I said, 'it is my charge;' and taking up the cross Iwrapped it in my handkerchief. 'Take the amulet and guard it well, ' she said, as I placed itcarefully in the breast pocket of my coat. 'And remember, ' said my aunt, breaking into the conversation, 'thatthe true curses of the Aylwins are and always have been superstitionand love-madness. ' 'I should have added a third curse, --pride, aunt, ' I could not helpreplying. 'Henry, ' said she, pursing her thin lips, 'you have the obstinacy andthe courage of your race, that is to say, you have the obstinacy andthe courage of ten ordinary men, and yet a man you are not--a man youwill never be, if strength of character, and self-mastery and powerto withstand the inevitable trials of life, go to the making of aman. ' 'Pardon me, aunt; but such trials as mine are beyond yourcomprehension. ' 'Are they, boy?' said she. 'This fancy of yours for an insignificantgirl--this boyish infatuation which with any other young man of yourrank would have long ago exhausted itself and been forgotten--is apassion that absorbs your life. And I tremble for you: I tremble forthe house you represent. ' But I saw by the expression on my mother's face that my aunt had nowgone too far. 'Prue, ' she said, 'your tremblings concerning my sonand my family are, I assure you, gratuitous. Such trembling as thecase demands you had better leave to me. My heart tells me I havebeen very wrong to that poor child, and I would give much to knowthat she was found and that she was well. ' I set out to walk to my hotel, wondering how I was to while away thelong night until sleep should come to relieve me. Suddenly Iremembered D'Arcy, and my promise to call upon him. I changed mycourse, and hailing a hansom drove to the address he had given me. When I reached the door I found, upon looking at my watch, that itwas late--so late that I was dubious whether I should ring the bell. I remembered, however, that he told me how very late his hours were, and I rang. On sending in my card I was shown at once into the studio, and afterthreading my way between some pieces of massive furniture andpictures upon easels, I found D'Arcy lolling lazily upon a huge sofa. Seeing that he was not alone, I was about to withdraw, for I was inno mood to meet strangers. However, he sprang up and introduced me tohis guest, whom he called Symonds, an elegant-looking man in apeculiar kind of evening dress, who, as I afterwards learned, was oneof Mr. D'Arcy's chief buyers. This gentleman bowed stiffly to me. He did not stay long; indeed, it was evident that the appearance of astranger somewhat disconcerted him. After he was gone D'Arcy said, 'A good fellow! One of my mostimportant buyers. I should like you to know him, for you and I aregoing to be friends. I hope. ' He seems very fond of pictures, ' I said. A man of great taste, with areal love of art and music. ' In a little while after this gentleman's departure in came De Castro, who had driven up in a hansom. I certainly saw a flash of anger inhis eyes as he recognised me, but it vanished like lightning, and hismanner became cordiality itself. Late as it was (it was nearlytwelve), he pulled out his cigarette case, and evidently intended tobegin the evening. As soon as he was told that Mr. Symonds had been, he began to talk about him in a disparaging manner. Evidently hismetier was, as I had surmised, that of a professional talker. Talkwas his stock-in-trade. The night wore on, and De Castro in the intervals of his talk keptpulling out his watch. It was evident that he wanted to be going, butwas reluctant to leave me there. For my part, I frequently rose togo, but on getting a sign from D'Arcy that he wished me to stay I satdown again. At last D'Arcy said, 'You had better go now, De Castro, you have kept that hansom outsidefor more than an hour and a half; and besides, if you stay tilldaylight our friend here will stay longer, for I want to talk withhim alone. ' De Castro got up with a laugh that seemed genuine enough, and leftus. D'Arcy, who was still on the sofa, then lapsed into a silence thatbecame after a while rather awkward. He lay there, gazingabstractedly at the fireplace. 'Some of my friends call me, as you heard De Castro say the othernight, Haroun-al-Raschid, and I suppose I am like him in some things. I am a bad sleeper, and to be amused by De Castro when I can't sleepis the chief of blessings. De Castro, however, is not so bad as heseems. A man may be a scandal-monger without being really malignant. I have known him go out of his way to do a struggling man a service. ' 'You are a bad sleeper?' I said, in a tone that proclaimed at oncethat I was a bad sleeper also. 'Yes, ' said he, 'and so are you, as I noticed the other night. I canalways tell. There is something in the eyes when a man is a badsleeper that proclaims it to me. ' Then springing up from the divan and laying his hand upon myshoulder, he said, 'And you have a great trouble at the heart. Youhave had some great loss the effect of which is sapping the veryfountains of your life. We should be friends. We must be friends. Iasked you to call upon me because we must be friends. ' His voice was so tender that I was almost unmanned. I will not dwell upon this part of my narrative; I will only say thatI told him something of my story, and he told me his. I told him that a terrible trouble had unhinged the mind of a younglady whom I deeply loved, and that she had been lost on the Welshhills. I felt that it was only right that I should know more of himbefore giving him the more intimate details connected with Winnie, myself, and the secrets of my family. He listened to every word withthe deepest attention and sympathy. After a while he said, 'You must not go to your hotel to-night. A friend of mine whooccupies two rooms is not sleeping here to-night, and I particularlywish for you to take his bed, so that I can see you in the morning. We shall not breakfast together. My breakfast is a peculiarlyirregular meal. But when you wake ring your bedroom bell and orderyour own breakfast; afterwards we shall meet in the studio. ' I did not in the least object to this arrangement, for I found hissociety a great relief. Next morning, after I had finished my solitary breakfast, I asked theservant if Mr. D'Arcy had yet risen. On being told that he had not, Iwent downstairs into the studio where I had spent the previousevening. After examining the pictures on the walls and the easels, Iwalked to the window and looked out at the garden. It was large, andso neglected and untrimmed as to be a veritable wilderness. While Iwas marvelling why it should have been left in this state, I saw theeyes of some animal staring at me from the distance, and was soonastonished to see that they belonged to a little Indian bull. Mycuriosity induced me to go into the garden and look at the creature. He seemed rather threatening at first, but after a while allowed meto go up to him and stroke him. Then I left the Indian bull andexplored this extraordinary domain. It was full of unkempt trees, including two fine mulberries, and surrounded by a very high wall. Soon I came across an object which, at first, seemed a little mass ofblack and white oats moving along, but I presently discovered it tobe a hedgehog. It was so tame that it did not curl up as I approachedit, but allowed me, though with some show of nervousness, to strokeits pretty little black snout. As I walked about the garden, I foundit was populated with several kinds of animals such as are never seenexcept in menageries or in the Zoological Gardens. Wombats, kangaroos, and the like, formed a kind of happy family. My love of animals led me to linger in the garden. When I returned tothe house I found D'Arcy in the green dining-room, where we talked, and he read aloud some verses to me. We then went to the studio. Hesaid, 'No doubt you are surprised at my menagerie. Every man has one sideof his character where the child remains. I have a love of animalswhich, I suppose, I may call a passion. The kind of amusement theycan afford me is like none other. It is the self-consciousness of menand women that makes them, in a general way, intensely unamusing. Iturn from them to the unconscious brutes, and often get a world ofenjoyment. To watch a kitten or a puppy play, or the funny antics ofa parrot or a cockatoo, or the wise movements of a wombat, will keepme for hours from being bored. ' 'And children, ' I said--'do you like children?' 'Yes, so long as they remain like the young animals--until theybecome self-conscious, I mean, and that is very soon. Then theircharm goes. Has it ever occurred to you how fascinating a beautifulyoung girl would be if she were as unconscious as a young animal?What makes you sigh?' My thoughts had flown to Winifred breakfasting with her 'Prince ofthe Mist' on Snowdon. And I said to myself, 'How he would have beenfascinated by a sight like that!' My experience of men at that time was so slight that the opinion Ithen formed of D'Arcy as a talker was not of much account. But sincethen I have seen very much of men, and I find that I was right in theview I then took of his conversational powers. When his spirits wereat their highest he was without an equal as a wit, without an equalas a humourist. He had more than even Cyril Aylwin's quickness ofrepartee, and it was of an incomparably rarer quality. To define itwould be, of course, impossible, but I might perhaps call it poeticfancy suddenly stimulated at moments by animal spirits into rapidmovements--so rapid, indeed, that what in slower movement would bemerely fancy, in him became wit. Beneath the coruscations of this wita rare and deep intellect was always perceptible. His humour was also so fanciful that it seemed poetry at play, buthere was the remarkable thing: although he was not unconscious of hisother gifts, he did not seem to be in the least aware that he was ahumourist of the first order; every _jeu d'esprit_ seemed to leapfrom him involuntarily, like the spray from a fountain. A dull manlike myself must not attempt to reproduce these qualities here. While he was talking he kept on painting, and I said to him, 'I can'tunderstand how you can keep up a conversation while you are at work. ' I took care not to tell him that I was an amateur painter. 'It is only when the work that I am on is in some degree mechanicalthat I can talk while at work. These flowers, which were brought tome this morning for my use in painting this picture, will very soonwither, and I can put them into the picture without being disturbedby talk; but if I were at work upon this face, if I were puttingdramatic expression into these eyes, I should have to be silent. ' He then went on talking upon art and poetry, letting fall at everymoment gems of criticism that would have made the fortune of a critic. After a while, however, he threw down the brush and said, 'Sometimes I can paint with another man in the studio; sometimes Ican't. ' I rose to go. 'No, no, ' he said; 'I don't want you to go, yet I don't like keepingyou in this musty studio on such a morning. Suppose we take a strolltogether. ' 'But you never walk out in the daytime. ' 'Not often; indeed, I may say never, unless it is to go to the Zoo, or to Jamrach's, which I do about once in three months. ' 'Jamrach's!' I said. 'Why, he's the importer of animals, isn't he? Ofall places in London that is the one I should most like to see. ' Hethen took me into a long panelled room with bay windows looking overthe Thames, furnished with remarkable Chinese chairs and tables. Andthen we left the house. In Maud Street a hansom passed us; D'Arcy hailed it. 'We will take this to the Bank, ' said he, 'and then walk through theEast End to Jamrach's. Jump in. ' As we drove off, the sun was shining brilliantly, and London seemedvery animated--seemed to be enjoying itself. Until we reached theBank our drive was through all the most cheerful-looking andprosperous streets of London. It acted like a tonic on me, and forthe first time since my trouble I felt really exhilarated. As toD'Arcy, after we had left behind us what he called the 'stucco world'of the West End, his spirits seemed to rise every minute, and by thetime we reached the Strand he was as boisterous as a boy on aholiday. On reaching the Bank we dismissed the hansom and proceeded to walk toRatcliffe Highway. Before reaching it I was appalled at theforbidding aspect of the neighbourhood. It was not merely that theunsavoury character of the streets offended and disgusted me, but thelocality wore a sinister aspect which acted upon my imagination inthe strangest, wildest way. Why was it that this aspect fairly cowedme, scared me? I felt that I was not frightened on my own account, and yet when I asked myself why I was frightened I could not find arational answer. As I saw the sailors come noisily from their boarding-houses; as Isaw the loafers standing at the street corners, smoking their dirtypipes and gazing at us; as I saw the tawdry girls, bare-headed or inflaunting hats covered with garish flowers, my thoughts, for noconceivable reason, ran upon Winnie more persistently than they hadrun upon her since I had abandoned all hope of seeing her in Wales. The thought came to me that, grievous as was her fate and mine, thetragedy of our lives might have been still worse. 'Suppose, ' I said, 'that instead of being lost in the Welsh hills shehad been lost here!' I shuddered at the thought. Again that picture in the Welsh pool came to me, the picture ofWinnie standing at a street corner, offering matches for sale. D'Arcythen got talking about Sinfi Lovell and her strange superiority inevery respect to the few Gypsy women he had seen. 'She has, ' said he, 'mesmeric power; it is only semiconscious, but itis mesmeric. She exercises it partly through her gaze and partlythrough her voice. ' He was still talking about Sinfi when a river-boy, who was whistlingwith extraordinary brilliancy and gusto, met and passed us. Not aword more of D'Arcy's talk did I hear, for the boy was whistling thevery air to which Winnie used to sing the Snowdon song I met in a glade a lone little maid At the foot of y Wyddfa the white. I ran after the boy and asked him what tune he was whistling. 'What tune?' he said, 'blowed if I know. ' 'Where did you hear it?' I asked. 'Well, there used to be a gal, a kind of a beggar gal, as lived notfar from 'ere for a little while, but she's gone away now, and sheused to sing that tune. I allas remember tunes, but I never couldmake out anything of the words. ' D'Arcy laughed at my eccentricity in running after the boy to learnwhere he had got a tune. But I did not tell him why. After we had passed some way down Ratcliffe Highway, D'Arcy said, 'Here we are then, ' and pointed to a shop, or rather two shops, onthe opposite side of the street. One window was filled with cagedbirds; the other with specimens of beautiful Oriental pottery andgrotesque curiosities in the shape of Chinese and Japanese statuesand carvings. My brain still rang with the air I had heard the river-boy whistling, but I felt that I must talk about something. 'It is here that you buy your wonderful curiosities and porcelain!' Isaid. 'Partly; but there is not a curiosity shop in London that I have notransacked in my time. ' The shop we now entered reminded me of that Raxton Fair which was somuch associated with Winnie. Its chief attraction was the advent ofWombwell's menagerie. From the first moment that the couriers of thataugust establishment came to paste their enormous placards on thewalls, down to the sad morning when the caravans left themarket-place, Winnie and I and Rhona Boswell had talked 'Wombwell. 'It was not merely that the large pictures of the wild animals inaction, the more than brassy sound of the cracked brass band, delighted our eyes and ears. Our olfactories also were charmed. Themousy scent of the animals mixed with the scent of sawdust, which toadults was so objectionable, was characterised by us as delicious. All these Wombwell delights came back to me as we entered Jamrach's, and for a time the picture of Winifred prevented my seeing the famousshop. When this passed I saw that the walls of the large room werecovered from top to bottom with cages, some of them full of wonderfulor beautiful birds, and others full of evil-faced, screechingmonkeys. While D'Arcy was amusing himself with a blue-faced rib-nosed baboon, I asked Mr. Jamrach, an extremely intelligent man, about the singinggirl and the Welsh air. But he could tell me nothing, and evidentlythought I had been hoaxed. In a small case by itself was a beautiful jewelled cross, whichattracted D'Arcy's attention very much. 'This is not much in your line, ' he said to Jamrach. 'This isEuropean. ' 'It came to me from Morocco, ' said Jamrach, 'and it was no doubttaken by a Morocco pirate from some Venetian captive. ' 'It is a diamond and ruby cross, ' said D'Arcy, 'but mixed with therubies there are beryls. I am at this moment describing a beryl insome verses. The setting of the stones is surely quite peculiar. ' 'Yes, ' said Jamrach. 'It is the curiosity of the setting more thanthe value of the gems which caused it to be sent to me. I haveoffered it to the London jewellers, but they will only give me themarket-price of the stones and the gold. ' While he was talking I pulled out of my breast pocket the cross, which had remained there since I received it from my mother theevening before. 'They are very much alike, ' said Jamrach; 'but the setting of thesestones is more extraordinary than in mine. And of course they aremore than fifty times as valuable. ' D'Arcy turned round to see what we were talking about, when he sawthe cross in my hand, and an expression of something like awe cameover his face. 'The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics!' he exclaimed. 'You carry thisabout in your breast pocket? Put it away, put it away! The thingseems to be alive. ' In a second, however, and before I could answer him, the expressionpassed from his face, and he took the cross from my hands andexamined it. 'This is the most beautiful piece of jewel work I ever saw in mylife. I have heard of such things. The Gnostic art of arrangingjewels so that they will catch the moon-rays and answer them asthough the light were that of the sun, is quite lost. ' We then went and examined Jamrach's menagerie. I found that onesource of the interest D'Arcy took in animals was that he was abeliever in Baptista Porta's whimsical theory that every humancreature resembles one of the lower animals, and he found a perennialamusement in seeing in the faces of animals caricatures of hisfriends. With a fund of humour that was exhaustless, he went from cage tocage, giving to each animal the name of some member of the RoyalAcademy, or of one of his own intimate friends. On leaving Jamrach's he said to me, 'Suppose we make a day of it andgo to the Zoo?' I agreed, and we took a hansom as soon as we could get one and droveacross London towards Regent's Park. Here the pleasure that he took in watching the movements of theanimals was so great that it seemed impossible but that he wasvisiting the Zoo for the first time. I remembered, however, that hehad told me in the morning how frequently he went to these gardens. But his interest in the animals was unlike my own, and I shouldsuppose unlike the interest of any other man. He had no knowledgewhatever of zoology, and appeared to wish for none. His pleasureconsisted in watching the curious expressions and movements of theanimals and in dramatising them. On leaving the Zoo, I said, 'The cross you were just now looking atis as remarkable for its history as for its beauty. It was stolenfrom the tomb of a near relative of mine. I was under a solemnpromise to the person upon whose breast it lay to see that it shouldnever be disturbed. But, now that it has been disturbed, to replaceit in the tomb would, I fear, be to insure another sacrilege. Iwonder what you would do in such a case?' He looked at me and said, 'As it is evident that we are going to beintimate friends, I may as well confess to you at once that I am amystic. ' 'When did you become so?' 'When? Ask any man who has passionately loved a woman and lost her;ask him at what moment mysticism was forced upon him--at what momenthe felt that he must either accept a spiritualistic theory of theuniverse or go mad; ask him this, and he will tell you that it was atthat moment when he first looked upon her as she lay dead, withCorruption's foul fingers waiting to soil and stain. What are yougoing to do with the cross?' 'Lock it up as safely as I can, ' I said; 'what else is there to dowith it?' He looked into my face and said, 'You are a rationalist. ' 'I am. ' 'You do not believe in a supernatural world?' 'My disbelief of it, ' I said, 'is something more than an exercise ofthe reason. It is a passion, an angry passion. But what should you dowith the cross if you were in my place?' 'Put it back in the tomb. ' I had great difficulty in suppressing my ridicule, but I merely said, 'That would be, as I have told you, to insure its being stolenagain. ' 'There is the promise to the dead man or woman on whose breast itlay. ' 'This I intend to keep in the spirit like a reasonable man--not inthe letter like--' 'Promises to the dead must be kept to the letter, or no peace cancome to the bereaved heart. You are talking to a man who _knows_!' 'I will commit no such outrage upon reason as to place a pricelessjewel in a place where I know it will be stolen. ' 'You _will_ replace the cross in that tomb. ' As he spoke he shook my hands warmly, and said, '_Au revoir_. Remember, I shall always be delighted to see you. ' It was not till I saw him disappear amongst the crowd that I couldgive way to the laughter which I had so much difficulty insuppressing. What a relief it was to be able to do this! VI THE SONG OF Y WYDDFA I After this I had one or two interviews with our solicitor inLincoln's Inn Fields, upon important family matters connected with mylate uncle's property. I had been one night to the theatre with my mother and my aunt. Thehouse had been unusually crowded. When the performance was over, wefound that the streets were deluged with rain. Our carriage had beencalled some time before it drew up, and we were standing under theportico amid a crowd of impatient ladies when a sound fell or seemedto fall on my ears which stopped for the moment the very movements oflife. Amid the rattle of wheels and horses' feet and cries ofmessengers about carriages and cabs, I seemed to distinguish a femalevoice singing: 'I met in a glade a lone little maid. At the foot of y Wyddfa the white; Oh, lissom her feet as the mountain hind, And darker her hair than the night!' It was the voice of Winifred singing as in a dream. I heard my aunt say, 'Do look at that poor girl singing and holding out her littlebaskets! She must be crazed to be offering baskets for sale in thisrain and at this time of night. ' I turned my eyes in the direction in which my aunt was looking, butthe crowd before me prevented my seeing the singer. 'She is gone, vanished, ' said my aunt sharply, for my eagerness tosee made me rude. 'What was she like?' I asked. 'She was a young slender girl, holding out a bunch of small fancybaskets of woven colours, through which the rain was dripping. Shewas dressed in rags, and through the rags shone, here and there, patches of her shoulders; and she wore a dingy red handkerchief roundher head. She stood in the wet and mud, beneath the lamp, quiteunconscious apparently of the bustle and confusion around her. ' Almost at the same moment our carriage drew up. I lingered on thestep as long as possible. My mother made a sign of impatience at thedelay, and I got into the carriage. Spite of the rain, I put down thewindow and leaned out. I forgot the presence of my mother and aunt. Iforgot everything. The carriage moved on. 'Winifred!' I gasped, as the certainty that the voice was hers cameupon me. And the dingy London night became illuminated with scrolls of fire, whose blinding, blasting scripture seared my eyes till I was fain toclose them: 'Let his children be vagabonds, and beg their bread: letthem seek it also out of desolate places. ' So rapidly had the carriage rolled through the rain, and so entirelyhad my long pain robbed me of all presence of mind, that, by the timeI had recovered from the paralysing shock, we had reached PiccadillyCircus. I pulled the check-string. 'Why, Henry!' said my mother, who had raised the window, 'what areyou doing? And what has made you turn so pale?' My aunt sat in indignant silence. 'Ten thousand pardons, ' I said, asI stepped out of the carriage, and shook hands with them. 'A suddenrecollection--important papers unsecured at my hotel--business in--inLincoln's Inn Fields. I will call on you in the morning. ' And I reeled down the pavement towards the Haymarket. When I was somelittle distance from the carriage, I took to my heels and hurried asfast as possible towards the theatre, utterly regardless of thepeople. I reached the spot breathless. I stood for a moment staringwildly to right and left of me. Not a trace of her was to be seen. Iheard a thin voice from my lips, that did not seem my own, ask apoliceman, who was now patrolling the neighbourhood, if he had seen abasket-girl singing. 'No, ' said the man, 'but I fancy you mean the Essex Street Beauty, don't you? I haven't seen her for a long while now, but her dodgeused to be to come here on rainy nights, and stand bare-headed andsing and sell just when the theatres was a-bustin'. She gets a goodlot, I fancy, by that dodge. ' 'The Essex Street Beauty?' 'Oh, I thought you know'd p'raps. She's a strornary prettybeggar-wench, with blue eyes and black hair, as used to stand at thecorner of Essex Street, Strand, and the money as that gal gota-holdin' out her matches and a-sayin' texes out of the Bible mustha' been strornary. So the Essex Street Beauty's bin about here aginon the rainy-night dodge, 'es she? Well, it must have been the fusttime for many a long day, for I've never seen her now for a longtime. She couldn't ha' stood about here for many minutes; if she hadI must ha' seen her. ' I staggered away from him, and passed and repassed the spot manytimes. Then I extended my beat about the neighbouring streets, loitering at every corner where a basket-girl or a flower-girl mightbe likely to stand. But no trace of her was to be seen. Meantime therain had ceased. All the frightful stories that I had heard or read of the kidnappingof girls came pouring into my mind, till my blood boiled and my kneestrembled. Imagination was stinging me to life's very core. Every fewminutes I would pass the theatre, and look towards the portico. The night wore on, and I was unconscious how the time passed. It wasnot till daybreak that I returned to my hotel, pale, weary, bent. I threw myself upon my bed: it scorched me. I could not think. At present I could only see--see what? At onemoment a squalid attic, the starlight shining through patchedwindow-panes upon a lonely mattress, on which a starving girl waslying; at another moment a cellar damp and dark, in one corner ofwhich a youthful figure was crouching; and then (most intolerable ofall!) a flaring gin-palace, where, among a noisy crowd, a face waslooking wistfully on, while coarse and vulgar men were clusteringwith cruel, wolfish eyes around a beggar-girl. This I saw andmore--a thousand things more. It was insupportable. I rose and again paced the street. When I called upon my mother she asked me anxious questions as towhat had ailed me the previous night. Seeing, however, that Iavoided replying to them, she left me after a while in peace. 'Fancy, ' said my aunt, who was writing a letter at a little deskbetween two windows, --'fancy an Aylwin pulling the check-string, andthen, with ladies in the carriage and the rain pouring--' During that day how many times I passed in front of the theatre Icannot say; but at last I thought the very men in the shops must beobserving me. Again, though I half poisoned myself with my drug, Ipassed a sleepless night. The next night was passed in almost thesame manner as the previous one. II From this time I felt working within me a great change. A horriblenew thought got entire possession of me. Wherever I went I couldthink of nothing but--the curse. I scorned the monstrous idea of acurse, and yet I was always thinking about it. I was always seekingWinifred--always speculating on her possible fate. I saw no one insociety. My time was now largely occupied with wandering about the streets ofLondon. I began by exploring the vicinity of the theatre, and dayafter day used to thread the alleys and courts in that neighbourhood. Then I took the eastern direction, and soon became familiar with themost squalid haunts. My method was to wander from street to street, looking at everypoorly-dressed girl I met. Often I was greeted with an impudentlaugh, that brought back the sickening mental pictures I havementioned; and often I was greeted with an angry toss of the head andsuch an exclamation as, 'What d'ye take me for, staring like that?' These peregrinations I used to carry far into the night, and thus, asI perceived, got the character at my hotel of a wild young man. Thefamily solicitor wrote to me again and again for appointments which Icould not give him. It had often occurred to me that in a case of this kind the policeought to be of some assistance. One day I called at Scotland Yard, saw an official, and asked his aid. He listened to my storyattentively, then said: 'Do you come from the missing party'sfriends, sir?' 'I am her friend, ' I answered--'her only friend. ' 'I mean, of course, do you represent her father or mother, or anynear relative?' 'She is an orphan; she has no relatives, ' I said. He looked at me steadily and said: 'I am sorry, sir, that neither Inor a magistrate could do anything to aid you. ' 'You can do nothing to aid me?' I asked angrily. 'I can do nothing to aid you, sir, in identifying a young woman youonce heard sing in the streets of London, with a lady you saw once onthe top of Snowdon. ' As I was leaving the office, he said: 'One moment, sir. I don't seehow I can take up this case for you, but I may make a suggestion. Ihave an idea that you would do well to pursue inquiries among theGypsies. ' 'Gypsies!' I said with great heat, as I left the office. 'If you knewhow I had already "pursued inquiries" among the Gypsies, you wouldunderstand how barren is your suggestion. ' Weeks passed in this way. My aunt's ill-health became rather serious:my mother too was still very unwell. I afterwards learnt that herillness was really the result of the dire conflict in her breastbetween the old passion of pride and the new invader remorse. Therewere, no doubt, many discussions between them concerning me. I couldsee plainly enough they both thought my mind was becoming unhinged. One night, as I lay thinking over the insoluble mystery of Winifred'sdisappearance, I was struck by a sudden thought that caused me toleap from my bed. What could have led the official in Scotland Yardto connect Winifred with Gypsies? I had simply told him of herdisappearance on Snowdon, and her reappearance afterwards near thetheatre. Not one word had I said to him about her early relationswith Gypsies. I was impatient for the daylight, in order that I mightgo to Scotland Yard again. When I did so and saw the official, Iasked him without preamble what had caused him to connect the missinggirl I was seeking with the Gypsies. 'The little fancy baskets she was selling, ' said he. 'They are oftenmade by Gypsies. ' 'Of course they are, ' I said, hurrying away. 'Why did I not think ofthis?' In fact I had, during our wanderings over England and Wales, oftenseen Sinfi's sister Videy and Rhona Boswell weaving such baskets. Winifred, after all, might be among the Gypsies, and the crafty VideyLovell might have some mysterious connection with her; for shedetested me as much as she loved the gold 'balansers' she couldwheedle out of me. Moreover, there were in England the HungarianGypsies, with their notions about demented girls, and the Lovells, owing to Sinfi's musical proclivities, were just now much connectedwith a Hungarian troupe. VII SINFI'S DUKKERIPEN I The Gypsies I had never seen since leaving them in Wales, and I knewthat by this time they were either making their circuit of theEnglish fairs or located in a certain romantic spot called GypsyDell, near Rington Manor, the property of my kinsman Percy Aylwin, whither they often went after the earlier fairs were over. The next evening I went to the Great Eastern Railway station, andtaking the train to Rington I walked to Gypsy Dell, where I found theLovells and Boswells. Familiar as I was with, the better class of Welsh Gypsies, the camphere was the best display of Romany well-being I had ever seen. Itwould, indeed, have surprised those who associate all Gypsy life withthe squalor which in England, and especially near London, marks thelife of the mongrel wanderers who are so often called Gypsies. In alovely dingle, skirted by a winding, willow-bordered river, anddotted here and there with clumps of hawthorn, were ranged the'living-waggons' of those trading Romanies who had accompanied the'Griengroes' to the East Anglian and Midland fairs. Alongside the waggons was a single large brown tent that forluxuriousness might have been the envy of all Gypsydom. On thehawthorn bushes and the grass was spread, instead of the poor ragsthat one often sees around a so-called Gypsy encampment, snowylinen, newly washed. The ponies and horses were scattered about theDell feeding. I soon distinguished Sinfi's commanding figure near that gorgeousliving-waggon of 'orange-yellow colour with red window-blinds' inwhich she had persuaded me to invest my money at Chester. On thefoot-board sat two urchins of the Lovell family, 'making believe' todrive imaginary horses, and yelling with all their might to RhonaBoswell, whose laugh, musical as ever, showed that she enjoyed thegame as much as the children did. Sinfi was standing on a patch ofthat peculiar kind of black ash which burnt grass makes, busy with afire, over which a tea-kettle was hanging from the usual ironkettle-prop. Among the ashes left by a previous fire her bantam-cockPharaoh was busy pecking, scratching, and calling up imaginary hensto feast upon his imaginary 'finds. ' I entered the Dell, and beforeSinfi saw me I was close to her. She was muttering to the refractory fire as though it were a livething, and asking it why it refused to burn beneath the kettle. Astartled look, partly of pleasure and partly of something like alarm, came over her face as she perceived me. I drew her aside and told herall that had happened in regard to Winifred's appearance as a beggarin London. A strange expression that was new to me overspread herfeatures, and I thought I heard her whisper to herself, 'I will, Iwill. ' 'I knowed the cuss 'ud ha' to ha' its way in the blood, like the biteof a sap' [snake], she murmured to herself. 'And yit the dukkeripenon Snowdon said, clear and plain enough, as they'd surely marry atlast. What's become o' the stolen trúshul, brother--the cross?' sheinquired aloud. 'That trúshul will ha' to be given to the dead managin, an' it'll ha' to be given back by his chavo [child] as swore tokeep watch over it. But what's it all to me?' she said in a tone ofsuppressed anger that startled me. 'I ain't a Gorgie, ' 'But, Sinfi, the cross cannot be buried again. The reason I have notreplaced it in the tomb, --the reason I never will replace itthere, --is that the people along the coast know now of the existenceof the jewel, and know also of my father's wishes. If it was unsafein the tomb when only Winnie's father knew of it, it would be athousandfold more unsafe now. ' 'P'raps that's all the better for her an' you: the new thief takesthe cuss. ' 'This is all folly, ' I replied, with the anger of one strugglingagainst an unwelcome half-belief that refuses to be dismissed. 'It isall moonshine-madness. I'll never do it, --not at least while I retainmy reason. It was no doubt partly for safety as well as for the otherreason that my father wished the cross to be placed in the tomb. Itwill be far safer now in a cabinet than anywhere else. ' 'Reia, ' said Sinfi, 'you told me wonst as your great-grandmotherwas a Romany named Fenella Stanley. I have axed the Scollardabout her, and what do you think he says? He says that she wur mygreat-grandmother too, for she married a Lovell as died. ' 'Good heavens, Sinfi! Well, I'm proud of my kinswoman. ' 'And he says that Fenella Stanley know'd more about the truedukkerin, the dukkerin of the Romanies, than anybody as were everheerd on. ' 'She seems to have been pretty superstitious, ' I said, 'by allaccounts. But what has that to do with the cross?' 'You'll put it in the tomb again. ' 'Never!' 'Fenella Stanley will see arter that. ' 'Fenella Stanley! Why, she's dead and dust. ' 'That's what I mean; that's why she can make you do it, and will. ' 'Well, well! I did not come to talk about the cross; I want to havea quiet word with you about another matter. ' She sprang away as if in terror or else in anger. Then recoveringherself she took the kettle from the prop. I followed her to thetent, which, save that it was made of brown blanket, looked more likea tent on a lawn than a Gypsy-tent. All its comfort seemed, however, to give no great delight to Videy, the cashier and femalefinancier-general of the Lovell family, who, in a state of absorbeduntidiness, sitting at the end of the tent upon a palliasse coveredwith a counterpane of quilted cloth of every hue, was evidentlyoccupied in calculating her father's profits and losses at the recenthorse-fair. The moment Videy saw us she hurriedly threw the coin intothe silver tea-pot by her side, and put it beneath the counterpane, with that instinctive and unnecessary secrecy which characterisedher, and made her such an amazing contrast both to her sister Sinfiand to Rhona Boswell. After Panuel had received me in his usual friendly manner, we all satdown, partly inside the tent and partly outside, around the whitetable-cloth that had been spread upon the grass. The Scollard took nonote of me; he had no eyes for any one but Rhona Boswell. When tea was over Sinfi left the camp, and strode across the Delltowards the river. I followed her. II It was not till we reached a turn in the river that is more secludedthan any other--a spot called 'Gypsy Ring, ' a lovely little spotwithin the hollow of birch trees and gorse--that she spoke a fewwords to me, in a constrained tone. Then I said, as we sat down upona green hillock within the Ring: 'Sinfi, the baskets my aunt saw inWinnie's hand when she was standing in the rain were of the very kindthat Videy makes. ' 'Oh, _that's_ what you wanted to say!' said she; 'you think Videyknows something about Winnie. But that's all a fancy o' yourn, andit's of no use looking for Winnie any more among the Romanies. Evensupposin' you did hear the Welsh gillie--and I think it was all afancy--you can't make nothin' out o' them baskets as your aunt seed. Us Romanies don't make one in a hundud of the fancy baskets as issold for Gypsy baskets in the streets, and besides, the hawkers andcosters what buys 'em of us sells 'em agin to other hawkers andcosters, and there ain't no tracin' on 'em. ' I argued the point with her. At last I felt convinced that I wasagain on the wrong track. By this time the sun had set, and the starswere out. I had noticed that during our talk Sinfi's attention wouldsometimes seem to be distracted from the matter in hand, and I hadobserved her give a little start now and then, as though listening tosomething in the distance. 'What are you listening to?' I inquired at last. 'Reia, ' said Sinfi, 'I've been a-listenin' to a v'ice as nobody can't hear on'y me, an'I've bin a-seein' a face peepin' atween the leaves o' the trees asnobody can't see on'y me; my mammy's been to me. I thought she wouldcome here. They say my mammy's mammy wur buried here, an' she wur thechild of Fenella, an' that's why it's called Gypsy Ring. The moment Isat down in this Ring a mullo [spirit] come and whispered in my ear, but I can't make out whether it's my mammy or Fenella Stanley, and Ican't make out what she said. It's hard sometimes for them as has tognaw their way out o' the groun' to get their words out clear. [Footnote] Howsomever, this I do know, reia, you an' me must part. Ifelt as we must part when we was in Wales togither last time, and nowI knows it. ' [Footnote: Some Romanies think that spirits rise from the ground. ] 'Part, Sinfi! Not if I can prevent it. ' 'Reia, ' replied Sinfi emphatically, 'when I've wonst made up my mind, you know it's made up for good an' all. When us two leaves this 'ereRing to-night, you'll turn your ways and I shall turn mine. ' I thought it best to let the subject drop. Perhaps by the time we hadleft the Ring this mood would have passed. After a minute or so shesaid, 'You needn't see no fear about not marryin' Winifred Wynne. You_must_ marry her; your dukkeripen on Snowdon didn't show itself therefor nothink. When you two was a-settin' by the pool, a-eatin' thebreakfiss, I was a-lookin' at you round the corner of the rock. Iseed a little kindlin' cloud break away and go floatin' over yourheads, and then it shaped itself into what us Romanies calls theGolden Hand. You know what the Golden Hand means when it comes overtwo sweethearts? You don't believe it? Ask Rhona Boswell! Here shecomes a-singin' to herself. She's trying to get away from that devilof a Scollard as says she's bound to marry him. I've a good mind togo and give him a left-hand body-blow in the ribs and settle him forgood and all. He means mischief to the Tarno Rye, and Rhona too. Brother, I've noticed for a long while that the Romany blood is agood deal stronger in you than the Gorgio blood. And now mark mywords, that cuss o' your feyther's'll work itself out. You'll go tohis grave and you'll jist put that trúshul back in that tomb, andarter that, and not afore, you'll marry Winnie Wynne. ' Sinfi's creed did not surprise me: the mixture of guile andsimplicity in the Romany race is only understood by the few who knowit thoroughly: the race whose profession it is to cheat byfortune-telling, to read the false 'dukkeripen' as being 'good enoughfor the Gorgios, ' believe profoundly in nature's symbols; but herbearing did surprise me. 'Your dukkeripen will come true, ' said she; 'but mine won't, for Iwon't let it. ' 'And what is yours?' I asked. 'That's nuther here nor there. ' Then she stood again as though listening to something, and again Ithought, as her lips moved, that I heard her whisper, 'I will, Iwill. ' III I had intended to go to London at once after leaving Gypsy Dell, butsomething that Sinfi told me during our interview impelled me to goon to Raxton Hall, which was so near. The fact that Sinfi was mykinswoman opened up new and exciting vistas of thought. I understood now what was that haunting sense of recognition whichcame upon me when I first saw Sinfi at the wayside inn in Wales. Dayby day had proofs been pouring in upon me that the strain of Romanyblood in my veins was asserting itself with more and more force. Dayby day I had come to realise how closely, though the main current ofmy blood was English, I was affined to the strange and mysteriouspeople among whom I was now thrown--the only people in these islands, as it seemed to me, who would be able to understand a love-passionlike mine. And there were many things in the great race of myforefathers which I had found not only unsympathetic to me, butdeeply repugnant. In Great Britain it is the Gypsies alone whounderstand nature's supreme charm, and enjoy her largesse as it usedto be enjoyed in those remote times described in Percy Aylwin's poemsbefore the Children of the Roof invaded the Children of the Open Air, before the earth was parcelled out into domains and ownerships as itnow is parcelled out. In the mind of the Gorgio, the most beautifullandscape or the most breezy heath or the loveliest meadow-land iscut up into allotments, whether of fifty thousand acres or of tworoods, and owned by people. Of ownership of land the Romany isentirely unconscious. The landscape around him is part of Natureherself, and the Romany on his part acknowledges no owner. No doubthe yields to _force majeure_ in the shape of gamekeeper or constable, but that is because he has no power to resist it. Nature to him is asfree and unowned by man as it was to the North American Indian in hiswigwam before the invasion of the Children of the Roof. During the time that I was staying in Flintshire and near CapelCurig, rambling through the dells or fishing in the brooks, it wassurprising how soon the companionship of a Gorgio would begin to pallupon me. And here the Cymric race is just as bad as the Saxon. Thesame detestable habit of looking upon nature as a payingmarket-garden, the same detestable inquiry as to who was the owner ofthis or that glen or waterfall, was sure at last to make me severfrom him. But as to Sinfi, her attitude towards nature, though it wasonly one of the charms that endeared her to me, was not the least ofthem. There was scarcely a point upon which she and I did not touch. And what about her lack of education? Was that a drawback? Not in theleast. The fact that she knew nothing of that traditional ignorancewhich for ages has taken the name of knowledge--that record of thefoolish cosmogonies upon which have been built the philosophies andthe social systems of the blundering creature Man--the fact that sheknew nothing of these gave an especial piquancy to everything shesaid. I had been trying to educate myself in the new and wonderfulcosmogony of growth which was first enunciated in the sixties, andwas going to be, as I firmly believed, the basis of a new philosophy, a new system of ethics, a new poetry, a new everything. But inknowledge of nature as a sublime consciousness, in knowledge of thehuman heart, Sinfi was far more learned than I. And believing as Idid that education will in the twentieth century consist ofunlearning, of unlading the mind of the trash previously calledknowledge, I could not help feeling that Sinfi was far more advanced, far more in harmony than I could hope to be With the new morning ofLife of which we are just beginning to see the streaks of dawn. 'I must go and see Fenella's portrait, ' I said, as I Walked brisklytowards Raxton. When I reached Raxton Hall I seemed to startle the butler and theservants, as though I had come from the other world. I told the butler that I should sleep there that night, and then wentat once to the picture gallery and stood before Reynolds' famouspicture of Fenella Stanley as the Sibyl. The likeness to Sinfi wasstriking. How was it that it had not previously struck me moreforcibly? The painter had evidently seized the moment when Fenella'seyes expressed that look of the seeress which Sinfi's eyes, onoccasion, so powerfully expressed. I stood motionless before it whilethe rich, warm light of evening bathed it in a rosy radiance. Andwhen the twilight shadows fell upon it, and when the moon again litit up, I stood there still. The face seemed to pass into my verybeing, and Sinfi's voice kept singing in my ears, 'Fenella Stanley'sdead and dust, and that's why she can make you put that cross inyour feyther's tomb, and she will, she will. ' I left the picture and went into the library: for I bethought me ofthat sheaf of Fenella's letters to my great-grandfather which he hadkept so sacredly, and which had come to me as representative of thefamily. My previous slight inspection of them had shown me what awonderful woman she was, how full of ideas the most original and themost wild. The moment a Gypsy-woman has been taught to write therecomes upon her a passion for letter-writing. Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between theilliterate locutions and the eccentric orthography of Fenella'sletters and the subtle remarks and speculations upon the symbols ofnature. --the dukkeripen of the woods, the streams, the stars, and thewinds. But when I came to analyse the theories of man's place innature expressed in the ignorant language of this Romany heathen, they seemed to me only another mode of expressing the mysticism ofthe religious enthusiast Wilderspin, the more learned andphilosophic mysticism of my father, and the views of D'Arcy, thedreamy painter. As I rode back to London, I said to myself, 'What change has comeover me? What power has been gradually sapping my manhood? Why do I, who was so self-reliant, long now so passionately for a friend towhom to unburthen my soul--one who could give me a sympathy as deepand true as that I got from Sinfi Lovell, and yet the sympathy of amind unclouded by ignorant superstitions?' With the exception of D'Arcy, whose advice as to the disposal of thecross had proclaimed him to be as superstitious as Sinfi herself, nota single friend had I in all London. Indeed, besides Lord Sleaford (atall, burly man with the springy movement of a prize-tighter, withblue-grey eyes, thick, close-cropped hair, and a flaxen moustache, who had lately struck up a friendship with my mother) I had not evenan acquaintance. Cyril Aylwin, whom I had not seen since we parted inWales, was now on the Continent with Wilderspin. Strange as it mayseem, I looked forward with eagerness to the return of thislight-hearted jester. Cyril's sagacity and knowledge of the world hadimpressed me in Wales; but his cynical attitude, whether genuine orassumed, towards subjects connected with deep passion, had preventedmy confiding in him. He must, I knew, have gathered from Sinfi, andfrom other sources, that I was mourning the loss of a Welsh girl inhumble life; but during our very brief intercourse in Wales neitherof us had mentioned the matter to the other. Now, however, in mypresent dire strait I longed to call in the aid of his penetrativemind. VIII ISIS AS HUMOURIST I On reaching London I resumed my wanderings through the Londonstreets. Bitter as these wanderings were, my real misery now did notbegin until I got to bed. Then began the terrible struggle of thesoul that wrestles with its ancestral fleshly prison--that prisonwhose warders are the superstitions of bygone ages. 'Have you notseen the curse literally fulfilled?' ancestral voices of theblood--voices Romany and Gorgio--seemed whispering in my ears. 'Haveyou not heard the voice of his daughter upon whose head the curse ofyour dead father has fallen a beggar in the street, while not allyour love can succour her or reach her?' And then my soul would cry out in its agony, 'Most true, FenellaStanley--most true, Philip Aylwin; but before I will succumb to sucha theory of the universe as yours, a theory which reason laughs atand which laughs at reason, I will die--die by this hand of mine:this flesh that imprisons me in a world of mocking delusion shall bedestroyed, but first the symbol itself of your wicked, cruel oldfolly shall go. ' I would then leap from my bed, light a candle, unlock my cabinet, take out the cross, and holding it aloft prepare to dash it againstthe wall, when my hand would be arrested by the same ancestralvoices, Romany and Gorgio, whispering in my ears and at my heart, 'If you break that amulet, how shall you ever be able to see whatwould be the effect upon Winnie's fate of its restoration to yourfather's tomb?' And then I would laugh aloud and mock the voices of Fenella Stanleyand Philip Aylwin and millions of other voices that echoed ormurmured or bellowed through half a million years, echoed or murmuredor bellowed from European halls and castles, from Gypsy tents, fromcaves of palæolithic man. 'How shall you stay the curse from working in the blood of theaccursed one?' the voices would say. And then I would laugh againtill I feared the people in the hotel would hear me and take me for amaniac. But then my aunt's picture of a beggar-girl standing in the rainwould fill my eyes and the whispers would grow louder than the voiceof the North Sea in the March wind: 'Look at _that_. How dare youleave undone anything, howsoever wild, which might seem to anyone--even to an illiterate Gypsy, even to a crazy mystic--a means offinding Winifred? What is the meaning of the great instinct which hasalways conquered the soul in its direst need--which has always drivenman when in the grip of unbearable calamity to believe in powers thatare unseen? What though that scientific reason of yours tells youthat Winifred's misfortunes have nothing to do with any curse? whatthough your reason tells you that all these calamities may be read asbeing the perfectly natural results of perfectly natural causes? Isthe voice of man's puny reason clothed with such authority that itdares to answer his heart, which knows nothing but that it bleeds?The terrible facts of the case may be read in two ways. With aninscrutable symmetry these facts may and do fit in with the universaltheory of the power of the spirit-world to execute a curse from thegrave. Look at that beggar in the street! How dare you ignore thetheory of the sorrowing soul, the logic of the lacerated heart, eventhough your reason laughs it to scorn?' And then at last my laughter would turn to moans, and, replacing thecross in the cabinet, I would creep hack to my bed ashamed, like aguilty thing--ashamed before myself. But the more I felt at my throat the claws of the ancestral ogreSuperstition, the more enraged I became with myself for feeling themthere. And the auger against my ancestors' mysticism grew with thegrowing consciousness that I was rapidly yielding to the very samemysticism myself. And then I would get up again and take from myescritoire the sheaf of Fenella Stanley's letters which I had broughtfrom Raxton, and read again those stories about curses, such as thatabout the withering of a Romany family under a dead man's curse whichWinnie had described to me that night on the sands. II I was delighted to be told by Sleaford, whom I met one afternoon inPiccadilly, that Cyril had returned to London within the last fewdays. 'He is appointed artist-in-chief of the new comic paper, _TheCaricaturist, _ said Sleaford, 'and is in great feather. I have justbeen calling upon him. ' 'The very man I want to see, ' I replied. Sleaford thereupon directedme to Cyril's studio 'You'll find him at work, ' said he, 'doin' acaricature of Wilderspin's great picture, "Faith and Love. " MotherGudgeon is sittin' as his model. He does everything from models, youknow. ' 'Mother Gudgeon?' 'A female costermonger that he picked up some where in the slums, thefunniest woman in London: haw! haw! I promise you she'll make youlaugh when Cyril draws her out. ' He then began to talk upon the subject which interested him above allothers, the smartness and swiftness of his yacht. 'I am trying topersuade your mother and aunt to go for a cruise with me, and I thinkI shall succeed. ' He directed me to the studio, and we parted. I found Cyril in a large and lofty studio in Chelsea, filled with thecuriously carved black furniture of Bombay, mixed, for contrast, witha few Indian cabinets of carved and fretted ivory exquisitelywrought. He greeted me cordially. The walls were covered withJapanese drawings. I began by asking him about The Caricaturist. 'Well, ' said he, 'now that the House of Commons has become abear-garden, and t'other House a waxwork show, and the intellect andculture of the country are leaving politics to dummies and cads, howcan the artistic mind condescend to caricature the political world--aworld that has not only ceased to be intelligent, but has even ceasedto be funny? The quarry of _The Caricaturist_ will be literature, science, and art. Instead of wasting artistic genius upon such smallfry as premiers, diplomatists, and cabinet ministers, our cartoonswill be caricatures of the pictures of Millais, Leighton, Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Madox Brown, Holman Hunt, Watts, Sandys, Whistler, Wilderspin: our letterpress will be Aristophanic parodiesof Tennyson, Browning, Meredith, Arnold, Morris, Swinburne; gameworth flying at, my boy! The art-world is in a dire funk, I can tellyou, for the artistic epidermis has latterly grown genteel and thin. ' Already I was beginning to ask myself whether it was possible to makea confidant of this inscrutable cynic. 'You are fond of Orientalthings?' I said, wishing to turn the subject. I looked round at theChinese, Indian, and Japanese monstrosities scattered about the room. 'That, ' said he, pointing to a picture of a woman (apparently drunk)who was amusing herself by chasing butterflies, while a number ofbroad-faced, mischievous-looking children were teasing her--'that isthe masterpiece of Hokusai. The legend in the corner is "Kiyó-jo chóni tawamureru, " which, according to the lying Japanese scholars, means nothing more than "A cracked woman chasing butterflies. " It wasleft for me to discover that it represents Yoka, the goddess of Fun, sportively chasing the butterfly souls of men, while the urchins, thelittle Yokas, are crying, "Ma! you're screwed. "' 'But what are these quaint figures?' I asked, pointing to certaindrawings of an obese Japanese figure, grinning with lazy good-humourabove several of the cabinets. 'Hoteï, the fat god of enjoyment. ' 'A Japanese god?' I asked. 'Yes, nothing artistic is quite right now unless it has a savour ofblue mould or Japan. Wonderful people, the Japanese, to havediscovered the Jolly Hoteï. And here is Hoteï's wife, thegoddess-queen Yoka herself--the real masquerader behind that mysticveil which has so enveloped and bemuddled the mind of poorWilderspin. She is to figure in the first number of _TheCaricaturist_. ' He pointed to an object I had only partially observed: a broad-facedburly woman, of about forty-five years of age, in an eccentric dressof Japanese silks, standing on the model-throne between two layfigures. 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'why, she's alive. ' 'An' kickin', sir, ' said a voice that was at once strident andunctuous. Owing to the almond shape of her sparkling black eyes andthe flatness of her nose, the bridge of which had been broken (mostlikely in childhood), she looked absurdly like a Japanese woman, savethat upon her quaintly-cut mouth, curving slightly upwards horse-shoefashion, there was that twitter of humorous alertness which isperhaps rarely seen in perfection except among the lower orders, Celtic or Saxon, of London. Her build was that of a Dutchfisher-woman. The set of her head on her muscular neck showed her tobe a woman of immense strength. But still more was her great physicalpower indicated by her hands, the fingers of which seemed to have agrip like that of an eagle's claws. I then perceived upon an easel a large drawing. 'I have not seenWilderspin's "Faith and Love, "' I said; 'but this, I see, must be acaricature of it. ' In it the woman figured as Isis, grinning beneath a veil held overher head by two fantastically-dressed figures--one having the face ofDarwin, the other the face of Wilderspin. 'Allow me, ' said Cyril, 'to introduce you to the Goddess Yoka, thetrue Isis or goddess of bohemianism and universal joke, who, when shehad the chance of I making a rational and common-sense universe, preferred amusing herself with flamingoes, dromedaries, ring-tailemonkeys, and men. ' 'Pardon me, ' I said; 'I merely called to see you. Good afternoon. ' 'Allow me, ' said he, turning to the woman, 'to introduce to yourcelestial majesty Mr. Henry Aylwin, a kinsman of mine, whosepossessions in Little Egypt are as brilliant (judging from thecolours of his royal waggon) as are his possessions in Philistia. ' The woman made me a curtsey of much gravity. 'And allow me tointroduce _you_, ' he said, turning to me, 'to the real originalNatura Mystica, --she who for ages upon ages has been trying by herfunny goings-on to teach us that "the _Principium hylarchicum_ of thecosmos" (to use the simple phraseology of a great spiritualisticpainter) is the benign principle of joke. ' The woman made me another curtsey. 'You forget your exalted position, Mrs. Gudgeon, ' said Cyril; 'when a mystic goddess-queen is socondescending as to curtsey she should be careful not to bend toolow. Man is a creature who can never with safety be treated with toomuch respect. ' 'We's all so modest in Primrose Court, that's the wust on us, 'replied the woman. 'But, Muster Cyril, sir, I don't think you'venoticed that the queen's _t'other_ eye's got dry now. ' Cyril gravely poured her out a glass of foaming ale from a bottlethat stood upon a little Indian bamboo-table, and handed it to hercarefully over the silks, saying to me, 'Her majesty's elegant way of hinting that she likes to wet botheyes!' Such foolery as this and at such a time irritated me sorely; butthere was no help for it now. Whether I should or should not open tohim the subject that had taken me thither, I must, I saw, let himhave his humour till the woman was dismissed. 'And now, goddess, ' said he, 'while I am doing justice to the designof your nose--' 'You can't do that, sir, ' interjected the creature, 'it's sich abeauty, ha! ha! I allus say that when I do die, I shall diea-larfin'. They calls me "Jokin' Meg" in Primrose Court. I shall diea-larfin', they say in Primrose Court, and so I shall--unless I diea-cryin', ' she added in an utterly different and tragic voice whichgreatly struck me. 'While I am trying to do justice to that beautiful bridge you musttell my friend about yourself and your daughter, and how you and shefirst became two shining lights in the art world of London. ' 'You makes me blush, ' said the woman, 'an' blow me if blushin' ain'tbin an' made _t'other_ eye dry. ' She then took another glass of ale, grinned, shook herself, as thoughpreparing for an effort, and said, 'Well you must know, sir, as my name's Meg Gudgeon, leaseways thatwas my name till my darter chrissened me Mrs. Knocker, and I lives inPrimrose Court, Great Queen Street, and my reg'lar perfession isa-sellin' coffee "so airly in the mornin', " and I've got a darter asain't quite so 'ansom as me, bein' the moral of her father as is overthe water a-livin' in the fine 'Straley. And you must know, sir, thatone of summer's day there comes a knock at our door as sends my 'eartinto my mouth and makes me cry out, "The coppers, by jabbers!" andwhen I goes down and opens the door, lo! and behold, there stan's achap wi' great goggle eyes, dressed all in shiny black, jest like aQuaker. ' (Here she made a noise between a laugh and a cough. ) 'Iallus say that when I do die I shall die a-larfin'--unless I diea-cryin', ' she added, in the same altered voice that had struck mebefore. 'Well, mother, ' said Cyril, 'and what did the shiny Quaker say?' 'They calls me "Jokin' Meg" in Primrose Court. The shiny Quaker, 'eaxes if my name is Gudgeon. "Well, " sez I, "supposin' as my name _is_Gudgeon, --I don't say it is, " says I, "but supposin' as it is, --whatthen?" sez I. "But _is_ that your name?" sez 'e. "Supposin' as itwas, " sez I, "what then?" "Will you answer my simple kervestion?" sez'e. "Is your name Mrs. Gudgeon, or ain't it not?" sez 'e. "An' will_you_ answer _my_ simple kervestion, Mr. Shiny Quaker?" sez I. "Supposin' my name was Mrs. Gudgeon, --I don't say it _is_, butsupposin' it was, --what's that to you?" sez I, for I thought my poorbor Bob what lives in the country had got into trouble agin and hadsent for me. ' 'Go on, mother, ' said Cyril, 'what did the shiny Quaker say then?' '"Well then, " sez 'e, "if your name is Mrs. Gudgeon, there is apootty gal as is, I am told, a-livin' along o' you. " "Oh, oh, my fineshiny Quaker gent, " sez I, an' I flings the door wide open an' thereI stan's in the doorway, "it's _her_ you wants, is it?" sez I. "Andpray what does my fine shiny Quaker gent want wi' my darter?" "Yourdarter?" sez 'e, an opens 'is mouth like this, and shets it agin likea rat-trap. "Yis, my darter, " sez I. "I s'pose, " sez I, "you thinkshe ain't 'ansom enough to be my darter. No more she ain't, " sez I;"but she takes arter her father, an' werry sorry she is for it, " sezI. "I want to put her in the way of 'arnin' some money, " sez 'e. "Oh, _do_ you?" sez I. "How very kind! I'm sure it does a pore woman's'eart good to see how kind you gents is to us pore women's poottydarters, " sez I, --"even shiny Quaker gents as is generally so quiet. You're not the fust shiny gent, " sez I, "as 'ez followed 'er 'um, Ican tell you, --not the fust by a long way; but up to now, " sez I, "I've allus managed to send you all away with a flea in your ears, cuss you for a lot of wicious warm exits, young and old, " sez I, "an'if you don't get out, " sez I--"My good woman, you mistake myattentions, " sez 'e. "Oh no, I don't, " sez I, "not a bit on it. It'ssich ole sinners as you in your shiny black coats, " sez I, "as Inever _do_ mistake, and if you don't git out there's a pump-'andlebehind this werry door, as my poor bor Bob brought up from thecountry for me to sell for him--" "My good woman, " sez 'e, "I am ahartist, " sez 'e. "What's that?" sez I. "A painter, " sez 'e. "Apainter, air you? you don't look it, " sez I. "P'raps it's holidaytime with ye, " sez I, "and that makes you look so varnishy. Well, and what do painters more nor any other trade want with pore women'spootty darters?" sez I, --"more nor plumbers nor glaziers, norbricklayers, for the matter of that?" sez I. "But I ain't a'ousepainter, " sez 'e; "I paints picturs, and I want this gal to setas a moral, " sez 'e. "A moral! an' what's a moral?" sez I. "You ain'ta-goin' to play none o' your shiny-coat larks wi' my pootty darter, "sez I. "I wants to paint her portrait, " sez 'e, "an' then put it in apictur. " "Oh, " sez I, "you wants to paint her portrait 'cause she'ssuch a pootty gal, an' then you wants to make believe you drawed itout of your own 'ead, an' sell it, " sez I. "Oh, but you're a downyone, you are, an' no mistake, " sez I. "But I likes you none the wussfor that. I likes a downy chap, an' I don't see no objection to that;but how much will you give to paint my pootty darter?" sez I. "P'rapsI'd better come in, " sez he. "P'raps you 'ad, if we're a-comin' tobisniss, " sez I; "so jest make a long leg an' step over themdirty-nosed child'n o' Mrs. Mix's, a-settin' on my doorstep, an' Idessay we sha'n't quarrel over a 'undud p'un' or two, " sez I. An'then I bust out a-larfin' agin--I shall die a-larfin'. ' And then sheadded suddenly in the same tone of sadness, 'if I don't diea-cryin'. ' 'Really, mother, ' said Cyril, 'it is very egotistical of you tointerrupt your story with prophecies about the mood in which you willprobably shuffle off the Gudgeon coil and take to Gudgeon wings. Itis the shiny Quaker we want to know about. ' 'And then the shiny Quaker comes in, ' said the woman, 'and I shetsthe door, being be'ind 'im, and that skears _'im_ for a moment, tillI bust out a-larfin': "Oh, you needn't be afeard, " sez I;--"when weburgles a Quaker in Primrose Court we never minces 'im forsossingers, 'e's so 'ily in 'is flavour. " Well, sir, to cut a longstory short, I agrees to take my pootty darter to the Quaker gent'sstudero; an' I takes 'er nex' day, an' 'e puts her in a pictur. Butafore long, ' continued the old woman, leering round at Cyril, 'lo!and behold, a young swell, p'raps a young lord in disguise (I don'twant to be pussonal, an' so I sha'n't tell his name), 'e comes intothat studero one day when I was a-settlin' up with the Quaker gentfor the week's pay, an' he sets an' admires me, till I sets an'blushes as I'm a-blushin' at this werry moment; an' when I gits 'ome, I sez to Polly Onion (that's a pal o' mine as lives on the groundfloor), I sez, "Poll, bring my best lookin'-glass out o' my bowdore, an' let's have a look at my old chops, for I'm blowed if there ain'ta young swell, p'raps a young lord in disguise, as 'ez fell 'ead overears in love with me. " And sure enough when I goes back to thestudero the werry nex' time, my young swell 'e sez to me, "It's yourown pootty face as I wants for _my_ moral. I dessay your darter's astunner--I ain't seen her yit--but she cain't be nothin' to you. " AndI sez to 'im, "In course she ain't, for she takes arter her father'sfamily, pore gal, and werry sorry she is for it. "' At this moment a servant entered and said Mr. Wilderspin was waitingin the hall. All hope having now fled of my getting a private wordwith Cyril that afternoon, I was preparing to slip I away; but hewould not let me go. 'I don't want Wilderspin to know about the caricature till it isfinished, ' whispered he to me; 'so I told Bunner never to let himcome suddenly upon me. You'd better be off, mother, ' he said to theold woman, 'and come again to-morrow. ' She bustled up and, throwing off the Japanese finery, left the room, while Cyril removed the drawing from the easel and hid it away. 'Isn't she delightful?' ejaculated Cyril. 'Delightful! What, that old wretch? All that interests me in her isthe change in her voice after she says she will die laughing. ' 'Oh, ' said Cyril, 'she seems to be troubled with a drunken son in thecountry somewhere, who is always getting into scrapes. Wilderspin'sin love with her daughter, a wonderfully beautiful girl, the findingof whom at the very moment when he was in despair for the want of theright model gave the final turn to his head. He thinks she was sentto him from Paradise by his mother's spirit! He does, I assure you. ' 'Wilderspin in love with a model!' 'Oh, not _à la_ Raphael. ' 'If you think Wilderspin to be in love with any woman, you littleknow what love is, ' I exclaimed. 'He is in love with his art and withthat beautiful memory of his mother's self-sacrifice which hasshattered his reason, but built up his genius. Except as a meanstowards the production of those pictures that possess him, no modelis anything more to him than his palette-knife. Shall you be alonethis evening?' 'This evening I dine at Sleaford's. To-morrow I am due in Paris. ' Wilderspin, who had now entered the studio, seemed genuinely pleasedto see me again, and told me that in a few days he should be able toborrow 'Faith and Love' of its owner for the purpose of beginning areplica of it, and hoped then to have the pleasure of showing it tome. 'I observed Mrs. Gudgeon in the hall, ' said he to Cyril. 'To thinkthat so unlovely a woman should, through an illusion of the senses, seem to be the mere material mother of her who was sent to me fromthe spirit-world in the very depths of my despair! Wonderful are theways of the spirit-world. Ah, Mr. Aylwin, did it never occur to youhow important is the expression of the model from whom you work?' 'I am not a painter, ' I said, 'only an amateur, ' trying to stop aconversation that might run on for an hour. 'It has never occurred to you! That is strange. Let me read to you apassage upon this subject just published in _The Art Review_, writtenby the great painter D'Arcy. ' He then took from Cyril's table a number of _The Art Review_, andbegan to read aloud:-- It is a curious thing that not only the general public, but the art connoisseurs and the writers upon art, although they know full well how a painter goes to work in painting a picture, speak and write as though they thought that the head of a beautiful woman was drawn from the painter's inner consciousness, instead of from the real woman who sits to him as a model. Notwithstanding all the technical excellence of Raphael, his extraordinary good luck in finding the model that suited his genius had very much to do with his enormous success and fame. And with all Michael Angelo's instinct for grandeur, if he had not been equally lucky in regard to models, he could never adequately have expressed that genius. It is impossible to give vitality to the painting of any head unless the artist has nature before him; this is why no true judge of pictures was ever deceived as to the difference between an original and a copy. It stands to reason that in every picture of a head, howsoever the model's features may be idealised, Nature's own handiwork and mastery must dominate. Here Cyril gently took the magazine from Wilderspin's hand, but didnot silence him. 'As I told you in Wales, ' said he to me, 'I had anabundance of imagination, but I wanted some model in order to realiseit. I could never meet a face that came anything nigh my own ideal ofexpression as the purely spiritual side of the beauty of woman; anduntil I did that I knew that I should achieve nothing whereby theworld might recognise a new power in art. In vain did I try toidealise such faces as did not please me. And this was becausenothing could satisfy me but the perfect type of expression which noteven Leonardo nor any other painter in the world had found--the trueRomantic type. ' 'I understand you, Mr. Wilderspin, ' I said. 'This I perfect type ofexpression you eventually found--' 'In the daughter, ' said Cyril, 'of the goddess Gudgeon. ' 'By the blessing of Mary Wilderspin in heaven, ' said Wilderspin. And then the talk between the two friends ran upon artistic matters, and I heard no more, for my mind was wandering up and down the Londonstreets. Wilderspin and I left the house together. As we walked along, side byside, I said to him: 'You spoke just now of your mother's blessing. Am I really to understand that you in an age like this believe in thepower of human blessings and human curses?' 'Do I believe in blessings and curses, Mr. Aylwin?' said Wilderspinsolemnly. 'You are asking me whether I am with or without what yoursublime father calls the "most powerful of the primary instincts ofman. " He tells us in _The Veiled Queen_ that "Even in this materialage of ours there is not a single soul that does not in its innerdepths acknowledge the power of the unseen world. The most hardenedmaterialist, " says he, "believes in what he calls sometimes 'luck'and sometimes 'fortune. '" Let me advise you, Mr. Aylwin, to study thevoice of your inspired father. I will send a set of his writings toyour hotel to-morrow. And, Mr. Aylwin, my duty compels me to speakvery plainly to you upon a subject that has troubled me since I hadthe honour of meeting you in Wales. There is but one commandment inthe decalogue to which a distinct promise of reward is attached; itis that which bids us honour our fathers and our mothers. Good-day, sir. ' IX THE PALACE OF NIN-KI-GAL I Shortly after this I met my mother at our solicitor's officeaccording to appointment. As she was on the eve of departing for theContinent, it was necessary that various family matters should bearranged. On the day following, as I was about to leave my hotel tocall at Cyril's studio, rather doubtful, after the frivolity I hadlately witnessed, as to whether or not I should unburden my heart tosuch a man, he entered my room in company with Wilderspin, the lattercarrying a parcel of books. 'I have brought your father's works, ' Wilderspin said. 'Thank you very much, ' I replied, taking the books. 'And when am I tocall and see your picture? Have you yet got it back from the owner?' '"Faith and Love" is now in my studio, ' he replied; 'but I will askyou not to call upon me yet for a few days. I hope to be too busilyengaged upon another picture to afford a moment to any one save themodel--that is, ' he added with a sigh, 'should she make herappearance. ' 'A picture of his called "Ruth and Boaz, "' interposed Cyril. 'Wilderspin is repainting the face from that favourite model of hisof whom you heard so much in Wales. But the fact is the model israther out of sorts at this moment, and Wilderspin is fearful thatshe may not turn up to-day. Hence the melancholy you see on his face. I try to console him, however, by assuring him that the daughter of amamma with such a sharp appreciation of half-crowns as the lady yousaw at my studio the other day is sure to turn up in due time assound as a roach. ' Wilderspin shook his head gravely. 'Good heavens!' I muttered, 'when am I to hear the last of painters'models?' Then turning to Wilderspin, I said, 'This is the model to whom you feel so deeply indebted?' 'Deeply indebted, indeed!' exclaimed he in a fervid tone, taking achair and playing with his hat between his knees, in his previousfashion when beginning one of his monologues. 'When I began "Faithand Love" I worked for weeks and months and years, having but onethought, how to give artistic rendering to the great idea of theRenascence of Wonder in Art symbolised in the vignette in yourfather's third edition. I was very poor then; but to live upon breadand water and paint a great picture, and know that you are beingwatched by loving eyes above, --there is no joy like that. I found amodel--a fine and beautiful woman, the same magnificent blonde whosat for so many of the Master's greatest pictures. For a long time mywork delighted me; but after awhile a suspicion, and then a sickeningdread, came upon me that all was not well with the picture. And thenthe withering truth broke in upon me, the scales fell from myeyes--the model's face was beautiful, but it was not right; theexpression I wanted was as far off as ever; there was but one rightexpression in the world, and that I could not find. Ah! is there anypain like that of discovering that all the toil of years has been invain, that the best you can do--the best that the spiritual worldpermits you to do--is as far off the goal as when you began?' 'And so you failed after all, Mr. Wilderspin?' I said, anxious to gethim away so that I might talk to Cyril alone upon the one subject atmy heart. 'I told the model I should want her no more, ' said Wilderspin, 'andfor two days and nights I sat in the studio in a dream, and could getnothing to pass my lips but bread and water. Then it was that MaryWilderspin, my mother, remembered me, blessed me--sent me aspiritual body--' 'For God's sake!' I whispered to Cyril, 'take the good madman away;you don't know how his prattle harrows me just now. ' 'Ah! never, ' said Wilderspin, 'shall I forget that sunny morning whenwas first revealed to me--' 'My dear fellow, ' said Cyril, 'to tell the adventures of that sunnymorning would, as I know from experience, keep us here for the nextthree hours. So, as I must not miss my train, and as you cannot sparea second from "Ruth and Boaz, " come along. ' While I was accompanying them through the corridors of the hotel, Cyril said: 'You say he is not in love with his model? Don't you seethe sulky looks he gives me? I was the innocent cause of an unluckycatastrophe with her. I'll tell you about that, however, anothertime. Good-bye; I'm off to Paris. ' 'When you return to London, ' I said to Cyril, 'I wish to consult youupon, a matter that concerns me deeply. ' II On re-entering my room, as I stood and gazed at my father's book _TheVeiled Queen_, I understood something about that fascination whichthe bird feels who goes fluttering to the serpent's jaws from sheerrepulsion. 'Am I indeed, ' I asked myself, 'that same Darwinianstudent who in Switzerland not long since turned over in scorn thesepages, where are enshrined superstitious stories as gross as any ofthose told in Fenella Stanley's ignorant letters?' In a chapter on 'Love and Death' certain passages showed me how greatmust have been the influence of this book on Wilderspin, and I nolonger wondered at what the painter had told me in Wales. I will giveone passage here, because it had a strange effect on my imagination, as will be soon seen: 'There is an old Babylonian tablet of Nin-ki-gal, the Queen of Death, whose abode the tablet thus describes:-- To the house men enter, but cannot depart from; To the road men go, but cannot return; The abode of darkness and famine, Where earth is their food--their nourishment clay. Light is not seen; in darkness they dwell: Ghosts, like birds, flutter their wings there; On the gate and the gate-posts the dust lies undisturbed. ' Another part of the inscription describes Nin-ki-gal on her thronescattering over the earth the 'Seeds of Life and Death, ' and chantingher responses to the Sibyl, and to the prayers of the shapes kneelingaround her, the dead gods and the souls of all the sons of men. And Ioften wonder whether my ancestress, Fenella Stanley, had anytraditional knowledge of the Queen of Death when she had her portraitpainted as the Sibyl. But whether she had or not, I never think ofthis Babylonian Sibyl kneeling before Nin-ki-gal, surrounded by godsand men, without seeing in the Sibyl's face the grand features ofFenella Stanley. THE SIBYL. What answer, O Nin-ki-gal? What answer, O Nin-ki-gal? Have pity, O Queen of Queens! NIN-KI-GAL Life's fountain flows, And still the drink is Death's; Life's garden blows, And still 'tis Ashtoreth's; [Footnote] But all is Nin-ki-gal's. I lent the drink of Day To man and beast; I lent the drink of Day To gods for feast; I poured the river of Night On gods surceased: Their blood was Nin-ki-gal's. [Footnote: Hathor. ] THE SIBYL. What sowest thou, Nin-ki-gal? What growest thou, Nin-ki-gal? Have pity, O Queen of Queens! NIN-KI-GAL. Life-seeds I sow-- To reap the numbered breaths; Fair flowers I grow-- And hers, red Ashtoreth's; Yea, all are Nin-ki-gal's! THE SIBYL. What knowest thou, Nin-ki-gal? What showest thou, Nin-ki-gal? Have pity, O Queen of Queens! NIN-KI-GAL. Nor king nor slave I know, Nor tribes, nor shibboleths; But Life-in-Death I know-- Yea, Nin-ki-gal I know-- Life's Queen and Death's. And what was the effect upon me of these communings with theancestors whose superstitions I have, perhaps, been throughout thisnarrative treating in a spirit that hardly becomes their descendant? The best and briefest way of answering this question is to confessnot what I thought, as I went on studying my father's book, itsstrange theories and revelations, but what I did. I read the book allday long: I read it all the next day. I cannot say what days passed. One night I resumed my wanderings in the streets for an hour or two, and then returned home and went to bed, --but not to sleep. For methere was no more sleep till those ancestral voices could bequelled--till that sound of Winnie's song in the street could bestopped in my ears. For very relief from them I again leapt out ofbed, lit a candle, unlocked the cabinet, and taking out the amulet, proceeded to examine the I facets as I did once before when I heardin the Swiss cottage these words of my stricken father:-- 'Should you ever come to love as I have loved, you will find thatmaterialism is intolerable--is hell itself--to the heart that hasknown a passion like mine. You will find that it is madness, Hal, madness, to believe in the word "never"! You will find that you_dare_ not leave untried any creed, howsoever wild, that offers theheart a ray of hope. ' And then while the candle burnt out dead in the socket I sat in awaking dream. III The bright light of morning was pouring through the window. I gave astart of horror, and cried, 'Whose face?' Opposite to me there seemedto be sitting on a bed the figure of a man with a fiery cross uponhis breast. That strange wild light upon the face, as it the pains atthe heart were flickering up through the flesh--where had I seen it?For a moment when, in Switzerland, my father bared his bosom to me, that ancestral flame had flashed up into his dull lineaments. Butupon the picture of 'The Sibyl' in the portrait-gallery thatillumination was perpetual! 'It is merely my own reflex in a looking-glass, ' I exclaimed. Without knowing it I had slung the cross round my neck. And then Sinfi Lovell's voice seemed murmuring in my ears, 'FenellaStanley's dead and dust, and that's why she can make you put thatcross in your feyther's tomb, and she will, she will. ' I turned the cross round: the front of it was now next to my skin. Sharp as needles were those diamond and ruby points as I sat andgazed in the glass. Slowly a sensation arose on my breast, of painthat was a pleasure wild and new. _I was feeling the facet_. But thetears trickling down, salt, through my moustache tears of laughter;for Sinfi Lovell seemed again murmuring, 'For good or for ill, youmust dig deep to bury your daddy. ' What thoughts and what sensations were mine as I sat there, pressingthe sharp stones into my breast, thinking of her to whom the sacredsymbol had come, not as a blessing, but as a curse--what agonies weremine as I sat there sobbing the one word 'Winnie, '--could beunderstood by myself alone, the latest blossom of the passionateblood that for generations had brought bliss and bale to the Aylwins. * * * * * I cannot tell what I felt and thought, but only what I did. And whileI did it my reason was all the time scoffing at my heart (for whoseimperious behoof the wild, mad things I am about to record weredone)--scoffing, as an Asiatic malefactor will sometimes scoff at theexecutioner whose pitiless and conquering saw is severing hisbleeding body in twain. I arose and murmured ironically to FenellaStanley as I wrapped the cross in a handkerchief and placed it in ahand-valise: 'Secrecy is the first thing for us sacrilegists toconsider, dear Sibyl, in placing a valuable jewel in a tomb in adeserted church. To take any one into our confidence would beimpossible; we must go alone. But to open the tomb and, close itagain, and leave no trace of what has been done, will require all ourskill. And as burglars' jemmies are not on open sale we must buy, onour way to the railway-station, screw-drivers, chisels, a hammer, anda lantern; for who should know better than you, dear Sibyl, that thepalace of Nin-ki-gal is dark?' IV As I hurried towards the Great Eastern Railway station, I felt like ahorse drawn by a Gypsy whisperer to do something against his ownwill, and yet in the street I stopped to buy the tools. ReachingDullingham in the afternoon, I lunched there; and as I walked thencealong the cliff, towards Raxton, I became more calm and collected. Idetermined not to go near the Hall, lest my movements should bewatched by the servants. The old churchyard was full of workmen ofthe navvy kind, and I learned that for the safety of the public ithad now become necessary to hurl down upon the sands some enormousmasses of the cliff newly disintegrated by the land-springs. Idescended the gangway at Flinty Point, and concealing my implementsbehind a boulder in the cliff, ascended Needle Point, and went intothe town. I had previously become aware, from conversations with my mother, that Wynne had been succeeded as custodian of the old church byShales, the humpbacked tailor, and I apprehended no difficulty ingetting the keys of the church and crypt from my simple-mindedacquaintance, without arousing his suspicions as to my mission. Therefore I went at once to the tailor's shop, but found that Shaleswas out, attending an annual Odd-Fellows' carousal at Graylingham. Consequently I was obliged to open my business to his mother, a farshrewder person, and one who might be much more difficult to dealwith. However, the fact of the navvies being at work so close to achurch whose chancel belonged to my family afforded an excellentmotive for my visit. But before I could introduce the subject to Mrs. Shales, I had to listen to an exhaustive chronicle of Raxton andGraylingham doings since I had left. Hence by the time I quitted her(with a promise to return the keys in the morning) the sun wassetting. But, as I walked along Wilderness Road towards the church, a new andunexpected difficulty presented itself to my mind. I could not, without running the risk of an interruption, enter the church tillafter the Odd-Fellows had all returned from Graylingham, as Shalesand his companions would have to pass along Wilderness Road, whichskirts the churchyard. Shales himself was as short-sighted as a bat;but his companions had the usual long-sight of agriculturists, andwould descry the slightest movement in the church-yard, or anyglimmer of light at the church windows. I would have postponed my enterprise till the morrow; but anotherimportant appointment at the office of our solicitor with my mother, precluded the possibility of this. So my visit to the catacomb mustperforce be late at night. Accordingly I descended the cliff and waited to hear the return ofthe carousers. There I sat down upon the well-remembered boulder, lost in recollections of all that had passed on those sands, whileover the sea the night spread like the widening, darkening wings ofan enormous spectral bird, whose brooding voice was the drone of thewaves as they came nearer and nearer. Then I began to think of whatlay before me, of the strangeness and wildness of my life. Then I recalled, with a shudder I could not repress, those sepulchralchambers beneath the church, which, owing, I believe, to thedirections in an ancestor's will, had been the means of saving itfrom demolition after a large portion of the churchyard bad beencondemned as dangerous. Raxton church is the only one along the coastthat can boast a crypt: all the churches are Perpendicular in style, too late for crypts; a fact which is supposed to indicate that Raxtonwas, in very early times, a seaside town of great importance; for thecrypt is much older than the church, and of an entirely differentkind of architecture. It was once a depository for the bones ofDanish warriors killed before the Norman Conquest; it extends notonly beneath the chancel, as in most cases, but beneath both thetransepts. The vaulting (supported partly on low columns ofremarkable beauty and partly on the basement wall of the church) istherefore of unusual extent. The external door in the churchyard isnow hidden by drifted sand and mould. Many years ago, to give placeto the tombs and coffins of my family, the bones of the old Daneswere piled together in various corners; and the thought of thesebones called up the picture of the abode of 'Nin-ki-gal, ' the Queenof Death, Ghosts, like birds, flutter their wings there; On the gate and the gate-posts the dust lies undisturbed. Then my mind began to make pictures for itself of my father lying inhis coffin. I have, I think, already said that his body had beenembalmed, in order to allow of its being conveyed from Switzerland toEngland. Therefore I had no dread of being confronted by thatattribute of Death alluded to by D'Arcy which is the most cruel andterrible of all--corruption. But then what change should I find inthe _expression_ of those features which on the day of the intermenthad looked so calm? A thrill ran through my frame as I picturedmyself raising the coffin-lid, and finding expressed upon the face, in language more appalling than any malediction in articulatespeech--the curse! At about ten o'clock I mounted the gangway and waited behind adeserted bungalow built for Fenella Stanley till I should hear theOdd-Fellows returning. In a few minutes I heard them approaching. They were singing snatches of songs they had been entertained with atGraylingham, and chatting and laughing as they went down WildernessRoad towards Raxton. As they passed the bungalow and adjoining millthere was a silence. I heard one man say: ''Ez Tom Wynne's ghooast bin seen here o' late?' 'Nooa, but the Squoire's 'ez, ' said another. '_I_ say they've both on 'em bin seed, ' exclaimed a third voice, which I recognised to be that of old Lantoff of the 'FishingSmack'--'leaseways, if they ain't bin seed they've bin 'eeared. OneSaturday arternoon old Sal Gunn wur in the church a-cleanin' The Hallbrasses, an' jist afore sundown, as she wur a-comin' away, she'eeared a awful scrimmage an squealin' in the crypt, and she 'eearedthe v'ice o' the Squoire a-callin' out, and she 'eeared Tom Wynne'sv'ice a-cussin' an' a-swearin' at 'im. And more nor that, Sal told methat on the night when the Squoire wur buried, she seed Toma-draggin' the Squoire's body along the churchyard to the cliff; onlyshe never spoke on it at the time. And Sal says she larnt in a dreamthat the moment as Tom went and laid 'is 'and on that 'ere dimindcross in the coffin, up springs Squoire and claps 'old o' Tom'sthroat, and Tom takes 'old on him, and drags him out o' the church, meanin' to chuck him over the cliffs, when God o' mighty, as wura-keepin' 'is eye on Tom all the time, he jist lets go o' the cliffsand down they falls, and kills Tom, an' buries him an' Squoire tew. ' 'Did you say Sal seed all that in a dream? or did she see it in oleale, Muster Lantoff?' said Shales. 'Well, ' replied Lantoff, as the party turned past the bungalow, 'p'raps it wur ole ale as made me see in this very bungaler when Iwur a bor the ghooast o' the great Gypsy lady whose pictur hangs upat the Hall, her as they used to call the old Squoire's Witch-wife. 'Soon the singing and laughing were renewed; and I stood and listenedto the sounds till they died away in the distance. Then I unlockedthe church door and entered. V As I walked down an aisle, the echoes of my footsteps seemed almostloud enough to be heard on the Wilderness Road. No one could have amore contemptuous disbelief in ghosts than I, and yet the man's wordsabout the ghost of Fenella Stanley haunted me. When I reached theheavy nailed door leading down to the crypt, I lit the lantern. Therusty key turned so stiffly in the lock, that, to relieve my hands(which were burdened with the implements I had brought), I slung thehair-chain of the cross around my neck, intending merely to raise thecoffin-lid sufficiently high to admit of my slipping the amulet in. Having, with much difficulty, opened the door, I entered the crypt. The atmosphere, though not noisome, was heavy, and charged with aninfluence that worked an extraordinary effect upon my brain andnerves. It was as though my personality were becoming dissipated, until at last it was partly the reflex of ancestral experiences. Scarcely had this mood passed before a sensation came upon me ofbeing fanned as if by clammy bat-like wings; and then the idea seizedme that the crypt scintillated with the eyes of a malignant foe. Itwas as if the curse which, until I heard Winnie a beggar singing inthe street, had been to me but a collocation of maledictory words, harmless save in their effect upon her superstitious mind, had hereassumed an actual corporeal shape. In the uncertain light shed by thelantern, I seemed to see the face of this embodied curse with anever-changing mockery of expression; at one moment wearing thefeatures of my father; at another those of Tom Wynne; at another theleer of the old woman I had seen in Cyril's studio. 'It is an illusion, ' I said, as I closed my eyes to shut it out; 'itis an illusion, born of opiate fumes or else of an over-taxed brainand an exhausted stomach. ' Yet it disturbed me as much as if myreason had accepted it as real. Against this foe I seemed to befighting towards my father's coffin as a dreamer lights against anightmare, and At last I fell over one of the heaps of old Danishbones in a corner of the crypt. The candle fell from my lantern, andI was in darkness. As I sat there I passed into a semi-consciousstate. I saw sitting at the apex of a towering pyramid, built ofphosphorescent human bones that reached far, far above the stars, the'Queen of Death, Nin-ki-gal, ' scattering seeds over the earth below. At the pyramid's base knelt the suppliant figure of a Sibyl pleadingwith the Queen of Death: What answer, O Nin-ki-gal? Have pity, O Queen of Queens! And the Sibyl's face was that of Fenella Stanley--her voice was thatof Sinfi Lovell. And then from that dizzy height seemed to come a cackling laugh:-- 'You makes me blush, an' blow me if blushin' ain't bin an' made_t'other_ eye dry. I lives in Primrose Court, Great Queen Street, an'my reg'lar perfession is a-sellin' coffee "so airly in the mornin', "and I've got a darter as ain't quite so 'ansom as me, bein' the moralof her father. ' And now in my vision I perceived that Nin-ki-gal's face was that ofthe old woman I had seen in Cyril's studio, and that she was dressedin the same fantastic in which Cyril had bedizened her. VI I sprang up, struck a light and relit the candle, and soon reachedthe coffin resting on a stone table. I found, on examining it, thatalthough it had been screwed down after the discovery of theviolation, the work had been so loosely done that a few turns of thescrewdriver were sufficient to set the lid free. Then I paused; forto raise the loosened lid (knowing as I did that it was only theblood's inherited follies that had conquered my rationalism andinduced me to disturb the tomb) seemed to require the strength of agiant. Moreover, the fantastic terror of old Lantoff's story, whichat another time would have made me smile, also took bodily shape, andthe picture of a dreadful struggle at the edge of the cliff betweenWinnie's father and mine seemed to hang in the air--a fascinatingmirage of ghastly horror. * * * * * At last, by an immense effort of will, I closed my eyes and pushedthe lid violently on one side. * * * * * The 'sweet odours and divers kinds of spices' of the Jewish embalmerrose like a gust of incense--rose and spread through the crypt likethe sweet breath of a new-born blessing, till the air of thecharnel-house seemed laden with a mingled odour of indescribablesweetness. Never had any odour so delighted my senses; never had anysensuous influence so soothed my soul. While I stood inhaling the scents of opobalsam, and cinnamon andmyrrh, and wine of palm and oil of cedar, and all the other spices ofthe Pharaohs, mingled in one strange aromatic cloud, my personalityseemed again to become, in part, the reflex of ancestral experiences. I opened my eyes. I looked into the coffin. The face (which had beenleft by the embalmer exposed) confronted mine. 'Fenella Stanley!' Icried, for the great transfigurer Death had written upon my father'sbrow that self-same message which the passions of a thousand Romanyancestors had set upon the face of her whose portrait hung in thepicture-gallery. And the rubies and diamonds and beryls of the crossas it now hung upon my breast, catching the light of the openedlantern in my left hand, shed over the features an indescribablereflex hue of quivering rose. Beneath his head I placed the silver casket: I hung the hair-chainround his neck: I laid upon his breast the long-loved memento of hislove and the parchment scroll. Then I sank down by the coffin, and prayed. I knew not what or why. But never since the first human prayer was breathed did there rise toheaven a supplication so incoherent and so wild as mine. Then I rose, and laying my hand upon my father's cold brow, I said: 'You haveforgiven me for all the wild words that I uttered in my long agony. They were but the voice of intolerable misery rebelling againstitself. You, who suffered so much--who know so well those flamesburning at the heart's core--those flames before which all the forcesof the man go down like prairie-grass before the fire and wind--youhave forgiven me. You who knew the meaning of the wild word Love--youhave forgiven your suffering son, stricken like yourself. You haveforgiven me, father, and forgiven him, the despoiler of your tomb:you have removed the curse, and his child--his innocent child--isfree. ' I replaced the coffin-lid, and screwing it down left the crypt, sobuoyant and exhilarated that I stopped in the churchyard and askedmyself: 'Do I, then, really believe that she was under a curse? Do Ireally relieve that my restoring the amulet has removed it? Have Ireally come to this?' Throughout all these proceedings--yes, even amidst that prayer toHeaven, amidst that impassioned appeal to my dead father--had myreason been keeping up that scoffing at my heart which I have beforedescribed. I knocked up the landlord of the 'White Hart, ' and, turning into bed, slept my first peaceful sleep since my trouble. To escape awkward questions, I did not in the morning take back thekeys to Shales's house myself, but sent them, and walking toDullingham took the train to London. X BEHIND THE VEIL I When I met my mother at the solicitor's office next day, she wasastonished at my cheerfulness and at the general change in me. As weleft the office together, she said, 'Everything is now arranged: your aunt and I have decided to acceptLord Sleaford's invitation to go for a cruise in his yacht. We leaveto-morrow evening. Lord Sleaford has promised to take me to-morrowafternoon to Mr. Wilderspin's studio, to see the great painter'sportrait of me, which is now, I understand, quite finished. ' 'Why did you not ask me to accompany you, instead of askingSleaford?' 'I did not know that you would care to do so. ' 'Dear mother, ' I said, in a tender tone that startled her, 'you must let me go with you andSleaford to the studio. ' She consented, and on the following afternoon I called at my aunt'shouse in Belgrave Square. The hall was full of portmanteaux, boxes, and packages. Sleaford had already arrived, and was waiting withstolid patience for my mother, who had gone to her room to dress. Hebegan to talk to me about the astonishing gifts of Cyril Aylwin. 'Have you made an appointment with Wilderspin?' I said to my mother, when she entered the room. 'The last time I saw him he seemed to bemuch occupied with some disturbing affairs of his own. ' 'Appointment? No, ' said she, with an air that seemed to imply that anAylwin, even with Gypsy blood in his veins, in calling upon Art, wasconferring upon it a favour to be welcomed at any time. 'I have not seen this portrait yet, ' said Sleaford, as the carriagemoved off; 'but Cyril Aylwin says it is magnificent, and if anybodyknows what's good and what's bad it's Cyril Aylwin. ' 'Do you know, ' said my mother to me, 'I have taken vastly to thiseccentric kinsman of ours? I had really no idea that a bohemian couldbe so much like a gentleman; but, of course, an Aylwin must always bean Aylwin. ' 'Haw, haw!' laughed Sleaford to himself, 'that's good about CyrilAylwin though--that's dooced good. ' 'We shall see Wilderspin's great picture, "Faith and Love, " at thesame time, ' I said, as we approached Chelsea; 'for Wilderspin tellsme that he has borrowed it from the owner to make a replica of it. ' 'That is very fortunate, ' said my mother. 'I have the greatest desireto see this picture and its wonderful predella. Wilderspin is one ofthe few painters who revert to the predella of the old masters. He issaid to combine the colour of him whom he calls "his master" with thedraughtsmanship and intellect of Shields, whose stained-glass windowsthe owner was showing me the other day at Eaton Hall; and do youknow, Henry, that the painter of this wonderful "Faith and Love" isnever tired of declaring that the subject was inspired by your dearfather?' When we reached the studio the servant said that Mr. Wilderspin wasmuch indisposed that afternoon, and was also just getting ready to goto Paris, where he was to join Mr. Cyril in his studio; 'but perhapshe would see us, '--an announcement that brought a severe look to mymother's face, and another half-suppressed 'Haw, haw!' fromSleaford's deep chest. Mounting the broad old staircase, we found ourselves in the studio ofthe famous spiritualist-painter--one of two studios; for Wilderspinhad turned two rooms communicating with each other by folding-doorsinto a sort of double studio. One of these rooms, which was ofmoderate size, fronted the north-east, the other faced thesouth-west. There were (as I soon discovered) easels in both. It wasthe smaller of these rooms into which we were now shown by theservant. The walls were covered with sketches and drawings in variousstages, and photographs of sculpture. 'By Jove, that's dooced like!' said Sleaford, pointing to my mother'sportrait, which was standing on the floor, as though just returnedfrom the frame-maker's: 'ask Cyril Aylwin if it ain't when you seehim. ' It was a truly magnificent painting, but more full of imaginationthan of actual portraiture. One of the windows was open, and the noise of an anvil from ablacksmith's shop in Maud Street came into the room. 'Do you know, ' said my mother in an undertone, 'that this strangegenius can only, when in London, work to the sound of a blacksmith'sanvil? Nothing will induce him to paint a portrait out of his ownstudio; and I observed, when I was sitting to him here, thatsometimes when the noise from the anvil ceased he laid down his brushand waited for the hideous din to be resumed. Wilderspin now came through the folding-doors, and greeted us in hisusual simple, courteous way. But I saw that he was in trouble. 'Theportrait will look better yet, ' he said. 'I always leave the finalglazing till the picture is in the frame. ' After we had thoroughly examined the portrait, we turned to look at alarge canvas upon an easel. Wilderspin had evidently been workingupon it very lately. 'That's "Ruth and Boaz, " don't you know?' said Sleaford. 'Finest cropof barley I ever saw in my life, judgin' from the size of thesheaves. Barley paid better than wheat last year. So the farmers allsay. ' 'Don't look at it, ' said Wilderspin. 'I have been taking out part ofRuth, and was just beginning to repaint her from the shouldersupwards. It will never be finished now, ' he continued with a sigh. We asked him to allow us to see 'Faith and Love. ' 'It is in the next room, ' said he, 'but the predella is here on thenext easel. I have removed it from underneath the picture to workupon. ' 'The head of Ruth has been taken out, ' said my mother, turning to me:'but isn't it like an old master? You ought to see the marvellousPre-Raphaelite pictures at Mr. Graham's and Mr. Leyland's, Henry. ' 'Pre-Raphaelites?' said Wilderspin, 'the Master rhymes, madam, andBurne-Jones actually _reads_ the rhymes! However, they are on theright track in art, though neither has the slightest intercourse withthe spirit world, not the slightest. ' 'My exploits as a painter have not been noticeable as yet, ' I said;'but an amateur may know what a barley-field is. That is one beforeus. He may know what a man in love is; Boaz there is in love. ' 'I wish we could see the woman's face, ' said Sleaford. 'A woman, youknow, without a face--' 'Come and see the predella of "Faith and Love, "' said Wilderspin, andhe moved towards an easel where rested the predella, a long narrowpicture without a frame. My mother followed him, leaving me standingbefore the picture of 'Ruth and Boaz. ' Although the head of Ruth hadbeen painted out, the picture seemed to throb with life. Boaz hadjust discovered the Moabitish maiden in the gleaming barley-field, asshe had risen from stooping to glean the corn. Two ears of barleywere in one hand. In the face of Boaz was an expression of surprise, and his eyes were alight with admiration. The picture was finishedwith the exception of the face of Ruth, which was but newly sketchedin. Wilderspin had contrived to make her attitude and even the verybarley-ears in her hand (one of which was dangling between herslender fingers in the act of falling) express innocent perturbationand girlish modesty. II At length I joined the others, who were standing before the easel, looking at the predella which, as Wilderspin again took care to tellus, had been removed from the famous picture of 'Faith and Love' wewere about to see in the next room--'the culmination and finalexpression of the Renascence of Wonder in Art. ' 'Perhaps it is fortunate, ' said he, 'that I happen to be working atthis very time upon the predella, which acts as a key to the meaningof the design. You will now have the advantage of seeing the predellabefore you see the picture itself. And really it would be to theadvantage of the picture if every one could see it under likecircumstances; it would add immensely to the effect of the design. Look well and carefully at the predella first. Try to imagine theOriental Queen behind that veil, then observe the way in which thefeatures are expressed through the veil; and then, but not till then, come into the adjoining room and see the picture itself, see whatIsis really is (according to the sublime idea of Philip Aylwin) whenFaith and Love, the twin angels of all true art, upraise the veil. ' He then turned and passed through the folding-doors into a room ofgreat size, crowded with easels, upon which pictures were resting. The predella before me seemed a miracle of imaginative power. At thattime I had not seen the work of the great poet-painter of moderntimes whom Wilderspin called 'the Master, ' and by whom he had beenunconsciously inspired. 'Most beautiful!' my mother ejaculated, as we three lingered beforethe predella. 'Do look at the filmy texture of the veil. ' 'Looks more like steam than a white veil, don't you know?' saidSleaford. 'Like steam, my lord?' exclaimed Wilderspin from the next room. 'Thepainter of that veil had peculiar privileges. As a child he had beenin the habit of watching a face through the curtain of steam around ablacksmith's forge when hot iron is plunged into the water-trench, and the face, my lord, though begrimed by earthly toil, was anangel's. No wonder, then, that the painting in that veil is unique inart. The flesh-tints that are pearly and yet rosy seem, as youobserve, to be breaking through it, and yet you cannot say what isthe actual expression on the face. But now come and see the pictureitself. ' My mother and Sleaford lingered for a moment longer, and then passedbetween the folding-doors. But I did not follow them; I could not. For now there was somethingin the predella before me which fascinated me, I scarcely knew why. It was the figure of the queen--the figure between the two sleepingangels--the figure behind the veil, and expressed by the veil--thatenthralled me. There was a turn about the outlined neck and head that riveted mygaze; and, as I looked from these to the veil falling over the face, a vision seemed to be rapidly growing before my eyes--a vision thatstopped my breath--a vision of a face struggling to express itselfthrough that snowy film--_whose_ face? * * * * * 'In the crypt my senses had a kind of license to play me tricks, ' Imurmured; 'but now and here my reason _shall_ conquer. ' And I stood and gazed at the veil. During all the time I could hearevery word of the talk between Wilderspin, Sleaford, and my motherbefore the picture in the other room. 'Awfully fine picture, ' said Sleaford, 'but the Queen there--Isis:more like a European face than an Egyptian. I've been to Egypt a gooddeal, don't you know?' 'This is not an historical painting, my lord. As Philip Aylwin says, "the only soul-satisfying function of art is to give what Zoroastercalls 'apparent pictures of unapparent realities. '" Perfect beautyhas no nationality; hers has none. All the perfections of womanculminate in her. How can she then be disfigured by paltrycharacteristics of this or that race or nation? In looking at thatgroup, my lord, nationality is forgotten, and should be forgotten. She is the type of Ideal Beauty whose veil can never be raised saveby the two angels of all true art, Faith and Love. She is the type ofNature, too, whose secret, as Philip Aylwin says, "no science butthat of Faith and Love can read. "' 'Seems to be the type of a good deal; but it's all right, don't youknow? Awfully fine picture! Awfully fine woman!' said Sleaford in aconciliatory tone. 'She's a good deal fairer, though, than anyEastern women I've seen; but then I suppose she has worn a veil alher life up to now. Most of 'em take sly peeps, and let in the hotOriental sun, and that tans 'em, don't you know?' 'And the original of this face?' I heard my mother say in a voicethat seemed agitated; 'could you tell me something about the originalof this remarkable face?' 'The model?' said Wilderspin. 'We are notoften asked about our models, but a model like that would endowmediocrity itself with genius, for, though apparently, and by way ofbeneficent illusion, the daughter of an earthly costermonger, she wasa wanderer from another and a better world. She is not more beautifulhere than when I saw her first in the sunlight on that memorable day, at the corner of Essex Street, Strand, bare-headed, her shouldersshining like patches of polished ivory here and there through therents in her tattered dress, while she stood gazing before her, murmuring a verse of Scripture, perfectly unconscious whether she wasdressed in rags or velvet; her eyes--' 'The eyes--it _is_ the eyes, don't you know--it is the eyes that arenot quite right, ' said Sleaford. 'Blue eyes with black eyelashes areawfully fine; you don't see 'em in Egypt. But I suppose that's thetype of something too. Types always floor me, don't you know?' 'But the scene is no longer Egypt, my lord; it is Corinth, ' repliedWilderspin. During this dialogue I stood motionless before the predella: I couldnot stir; my feet seemed fixed in the floor by what can only bedescribed as a wild passion of expectation. As I stood there amarvellous change appeared to be coming over the veiled figure of thepredella. The veil seemed to be growing more and more filmy--more andmore like the 'steam' to which Sleaford had compared it, till at lastit resolved itself into a veil of mist--into the rainbow-tintedvapours of a gorgeous mountain sunrise--and looking straight at mewere two blue eyes sparkling with childish happiness and childishgreeting, through flushed mists across a pool on Snowdon. That she was found at last my heart knew, though my brain was dazed. That in the next room, within a few yards of me, my mother andSleaford and Wilderspin were looking at the picture of Winifred'sface unclouded by the veil, my heart knew as clearly as though myeyes were gazing at it, and yet I could not stir. Yes, I knew thatshe was now neither a beggar in the street, nor a prisoner in one ofthe dens of London, nor starving in a squalid garret, but was safeunder the sheltering protection of a good man. I knew that I had onlyto pass between those folding-doors to see her in Wilderspin'spicture--see her dressed in the 'azure-coloured tunic bordered withstars, ' and the upper garment of the 'colour of the moon atmoonrise, ' which Wilderspin had so vividly described in Wales; andyet, paralysed by expectation, I could not stir. III Soon I was conscious that my mother, Sleaford, and Wilderspin werestanding by my side, that Wilderspin's hand was laid on my arm, andthat I was pointing at the predella--pointing and muttering, 'She lives! She is saved. ' My mother led me into the other studio, and I stood before the greatpicture. Wilderspin and Sleaford, feeling that something had occurredof a private and delicate nature, lingered out of hearing in thesmaller studio. 'I must be taken to her at once, ' I muttered to my mother; 'at once. ' So living was the portrait of Winifred that I felt that she must beclose at hand. I looked round to see if she herself were not standingby me dressed in the dazzling draperies gleaming from Wilderspin'ssuperb canvas. But in place of Winifred the profile of my mother's face, cold, proud, and white, met my gaze. Again did the stress of overmasteringemotion make of me a child, as it had done on the night of thelandslip. 'Mother!' I said, 'you see who it is?' She made no answer: she stood looking steadfastly at the picture; butthe tremor of the nostrils, the long deep breaths she drew, told meof the fierce struggle waging within her breast between conscienceand pity, with rage and cruel pride. My old awe of her returned. Iwas a little boy again, trembling for Winnie. In some unaccountableand, I believe, unprecedented way I had always felt that she, my ownmother, belonged to some haughty race superior to mine and Winnie's;and nothing but the intensity of my love for Winnie could ever havecaused me to rebel against my mother. 'Dear mother, ' I murmured, 'all the mischief and sorrow and pain areended now; and we shall all be happy; for you have a kind heart, dear, and cannot help loving poor Winnie, when you come to know her. ' She made no answer save that her lips slowly reddened again after thepallor; then came a quiver in them, as though pity were conqueringpride within her breast, and then that contemptuous curl that hadoften in the past cowed the heart of the fearless and pugnacious boywhom no peril of sea or land could appal. 'She is found, ' I said. 'And, mother, there is no longer anestrangement between you and me. I forgive you everything now. ' I leapt from her as though I had been stung, so sudden and unexpectedwas the look of scorn that came over her face as she said, 'Youforgive me!' It recalled my struggle with her on that dreadfulnight: and in a moment I became myself again. The pleading boybecame, at a flash, the stern and angry man that misery had made him. With my heart hedged once more with points of steel to all the worldbut Winnie, I turned away. I did not know then that her attitudetowards me at this moment came from the final struggle in her breastbetween her pride and that remorse which afterwards took possessionof her and seemed as though it would make the remainder of her life atragedy without a smile in it. At that moment Wilderspin and Sleafordcame in from the smaller studio. 'Where is she?' I said toWilderspin. 'Take me to her at once--take me to her who sat for thispicture. It is she whom I and Sinfi Lovell were seeking in Wales. ' A look of utter astonishment, then one of painful perplexity, cameover his face--a look which I attributed to his having heard part ofthe conversation between my mother and myself. 'You mean the--the--model? She is not here, Mr. Aylwin, ' said he. 'The same young lady you were seeking in Wales! Mysterious indeed arethe ways of the spirit world!' and then his lips moved silently asthough in prayer. 'Where is she?' I asked again. 'I will tell you all about her soon--when we are alone, ' he said inan undertone. 'Does the picture satisfy you?' The picture! He was thinking of his art. Amid all that gorgeouspageant in which mediæval angels; were mixed with classic youths andflower-crowned; maidens, in such a medley of fantastic beauty ascould never have been imagined save by a painter; who was one-thirdartist, one-third madman, and one-third seer--amid all the marvels ofthat strange, uncanny culmination of the neo-Romantic movement in Artwhich had excited the admiration of one set of the London critics andthe scorn of others, I had really and fully seen but one face--theface of Isis, or Pelagia, or Eve, or _Natura Benigna_, or whosoevershe was looking at me with those dear eyes of Winnie's which were myvery life--looking at me with the same bewitching, indescribableexpression that they wore when she sat with her 'Prince of the Mist'on Snowdon. I tried to take in the _ensemble_. In vain! Nothing butthe face and figure of Winifred--crowned with seaweed as in theRaxton photograph--could stay for the thousandth part of a secondupon my eyes. 'Wilderspin, ' I said, 'I cannot do the picture justice at thismoment. I must see it again--after I have seen her. Where is she? CanI not see her now?' 'You cannot. ' 'Can I not see her to-day?' 'You cannot. I will tell you soon, and I have much to tell you, ' saidWilderspin, looking uneasily round at my mother, who did not seeminclined to leave us. 'I will tell you all about her when--when youare sufficiently calm. ' 'Tell me now, ' I said. 'Gad! this is a strange affair, don't you know? It would puzzle CyrilAylwin himself, ' said Sleaford. 'What the dooce does it all mean?' 'Is she safe?' I cried to Wilderspin. There was a pause. 'Is she safe?' I cried again. 'Quite safe, ' said Wilderspin, in a tone whose solemnity would havescared me had the speaker been any other person than this eccentriccreature. 'When you are less agitated, I will tell you all abouther. ' 'No! now, now!' IV 'Well, Mr. Aylwin, ' said Wilderspin, 'when I first saw your father'sbook, _The Veiled Queen_, it was the vignette on the title-pagethat attracted me. In the eyes of that beautiful child-face, even asrendered by a small reproduction, there was the very expression thatmy soul had been yearning after--the expression which no painter ofwoman's beauty had ever yet caught and rendered. I felt that he whocould design or suggest to a designer such a vignette must beinspired, and I bought the book: it was as an artist, not as athinker, that I bought the book for the vignette. When, on readingit, I came to understand the full meaning of the design, such sweetcomfort and hope did the writer's words give me, that I knew at oncewho had impressed me to read it--I knew that my mission in life wasto give artistic development to the sublime ideas of Philip Aylwin. I began the subject of "Faith and Love. " But the more I tried torender the expression that had fascinated me the more impossible didthe task seem to me. Howsoever imaginative may be any design, thepainter who would produce a living picture must paint from life, andthen he has to fight against his model's expression. Do you remembermy telling you the other day how the spirit of Mary Wilderspin inheaven came upon me in my sore perplexity and blessed me--sent me aspiritual body--led me out into the street, and--' 'Yes, yes, I remember; but what happened?' 'We will sit, ' said Wilderspin. He placed chairs for us, and I perceived that my mother did notintend to go. 'Well, ' he continued, 'on that sunny morning I was impressed toleave my studio and go out into the streets. It was then that I foundwhat I had been seeking, --the expression in the beautiful child-faceoff the vignette. ' 'In the street!' I heard my mother say to herself. 'How did it comeabout?' she asked aloud. 'It had long been my habit to roam about the streets of Londonwhenever I could afford the time to do so, in the hope of findingwhat I sought, the fascinating and indescribable expression on thatone lovely child-face. Sometimes I believed that I had found thisexpression. I have followed women for miles, traced them home, introduced myself to them, told them of my longings; and have then, after all, come away in bitter disappointment. The insults andrevilings I have, on these occasions, sometimes submitted to I willnarrate to no man, for they would bring me no respect in a cynicalage like this--an age which Carlyle spits at and the great and goodJohn Ruskin chides. Sometimes my dear friend Mr. Cyril hasaccompanied me on these occasions, and he has seen how I have beenhumiliated. ' An involuntary 'haw, haw!' came from Sleaford, but looking towards mymother and perceiving that she was listening with intense eagerness, he said: 'Ten thousand pardons, but Cyril Aylwin's drollstories, --don't you know? they will--hang it all--keep comin' up andmakin' a fellow laugh. ' 'Well, ' continued Wilderspin, 'on that memorable morning I wasimpressed to walk down the street towards Temple Bar. I was passingclose to the wall to escape the glare of the sun, when I was stoppedsuddenly by a sight which I knew could only have been sent to me inthat hour of perplexity by her who had said that Jesus would let herlook down and watch her boy. Moreover, at that moment the noise ofthe Strand seemed to cease in my ears, which were rilled with themusic I love best--the only music that I have patience to listento--the tinkle of a black-smith's anvil. ' 'Blacksmith's anvil in the Strand?' said Sleaford. 'It was from heaven, my lord, that the music fell like rain; it wasa sign from Mary Wilderspin who lives there. ' 'For God's sake be quick!' I exclaimed. 'Where was it?' 'At the corner of Essex Street. A bright-eyed, bright-haired girl inrags was standing bare-headed, holding out boxes of matches for sale, and murmuring words of Scripture. This she was doing quitemechanically, as it seemed, and unobservant of the crowd passingby, --individuals of whom would stop for a moment to look at her; somewith eyes of pure admiration and some with other eyes. The squalidattire in which she was clothed seemed to add to her beauty. ' 'My poor Winnie!' I murmured, entirely overcome. 'She seemed to take as little heed of the heat and glare as of thepeople, but stood there looking before her, murmuring texts fromScripture as though she were communing with the spiritual world. Hereyes shook and glittered in the sunshine; they seemed to emit lightsfrom behind the black lashes surrounding them; the ruddy lips werequivering. There was an innocence about her brow, and yet a mysticwonder in her eyes which formed a mingling of the child-like with themaidenly such as--' 'Man! man! would you kill me with your description?' I cried. Thengrasping Wilderspin's hand, I said, 'But, --but was she begging, Wilderspin? Not literally begging! My Winnie! my poor Winnie!' My mother looked at me. The gaze was full of a painful interest; butshe recognised that between me and her there now was rolling aninfinite sea or emotion, and her eyes drooped before mine as thoughshe had suddenly invaded the privacy of a stranger. 'She was offering matches for sale, ' said Wilderspin. 'Winnie! Winnie! Winnie!' I murmured. 'Did she seem emaciated, Wilderspin? Did she seem as though she wanted food?' 'Heaven, no!' exclaimed my mother. 'No, ' replied Wilderspin firmly. 'On that point who is a better judgethan the painter of "Faith and Love"? She did not want food. Thecolour of the skin was not--was not--such as I have seen--when awoman is dying for want of food. ' 'God bless you, Wilderspin, God bless you! But what then?--whatfollowed?' 'Well, Mr. Aylwin, I stood for some time gazing at her, mutteringthanks to my mother for what I had found. I then went up to her, andasked her for a box of matches. She held me out a box, mechanically, as it seemed, and, when I had taken it of her, she held out her handjust as though she had been a real earthly beggar-girl; but that waspart of the beneficent illusion of Heaven. ' 'That was for the price, don't you know?' said Sleaford. 'What didyou give her?' 'I gave her a shilling, my lord, which she looked at for some time ina state of bewilderment. She then began to feel about her as if forsomething. ' 'She was feelin' for the change, don't you know?' said Sleaford, notin the least degree perceiving how these interruptions of a prosaicmind were maddening me. 'I told her that I wanted to speak to her, ' continued Wilderspin, 'and asked her where she lived. She gave me the same bewildered, other-world look with which she had regarded the shilling, a lookwhich seemed to say, "Go away now: leave me alone!" As I did not go, she began to appear afraid of me, and moved away towards Temple Bar, and then crossed the street. I followed, as far behind as I couldwithout running the danger of losing sight of her, to a wretchedplace running out of Great Queen Street. Holborn, which I afterwardsfound was called Primrose Court, and when I got there she haddisappeared in one of the squalid houses opening into the court. Iknocked at the first door once or twice before an answer came, andthen a tiny girl with the face of a woman opened it. "Is there abeggar-girl living here?" I asked. "No, " answered the child in asharp, querulous voice. "You mean Meg Gudgeon's gal wot sings anddoes the rainy-night dodge. She lives next house. " And the childslammed the door in my face. I knocked at the next door, and afterwaiting for a minute it was opened by a short, middle-aged woman, with black eyes and a flattened nose, who stared at me, and thensaid, "A Quaker, by the looks o' ye. " She had the strident voice of araven, and she smelt, I thought, of gin. ' 'But, Mr. Wilderspin, Mr. Wilderspin, you said the girl was safe!' It was my mother's voice, but so loud, sharp, and agonised was itthat it did not seem to be her voice at all. In that dreadful moment, however, I had no time to heed it. At the description of the hideousden and the odious Mrs. Gudgeon, whose face as I had seen it inCyril's studio had haunted me in the crypt, a dreadful shudderpassed through my frame; an indescribable sense of nausea stirredwithin me; and for a moment I felt as though the pains ofdissolution were on me. And there was something in Wilderspin'sface--what was it?--that added to my alarm. 'Stay for a moment, ' Isaid to him; 'I cannot yet bear to hear any more. ' 'I know the dread that has come upon you, and upon your kind, sympathetic mother, ' said he; 'but she you are disturbed about wasnot a prisoner in the kind of place my words seem to describe. ' 'But the woman?' said my mother. 'How could she be safe in suchhands?' 'Has he not said she is safe?' I cried, in a voice that startled evenmy own ears, so loud and angry it was, and yet I hardly knew why. 'You forget, ' said Wilderspin, turning to my mother, 'that the wholespiritual world was watching over her. ' 'But was the place very--was it so very squalid?' said my mother. 'Pray describe it to us, Mr. Wilderspin; I am really very anxious. ' 'No!' I said; 'I want no description: I shall go and see for myself. ' 'But; Henry, I am most anxious to know about this poor girl, and Iwant Mr. Wilderspin to tell us how and where he found her. ' 'The "poor girl" concerns me alone, mother. Our calamities--Winnie'sand mine--are between us two and God.... You engaged her, Wilderspin, of the woman whom I saw at Cyril's studio, to sit as a model? Whatpassed when she came?' 'The woman brought her next day, ' said Wilderspin, 'and I sketched inthe face of Pelagia as Isis at once. I had already taken out the faceof the previous model that had dissatisfied me. I now took out thefigure too, for the figure of this new model was as perfect as herface. ' 'Go on, go on. What occurred?' 'Nothing, save that she stood dumb, like one who had no language savethat of another world. But at the second sitting she had a fit of amost dreadful kind. ' 'Ah! Tell me quickly, ' I said. Her face became suddenly distorted byan expression of terror such as I had never seen and never imaginedpossible. I have caught it exactly in my picture "Christabel. " Sherevived and tried to run out of the studio. Her mother and I seizedher, and she then fell down insensible. ' 'What occasioned the fit? What had frightened her?' 'That is what I am not quite certain about. When she entered thestudio she fixed her eyes upon a portrait which I had been workingupon; but that must have been merely a coincidence. ' 'A portrait!' I cried. And Winifred's scared expression when sheencountered my mother's look of hate in the churchyard came back tome like a scene witnessed in a flash of lightning. 'The portrait wasmy mother's?' 'It was the face of the kind, tender, and noble lady your mother, 'said Wilderspin gently. I gave a hurried glance at my mother, and saw the pallor of herface, --but to me the world held now only two realities, Winifred andWilderspin; all other people were dreams, obtrusive and irritatingdreams. 'Go on, go on, ' I said. 'She recovered, ' continued Wilderspin, 'and seemed to have forgottenall about the portrait, which I had put away. ' 'Did she talk?' 'Never, Mr. Aylwin, ' said Wilderspin solemnly. 'Nor did I invite herto talk, knowing whence she came--from the spirit-world. At the firstfew sittings Mrs. Gudgeon came with her, and would sit looking onwith the intention of seeing that she came to no harm. She said herdaughter was very beautiful, and she, her mother, never trusted herwith men. ' 'God bless the hag, God bless her; but go on!' 'Gradually Mrs. Gudgeon seemed to acquire more confidence in me; andone day, on leaving, she lingered behind the girl, and told me thather daughter, though uncommonly stupid and a little touched in thehead, had now learnt her way to my studio, and that in future sheshould let her come alone, as she believed that she could trust herwith me. She warned me earnestly, however, not to "worrit" the girlby asking her all sorts of questions. ' 'And there she was right, ' I cried. 'But you did ask herquestions, --I see you did, you asked her about her father and broughton another catastrophe. ' 'No, ' said Wilderspin with gentle dignity; 'I was careful not to askher questions, for her mother told me that she was liable to fits. ' 'Mr. Wilderspin, I beg your pardon, ' I said. 'I see you are deeply troubled, ' said he; 'but, Mr. Aylwin, you neednot beg my pardon. Since I saw Mary Wilderspin, my mother, die forher children, no words of mere Man have been able to give me pain. ' 'Go on, go on. What did the woman say to you?' 'She said, "The fewer questions you ask her the better, and don't payher any money. She'd only lose it; I'll come for it at the propertimes. " From that day the model came to the sittings alone, and Mrs. Gudgeon came at the end of every week for the money. ' 'And did the model maintain her silence all this time?' 'She did. She would, every few minutes, sink into a reverie, andappear to be stone-deaf. But sometimes her face would become suddenlyalive with all sorts of shifting expressions. A few days ago she hadanother fit, exactly like the former one. That was on the daypreceding my call at your hotel with your father's books. This timewe had much more difficulty in bringing her round. We did so at last;and when she was gone I gave the final touch to my picture of "TheLady Geraldine and Christabel. " I was at the moment, however, at workupon "Ruth and Boaz, " which I had painted years before--removing theface of Ruth originally there. I worked long at it; and as she wasnot coming for two days I kept steadily at the picture. This was theday on which I called upon you, wishing you to postpone your visit, lest you should interrupt me while at work upon the head of Ruth, which I was hoping to paint. On Thursday I waited for her at theappointed hour, but she did not come, and I saw her no more. ' V 'Mr. Wilderspin, ' I said, as I rose hurriedly, with the intention ofgoing at once in search of Winifred, 'let me see the picture youallude to--"Christabel, " and then tell me where to find her. ' 'Better not see it!' said Wilderspin solemnly; 'there's something totell you yet, Mr. Aylwin. ' 'Yes, yes; but let me see the picture first. I can bear anything now. Howsoever terrible it may be, I can bear it now; for she'sfound--she's safe. ' And I rushed into the next room, and beganturning round in a wild manner one after another some dozens ofcanvases that were standing on the floor and leaning against thewall. Half the canvases had been turned, and then I came upon what Isought. I stood petrified. But I heard Wilderspin's voice at my side say, 'Donot let an imaginary scene distress you, Mr. Aylwin. The picturemerely represents the scene in Coleridge's poem where the LadyChristabel, having secretly and in pity brought to her room to shareher bed the mysterious lady she had met in the forest at midnight, watches the beautiful witch undress, and is spell-bound and struckdumb by some "sight to dream of, not to tell, " which she sees at thelady's bosom. ' * * * * * Christabel! It was Winifred sitting there upright in bed, confrontedby a female figure--a tall lady, who with bowed head was undressingherself beneath a lamp suspended from the ceiling. Christabel! It wasWinifred gazing at this figure--gazing as though fascinated; her darkhair falling and tumbling down her neck, till it was at last partlylost between her shining bosom and her nightdress. Yes, and in herblue eyes there was the same concentration of light, there was thesame uprolling of the lips, there was the same dreadful gleaming ofthe teeth, the same swollen veins about the throat that I had seen inWales. No wonder that at first I could see only the face and figureof Winifred. My consciousness had again dwindled to a single point. In a few seconds, however, I perceived that the scene was an antiqueoak-panelled chamber, corniced with large and curiously-carvenfigures, upon which played the warm light from a silver lampsuspended from the middle of the ceiling by a twofold silver chainfastened to the feet of an angel, quaintly carved in the dark wood ofthe ceiling. It was beneath this lamp that stood the majestic figureof the beautiful stranger, the Lady Geraldine. As she bent her headto look at her bosom, which she was about fully to uncover, thelamp-light gleaming among the gems and flashing in her hair and downher loosened white silken robe to her naked feet, shining, blue-veined and half-hidden in the green rushes that covered thefloor, she seemed to be herself the source from which the lurid lightwas shed about the room. But her eyes were brighter than all. Theywere more dreadful by far to look at than Winifred's own--they wererolling wildly as if in an agony of hate, while she was drawing inher breath till that marble throat of hers seemed choking. It was notupon her eyes, however, that Winifred's were fixed: it was upon thelady's bosom, for out from beneath the partially-loosened robes thatcovered that bosom a tiny fork of flame was flickering like aserpent's tongue ruddy from the fires of a cruel and monstrous hatewithin. This sight was dreadful enough; but it was not the terror onWinifred's face that now sent me reeling against Sleaford, who withmy mother had followed me into the smaller room. Whose figure wasthat, and whose was the face which at first I had half-recognised inthe Lady Geraldine? My mother's! In painting this subject Wilderspin had, without knowing it, workedwith too strong a reminiscence of my mother's portrait, unconsciousthat he was but giving expression to the awful irony of Heaven. I turned round. Wilderspin was supporting with difficulty my mother'sdead weight. For the first time (as I think) in her life, she whom, until I came to know Sinfi Lovell, I had believed to be thestrongest, proudest, bravest woman living, had fainted. 'Dear me!' said Wilderspin, 'I had no idea that Christabel's terrorwas so strongly rendered, --no idea! Art should never produce aneffect like this. Romantic art knows nothing of a mere sensationalillusion. Dear me!--I must soften it at once. ' He was evidently quite unconscious that he had given my mother'sfeatures to Geraldine, and attributed the effect to his ownsuperlative strength as a dramatic artist. I ran to her: she soon recovered, but asked to be taken to BelgraveSquare at once. Wild as I was with the desire to go in quest ofWinifred; goaded as I was by a new, nameless, shapeless dread whichcertain words of Wilderspin's had aroused, but which (like the dreadthat had come to me on the night of my father's funeral) was tooappalling to confront, I was obliged to leave the studio and take mymother to the house of my aunt, who was, I knew, waiting to start forthe yacht. XI THE IRONY OF HEAVEN I As we stepped into the carriage, Sleaford, full of sympathy, jumpedin. This fortunately prevented a conversation that would have beenintolerable both to my mother and to me. 'Studio oppressively close, ' said Sleaford; 'usual beastly smell ofturpentine and pigments and things. Why the dooce don't these fellowsventilate their studios before they get ladies to go to see theirpaintin's!' This he kept repeating, but got no response from eitherof us. As to me, let me honestly confess that I had but one thought: howmuch time would be required to go to Belgrave Square and back to thestudio, to learn the whereabouts of Winifred. 'But she's safe, ' Ikept murmuring, in answer to that rising dread: 'Wilderspin said shewas safe. ' During that drive to Belgrave Square, he whose bearing towards mymother was that of the anxious, loving son was not I, the only livingchild of her womb, but poor, simple, empty-headed Sleaford. When we reached Belgrave Square my mother declared that she hadentirely recovered from the fainting fit, but I scarcely dared tolook into those haggard eyes of hers, which showed only too plainlythat the triumph of remorse in her bosom was now complete. My aunt, who seemed to guess that something lowering to the family had takenplace, was impatient to get on board the yacht. I saw how my mothernow longed to remain and learn the upshot of events; but I told herthat she was far better away now, and that I would write to her andkeep her posted up in the story day by day. I bade them a hurried'Good-bye. ' 'How shall I be able to stay out of England until I know all abouther?' said my mother. 'Go back and learn all about her, Henry, andwrite to me; and be sure to get and take care of that dreadfulpicture, and write to me about that also. ' When the carriage left I walked rapidly along the Square, lookingfor a hansom. In a second or two Sleaford was by my side. He took myarm. 'I suppose you're goin' back to cane him, aren't you?' said he. 'Cane whom?' I said impatiently, for that intolerable thought whichI have hinted at was now growing within my brain, and I must, _must_be alone to grapple with it. 'Cane the d----d painter, of course, ' said Sleaford, opening hisgreat blue eyes in wonder that such a question should be asked. 'Awfully bad form that fellow goin' and puttin' your mother in thepicture. But that's just the way with these fellows. ' 'What do you mean?' I asked again. 'What do I mean? The paintin' and writin' fellows. You can't make asilk purse out of a sow's ear, as I've often and often said to CyrilAylwin; and by Jove, I'm right for once. I suppose I needn't ask youif you're going back to cane him. ' 'Wilderspin did what he did quite unconsciously, ' I replied, as Ihailed a hansom. 'It was the finger of God. ' 'The finger of--Oh come! That be hanged, old chap. ' 'Good-bye, ' I said, as I jumped into the hansom. 'But you don't mean to say you are goin' to let a man put your motherinto--' I heard no more. The terrible idea which had been growing in mybrain, shaping itself out of a nebulous mass of reminiscences of whathad just occurred at the studio, was now stinging me to madness. Wilderspin's extreme dejection, the strange way in which he hadseemed inclined to evade answering my question as to the safety ofWinifred, the look of pity on his face as at last he answered 'quitesafe'--what did all these indications portend? At every second thethought grew and grew, till my brain seemed like a vapour of fire, and my eyeballs seemed to scorch their sockets as I cried aloud:'Have I found her at last to lose her?' On reaching the studio door I rapped: before the servant had time toanswer my summons, I rapped again till the sounds echoed along thestreet. When my summons was answered, I rushed upstairs. Wilderspinstood at the studio door, listening, apparently, to the sound of theblacksmith's anvil coming in from the back of Maud Street through theopen window. Though his sorrowful face told all, I cried out, 'Wilderspin, she's safe? You said she was safe?' 'My friend, ' said Wilderspin solemnly, 'the news I have to give youis news that I knew you would rather receive when you could hear italone. ' 'You said she was safe!' 'Yes, safe indeed! She whom you, under some strange but no doubtbeneficent hallucination, believe to be the lady you lost in Wales, is safe indeed, for she is in the spirit-land with her whose blessinglent her to me--she has returned to her who was once a femaleblacksmith at Oldhill, and is now the brightest, sweetest, purestsaint in Paradise. ' Dead! My soul had been waiting for the word--expecting it ever sinceI left the studio with my mother--but now it sounded more dreadfulthan if it had come as a surprise. 'Tell me all, ' I cried, 'at once--at once. She did not return, yousay, on the day following the catastrophe--when did she return?--whendid you next see her?' 'I never saw her again alive, ' answered Wilderspin mournfully; 'butyou are so pale, Mr. Aylwin, and your eyes are so wild, I had betterdefer telling you what little more there is to tell until you havequite recovered from the shock. ' 'No; now, now. ' Wilderspin looked with a deep sigh at the picture of 'Faith andLove, ' fired by the lights of sunset, where Winnie's face seemedalive. 'Well, ' said he, 'as she did not come, I worked at my painting of"Ruth" all day; and on the next morning, as I was starting forPrimrose Court to seek her, Mrs. Gudgeon came kicking frantically atthe street-door. When it was opened, she came stamping upstairs, andas I advanced to meet her, she shook her fists in my face, shoutingout: "I could tear your eyes out, you vagabones. " "Why, what is thematter?" I asked in great surprise. "You've bin and killed her, that's all, " said the woman, foaming at the mouth. She then told methat her daughter, almost immediately on reaching home after havingleft the studio in the company of my servant, had fallen down in aswoon. A succession of swoons followed. She never rallied. She wasthen lying dead in Primrose Court. ' 'And what then? Answer me quickly. ' 'She asked me to give her money that her daughter might be buriedrespectably and not by the parish. I told her it was allhallucination about the girl being her daughter, and that a spiritualbody could not be buried, but she seemed so genuinely distressed thatI gave her the money. ' 'Spiritual body! Hallucination!' I said. 'I heard her voice in theLondon streets, and she was seen selling baskets at the theatre door. Where shall I find the house?' 'It is of no use for you to go there, ' he said. 'Nothing shall prevent my going at once. ' A feverish yearning hadcome upon me to see the body. 'If you _will_ go, ' said Wilderspin, 'it is No. 2 Primrose Court, Great Queen Street, Holborn. II I hurried out of the house, and soon finding a cab I drove to GreatQueen Street. My soul had passed now into another torture-chamber. It was beingtorn between two warring, maddening forces--the passionate desire tosee her body, and the shrinking dread of undergoing the ordeal. Atone moment I felt--as palpably as I felt it, on the betrothalnight--her slim figure, soft as a twine of flowers in my arms: at thenext I was clasping a corpse--a rigid corpse in rags. And yet I canscarcely say that I had any thoughts. At Great Queen Street Idismissed the cab, and had some little difficulty in finding PrimroseCourt, a miserable narrow alley. I knocked at a door which, even inthat light, I could see was a peculiarly wretched one. After aconsiderable delay the door was opened and a face peered out--theface of the woman whom I had seen in Cyril's studio. She did not atfirst seem to recognise me. She was evidently far gone in liquor, andlooked at me, murmuring, 'You're one o' the cussed body-snatchers; Iknow you: you belong to the Rose Alley "Forty Thieves. " You'llswing--every man Jack o' ye'll swing yet, mind if you don't. ' At the sight of the squalid house in which Winifred had lived anddied I passed into a new world of horror. Dead matter had becomeconscious, and for a second or two it was not the human being beforeme, but the rusty iron, the broken furniture, the great patches ofbrick and dirty mortar where the plaster had fallen from thewalls, --it was these which seemed to have life--a terrible life--andto be talking to me, telling me what I dared not listen to about thetriumph of evil over good. I knew that the woman was still speaking, but for a time I heard no sound--my senses could receive noimpressions save from the sinister eloquence of the dead and yetliving matter around me. Not an object there that did not seemcharged with the wicked message of the heartless Fates. At length, and as I stood upon the doorstep, a trembling, a mightyexpectance, seized me like an ague-fit; and I heard myself saying, 'Iam come to see the body, Mrs. Gudgeon. ' Then I saw her peer, blinking, into my face, as she said, 'Oh, oh, it's _you_, is it? It's one o' the lot as keeps thestuderos, is it?--the cussed Chelsea lot as killed her. I recklet yera-starin' at the goddess Joker! So you've come to see my poordarter's body, are you? How werry kind, to be sure! Pray come in, gentleman, an' pray let the beautiful goddess Joker be perlite an'show sich a nice kind wisiter the way upstairs. ' She took a candle, and with a mincing, mocking movement, curtseyinglow at every step, she backed before me, and then stood waiting atthe foot of the staircase with a drunken look of satire on herfeatures. 'Pray go upstairs fust, gentleman, ' said she; 'I can't think o' goin'up fust, an' lettin' my darter's kind wisiter foller behind like asarvint. I 'opes we knows our manners better nor that comes to inPrimrose Court. ' 'None of this foolery now, woman, ' said I. 'There's a time foreverything, you know. ' 'How right he is!' she exclaimed, nodding to the flickering candlein her hand. 'There's a time for everything an' this is the time formakin' a peep-show of my pore darter's body. Oh, yes!' I mounted a shaky staircase, the steps of which were, some of them, so broken away that the ascent was no easy matter. The miserablelight from the woman's candle, as I entered the room, seemed suddenlyto shoot up in a column of dazzling brilliance that caused me toclose my eyes in pain, so unnaturally sensitive had they beenrendered by the terrible expectance of the sight that was about tosear them. When I re-opened my eyes, I perceived that in the room there was onewindow, which looked like a trap-door; on the red pantiles of theopposite roof lay a smoke-dimmed sheet of moonlight. On the floor atthe further end of the garret, where the roof met the boards at asharp angle, a mattress was spread. Then speech came to me. 'Not there!' I groaned, pointing to the hideous black-looking bed, and turning my head away in terror. The woman burst into a cacklinglaugh. 'Not there? Who said she _was_ there? _I_ didn't. If you can seeanythink there besides a bed an' a quilt, you've got eyes as can makepicturs out o' nothink, same as my darter's eyes could make 'em, poredear. ' 'Ah, what do you mean?' I cried, leaping to the side of the mattress, upon which I now saw that no dead form was lying. For a moment a flash of joy as dazzling as a fork of lightning seemedto strike through my soul and turn my blood into a liquid fire thatrose and blinded my eyes. 'Not dead, ' I cried; 'no, no, no! The pitiful heavens would haverained blood and tears at such a monstrous tragedy. She is notdead--not dead after all! The hideous dream is passing. ' 'Oh, ain't she dead, pore dear?--ain't she? She's dead enough forone, ' said the woman; 'but 'ow can she be there on that mattress, when she's buried, an' the prayers read over her, like the darter ofthe most 'spectable mother as ever lived in Primrose Court! That'swhat the neighbours say o' me. The most 'spectable mother asever--' 'Buried!' I said, 'who buried her?' 'Who buried her? Why the parish, in course. ' Despair then again seemed to send a torrent of ice-water through myveins. But after a time the passionate desire to see her body leaptup within my heart. At this moment Wilderspin, who had evidently followed me withremarkable expedition, came upstairs and stood by my side. 'I must go and see the grave, ' I said to him. 'I must see her faceonce more. I must petition the Home Secretary. Nothing can andnothing shall prevent my seeing her--no, not if I have to dig down toher with my nails. ' 'An' who the dickens are you as takes on so about my darter?' saidthe woman, holding the candle to my face. 'Drunken brute!' said I. 'Where is she buried?' 'Well, I'm sure!' said the woman in a mincing, sarcastic voice. 'Howwerry unperlite you is all at wonst! how werry rude you speaks tosuch a werry 'spectable party as I am! You seem to forgit who I am. Ain't I the goddess as likes to 'ave 'er little joke, an' likes towet both eyes, and as plays sich larks with her flummeringeroes anddrumming-dairies an' ring-tailed monkeys an' men?' When I saw the creature whip up the quilt from the mattress, and, holding it over her head like a veil, leer hideously in imitation ofCyril's caricature, a shudder went again through my frame--a strangekind of dementia came upon me; my soul again seemed to leave mybody--seemed to be lifted through the air and beyond the stars, crying, in agony, 'Shall there be evil in a city, and the Lord hathnot done it?' Yet all the while, though my soul seemed fleeingthrough infinite space, where a pitiless universe was waltzing madlyround a ball of cruel fire--all the while I was acutely conscious oflooking down upon the dreadful dream-world below, looking down into afrightful garret where a dialogue between two dream-figures was goingon--a dialogue between Wilderspin and the woman, each word of whichstruck upon my ears like a sharp-edged flint, though it seemedmillions of miles away. * * * * * 'What made you trick me like this? Where is the money I gave you forthe funeral?' 'That's werry true, about that money, an' where is it? The orkerdestquestion about money allus is--"Where is it?" The money for thatfuneral I 'ad, I won't deny that. The orkard question ain't that:it's "Where is it?" But you see, arter I left your studero I sets onthat pore gal's bed a-cryin' fit to bust; then I goes out intoClement's Alley, and I calls on Mrs. Mix--that's a werry dear friendof mine, the mother o' seven child'n as are allus a-settin' on mydoorstep, an' she comes out of Yorkshire you must know, an' she's bina streaker in her day (for she was well off wonst was Mrs. Mix aforeshe 'ad them seven dirty-nosed child'n as sets on her neighbours'doorsteps)--an' she sez, sez she, "My pore Meg" (meanin' me), "I'vebin the mother o' fourteen beautiful clean-nosed child'n, an' I'vestreaked an' buried seven on 'em, so I ought to know somethink aboutcorpuses, an' I tell you this corpse o' your darter's must bestreaked an' buried at wonst, for she died in a swownd. An' there'snothink like the parishes for buryin' folk quick, an' I dessay thecoffin's ordered by this time, an' I dessay the gent gev you thatmoney just to make you comforble like, seein' as he killed yourdarter. " That's what Mrs. Mix says to me. So the parish comed an'brought a coffin an' tookt her, pore dear. And I've cried myselfstupid-like, bein' her pore mother as 'es lost her on'y darter--an'I was just a-tryin' to make myself comfable when this 'ere young toffas seems so werry drunk comes a-rappin' at my door fit to rap the'ouse down. ' 'Has she been buried at all? How can a spiritual body be buried?' '"Buried at all?" What do you mean by insinivatin' to the pore gal'sconflicted mother as she p'raps ain't buried at all? You're a-makin'me cry ag'in. She lays comfable enough underneath a lot of othercoffins, in the pauper part of the New North Cimingtary. ' 'Underneath a lot of others; how can that be?' 'What! ain't you toffs never seed a pauper finneral? Now that's apity; and sich nice toffs as they are, a-settin' theirselves up tolook arter the darters o' pore folks. P'raps you never thought how wewas buried. We're buried, when our time comes, and then they're werrykind to us, the parish toffs is:--It's in a lump--six at a time--asthey buries us, and sich nice deal coffins they makes us, the parishtoffs does, an' sich nice lamp-black they paints 'em with to make 'emlook as if they was covered over with the best black velvid; an' thensich a nice sarmint--none o' your retail sarmints, but a hulsalesarmint--they reads over the lot, an' into one hole they packs us oneatop o' the other, jest like a pile o' the werry best Yarmithbloaters, an' that's a good deal more sociable an' comfable, theparish toffs thinks, than puttin' us in single; so it is, for thematter o' that. ' Then I heard no more; for at the intolerable picture called up by thewoman's words, my soul in its misery seemed to have soared, scaredand trembling, above and beyond the heavens at whose futile gates ithad been moaning, till at last it sank at the feet of the mightypower that my love had striven with on the sands of Raxton when thetide was coming in--some pale and cruel ruler whose brow I sawwrinkled with the woman's mocking smile--some frightfulcolumbine-queen, wicked, bowelless, and blind, shaking a starry capand bells, and chanting-- I lent the drink of Day To gods for feast; I poured the river of Night On gods surceased: Their blood was Nin-ki-gal's. And there, at the feet of the awful jesting hag, Circumstance, Icould only cry 'Winnie! my poor Winnie!' while over my head seemed topass Necessity and her black ages of despair. When I came to myself I said to the woman, 'You can point out the grave?' 'Well, yes, ' paid slip, turning round sharply; 'but may I ax who thedickens you are?--an' what makes you so cut up about a pore woman'sdarter? It's right-on beautiful to see how kind gentlemen isnowadays': and she turned and tried, stumbling, to lead the waydownstairs. As we left the room I turned round to look at it. The picture of themattress, now nearly hidden in the shadows--the picture of the otherfurniture in the room--two chairs--or rather one and a part of achair, for the rails of the hack were gone--a table, a large brownjug, the handle of which had been replaced by a piece of string, anda white washhand-basin, with most of the rim broken away, and ashallow tub apparently used for a bath--seemed to sink into my fleshas though bitten in by the etcher's aquafortis. Winifred'ssleeping-room! 'Of course she wasn't her daughter, ' said Wilderspin meditatively, aswe stood on the stairs. 'Not my darter! Why, in course she was. What an imperent thing tosay, sure_lie_!' 'There is one thing I wish to say to you, ' said he to the woman. 'When I agreed with you as to the sum to be paid for the model'ssittings, it was clearly understood that she was to sit to no otherartist, and that the match-selling was to cease. 'Well, and 'ave I broke my word?' 'A person has heard her singing and seen her selling baskets, ' Isaid. 'The person tells a lie, ' said the woman, with a dogged and sullenlook, and in a voice that grew thicker with every word. 'Ain't theresich things as doubles?' At these last words my heart gave a sudden leap. We left the house, and neither of us spoke till we got into the Strand. 'Did you see the--body at all?' I asked Wilderspin. 'Oh, yes. After I gave her the money for the funeral I went toPrimrose Court. The woman took me upstairs, and there on the mattresslay--what the poor woman believed to be the earthly body of anearthly daughter. It was covered with a quilt. Over the face a raggedshawl had been thrown. ' 'Yes, yes. She raised the shawl?' 'Yes, the woman went and held the candle over the head of themattress and uncovered the face; and there lay she whom the womanbelieved to be her daughter, and whom you believe to be the younglady you seek, but whom I _know_ to be a spiritual body--the perfecttype that was sent to me in order that I might fulfil my mission. Yougroan, Mr. Aylwin, but remember that you have lost only a dream, abeautiful hallucination; I have lost a reality: there is nothing realbut the spiritual world. III As I wandered about the streets after parting from Wilderspin, whatwere my emotions? If I could put them into words, is there one humanbeing in ten thousand who would understand me? Happily, no. For thereis not one in ten thousand who, having sounded the darkest depths ofhuman misery, will know how strong is Hope when at the truedeath-struggle with Despair. 'Hope in the human breast, ' wrote myfather, 'is a passion, a wild, a lawless, and an indomitable passion, that almost no cruelty of Fate can conquer. ' Many a passer-by in the streets of London that night must have askedhimself, What lunatic is this at large? At one moment I would boundalong the pavement as though propelled by wings, scarcely seeming totouch the pavement with my feet. At the next I would stop in a coldperspiration and say to myself, 'Idiot, is it possible that you, solearned in suffering--you, whom Destiny, or Heaven, or Hell, hastaken in hand as a special sport--can befool yourself with Hope now, after the terrible comedy by which you and the ancestral idiots fromwhom you sprang amused Queen Nin-ki-gal in Raxton crypt?' Hope and Despair were playing at shuttlecock with my soul. Underneathmy misery there flickered a thought which, wild as it was, I darednot dismiss--the thought that, after all, it _might_ not be Winifredwho had died in that den. Possible it was--however improbable--that I_might_ be labouring under a delusion. My imagination _might_ haveexaggerated a resemblance into actual identity, and Winifred and shewhom Wilderspin painted might be two different persons--and theremight be hope even yet. But so momentous was the issue to my soul, that the mere fact of having clearly marshalled the arguments on theside of Hope made my reason critical and suspicious of their cogency. From the sweet sophisms that my reason had called up, I turned, andthere stood Despair, ready for me behind a phalanx of arguments, which laughed all Hope's 'ragged regiment' to scorn. Had not my mother recognised her? Could the infallible perceptivefaculties of my mother be also deceived? But to accept the fact that she who died on that mattress was littleWinnie of the sands was to go stark mad, and the very instinct ofself-preservation made me clutch at every sophism Hope could offer. 'Did not the woman declare that the singing-girl and the model were_not_ one and the same?' said Hope. 'And if she did not lie, may younot have been, after all, hunting a shadow through London?' 'It might not have been Winifred, ' I shouted. But no sooner had I done so than the scene in thestudio--Wilderspin's story of the model's terror on seeing mymother's portrait--came upon me, and 'Dead! dead!' rang through melike a funeral knell: all the superstructure of Hope's sophisms wasshattered in a moment like a house of cards: my imagination flewaway to all the London graveyards I had ever heard of; and there, inthe part divided by the pauper line, my soul hovered over a gravenewly made, and then dived down from coffin to coffin, one piledabove another, till it reached Winifred, lying pressed down by thesuperincumbent mass; those eyes staring. Yes; that night I was mad! I could not walk fatigue into my restless limbs. Morning broke incurdling billows of fire over the east of London--which even at thisearly hour was slowly growing hazy with smoke. I found myself inPrimrose Court, looking at that squalid door, those squalid windows. I knocked at the door. No answer came to my summons, and I knockedagain and again. Then a window opened above my head, and I heard thewell-known voice of the woman exclaiming, 'Who's that? Poll Onion's out to-night, and the rooms are emp'y 'ceptmine. Why, God bless me, man, is it you?' 'Hag! that was not your daughter. ' She slammed the window down. 'Let me in, or I will break the door. ' The window was opened again. 'Lucky as I didn't leave the front door open to-night, as I mostlydo. What do you want to skear a pore woman for?' she bawled. 'Goaway, else I'll call up the people in Great Queen Street. ' 'Mrs. Gudgeon, all I want to do is to ask you a question. ' 'Ah, but that's what you jis' _won't_ do, my fine gentleman. I don'tlet you in again in a hurry. ' 'I will give you a sovereign. ' 'Honour bright?' bawled the old woman; 'let me look at it. ' 'Here it is, in my hand. ' 'Jink it on the stuns. ' I threw it down. 'Quid seems to jink all right, anyhow, ' she said, 'though I'm moreused to the jink of a tanner than a quid in these cussed times. Youwon't skear me if I come down?' 'No, no. ' At last I heard her fumbling inside at the lock, and then the dooropened. 'Why, man alive! your eyes are afire jist like a cat's wi' drowndedkitlins. ' 'She was not your daughter. ' 'Not my darter?' said she, as she stooped to pick up the sovereign. 'You ain't a-goin' to catch me the likes o' that. The Beauty not mydarter! All the court knows she was my own on'y darter. I'll swearafore all the beaks in London as I'm the mother of my own on'y darterWinifred, allus' wur 'er mother, and allus wull be; an' if she wenta-beggin' it worn't my fort. She liked beggin', poor dear; some galsdoes. ' 'Her name Winifred!' I cried, with a pang at my heart as sharp asthough there had been a reasonable hope till now. 'In course her name was Winifred. ' 'Liar! How came she to be called Winifred?' 'Well, I'm sure! Mayn't a Welshman's wife give her own on'y Welshdarter a Welsh name? Us poor folks is come to somethink! P'rapsyou'll say I ain't a Welshman's wife next? It's your own cussed lotas killed her, ain't it? What did I tell the shiny Quaker when fust Itookt her to the studero? I sez to the shiny un, "She's jist a bittouched here, " I sez' (tapping her own head), '"and nothink upsetsher so much as to be arsted a lot o' questions, " I sez to the shinyun. "The less you talks to her, " I sez, "the better you'll get onwith her, " I sez, "and the better kind o' pictur you'll make out onher, " I sez to the shiny un; "an' don't you go an' arst who herfather is, " I sez, "for that word 'ull bring such a horful look onher face, " I sez, "as is enough to skear anybody to death. I sha'n'tforget the look the fust time I seed it, " I sez. That's what I sez tothe shiny Quaker. An' yit you did go an' worrit 'er, a-arstin' 'er alot o' questions about 'er father. You _did_--I know you did! You_must_ 'a done it--so no lies; for that wur the on'y thing as everskeared 'er, arstin' 'er about 'er father, pore dear.... Why, manalive! what _are_ you a-gurnin' at? an' what are you a-smackin' yourforred wi' your 'and like that for, an' a-gurnin' in my face like aChessy cat? Blow'd if I don't b'lieve you're drunk. An' who thedickens are you a-callin' a fool, Mr. Imperance?' It was not the woman but myself I was cursing when I cried out, 'Fool! besotted fool!' Not till now had the wild hope fled which had led me back to the den. As I stood shuddering on the doorstep in the cold morning light, while the whole unbearable truth broke in upon me, I could hear mylips murmuring, 'Fool of ancestral superstitions! Fenella Stanley's fool! PhilipAylwin's fool! Where was the besotted fool and plaything of besottedancestors, when the truth was burning so close beneath his eyes thatit is wonderful they were not scorched into recognising it? Where washe when, but for superstitions grosser than those of the negroes onthe Niger banks, he might have saved the living heart and centre ofhis little world? Where was the rationalist when, but forsuperstitions sucked in with his mother's milk, he would have gone toa certain studio, seen a certain picture which would have sent him onthe wings of the wind to find and rescue and watch over the one forwhom he had renounced all the ties of kindred? Where was then themost worthy descendant of a line of ancestral idiots--Romany andGorgio--stretching back to the days when man's compeers, the mammothand the cave-bear, could have taught him better? Rushing down toRaxton church to save her!--to save her by laying a poor littletrinket upon a dead man's breast!' After the paroxysm of self-scorn had partly exhausted itself, Istood staring in the woman's face. 'Well, ' said she, 'I thought the shiny Quaker was a rum un, but blowme if you ain't a rummyer. 'Her name was Winifred, and the word "father" produced fits, ' I said, not to the woman, but to my soul, in mocking answer to its own woe. 'What about my father's spiritualism now? Good God! Is there no otherancestral tomfoolery, no other of Superstition's patent Aylwiniansoul-salves for the philosophical Nature-worshipper and apostle ofrationalism to fly to? Her name was Winifred. 'Yis; don't I say 'er name wur Winifred?' said the woman, who thoughtI was addressing her. 'You're jist like a poll-parrit with your"Winifred, Winifred, Winifred. " That was 'er name, an' she 'ad ashock, pore dear, an' it was all along of you at the studeroa-talkin' about 'er father. You _must_ a-talked about 'er father: sono lies. She 'ad fits arter that, in course she 'ad. Why, you'll makeme die a-larfin' with your poll-parritin' ways, sayin' "a shock, ashock, a shock, " arter me. In course she 'ad a shock; she 'ad it whenshe was a little gal o' six. My pore Bill (that's my 'usband as nowlives in the fine 'Straley) was a'most killed a-fightin' a Irishman. They brought 'im 'um an' laid 'im afore her werry eyes, an' the sightthrow'd 'er into high-strikes, an' arter that the name of "father"allus throwed her into high-strikes, an' that's why I told 'em at thestudero never to say that word. An' I know you _must_ 'a' said it, some o' your cussed lot must, or else why should my pore darter 'a''ad the high-strikes? Nothin' else never gev 'er no high-strikes onlytalkin' to 'er about 'er father. An' as to me a-sendin' 'era-beggin', I tell you she liked beggin'. I gev her baskets to sell, an' flowers to sell, an' yet she _would_ beg. I tell you she likedbeggin'. Some gals does. She was touched in the 'ead, an' she used tosay she _must_ beg, an' there was nothink she used to like so much asto stan' with a box o' matches a-jabberin' a tex' out o' the Bibleunless it was singin'. There you are, a-larfin' and a-gurnin' ag'in. If I wur on'y 'arf as drunk as you are the coppers 'ud 'a' run _me_in hours ago; cuss 'em, an' their favouritin' ways. ' At the truth flashing in upon me through these fantastic lies, I hadpassed into that mood when the grotesque wickedness of Fate's awardscan draw from the victim no loud lamentations--when there are nofrantic blows aimed at the sufferer's own poor eyeballs till thebeard--like the self-mutilated Theban king's--is bedewed with a darkhail-shower of blood. More terrible because more inhuman than theagony imagined by the great tragic poet is that most awful conditionof the soul into which I had passed--when the cruelty that seems towork at Nature's heart, and to vitalise a dark universe of pain, loses its mysterious aspect and becomes a mockery; when the wholevast and merciless scheme seems too monstrous to be confronted saveby mad peals of derisive laughter--that dreadful laughter whichbubbles lower than the fount of tears--that laughter which is theheart's last language; when no words can give it the relief ofutterance--no words, nor wails, nor moans. 'Another quid, ' bawled the woman after me, as I turned away, 'anotherquid, an' then I'll tell you somethink to your awantage. Out with it, and don't spile a good mind. ' What I did and said that morning as I wandered through the streets ofLondon in that state of tearless despair and mad unnatural merriment, one hour of which will age a man more than a decade of any woe thatcan find a voice in lamentations, remains a blank in my memory. I found myself at the corner of Essex Street, staring across theStrand, which, even yet, had scarcely awoke into life. Presently Ifelt my sleeve pulled, and heard the woman's voice. 'You didn't know as I was cluss behind you all the while, a-watchin'your tantrums. Never spile a good mind, my young swell. Out witht'other quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink about my pootty darteras is on my mind. ' I gave her money, but got nothing from her save more incoherent liesand self-contradictions about the time of the funeral. 'Point out the spot where she used to stand and beg. No, don't standon it yourself, but point it out. ' 'This is the werry spot. She used to hold out her matches like this'ere, --my darter used, --an' say texes out o' the Bible. She lovedbeggin', pore dear!' 'Texts from the Bible?' I said, staggering under a new thought thatseemed to strike through me like a bar of hot metal. 'Can youremember any one of them?' 'It was allus the same tex', an' I ought to remember it well enough, for I've 'eerd it times enough. She wur like you for poll-parritin'ways, and used to say the same thing over an' over ag'in. It wurallus, "Let his children be wagabones and beg their bread; let themseek it also out of desolate places. " Why, you're at itag'in--gurnin' ag'in. You _must_ be drunk. ' Again there came upon me the involuntary laughter of heart-agony atits tensest. I cried aloud: 'Faith and Love! Faith and Love! Thatfarce of the Raxton crypt with the great-grandmother's fool on hisknees shall be repeated for the delight of Nin-ki-gal and the Danishskeletons and the ancestral ghosts from Hugh the Crusader down to thehero of the knee-caps and mittens; and there shall be a dance ofdeath and a song, and the burden shall be-- As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods: They kill us for their sport. ' Misery had made me a maniac at last; my brain swam, and the head ofthe woman seemed to be growing before me--seemed once more to betransfigured before me into a monstrous mountainous representation ofan awful mockery-goddess and columbine-queen, down whose merrywrinkles were flowing tears that were at once tears of Olympianlaughter and tears of the oceanic misery of Man. 'Well, you _are_ a rum un, and no mistake, ' said the woman. 'But whothe dickens _are_ you? _That's_ what licks me. Who the dickens _are_you? Howsomever, if you'll fork out another quid, the Queen of theJokes'll tell you some'ink to your awantage, an' if you won't forkout the Queen o' the Jokes is mum. ' I stood and looked at her--looked till the street seemed to heaveunder my feet and the houses to rock. After this I seem to havewandered back to Wilderspin's studio, and there to have sunk downunconscious. XII THE REVOLVING CAGE OF CIRCUMSTANCE I I will not trouble the reader with details of the illness that cameupon me as the result of my mental agony and physical exhaustion. Atintervals I was aware of what was going on around me, but for themost part I was in a semi-comatose state. I realised at intervalsthat a medical man was sitting by my side, as I lay in bed. Then Ihad a sense of being moved from place to place; and then of beingrocked by the waves. Slowly the periods of consciousness became morefrequent and also more prolonged. My first exclamation was--'Dead! Have I been ill?' and I tried toraise myself in vain. 'Yes, very ill, ' said a voice, my mother's. 'Dangerously?' 'For several days you were in danger. Your recovery now entirelydepends upon your keeping yourself calm. ' 'I am out at sea?' 'Yes, ' said my mother; 'in Lord Sleaford's yacht. ' 'How did I come here?' 'Well, Henry, I was so anxious to wait for a day or two to learn thesequel of the dreadful tragedy, that I persuaded Lord Sleaford todelay sailing. Next day he called at Belgrave Square, and told us hehad heard that you had been taken suddenly ill and were lyingunconscious at the studio. I went at once and saw the medical man, Mr. Finch, whom Mr. Wilderspin had called in. This gentleman took aserious view of your case. When I asked him what could be done hesaid that nothing would benefit you so much as removal from London, and recommended a sea voyage. It occurred to me at once to ask LordSleaford if we might take you in his yacht, and he with his usualgood-nature agreed, and agreed also that Mr. Finch should accompanyus as your medical attendant. ' 'You know all?' I said; 'you know that she is dead. ' 'Alas! yes. ' At that moment the doctor came into the cabin, and my mother retired. 'When did you last see Wilderspin?' I asked Mr. Finch. 'Before leaving England to join a friend in Paris he went to BelgraveSquare to get tidings of you, and I was there. ' 'He told you--what had occurred to make me ill?' 'He told me that it was the death of some one in whom you took aninterest, a model of his, but told it in such a wild and excited waythat I lost patience with him. His addled brains are crammed with thewildest and most ignorant superstitions. ' 'Did you ask him about her burial?' 'I did. I gathered from him that she was buried by the parish in theusual way. But I assure you the man's account of everything thatoccurred was so bewildered and so incoherent that I could really makenothing out of him. What is his creed? Is it Swedenborgianism? Heseems to think that the model he has lost is a spirit (or spiritualbody, to use his own jargon) sent to him by the artistic-mindedspirits for entirely artistic purposes, but snatched from him now bythe mean jealousy of the same spirit-world. ' 'But what did he sayabout her burial?' 'Well, he seems not to have ignored so completelythe mundane question of burying this spiritual body as his creedwould have warranted, for he gave the mother money to bury it. Themother, however, seems to have spent the money in gin and to haveleft the duty of burying the spiritual body to the parish, who makeshort work of all bodies; and, of course, by the parish she wasburied, you may rest assured of that, though the artist seems tothink that she was simply translated to heaven like Elijah. ' 'I must return to England at once, ' I said. 'I shall apply to theHome Secretary to have the body disinterred. ' 'Why, sir?' 'In order that she may be buried in a proper place, to be sure. ' 'No use. You have no _locus standi_. ' 'What do you mean?' 'You are not a relative, and to ask for a disinterment for such anunimportant reason as that you, a stranger, would prefer to see herburied elsewhere, would be idle. ' Sleaford now came into the cabin. I thanked him for his kindness, buttold him I must return at once. 'Even if your health permitted, ' he said, 'it is impossible for theyacht to go back. I have an appointment to meet a yachting friend. But in any case depend upon it, old fellow, the doctor won't hear ofyour returning for a long while yet. He told me not five minutes agothat nothing but sea air, and keeping your mind tranquil, you know, will restore you. ' The feeling of exhaustion that came upon me as he spoke convinced methat there was only too much truth in his words. I felt that I mustyield to the inevitable; but as to tranquillity of mind, my entirebeing was now filled with a yearning to see the New NorthCemetery--to see her grave. I seemed to long for the very pang whichI knew the sight of the grave would give me. It is of course impossible for me to linger over that cruise, or torecord any of the incidents that took place at the ports at which wetouched and landed. My recovery, or rather my partial recovery, wasslower than the doctor had anticipated. Weeks and months passed, andstill there seemed but little improvement in me. The result was that I was obliged to yield to the importunities of mymother, and to the urgent advice of Dr. Finch, to remain on boardSleaford's yacht during the entire cruise, and afterwards to go withthem to Italy. Absence from England gave me not the smallest respite from the griefthat was destroying me. My parting with my mother was a very pathetic one. She was greatlychanged, and I knew why. The furrows Time sets on the face can neverbe mistaken for those which are caused by the passions. The strugglebetween pride and remorse had been going on apace; her sufferings hadbeen as great as my own. It was in Rome we parted. We were sitting in the cool, perfumedatmosphere of St. Peter's, and for the moment a soothing wave seemedto pass over my soul. For some little time there had been silencebetween us. At length I said, 'Mother, it seems strange indeed for meto have to say to you that you blame yourself too much for the partyou took in the tragedy of Winnie. When you sent her into Wales youdidn't know that her aunt was dead; you did it, as you thought, forher good as well as for mine. ' She rose as if to embrace me, and then sank down again. 'But you don't know all, Henry; you don't know all. I knew her auntwas dead, though Shales did not, or he would never have taken her. All that concerned me was to get her away before your own recovery. Ithought there might be relatives of hers or friends whom Shales mightfind. But I was possessed by a frenzied desire to get her away. Foryears my eyes had been fixed on the earldom. I had been told by youraunt that Cyril was consumptive, and also that he was very unlikelyto marry. ' I could not suppress a little laugh. 'Ha, ha! Cyril consumptive! Noman's stronger and sounder, I am glad to tell you; but if byill-chance he should die and the title should come to me, then, mother, I'll wear the coronet, and it shall be made of the bestgingerbread gilt and ornamented thus. I'll give public lectures onthe British aristocracy and its origin, and its present relations tothe community, and my audience shall consist of society--that societywhich is so much to aunt and the likes of her. Society shall be myaudience, and then, after my course of lectures is over, I will jointhe Gypsies. But pray pardon me, mother. I had no idea I should thuslose my temper. I should not have lost it so entirely had I notwitnessed how you are suffering from the tyranny of this blatantbugbear called "Society. "' 'My suffering, Henry, has brought me nearer to your line of thoughtthan you may suppose. It has taught me that when the affections aredeeply touched everything which before had seemed so momentous standsout in a new light, that light in which the insignificance of theimportant stands revealed. In that terrible conflict between you andme on the night following the landslip, you spoke of my "cruelpride. " Oh, Henry, if you only knew how that cruel pride had beenwiped out of existence by remorse, I believe that even you wouldforgive me. I believe that even she would if she were here. ' 'I told you that I had entirely forgiven you, mother, and that I wassure Winnie would forgive you if she were alive. ' 'You did, Henry, but it did not satisfy me; I felt that you did notknow all. ' 'I fear you have been very unhappy, ' I said. 'I have been constantly thinking of Winifred a beggar in the streetsas described by Wilderspin. Oh, Henry, I used to think of her in thecharge of that woman. And Miss Dalrymple, who educated her, tells methat in culture she was far above the girls of her own class; andthis makes the degradation into which she was forced through me themore dreadful for me to think of. I used to think of her dying in thesqualid den, and then the Italian sunshine has seemed darker than aLondon fog. Even the comfort that your kind words gave me wasincomplete, for you did not know the worst features of my cruelty. ' 'But have you had no respite, mother? Surely the intensity of thispain did not last, or it would have killed you. ' 'The crisis did pass, for, as you say, had it lasted in its mostintense form, it would have killed me or sent me mad. After a while, though remorse was always with me, I seemed to become in some degreenumbed against its sting. I could bear at last to live, but that wasall. Yet there was always one hour out of the twenty-four when I wasovermastered by pathetic memories, such as nearly killed me withpity--one hour when, in a sudden and irresistible storm, grief wouldstill come upon me with almost its old power. This was on awaking inthe early morning. I learnt then that if there is trouble at thefounts of life, there is nothing which stirs that trouble like thetwitter of the birds at dawn. At Florence, I would, after spendingthe day in wandering with you through picture galleries or aboutthose lovely spots near Fiesole, go to bed at night tolerably calm;I would sink into a sleep, haunted no longer by those dreams of thetragedy in which my part had been so cruel, and yet the very act ofwaking in the morning would bring upon me a whirlwind of anguish; andthen would come the struggling light at the window, and the twitterof the birds that seemed to say, "Poor child, poor child!" and Iwould bury my face in my pillow and moan. ' When I looked in her face, I realised for the first time that noteven such a passion of pity as that which had aged me is so cruel inits ravages as Remorse. To gaze at her was so painful that I turnedmy eyes away. When I could speak I said, 'I have forgiven you from the bottom of my heart, mother, but, ifthat does not give you comfort, is there anything that will?' 'Nothing, Henry, nothing but what is impossible for me ever toget--the forgiveness of the wronged child herself. _That_ I can neverget in this world. I dare only hope that by prayers and tears I mayget it in the end. Oh, Henry, if I were in heaven I could never restuntil I had sought her out, and found her and thrown myself on herneck and said, "Forgive your persecutor, my dear, or this is no placefor me. "' II As soon as I reached London, thinking that Wilderspin was still onthe Continent, I went first to D'Arcy's studio, but was there toldthat D'Arcy was away--that he had been in the country for a longtime, busy painting, and would not return for some months. I thenwent to Wilderspin's studio, and found, to my surprise and relief, that he and Cyril had returned from Paris. I learnt from the servantthat Wilderspin had just gone to call on Cyril; accordingly toCyril's studio I went. 'He is engaged with the Gypsy-model, sir, ' said Cyril's man, pointingto the studio door, which was ajar. 'He told me that if ever youshould call you were to be admitted at once. Mr. Wilderspin is theretoo. ' 'You need not announce me, ' I said, as I pushed open the door. Entering the studio, I found myself behind a tall easel where Cyrilwas at work. I was concealed from him, and also from Wilderspin andSinfi. On my left stood Cyril's caricature of Wilderspin's 'Faith andLove, ' upon which the light from a window was falling aslant! Before I could pass round the easel into the open space I wasarrested by overhearing a conversation between Cyril, Sinfi, andWilderspin. They were talking about _her_! With my eyes fixed on Cyril's caricature on my left hand; I stood, every nerve in my body seeming to listen to the talk, while the veilof the goddess-queen in the caricature appeared to becomeilluminated; the tragedy of our love (from the spectacle of herfather's dead body shining in the moonlight, with a cross on hisbreast, down to the hideous-grotesque scene of the woman at thecorner of Essex Street) appeared to be represented on the veil of themocking queen in little pictures of scorching flame. These are thewords I heard: 'Keep your head in that position, Lady Sinfi, ' said Cyril, 'and praydo not get so excited. ' 'I thought I felt the Swimmin' Rei in the room, ' said Sinfi. 'What do you mean?' 'I thought I felt the stir of him in my burk [bosom]. Howsomever, itmust ha' bin all a fancy o' mine. But you see, Mr. Cyril, she wuronce a friend o' mine. I want to know what skeared her? If it _was_her as set for the pictur, she'd never 'a' had the fit if she hadn't, 'a' bin skeared. I s'pose Mr. Wilderspin didn't go an' say the word"feyther" to her? I s'pose he didn't go an' ax her who her feytherwas?' I heard Wilderspin's voice say. 'No, indeed. _I_ would never haveasked who her father was. Ah, Mr. Cyril, I knew how mysteriously shehad come to me; why should I ask who was her father? Her earthlyparentage was not an illusion. But you will remember that I was notin the studio at the time of the fit. Mr. Ebury had called about acommission, and I had gone into the next room to speak to him. Youcame into the studio at the time, Mr. Cyril. When I returned, I foundher in the fit, and you standing over her. ' 'No, don't get up, Sinfi, my girl, ' I heard Cyril say. 'Sit downquietly, and I will tell you what, passed. There is no doubt I didask her about her father, poor thing; but I did it with the bestintentions--did it for her good, as I thought--did it to learnwhether she had been kidnapped, and certainly not from idlecuriosity. ' 'Scepticism, the curse of the age, ' said Wilderspin. I heard Cyril say, 'Who could have thought it would turn out so? Butyou yourself had told me, Wilderspin, of Mother Gudgeon's injunctionnot to ask the girl who her father was, and of course it had upon methe opposite effect the funny hag had intended it to have upon you. It was hard to believe that such a flower could have sprung from sucha root. I thought it very likely that the woman had told you this toprevent your getting at the truth about their connection; so Idecided to question the model myself, but determined to wait till youhad had a good number of sittings, lest there should come a quarrelwith the woman. ' 'Well, an' so you asked her?' said Sinfi. 'I thought the moment had come for me to try to read the puzzle, 'said Cyril. 'So, on that day when Ebury called, when you, Wilderspin, had left us together, I walked up to her and said, "Is your fatheralive?"' 'Ah!' cried Sinfi, 'it was as I thought. It was the word "feyther" askilled her! An' what'll become o' _him_?' 'The word "father" seemed to shoot into her like a bullet, ' saidCyril. 'She shrieked "Father, " and her face looked--' 'No, don't, tell me how she looked!' said Sinfi. 'Mr. Wilderspin'spictur' o' the witch and the lady shows how she looked--whoever shewas. But if it was Winnie Wynne. What'll become o' _him_?' Then I heard. Cyril address Wilderspin again. 'We had greatdifficulty, you remember, Wilderspin, in bringing her round, andafterwards I took her out of the house, put her into a cab, and youdirected your servant whither to take her. ' 'It was scepticism that ruined all. ' I heard Wilderspin say. 'And yet, ' said Sinfi, 'the Golden Hand on Snowdon told as he'd marryWinifred Wynne. Ah! surely the Swimmin' Rei is in the room! I thoughtI heard that choke come in his throat as comes when he frets aboutWinnie. Howsomever, I s'pose it must ha' bin all a fancy o' mine. ' 'You make _me_ laugh, Sinfi, about this golden hand of yours that isstronger than the hand of Death, ' said Cyril; 'and yet I wish from myheart I could believe it. ' 'My poor mammy used to say, "The Gorgios believes when they ought todisbelieve, and they disbelieve when they ought to believe, and thatgives the Romanies a chance. "' 'Sinfi Lovell, ' said Wilderspin, 'that saying of your mother'stouches at the very root of romantic art. ' 'Well, if Gorgios don't believe enough, Sinfi, --if there is notenough superstition among certain Gorgio acquaintances of mine, it'sa pity, ' said Cyril. 'I don't know what you are a-talkin' about with your romantic art an'sich like, but I _do_ know that nothink can't go ag'in thedukkeripen o' the clouds; but if I was on Snowdon with my crwth Icould soon tell for sartin whether she's alive or dead, ' said Sinfi. 'And how?' said Cyril. 'How? By playin' on the hills the old Welsh dukkerin' tune [Footnote1] as she was so fond on. If she was dead, she wouldn't hear it, butif she was alive she would, and her livin' mullo [Footnote 2] 'udcome to it, ' said Sinfi. [Footnote 1: Incantation song. ] [Footnote 2: Wraith or fetch. ] 'Do you believe that possible?' said Cyril, turning to Wilderspin. 'My friend, ' said Wilderspin, 'I was at that moment repeating tomyself certain wise and pregnant words quoted from an Oriental bookby the great Philip Aylwin--words which tell us that he is too boldwho dares say what he will believe, what disbelieve, not knowing inany wise the mind of God--not knowing in any wise his own heart andwhat it shall one day suffer. ' 'But, ' said Sinfi, 'about her as sat to Mr. Wilderspin; did she nevertalk at all, Mr. Cyril?' 'Never; but I saw her only three times, ' said Cyril. 'Mr. Wilderspin, ' said Sinfi, 'did she never talk?' 'Only once, and that was when the woman addressed her as Winifred. That name set me thinking about the famous Welsh saint and thosewonderful miracles of hers, and I muttered "St. Winifred. " The faceof the model immediately grew bright with a new light, and she spokethe only words I ever heard her speak. ' 'You never told me of this, ' said Cyril. 'She stooped, ' said Wilderspin, 'and went through a strange kind ofmovement, as though she were dipping water from a well, and said, "Please, good St. Winifred, bless the holy water and make itcure--"' 'Ah, for God's sake stop!' cried Sinfi. 'Look! the Swimmin' Rei! He'sin the room! There he stan's, and he's a-hearin' every word, an'it'll kill him outright!' I stared at Cyril's picture of Leæna for which Sinfi was sitting. Iheard her say, 'There ain't nothink so cruel as seein' him take on like that; I'veseed it afore, many's the time, in old Wales. You'll find her yit. The dukkeripen says you'll marry her yit, and you will. She can't bedead when the sun and the golden clouds say you'll marry her at last. Her as is dead _must_ ha' been somebody else. ' 'Sinfi, you know there is no hope. ' 'It might not ha' bin your Winnie, arter all, ' said she. 'It mightha' bin some poor innocent as her feyther used to beat. It'swonderful how cruel Gorgio feythers is to poor born naterals. And shemight ha' heerd in London about St. Winifred's Well a-curin' people. ' 'Sinfi, ' I said, 'you know there is no hope. And I have no friend butyou now--I am going back to the Romanies. ' 'No, no, brother, ' she said, 'never no more. ' She put on her shawl. I rose mechanically. When she bade Cyril andWilderspin good-bye and passed out of the studio, I did so too. Inthe street she stood and looked wistfully at me, as though she saw methrough a mist, and then bade me good-bye, saying that she must go toKingston Vale where her people were encamped in a hired field. Weseparated, and I wandered I knew not whither. III I found myself inquiring for the New North Cemetery, and after a timeI stood looking through the bars of tall iron gates at long lines ofgravestones and dreary hillocks before me. Then I went in, walkingstraight over the grass towards a gravedigger digging in thesunshine. He looked at me, resting his foot on his spade. 'I want to find a grave. ' 'What part was the party buried in?' 'The pauper part, ' I said. 'Oh, ' said he, losing suddenly his respectful tone. 'When was sheburied? I suppose it was a she by the look o' you. ' 'When? I don't know the date. ' 'Rather a wide order that, but there's the pauper part. ' And hepointed to a spot at some little distance, where there were nogravestones and no shrubs. I walked across to this Desert of Poverty, which seemed too cheerless for a place of rest. I stood and gazed atthe mounds till the black coffins underneath grew upon my mentalvision, and seemed to press upon my brain. Thoughts I had none, onlya sense of being another person. The man came slowly towards me, and then looked meditatively into myface. I shall never forget him. A tall, sallow, emaciated man he was, with cheek-bones high and sharp as an American Indian's, andstraight black hair. He looked like a wooden image of Mephistopheles, carved with a jack-knife. 'Who are you?' The words seemed to come, not from the gravedigger'smouth, but from those piles of lamp-blacked coffins which weresearing my eyes through four feet of graveyard earth. By thefever-fires in my brain I seemed to see the very faces of thecorpses. 'Who am I?' I said to myself, as I thought, but evidently aloud;'I am the Fool of Superstition. I am Fenella Stanley's Fool, andSinfi Lovell's Fool, and Philip Aylwin's Fool, who went and averteda curse from one of the heads resting down here, averted a curse byburying a jewel in a dead man's tomb. ' 'Not in this cemetery, so none o' your gammon, ' said thegravedigger, who had overheard me. 'The on'y people as is foolsenough to bury jewels with dead bodies is the Gypsies, and _they_take precious good care, as I know, to keep it mum _where_ they bury'em. There's bin as much diggin' for them thousand guineas as wasburied with Jerry Chilcott in Foxleigh Parish, where I was born, aswould more nor pay for emptying a gold mine; but I never heard o'Christian folk a-buryin' jewels. But who are you?' I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and looking round, I found Sinfi bymy side. 'Does he belong to you, my gal?' 'Yis, ' said Sinfi, with a strange, deep ring in her rich contraltovoice. 'Yis, he belongs to me now--leastways he's my palnow--whatever comes on it. ' 'Then take him away, my wench. What's the matter with him? The oldcomplaint, I s'pose, ' he added, lifting his hand to his mouth asthough drinking from a glass. Sinfi gently put out her hand and brushed the man aside. 'I've bin a-followin' on you all the way, brother, ' said Sinfi, aswe moved out of the cemetery, 'for your looks skeared me a bit. Let'sgo away from this place. ' 'But whither, Sinfi? I have no friend but you; I have no home. ' 'No home, brother? The kairengros [Footnote] has got abouteverythink, 'cept the sky an' the wind, an' you're one o' the richestkairengros on 'em all--leastways so I wur told t'other day inKingston Vale. It's the Romanies, brother, as 'ain't got no home'cept the sky an' the wind. Howsumever, that's nuther here nor there;we'll jist go to the woman they told me on, an' if there's any truthto be torn out of her, out it'll ha' to come, if I ha' to tear outher windpipe with it. ' [Footnote: The house-dwellers. ] We took a cab and were soon in Primrose Court. The front door was wide open--fastened back. Entering the narrowcommon passage, we rapped at a dingy inner door. It was opened by apretty girl, whose thick chestnut hair and eyes to match contrastedrichly with the dress she wore--a dirty black dress, with greatpatches of lining bursting through holes like a whity-brown froth. 'Meg Gudgeon?' said the girl in answer to our inquiries; and at firstshe looked at us rather suspiciously, 'upstairs, she's very bad--liketo die--I'm a-seein' arter 'er. Better let 'er alone; she bites whenshe's in 'er tantrums. ' 'We's friends o' hern, ' said Sinfi, whose appearance and decisivevoice seemed to reassure the girl. 'Oh, if you're friends that's different, ' said she. 'Meg's gone off'er 'ead; thinks the p'leace in plain clothes are after 'er. ' We went up the stairs. The girl followed us. When we reached a lowdoor, Sinfi proposed that she should remain outside on the landing, but within ear-shot, as 'the sight o' both on us, all of a suddent, might make the poor body all of a dither if she was very ill. ' The girl then opened the door and went in. I heard the woman's voicesay in answer to her, 'Friend? Who is it? Are you sure, Poll, it ain't a copper in plainclothes come about that gal?' The girl came out, and signalling me to enter, went leisurelydownstairs. Leaving Sinfi outside on the landing, I entered the room. There, on a sort of truckle-bed in one corner, I saw the woman. Sheslowly raised herself up on her elbows to stare at me. I took forgranted that she would recognise me at once; but either because shewas in drink when I saw her last, or because she had got the idea ofa policeman in plain clothes, she did not seem to know me. Then alook of dire alarm broke over her face and she said, 'P'leaceman, I'm as hinicent about that air gal as a new-born babe. ' 'Mrs. Gudgeon, ' I said, 'I only want you to tell a friend of mineabout your daughter. ' 'Oh yis! a friend o' yourn! Another or two on ye in plain clothesbehind the door, I dessay. An' pray who said the gal wur my darter?What for do you want to put words into the mouth of a hinicent dyin'woman? I comed by 'er 'onest enough. The pore half-starved thing cameup to me in Llanbeblig churchyard. ' 'Llanbeblig churchyard?' I exclaimed, drawing close up to the bed. 'How came you in Llanbeblig churchyard?' But then I remembered that, according to her own story, she had married a Welshman. 'How did I come in Llanbeblig churchyard?' said the woman in a tonein which irony and fear were strangely mingled. 'Well, p'leaceman, Idon't mean to be sarcy: but seein' as all my pore dear 'usband's kithand kin o' the name o' Goodjohn was buried in Llanbeblig churchyard, p'raps you'll be kind enough to let me go there sometimes, an' p'rapsbe buried there when my time comes. ' 'But what took you there?' I said. 'What took me to Llanbeblig churchyard?' exclaimed the woman, whosenatural dogged courage seemed to be returning to her. 'What made meleave every fardin' I had in the world with Poll Onion, when weommust wanted bread, an' go to Carnarvon on Shanks's pony? I sha'n'ttell ye. I comed by the gal 'onest enough, an' she never comed to no'arm through me, less mendin' 'er does for 'er, and bringin' 'er toLondon, and bein' a mother to 'er, an' givin' 'er a few baskets an'matches to sell is a-doin' 'er any 'arm. An' as to beggin' she_would_ beg, she loved to beg an' say texes. ' 'Old kidnapper!' I cried, maddened by the visions that came upon me. 'How do I know that she came to no harm with a wretch like you?' The woman shrank back upon the pillows in a revival of her terror. 'She never comed to no 'arm, p'leaceman. No, no, she never comed tono 'arm through me. I'd a darter once o' my own, Jenny Gudgeon byname--p'raps you know'd 'er, most o' the coppers did--as was broughtup by my sister by marriage at Carnarvon, an' I sent for 'er toLondon, I did, pl'eaceman--God forgi'e me--an' she went wrong allthrough me bein' a drinkin' woman an' not seein' arter 'er, just asmy son Bob tookt to drink, through me bein' a drinkin' woman an' notseein' arter _him_. She tookt and went from bad to wuss, bad towuss; it's my belief as it's allus starvation as drives 'em to it;an' when she wur a-dyin' gal, she sez to me, "Mother, " sez she, "I've got the smell o' Welsh vi'lets on me ag'in: I wants to beburied in Llanbeblig churchyard, among the Welsh child'n an' maids, mother. I wants to feel the snowdrops, an' smell the vi'lets, an'the primroses, a-growin' over my 'ead, " sez she; "but that can'tnever be, mother, " sez she, a-sobbin' fit to bust; "never, never, for such as me, " sez she. An' I know'd what she meant, though shenever once blamed me, an' 'er words stuck in my gizzard like a thorn, p'leaceman. ' 'But what has all this to do with the girl you kidnapped?' 'Ain't I a-tellin' on ye as fast as I can? When my pore gal droppedoff to sleep, I sez to Polly Onion, "Poll, " I sez, "to-morrow mornin'I'll pop every-think as ain't popped a'ready, an' I'll leave you themoney to see arter 'er, an' I'll start for Carnarvon on Shanks'spony. I knows a good many on the road, " sez I, "as won't let Jokin'Meg want for a crust and a sup, an' when I gits to Carnarvon I'll ax'er aunt to bury 'er (she sells fish, 'er aunt does, "' sez I, "andshe's got a pot o' money), an' then I'll see the parson or the sextonor somebody, " sez I, "an' I'll tell 'em I've got a darter in Londonas is goin' to die, a Carnarvon gal by family, an' I'll tell 'im sheain't never bin married, an' then they'll bury 'er where she cansmell the primroses and the vi'lets. " That's what I sez to PollOnion, an' then Poll she begins to pipe, an' sez, "Oh Meg, Meg, ain'tI a Carnarvon gal too? The likes o' us ain't a-goin' to grow novi'lets an' snowdrops in Llanbeblig churchyard. " An' I sez to her, "What a d--d fool you are, Poll! You never 'adn't a gal as went wrongthrough you a-drinkin', else you'd never say that. If the parson sezto me, 'Is your darter a vargin-maid?' d'ye think I shall say, 'Ohno, parson'? I'll swear she is a vargin-maid on all the Bibles in allthe churches in Wales. " That's jis' what I sez to Polly Onion, Godforgi'e me. An' Poll sez, "The parson'll be sure to send you to hell, Meg, if you do that air. " An' I sez, "So he may, then, but I _shall_do it, no fear. " That's what I sez to Poll Onion (she's downstairs atthis werry moment a-warmin' me a drop o' beer); it was 'er as showedyou upstairs, cuss 'er for a fool; an' she can tell you the samething as I'm a-tellin' on you. ' 'But what about her you kidnapped? Tell me all about it, or it willbe worse for you. ' 'Ain't I a-tellin' you as fast as I can? Off to Carnarvon I goes, an'every futt o' the way I walks--Lor' bless your soul, there worn't abetter pair o' pins nowheres than Meg Gudgeon's then, afore the watergot in 'em an' bust 'em; an' I got to Llanbeblig churchyard early onemornin', and there I seed the pore half-sharp gal. So you see I comedby 'er 'onest enough, p'leaceman, though she worn't ezzackly my owndarter. ' 'Well, well, ' I said; 'go on. ' 'Yes, it's all very well to say "go on, " p'leaceman; but if you'd gotas much water in your legs as I've got in mine, an' if you'd got nomore wind in your bellows than I've got in mine, you'd find it noneso easy to go on. ' 'What was she doing in the churchyard?' 'Well, p'leaceman, I'm tellin' you the truth, s'elp me Bob! I wasa-lookin' over the graves to see if I could find a nice comfortableplace for my pore gal, an' all at once I heered a kind o' sobbin' aswould a' made me die o' fright if it 'adn't a' bin broad daylight, an' then I see a gal a-layin' flat on a grave an' cryin', an' when Igot up to her I seed as she wur covered with mud, an' I seed as shewur a-starvin'. ' 'Good God, woman, you are lying! you are lying!' 'No, I ain't a-lyin'. She tookt to me the moment she clapped eyes onme; most people does, and them as don't ought, an' she got up an' puther arms round my neck, and she called me "Knocker. "' 'Called you what?' 'Ain't I a-tellin' you? She called me "Knocker"; and that's the veryname as she allus called me up to the day of 'er death, pore dear! Itried to make 'er come along o' me, an' she wouldn't stir, an' so Ileft 'er, meanin' to go back; but when I got to my sister's bymarriage, there was a letter for me an' it wur from Polly Onion, a-sayin' as my pore Jenny died the same day as I left London, a-sayin', "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!" an'was buried by the parish. An' that upset me, p'leaceman, an' made meswownd, an' when I comed to, I couldn't hear nothink only my poreJenny's voice a-sobbin' on the wind, "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets;mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!" an' that sent me off my 'ead a bit, an' Irun out o' the 'ouse, an' there was Jenny's voice a-goin' on beforeme a-sobbin', "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!"an' it seemed to lead me back to the churchyard; an' lo an' be'old!there was the pore half-starved creatur' a-settin' there jist as I'dleft 'er, an' I sez, "God bless you, my gal, you're a-starvin'!" an'she jumped up, an' she comed an' throwed 'er arms round my waist, an'there we stood both on us a-cryin' togither, an' then I runned backinto Carnarvon, an' fetched 'er some grub, an' she tucked into thegrub. --But hullo! p'leaceman, what's up now? What the devil are youa-squeedgin' my 'and like that for? Are you a-goin' to kiss it? Itain't none so clean, p'leaceman. You're the rummest copper in plainclothes ever I seed in all my born days. Fust you seem as if you wantto bite me, you looks so savage, an' then you looks as if you wantsto kiss me; you'll make me laugh, I know you will, an' that'll makeme cough. --Hi! Poll Onion, come 'ere. Bring my best lookin'-glass outo' my bowdore, an' let me look at my ole chops, for I'm blowed ifthere ain't a copper in plain clothes this time as is fell 'ead overears in love with me, jist as the young swell did at the studero. ' 'Go on, Mrs. Gudgeon, ' I said; 'go on. She ate the food?' 'Oh, didn't she jist! And the pore half-sharp thing took to me, an' Itook to she, an' I thinks to myself, "She's a purty gal, if she'sever so stupid, an' she'll get 'er livin' a-sellin' flowers o' finedays, an' a-doin' the rainy-night dodge with baskets when it's wet ";an' so I took 'er in, an' in the street she'd all of a suddent bustout a-singin' songs about Snowdon an' sich like, just as if she wasa-singin' in a dream, and folk used to like to 'ear 'er an' gev 'ermoney; an' I was a good mother to 'er, I was, an' them as sez Iworn't is cussed liars. ' 'And she never came to any harm?' I said, holding the great muscularhands between my two palms, unwilling to let them go. 'She never cameto any harm?' 'Ain't I said so more nor wunst? I swore on the Bible--there's thevery Bible, under the match-box, agin the winder--on that very BibleI swore as my port Jenny brought from Wales, an' as I've never poppedyit that this pore half-sharp gal should never go wrong through me;an' then, arter I swore that, my pore Jenny let me alone, an' I never'eard 'er v'ice no more a-cryin'. "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!" An' many's the chap as 'as come leerin' after 'eras I've sent away with a flea in 'is ear. Cuss 'em all; they's allbad alike about purty gals, men is. She's never comed to no wrongthrough _me_. Didn't I ammost kill a real sailor capting when I usedto live in the East End 'cause he tried to meddle with 'er? An'worn't that the reason why I left my 'um close to Radcliffe 'Ighwayan' comed 'ere? Them as killed 'er wur the cussed lot in thestuderos. I'm a dyin' woman; I'm as hinicent as a new-born babe. An'there ain't nothink o' 'ern in this room on'y a pair o' ole shoes an'a few rags in that ole trunk under the winder. ' I went to the trunk and raised the lid. The tattered, stained remainsof the very dress she wore when I last saw her in the mist onSnowdon! But what else? Pushed into an old worn shoe, which with itsfellow lay tossed among the ragged clothes, was a brown stainedletter. I took it out. It was addressed to 'Miss Winifred Wynne atMrs. Davies's. ' Part of the envelope was torn away. It bore theGraylingham post-mark, and its superscription was in a hand which Idid not recognise, and yet it was a hand which seemed half-familiarto me. I opened it; I read a line or two before I fully realised whatit was--the letter, full of childish prattle, which I had written toWinifred when I was a little boy--the first letter I wrote to her. I forgot where I was, I forgot that Sinfi was standing outside thedoor, till I heard the woman's voice exclaiming, 'What do you want toset on my bed an' look at me like that for?--you ain't no p'leacemanin plain clothes, so none o' your larks. Git off o' my bed, will ye?You'll be a-settin' on my bad leg an' a-bustin' on it in a minit. Gitoff my bed, else look another way; them eyes o' yourn skear me. ' I was sitting on the side of her bed and looking into her face. 'Where did you get this?' I said, holding out the letter. 'You skears me, a-lookin' like that, ' said she. 'I comed by it'onest. One day when she was asleep, I was turnin' over 'er clothesto see how much longer they would hold together, when I feels asomethink 'ard sewed up in the breast; I rips it open, and it wasthat letter. I didn't put it back in the frock ag'in, 'cause Ithought it might be useful some day in findin' out who she was. Shenever missed it. I don't think she'd 'ave missed anythink, she wurso oncommon silly. You ain't a-goin' to pocket it, air you?' I had put the letter in my pocket, and had seized the shoes and wasgoing out of the room; but I stopped, took a sovereign from my purse, placed it in an envelope bearing my own address which I chanced tofind in my pocket, and, putting it into her hand, I said, 'Here is myaddress and here is a sovereign. I will tell your friend below tocome for me or send whenever you need assistance. ' The woman clutchedat the money with greed, and I left the room, signalling to Sinfi(who stood on the landing, pale and deeply moved) to follow medownstairs. When we reached the wretched room on the ground-floor wefound the girl hanging some wet rags on lines that were stretchedfrom wall to wall. 'What is your name?' I said. 'Polly Unwin, ' replied she, turning round with a piece of damp linenin her hand. 'And what are you?' 'What am I?' 'I mean what do you do for a living?' 'What do I do for a living?' she said. 'All kinds of things--help themen at the barrows in the New Cut sell flowers, do anything thatcomes in my way. ' 'Never mind what she does for a livin', brother, ' said Sinfi; 'giveher a gold balanser or two, and tell her to see arter the woman. ' 'Here is some money, ' I said to the girl. 'See that Mrs. Gudgeonupstairs wants for nothing. Is that story of hers true about herdaughter and Llanbeblig churchyard?' 'That's true enough, though she's a wunner at a lie: that's trueenough. ' But as I spoke I heard a noise like the laugh or the shriek of amaniac. It seemed to come from upstairs. 'She's a-larfin' ag'in, ' said the girl. 'It's a very wicked larf, sir, ain't it? But there's wuss uns nor Meg Gudgeon for all 'erwicked larf, as I knows. Many a time she's kep' me from starvin'. Imus' run up an' see 'er. She'll kill herself a-larfin' yit. ' The girl hurried upstairs and I followed her, leaving Sinfi below. Ire-entered the bedroom. There was the woman, her face buried in thepillow, rocking and rolling her body half round with the regularityof a pendulum. Between the peals of half-smothered hystericallaughter that came from her, I could hear her say: '_Dear Lord Jesus, don't forget to love dear Henry who can't git upthe gangways without me_. ' The words seemed to fall upon my heart like a rain of molten metaldropping from the merciless and mocking skies. But I had ceased towonder at the cruelty of Fate. The girl went to her and shook herangrily. This seemed to allay her hysterics, for she rolled roundupon her back and stared at us. Then she looked at the envelopeclutched in her hand, and read out the address, 'Henry, Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer! An' I tookt 'im for a copperin plain clothes all the while! Henry, Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer!I shall die a-larfin', I know I shall! I shall die a-larfin', I knowI shall! Poll! don't you mind me a-tellin' you about my pore darterWinifred--for my darter she _was_, as I'll swear afore all the beaksin London--don't you mind me a-sayin' that if she wouldn't talk whenshe wur awake, she could mag away fast enough when she wur asleep;an' it were allus the same mag about dear little Henry, an' dearHenry Halywin as couldn't git up the gangways without 'er. Well, poredear Henry was 'er sweet'airt, an' this is the chap, an' if my eyesain't stun blind, the werry chap out o' the cussed studeros as killed'er, pore dear, an' as is a-skearin' me away from my beautiful 'um inPrimrose Court; an' 'ere wur I a-talkin' to 'im all of a muck sweat, thinkin' he wur a copper in plain clothes!' At this moment Sinfi entered the room. She came up to me, and layingher hand upon my shoulder she said: 'Come away, brother, this iscruel hard for you to bear. It's our poor sister Winifred as is dead, and it ain't nobody else. ' The effect of Sinfi's appearance and of her words upon the woman waslike that of an electric shock. She sat up in her bed open-mouthed, staring from Sinfi to me, and from me to Sinfi. 'So my darter Winifred's your _sister_ now, is she?' (turning to me). 'A few minutes ago she was your sweet'airt: an' now she seems to ha'bin your sister. An' she was _your_ sister, too, was she?' (turningto Sinfi). 'Well, all I know is, that she was my darter, WinifredGudgeon, as is dead, an' buried in the New North Cemetery, pore dear;an' yet she was sister to both on ye!' She then buried her face again in the pillows and resumed the rockingmovement, shrieking between her peals of laughter: 'Well, if I'm themother of a six-fut Gypsy gal an' a black-eyed chap as seems jestatween a Gypsy and a Christian, I never knowed _that_ afore. No, Inever knowed _that_ afore! I allus said I should die a-larfin', an'so I shall; I'm a-dyin' now--ha! ha! ha!' She fell back upon the pillow, exhausted by her own cruel merriment. 'She always said she'd die a-larfin', an' she will, too--more nor Ishall ever do, ' said the girl, after we had gone downstairs. 'Did you notice what she said about Winnie a-callin' her Knocker?'said Sinfi. 'Yes, and couldn't understand it. ' '_I_ know what it meant. Winnie knowed all about the Knockers ofSnowdon, the dwarfs o' the copper mine, and this woman, bein' sothick and short, must look ezackly like a Knocker, I should say, ifyou could see one. ' I said to the girl, 'Was she really kind to--to--' 'To her you were asking about, --the Essex Street Beauty? I shouldthink she just was. She's a drinker, is poor Meg, and drinking inPrimrose Court means starvation. Meg and the Beauty were often shortenough of grub, but, drunk or sober, Meg would never touch a mouthfultill the Beauty had had her fill. I noticed it many a time--not amouthful. When Meg was obliged to send her into the streets to sellthings she was always afraid that the Beauty might come to harmthrough the toffs and the chaps. The toffs were the worst lookingafter her--as they mostly are--so I was always watching her in theday-time, and at night Meg was always watching her, and that was whatmade me know your face, as soon as ever I clapt eyes on it. ' 'Why, what do you mean?' 'Well, one rainy night when I was standing by the theatre door, Iheard a toff ask a policeman about the Essex Street Beauty, and Ithought I knew what that meant very well. So I ran off to find Meg. Ihad seen her watching the Beauty all the time. But lo and behold! Megwas gone and the Beauty too. So I run across here, and found Meg andthe Beauty getting their supper as quiet as possible. Meg had heardthe toff talking to the policeman--though I didn't know she wasstanding so near--and whisked her off and away as quick aslightning. ' 'That was I, ' I said. 'God! God! If I had only known!' 'There's the same look now on your face as there was then, and Ishould know it among ten thousand. ' 'Polly Onion, ' I said, 'there is my address, and if ever you want afriend, and if you are in trouble, you will know where to findassistance, ' and I gave her another sovereign. 'You're a good sort, ' said she, 'and no mistake. ' 'Good-bye, ' I said, shaking her hand. 'See well after Mrs. Gudgeon. ' 'All right, ' said she, and a smile broke over her face. 'I think Iought to tell you now, ' she continued, 'that Meg's no more ill ofdropsy than I am; she could walk twenty miles off the reel; thereain't a bullock in England half as strong as Meg; she's shamming. ' 'Shamming, but why?' 'Well, she ain't drunk; ever since the Beauty died she's nevertouched a drop o' gin. But she's turned quite cranky. She's got itinto her head that the relations of the Beauty are going to send herto prison for kidnapping; and she thinks that every one that comesnear her is a policeman in plain clothes. She's just lying in bed tokeep herself out of the way till she starts. ' 'Where's she going, then?' 'She talks about going to see after her son Bob in the country; herhusband is a Welshman. He's over the water. ' 'Did you say she had given up drinking?' I asked. 'Yes; she seemed to dote on the Beauty, and when the Beauty died shesaid, "My darter went wrong through me drinkin', and my son Bob wentwrong through me drinkin'; and I feel somehow that it was through mydrinkin' that I lost the Beauty; and never will you find me touchanother drop o' gin, Poll. Beer I ain't fond on, and it 'ud take arare swill o' beer to get up as far as Meg Gudgeon's head. "' 'There ain't much fault to be found with a woman like Meg Gudgeon, 'said Sinfi. 'Was the Beauty fond o' her? She ought to ha' bin. ' 'She used to call her Knocker, ' said the girl. 'She seemed very fondof her when they were together, but seemed to forget her as soon asthey were apart. ' Sinfi and I then left the house. In Great Queen Street she took my hand as if to bid me good-bye. Butshe stood and gazed at me wistfully, and I gazed at her. At last shesaid, 'An' now, brother, we'll jist go across to Kingston Vale, an' see mydaddy, an' set your livin'-waggin to rights. ' 'Then, Sinfi, ' I said, 'you and I are once more--' I stopped and looked at her. The fearless young Amazon and seeress, who kept a large family of the Kaulo Camloes in awe, was supposed tohave nearly conquered the feminine weakness of tears; but she hadnot. There was a chink in the Amazon's armour, and I had found it. 'Yis, ' said she, nodding her head and smiling. 'You an' me's rightpals ag'in. ' As we were going I told her how I had replaced the jewel in the tomb. 'I know'd you would do it. Yis, I heer'd you telling the gravediggerthe same thing. ' 'And yet, ' said I bitterly, 'in spite of that and in spite of theGolden Hand, she is dead. ' Sinfi stood silently looking at me now. Even her prodigious faithseemed conquered. IV For a few days I paced with Sinfi over Wimbledon Common and RichmondPark, The weather was now unusually brilliant for the time of year. Sinfi would walk silently by my side. But I could not rest with the Gypsies. I must be alone. Soon I leftthe camp and returned to London, where I took a suite of rooms in ahouse not far from Eaton Square--though to me London was a hugemeaningless maze of houses clustered around Primrose Court--thathorrid, fascinating, intolerable core of pain. Into my lungs pouredthe hateful atmosphere of the city where Winifred had perished;poured hot and stifling as sand-blasts of the desert. Impossible tostay there!--for the pavement seemed actually to scorch my feet, likethe floor of a fiery furnace. To me the sun above was but the hideouseye of Circumstance which had stared down pitilessly on that barehead of hers, and blistered those feet. The lamps at night seemed twinkling, blinking in a callousconsciousness of my tragedy--my monstrous tragedy of real life, thelike of which no poet dare imagine. But what aroused my wrath to anunbearable pitch--what determined me to leave London at once--was thesight of the unsympathetic faces in the streets. Though sympathycould have given me no comfort, the myriad unsympathetic eyes ofLondon infuriated me. 'Died in beggar's rags--died in a hovel!' I muttered with rage as theequipages and coarse splendours of the West End rolled insolently by. 'Died in a hovel!--and this London, this vast, ridiculous, swarminghuman ant-hill, whose millions of paltry humdrum lives were not worthone breath from those lips--this London spurned her, left her toperish alone in her squalor and misery. ' Cyril and Wilderspin had returned to the Continent. D'Arcy was stillaway. I made application to the Home Secretary to have the pauper graveopened. On the ground that I was 'not a relative of the deceased, 'the officials refused to institute even preliminary inquiries. During this time no news of Mrs. Gudgeon had come to me through PollyOnion, and I determined to go to Primrose Court and see what hadbecome of her. When I reached Primrose Court I found that the shutters of the housewere up. Knocking and getting no response, I ascertained from apot-boy who was passing the corner of the court that Mrs. Gudgeon haddecamped. Neither the pot-boy nor any one in the court could tell mewhither she was gone. 'But where is Polly Onion?' I asked anxiously; for I was beginning toblame myself bitterly for having neglected them. 'I can tell you where poor Polly is, ' said the pot-boy. 'She's in theNew North Cemetery. She fell downstairs and broke her neck. ' 'Why, she lived downstairs, ' I said. 'That's true; you seem to be well up in the family, sir. But Pollcouldn't pay her rent, so old Meg took her in. And on the verymorning when Meg and Poll were a-startin' off together into thecountry--it was quite early and dark--Poll stumbles over three youngflower-gals as 'ad crep' in the front door in the night time and wasmakin' the stairs their bed. Gals as hadn't made enough to pay fortheir night's lodgin' often used to sleep on Meg's stairs. Poll waspicked up as nigh dead as a toucher, and she died at the 'ospital. ' Toiling in the revolving cage of Circumstance, I strove in vainagainst that most appalling form of envy--the envy of one's fellowcreatures that they should live and breathe while there is no breathof life for the _one_. My uncle Cecil's death had made me a rich man; but what was wealth tome if it could not buy me respite from the vision haunting me day andnight--the vision of the attic, the mattress, and the woman? And as I thought of the powerlessness of wealth to give me one crumbof comfort, and remembered Winnie's sermon about wealth, I would lookat myself in the mirror above my mantelpiece and smile bitterly atthe sight of the hollow cheeks, furrowed brow, and melancholy eyes, and recall her words about her hovering near me after she was dead. The thought of my wealth and the squalor in which she had died was, Ithink, the most maddening thought of all. I had now become thepossessor of Wilderspin's picture 'Faith and Love, ' having bought itof the Bond Street dealer to whom it belonged; and also of the'Christabel' picture, and these I was constantly looking at as theyhung up on the walls of my room. After a while, however, I destroyedthe 'Christabel' picture, it was too painful. Though I would not seesuch friends as I had, I read their letters; indeed, it was thesesame letters which alone could draw from me a grim smile now andthen. Almost every letter ended by urging me, in order to flee from mysorrows, to travel! With the typical John Bull travelling seems to bealways the panacea. In sorrow, John's herald of peace is Baedeker:the dispenser of John's true nepenthe is Mr. Murray. Pity and lovefor Winifred pursued me, tortured me nigh unto death, and thereforedid these friends of mine seem to suppose that I wanted to flee frommy pity and sorrow! Why, to flee from my sorrow, to get free of mypity, to flee from the agonies that went nigh to tearing soul frombody, would have been to flee from all that I had left oflife--memory. Did I want to flee from Winnie? Why, memory was Winnie now; and didI want to flee from _her_? And yet it was memory that was goading meon to the verge of madness. No doubt the reader thinks me a weakcreature for allowing the passion of pity to sap my manhood in thisfashion. But it was not so much her death as the manner of her deaththat withered my heart and darkened my soul. The calamities whichfell upon her, grievous beyond measure, unparalleled, not to bethought of save with a pallor of cheek and a shudder of the flesh, were ever before me, mocking me--maddening me. 'Died in a hovel!' As I gave voice to this impeachment of Heaven, night after night, wandering up and down the streets, my brain wasbeing scorched and withered by those same thoughts of anger againstdestiny and most awful revolt which had appalled me when first I sawhow the curse of Heaven or the whim of Circumstance had beenfulfilled. Then came that passionate yearning for death, which grief such asmine must needs bring. But if what Materialism teaches were true, suicide would rob me even of my memory of her. If, on the other hand, what I had been taught by the supernaturalism of my ancestors weretrue, to commit suicide might be but to play finally into the handsof that same unknown pitiless power with whom my love had all alongbeen striving. 'Suicide might sever my soul from hers for ever. ' I said, and thenthe tragedy would seem too monstrously unjust to be true, and I said:'It cannot be--such things cannot be: it is a hideous dream. She isnot dead! She is in Wales with friends at Carnarvon, and I shallawake and laugh at all this imaginary woe!' And what were now my feelings towards the memory of my father? Cana man cherish in his heart at one and the same moment scorn ofanother man for believing in the efficacy of a curse, and bitteranger against him for having left a curse behind him? He can! On myreturn to London after my illness I had sent back to Wilderspin thecopy of _The Veiled Queen_ he had lent me. But from the library ofRaxton Hall I brought my father's own copy, elaborately bound in thetooled black calf my father affected. The very sight of that blackbinding now irritated me; never did I pass it without experiencing asensation that seemed a blending of scorn and fear: scorn of theancestral superstitions the book gave voice to: fear of them. One day I took the book from the shelves and then hurled it acrossthe room. Stumbling over it some days after this, a spasm ofungovernable rage came upon me, for terribly was my blood strugglingwith Fenella Stanley and Philip Aylwin, and thousands of ancestors, Romany and Gorgio, who for ages upon ages had been shaping mydestiny. I began to tear out the leaves and throw them on the fire. But suddenly I perceived the leaves to be covered with marginalia inmy father's manuscript, and with references to Fenella Stanley'sletters--letters which my father seemed to have studied as deeply asthough they were the writings of a great philosopher instead of thescribblings of an ignorant Gypsy. My eye had caught certain writtenwords which caused me to clutch at the sheets still burning on thefire. Too late!--I grasped nothing save a little paper-ash. Then Iturned to the pages still left in my hand, and read these words of myfather's: 'These marginalia are written for the eyes of my dear son, into whosehands this copy of my book will come. Until he gave me his promise tobury the amulet with me, I felt alone in the world. But even hefailed to understand what he called "my superstition. " He did notknow that by perpetually feeling on my bosom the facets of thebeloved jewel which had long lain warm upon hers--the cross which hadreceived the last kiss from her lips--I had been able to focus allthe scattered rays of thought--I had been able to vitalise memorytill it became an actual presence. He did not know that out of mysorrow had been born at last a strange kind of happiness--thehappiness that springs from loving a memory--living with amemory--till it becomes a presence--an objective reality. He did notknow that, by holding her continually in my thoughts, by means ofthe amulet, I achieved at last the miracle described by the Hindoopoets--the miracle of reshaping from the undulations of "the threeregions of the universe the remembered object by the all-creativemagic of love!"' Then followed some translations from the Kumara-sambhava and otherSanscrit poems, and then the well-known passage in Lucretius aboutdreams, and then a pathetic account of the visions called up withinhim by the sensation caused by the lacerations of the facets of thecherished amulet upon his bosom--visions something akin, as Iimagine, to those experienced by _convulsionnaires_. And then afterall this learning came references to poor ignorant Fenella Stanley'sletters and extracts from them. In one of these extracts I was startled to come upon the now familiarword 'crwth. ' 'De Welch fok ses as de livin mullos only follow the crwth on Snowdonwen it is playde by a Welch Chavi, but dat is all a lie. Dey followsthe crwth when a Romany Chi plays it as I nows very wel, but dechavi wot play on the crwth, shee must love the living mullo she wantfor to come, and de living mullo must love her. ' And then followed my father's comments on the extract. '_N. B. _--To see and hear a crwth, if possible, and ascertain the truenature of the vibrations. But there are said to be only a few crwthsin existence; and very likely there is no musician who could playupon them. ' Then followed a few sentences written at a later date. 'The crwth is now becoming obsolete; on inquiry I learn that it is astringed instrument played with a bow like a violin; but as one ofthe feet of the bridge passes through one of the sound-holes andrests on the inside of the back, the vibrations must be quite unique, if we remember how important a part is played by the back in allinstruments of the violin kind. It must be far more subtle than thevibrations of the Welsh harp, and even more subtle (if also morenasal) than those of the violin. 'The reason why music has in all ages been called in to aid inevoking the spirits, the reason why it is as potent now as ever itwas in aiding the spirits to manifest themselves, is simple enough:the rhythmic vibrations of music set in active motion the magneticwaves through whose means alone the two worlds, spiritual andmaterial, can hold communication. The quality and the value of thesevibrations depend mainly, no doubt, upon the magnetic power, conscious or other, of the musician, but partly also upon the kind ofinstrument used. The vibrations awakened by stringed instruments havebeen long known to be more subtle than any others: instruments of theviolin kind are of course the most subtle of all. Doubtless this iswhy among the Welsh hills the old saying used to be "The spiritsfollow the crwth. "' 'Which folly is the more besotted, ' I said, as I read and re-read themarginalia--'that of the scholar with his scientific nonsense aboutvibrations, or that of the ignorant Gypsy with her living mullosdrawn through the air by music and love?' But now my eyes fell upon a very different kind of marginal notewhich ran thus:-- 'The one important fact of the twentieth century will be the growthand development of that great Renascence of Wonder which set in inEurope at the close of the eighteenth century and the beginning ofthe nineteenth. 'The warring of the two impulses governing man (and probably not manonly, but the entire world of conscious life)--the impulse ofacceptance, the impulse to take unchallenged and for granted all thephenomena of the outer world as they are, and the impulse to confrontthese phenomena with eyes of inquiry and wonder--will occupy all theenergies of the next century. 'The old impulse of wonder which came to the human race in itsinfancy has to come back--has to triumph--before the morning of thefinal emancipation of man can dawn. 'But the wonder will be exercised in very different fields from thosein which it was exercised in the past. The materialism which at thismoment seems to most thinkers inseparable from the idea of evolutionwill go. Against their own intentions certain scientists are showingthat the spiritual force called life is the maker and not thecreature of organism--is a something outside the material world, asomething which uses the material world as a means of phenomenalexpression. 'The materialist, with his primitive and confiding belief in thetestimony of the senses, is beginning to be left out in the cold, when men like Sir W. R. Grove turn round on him and tell him that"the principle of all certitude" is not and cannot be the testimonyof his own senses; that these senses, indeed, are no absolute testsof phenomena at all; that probably man is surrounded by beings he canneither see, feel, hear, nor smell; and that, notwithstanding theexcellence of his own eyes, ears, and nose, the universe thematerialist is mapping out so deftly is, and must be, monophysical, lightless, colourless, soundless--a phantasmagoric show--a deceptiveseries of undulations, which become colour, or sound, or what not, according to the organism upon which they fall. ' These words were followed by a sequence of mystical sonnets about"the Omnipotence of Love, " which showed, beyond doubt, that if myfather was not a scientific thinker, he was, at least, a veryoriginal poet. And this made me perplexed as to what could have drawnWilderspin, who scorned the art of poetry, into the meshes of _TheVeiled Queen_. Perhaps, however, it was because Wilderspin's ancestrywas, notwithstanding his English name, largely, if not wholly, Welsh, as I learnt from Cyril. Welshmen, whether sensitive or not to therhythmic expression of the English language, are almost all, Ibelieve, of the poetic temperament. But from this moment my mind began to run upon the picture of FenellaStanley, surrounded by those Snowdonian spirits which her music wassupposed to have evoked from the mountain air of the morning. XIII THE MAGIC OF SNOWDON I In a few days I left London and went to North Wales. Opposite to me in the railway carriage sat an elderly lady, intowhose face I occasionally felt myself to be staring in an unconsciousway. But I was merely communing with myself: I was saying to myself, 'My love of North Wales, and especially of Snowdon, is certainly verystrong; but it is easily accounted for--it is a matter oftemperament. Even had Wales not been associated with Winnie, I stillmust have dearly loved it. Much has been said about the effect ofscenery upon the minds and temperaments of those who are native toit. But temperament is a matter of ancestral conditions: the place ofone's birth is an accident. As some, like my cousin Percy, forinstance are born with a passion for the sea, and some with a passionfor forests, some with a passion for mountains, and some with apassion for rolling plains. The landscape amid which I was born had, no doubt, a charm for me, and could bring to me that nature-ecstacywhich I inherited from Fenella Stanley. But with Wales I actuallyfell in love the moment I set foot in the country. This is why I amhurrying there now. ' And I laughed at myself, and evidently frightened the old lady verymuch. She did not know that underneath the soul's direststruggle--the struggle of personality with the tyranny of theancestral blood--there is an awful sense of humour--a laughter(unconquerable, and yet intolerable) at the deepest of allincongruities, the incongruity of Fate's game with man. I apologisedto her, and told her that I had been absorbed in reading a drollstory, in which a man believed that the Angel of Memory hadrefashioned for him his dead wife out of his own sorrow andunquenchable fountain of tears. 'What an extraordinary idea!' said the old lady, in the conciliatorytone she would have adopted towards a madman whom she found alonewith her in a railway carriage. 'I mean he was very eccentric, wasn'the?' 'Who shall say, madam? "Bold is the donkey-driver and bold the ka'deewho dares say what he will believe, what disbelieve, not knowing inany wise the mind of Allah, not knowing in any wise his own heart andwhat it shall some day suffer. "' At the next station the old lady left the carriage and enteredanother, and I was left alone. My intention was to take up my residence at the cottage whereWinifred had lived with her aunt. Indeed, for a few days I did this, taking with me one of the Welsh peasants with whom I had previouslymade friends. But of course a lengthened stay in such a house wasimpossible. More than ever now I needed attendance, and goodattendance, for I had passed into a strange state of irritability--Ihad no command over my nerves, which were jarred by the most triflingthing. I went to the hotel at Peri y Gwryd, but there tourists andvisitors made life more intolerable still to a man in my condition. At first I thought of building a house as near to the cottage aspossible; but this would take time, and I could not rest out ofWales. I decided at last to have a wooden bungalow built. By tellingthe builders that time was the first consideration with me, the costa secondary one, I got a bungalow built in a few weeks. By thetradesmen of Chester I got it fitted up and furnished to my tastewith equal rapidity. Attending to this business gave real relief. When the bungalow was finished I removed into it the picture 'Faithand Love. ' I also got in as much painting material as I might wantand began to make sketches in the neighbourhood. Time went on, and there I remained. In a great degree, however, thehabit of grieving was conquered by my application to work. Mymoroseness of temper gradually left me. Beautiful memories began to take the place of hideous ones--thepicture of the mattress and the squalor gave place to pictures ofWinifred on the sands of Raxton or on Snowdon. Yet so much of habitis there in grief that even at this time I was subject to recurrentwaves of the old pain--waves which were sometimes as overmastering asever. I did not neglect the cottage, which was now my property, but kept itin exactly the same state as that in which it had been put by Sinfiafter Winnie had wandered back to Wales. By isolating myself from all society, by surrounding myself withmementos of Winifred, memory really did at last seem to be working amiracle such as was worked for the widowed Ja'afar. Yet not entirely had memory passed into an objective presence. Iseemed to feel Winnie near me; but that was all. I felt that morenecessary than anything else in perfecting the atmosphere of memoryin which I would live was the society of her in whom alone I hadfound sympathy--Sinfi Lovell. Did I also remember the wild theoriesof my father and Fenella Stanley about the crwth? To obtain thecompany of Sinfi had now become very difficult--her attitude towardsme had so changed. When she allowed me to rejoin the Lovells atKingston Vale she did so under the compulsion of my distress. But myleaving the Gypsies of my own accord left her free from thiscompulsion. She felt that she had now at last bidden me farewellfor ever. Still, opportunities of seeing her occasionally would, I knew, present themselves, and I now determined to avail myself of these. Panuel Lovell and some of the Boswells were not unfrequently in theneighbourhood, and they were always accompanied by Sinfi and Videy. II On a certain occasion, when I learnt that the Lovells were in theneighbourhood, I sought them out. Sinfi at first was extremely shy, or distant, or proud, or scared, and it was not till after one or twointerviews that she relaxed. She still was overshadowed by somemysterious feeling towards me that seemed at one moment anger, atanother dread. However, I succeeded at last. I persuaded Panuel andhis daughters to leave their friends at 'the Place, ' and spend a fewdays with me at the bungalow. Great was the gaping and wide thegrinning among the tourists to see me inarching along the Capel Curigroad with three Gypsies. But to all human opinion I had become asindifferent as Wilderspin himself. As we walked along the road, Sinfi slowly warmed into her old self, but Videy, as usual, was silent, preoccupied, and meditative. When wegot within sight of the bungalow, however, the lights flashing fromthe windows made the long low building look very imposing. Pharaoh, the bantam cock which Sinfi was carrying, began to crow, but silenceagain fell upon Sinfi. Panuel, when we entered the bungalow, said he was very tired andwould like to go to bed. I had perceived by the glossy appearance ofhis skin (which was of the colour of beeswaxed mahogany) and thebenevolent dimple in his check that, although far from beingintoxicated, he was 'market-merry'; and as the two sisters alsoseemed tired, I took the party at once to their bedrooms. 'Dordi! what a gran' room, ' said Sinfi, in a hushed voice, as Iopened the door of the one allotted to her. 'Don't you mind, Videy, when you an' me fust slep' like two kairengros?' [Footnote] [Footnote: House-dwellers. ] 'No, I don't, ' said Videy sharply. 'It was at Llangollen Fair, ' continued Sinfi, her frank face beaminglike a great child's; 'two little chavies we was then. An' don't youmind, Videy, how we both on us cried when they put us to bed, 'causewe was afeard the ceilin' would fall down on us?' Videy made no answer, but tossed up her head and looked around to seewhether there was a grinning servant within earshot. 'Good-night, Sinfi, ' I said, shaking her hand; 'and now, Videy, Iwill show you your room. ' 'Oh, but Videy an' me sleeps togither, don't we?' 'Certainly, if you wish it, ' I replied. 'She's afeard o' the "mullos, "' said Videy scornfully, as she wentand stood before an old engraved Venetian mirror I had picked up atChester, admiring her own perfect little figure reflected therein. 'Ever since she's know'd you she's bin afeard o' mullos, and keepsPharaoh with her o' nights; the mullos never come where there's acrowin' cock. ' I did not look at Sinfi, but bent my eyes upon the mirror, where, several inches above the reflex of Videy's sarcastic face, shone thefeatures of Sinfi, perfectly cut as those of a Greek statue. 'It's the dukkerin' dook [Footnote] as she's afeard on, ' said Videy, smiling in the glass till her face seemed one wicked glitter ofscarlet lips and pearly teeth. 'An' yit there ain't no dukkerin'dook, an' there ain't no mullos. ' [Footnote: The prophesying ghost. ] Among the elaborately-engraved flowers and stars at the top of themirror was the representation of an angel grasping a musicalinstrument. 'Look, look!' said Sinfi, 'I never know'd afore that angels playedthe crwth. I wonder whether they can draw a livin' mullo up to theclouds, same as my crwth can draw one to Snowdon?' I bade them good-night, and joined Panuel at the door. I was conducting him along the corridor to his room when the door wasreopened and Sinfi's head appeared, as bright as ever, and then abeckoning hand. 'Reia, ' said she, when I had returned to the door, 'I want to whispera word in your ear'; and she pulled my head towards the door andwhispered, 'Don't tell nobody about that 'ere jewelled trúshul in thechurch vaults at Raxton. We shall be going down there at the fairtime, so don't tell nobody. ' 'But you surely are not afraid of your father, ' I whispered in reply. 'No, no, ' said she, bringing her lips so close to my face that I feltthe breath steaming round my ear. 'Not daddy--Videy!--Daddy can'tkeep a secret for five minutes. It's her I'm afeared on. ' I had scarcely left the door two yards behind me when I heard thevoices of the sisters in loud altercation. I heard Sinfi exclaim, 'Isha'n't tell you what I said to him, so now! It was somethin' atweenhim an' me. ' 'There they are ag'in, ' said Panuel, bending his head sagely roundand pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to the door; 'at itag'in! Them two chavies o' mine are allus a-quarrellin' now, an' it'sallus about the same thing. 'Tain't the quarrellin' as I mind somuch, --women an' sparrows, they say, must cherrup an' quarrel, --butthey needn't allus keep a-nag-naggin' about the same thing. ' 'What's their subject, Panuel?' I asked. 'Subjick? Why _you_, in course. That's what the subjick is. Whenwomen quarrels you may allus be sure there's a chap somewheresabout. ' By this time we had entered his bedroom: he went and sat upon thebed, and without looking round him began unlacing his 'highlows. ' Ihad often on previous occasions remarked that Panuel, who, whensober, was as silent as Videy, and looked like her in the face, became, the moment that he passed into 'market-merriness, ' as frankand communicative as Sinfi, and (what was more inexplicable) _looked_as much like Sinfi as he had previously looked like Videy. 'How can I be the subject of their quarrels?' I said, listlesslyenough, for I scarcely at first followed his words. 'How? Ain't you a chap?' 'Undoubtedly, Panuel, I am a chap. ' 'When women quarrels there's allus a chap somewheres about, in coursethere is. But look ye here, Mr. Aylwin, the fault ain't Sinfi's, nota bit of it. It's Videy's, wi' her dog-in-the-manger ways. She's aback-bred un, ' he said, giving me a knowing wink as he pulled off hiscalf-skin waistcoat and tossed it on to a chair at the further end ofthe room with a certainty of aim that would have been marvellous, even had he been entirely free from market-merriness. I had before observed that Panuel when market-merry always designatedVidey the 'back-bred un, that took a'ter Shuri's blazin' ole dad!'When sober his views of heredity changed; the 'back-bred un' wasSinfi. After breakfast next morning it was agreed that Panuel and Videyshould walk to the Place to see that everything was going on well, while Sinfi and I should remain in the bungalow. I observed from thedistance that Videy had loitered behind her father on the Capel Curigroad. I saw a dark shadow of anger pass over Sinfi's face, and I soonunderstood what was causing it. The daughter of the well-to-do PanuelLovell and my guest was accosting a tourist with, 'Let me tell youyour fortune, my pretty gentleman. Give the poor Gypsy a sixpence forluck, my gentleman. ' The bungalow delighted Sinfi. 'It's just like a great livin'-waggin, only more comfortable, ' said she. We spent the entire morning and afternoon there, and much of the nexttwo days. It certainly seemed to me that her mere presence was animmense stimulus to memory in vitalising its one image. 'What's the use o' us a-keepin' a-talkin' about Winnie?' Sinfi saidto me one day. 'It on'y makes you fret. You skears me sometimes; foryour eyes are a-gettin' jis' as sad-lookin' as Mr. D'Arcy's eyes, an'it's all along o' fret-tin'. ' I persuaded her to stay with me while Panuel and Videy went on toChester, for she could both soothe and amuse me. III Those who might suppose that Sinfi Lovell's lack of education wouldbe a barrier against our sympathy, know little or nothing of realsorrow--little or nothing of the human heart--little or nothing ofthe stricken soul that looks out on man and his conventions throughthe light of an intolerable pain. I now began to read and study as well as paint. But so absorbed was Iin my struggle with Fenella Stanley and Romany superstitions, thatthe only subject which could distract me from memory was that ofhereditary influence--prepotency of transmission in relation toraces. Though Sinfi could neither read nor write, she loved to sit bymy side and, caressing Pharaoh, to watch me as I read or wrote. Toher there evidently seemed something mysterious and uncanny inwriting, something like 'penning dukkering. ' It seemed to her, Ithink, a much more remarkable accomplishment than that of painting. And as to reading, I am not sure that the satirical Videy wasentirely wrong in saying that Sinfi believed that books 'could talkjis' like men and women. ' Not a word would she speak, save when shenow and then bent down her head to whisper to Pharaoh when thatlittle warrior was inclined to give a disturbing chuckle, or to shakehis wattles. And when at last she and Pharaoh got wearied by theprolonged silence, she would begin to murmur in a tone of playfulsatire to the restless bird, 'Mum, mum, Pharaoh. He's too hoot of amush to rocker a choori chavi. ' [Hush, hush, Pharaoh. He's too proudto speak to a poor child. ] Of course there was immense curiosity about my life at the bungalow, not only among the visitors at the Capel Curig Hotel, but among theWelsh residents; and rarely did the weekly papers come out withoutsome paragraph about me. As a result of this, some of the Londonpapers reproduced the paragraphs, and built upon their gossip columnsof a positively offensive nature. In a paper which I will forconvenience call the _London Satirist_ appeared a paragraph whichsome one cut out of the columns of the paper and posted to me. It ranthus: 'THE ECCENTRIC AYLWINS. --The power of heredity, which has muchexercised the mind of Balzac, has never been more strikinglyexemplified than in the case of the great family of the Aylwins. Itis matter of common knowledge that some generations ago one of theAylwins married a Gypsy. This fact did not, however, prevent hisbranch from being respectable, and receiving the name of the proudAylwins; and the Gypsy blood remained entirely in abeyance until thepresent generation. Mr. Percy Aylwin, it will be remembered, havingbeen smitten by the charms of a certain Rhona Boswell, actually setup a tent with the Gypsies; and now Mr. Henry Aylwin, of Raxton Hall(who, by the bye, has never been seen in that neighbourhood since thegreat landslip), is said to be following a good example by living inWales with a Gypsy wife, but whether the wedding took place at St. George's, Hanover Square, or in simpler fashion in an encampment ofLittle Egypt, we do not know. ' One day in the bungalow, when I was reading the copious marginaliawith which my father had furnished his own copy of _The VeiledQueen_, I came upon a passage which so completely carried my mindback to the night of our betrothal that I heard as plainly as I hadthen heard Winnie's words at the door of her father's cottage: 'I should have to come in the winds and play around you in the woods. I should have to peep over the clouds and watch you. I should haveto follow you about wherever you went. I should have to beset youtill you said: "Bother Winnie, I wish she'd keep in heaven!"' The written words of my father that had worked this magical effectupon me were these: 'But after months of these lonely wanderings in Graylingham Wood andalong the sands, not even the reshaping power of memory would sufficeto appease my longing; a new hope, wild as new, was breaking in uponmy soul, dim and yet golden, like the sun struggling through asea-fog. While wandering with me along the sands on the eve of thatdreadful day when I lost her, she had declared that even in heavenshe could not rest without me, nor did I understand how she could. For by this time my instincts had fully taught me that there is akind of love so intense that no power in the universe--not deathitself--is strong enough to sever it from its object. I knew thatalthough true spiritual love, as thus understood, scarcely existsamong Englishmen, and even among Englishwomen is so rare that thecapacity for feeling it is a kind of genius, this genius was hers. Sooner or later I said to myself, "She will and must manifestherself!"' I looked up from the book and saw both Sinfi and Pharaoh gazing atme. 'Sinfi, ' I said, 'what were Winnie's favourite places among thehills? Where was she most in the habit of roaming when she stayedwith your people?' 'If I ain't told you that often enough it's a pity, brother, ' shesaid. 'What do _you_ think, Pharaoh?' Pharaoh expressed his acquiescence in the satire by clapping hiswings and crowing at me contemptuously. 'The place I think she liked most of all wur that very pool where sheand you breakfasted together on that morning. ' 'Were there no other favourite places?' 'Yes, there wur the Fairy Glen; she wur very fond of that. And therewur the Swallow Falls; she wur very fond of them. And there wur aplace on the Beddgelert pathway, up from the Carnarvon road, abouttwo miles from Beddgelert. There is a great bit of rock there whereshe used to love to sit and look across towards Anglesey. And talkingabout that place reminds me, brother, that our people and theBoswells and a lot more are camped on the Carnarvon road just wherethe pathway up Snowdon begins. And I wur told yesterday by a'quaintance of mine as I seed outside the bungalow that daddy andVidey had joined them. Shouldn't we go and see 'em?' This exactly fitted in with the thoughts and projects that hadsuddenly come to me, and it was arranged that we should start for theencampment next morning. As we were leaving the bungalow the next day, I said to Sinfi, 'Youare not taking your crwth. ' 'Crwth! we sha'n't want that. ' 'Your people are very fond of music, you know. Your father is veryfond of a musical tea. ' 'So he is. I'll take it, ' said Sinfi. IV When we reached the camping-place on the Carnarvon road we found avery jolly party. Panuel had had some very successful dealings, andhe was slightly market-merry. He said to Videy, 'Make the tea, Vi, and let Sinfi hev' hern fust, so that she can play on the Welshfiddle while the rest on us are getting ourn. It'll seem jist likeChester Fair with Jim Burton scrapin' in the dancin' booth to heeland toe. ' Sinfi soon finished her tea, and began to play some merry dancingairs, which set Rhona Boswell's limbs twittering till she spilt hertea in her lap. Then, laughing at the catastrophe, she sprang upsaying, 'I'll dance myself dry, ' and began dancing on the sward. After tea was over the party got too boisterous for Sinfi's taste, and she said to me, 'Let's slip away, brother, and go up the pathway, and I'll show you Winnie's favourite place. ' This proposal met my wishes entirely, and under the pretence of goingto look at something on the Carnarvon road we managed to escape fromthe party, Sinfi still carrying her crwth and bow. She then led theway up a slope green with grass and moss. We did not talk till we hadpassed the slate quarry. The evening was so fine and the scene was so lovely that Sinfi's verybody seemed to drink it in and become intoxicated with beauty. Afterwe had left the slate quarries behind, the panorama became moreentrancing at every yard we walked. Cwellyn Lake and Valley, MoelHebog, y Garnedd, the glittering sea, Anglesey, Holyhead Hill, allseemed to be growing in gold and glory out of masses of sunset mist. When at last we reached the edge of a steep cliff, with the rockyforehead of Snowdon in front, and the shining llyns of Cwm y Clogwynbelow, Sinfi stopped. 'This is the place, ' said she, sitting down on a mossy mound, 'whereWinnie loved to come and look down. ' After Sinfi and I had sat on this mound for a few minutes, I askedher to sing and play one or two Welsh airs which I knew to beespecial favourites of hers, and then, with much hesitancy, I askedher to play and sing the same song or incantation which had becomeassociated for ever with my first morning on the hills. 'You mean the Welsh dukkerin' gillie, ' said Sinfi, looking, with anexpression that might have been either alarm or suspicion, into myface. 'Yes. ' 'You've been a-thinkin' all this while, brother, that I don't knowwhy you asked me about Winnie's favourite places on Snowdon, and whyyou wanted me to take my crwth to the camp. But I've been a-thinkin'about it, and I know now why you did, and I know why you wants me toplay the Welsh dukkerin' gillie here. It's because you heerd me saythat if I were to play that dukkerin' gillie on Snowdon in the placesshe was fond on, I could tell for sartin whether Winnie wur alive ordead. If she wur alive her livin' mullo 'ud follow the crwth. But Iain't a-goin' to do it. ' 'Why not, Sinfi?' 'Because my mammy used to say it ain't right to make use o' the realdukkerin' for Gorgios, and I've heerd her say that if them as had thereal dukkerin'--the dukkerin' for the Romanies--used it for theGorgios, or if they turned it into a sport and a plaything, it 'udleave 'em altogether. And that ain't the wust on it, for when thereal dukkerin' leaves you it turns into a kind of a cuss, and itbrings on the bite of the Romany Sap. [Footnote] Even now, Hal, Isometimes o' nights feels the bite here of the Romany Sap, ' pointingto her bosom, 'and it's all along o' you, Hal, it's all along o' you, because I seem to be breaking the promise about Gorgios I made to mypoor mammy. ' [Footnote: The Romany serpent, Conscience. ] 'The Romany Sap? You mean the Romany conscience, I suppose, Sinfi:you mean the trouble a Romany feels when he has broken the Romanylaws, when he has done wrong according to the Romany notions of rightand wrong. But you are innocent of all wrong-doing. ' 'I don't know nothin' about conscience, ' said she, 'I mean the RomanySap. Don't you mind when we was a-goin' up Snowdon arter Winifredthat mornin'? I told you as the rocks, an' the trees, an' the winds, an' the waters cuss us when we goes ag'in the Romany blood an' ag'inthe dukkerin' dook. The cuss that the rocks, an' the trees, an' thewinds, an' the waters makes, an' sends it out to bite the burk[Footnote] o' the Romany as does wrong--that's the Romany Sap. ' [Footnote: Breast. ] 'You mean conscience, Sinfi. ' 'No, I don't mean nothink o' the sort; the Romanies ain't got noconscience, an' if the Gorgios has, it's precious little good as itdoes 'em, as far as I can see. But the Romanies has got the RomanySap. Everything wrong as you does, such as killin' a Romany, orcheatin' a Romany, or playin' the lubbany with a Gorgio, or breakin'your oath to your mammy as is dead, or goin' ag'in the dukkerin'dook, an' sich like, every one o' these things turns into the RomanySap. ' 'You're speaking of conscience, Sinfi. ' 'Every one o' them wrong things as you does seems to make out o' theburk o' the airth a sap o' its own as has got its own perticklerstare, but allus it's a hungry sap, Hal, an' a sap wi' bloody fangs. An' it's a sap as follows the bad un's feet, Hal--follows the badun's feet wheresomever they goes; it's a sap as goes slippin' thro'the dews o' the grass on the brightest mornin', an' dodges round thetrees in the sweetest evenin', an' goes wriggle, wriggle across thebrook jis' when you wants to enjoy yourself, jis' when you wants tostay a bit on the steppin'-stuns to enjoy the sight o' the dearlittle minnows a-shootin' atween the water-creases. That's what theRomany Sap is. ' 'Don't talk like that, Sinfi, ' I said; 'you make me feel the sapmyself. ' 'It's a sap, Hal, as follows you everywheres, everywheres, till youfeel as you must stop an' face it whatever comes; an' stop you do atlast, an' turn round you must, an' bare your burk you must to thesharp teeth o' that air wenemous sap. ' 'Well, and what then, Sinfi?' 'Well then, when you ha' given up to the thing its fill o' yourblood, then the trees, an' the rocks, an' the winds, an' the watersseem to know, for everythink seems to begin smilin' ag'in, an' you'relet to go on your way till you do somethin' bad ag'in. That's theRomany Sap, Hal, an' I won't deny as I sometimes feel its bite prettyhard here' (pointing to her breast) 'when I thinks what I promised mypoor mammy, an' how I kep' my word to her, when I let a Gorgio comeunder our tents. ' [Footnote] [Footnote: To prevent misconceptions, it may be well to say that theparaphrase of Sinfi's description of the 'Romany Sap, ' which appearedin the writer's reminiscences of George Borrow, was written longafter the main portion of the present narrative. ] 'You don't mean, ' I said, 'that it is a real flesh-and-blood sap, buta sap that you think you see and feel. ' 'Hal, ' said Sinfi, 'a Romany's feelin's ain't like a Gorgio's. ARomany can feel the bite of a sap whether it's made o' flesh an'blood or not, and the Romany Sap's all the wuss for not bein' aflesh-and-blood sap, for it's a cuss hatched in the airth; it'severythink a-cussin' on ye--the airth, an' the sky, an' the dukkerin'dook. ' Her manner was so solemn, her grand simplicity was so pathetic, thatI felt I could not urge her to do what her conscience told her waswrong. But soon that which no persuasion of mine would have effectedthe grief and disappointment expressed by my face achieved. 'Hal, ' she said, 'I sometimes feel as if I'd bear the bite o' all theRomany saps as ever wur hatched to give you a little comfort. Besides, it's for a true Romany arter all--it's for myself quite asmuch as for you that I'm a-goin' to see whether Winnie is alive ordead. If she's dead we sha'n't see nothink, and perhaps if she's inone o' them fits o' hern we sha'n't see nothink; but if she's aliveand herself ag'in, I believe I shall see--p'raps we shall bothsee--her livin' mullo. ' She then drew the bow across the crwth. The instrument at firstseemed to chatter with her agitation. I waited in breathlesssuspense. At last there came clearly from her crwth the wild air Ihad already heard on Snowdon. Then the sound of the instrument ceasedsave for the drone of the two bottom strings, and Sinfi's voice leaptout and I heard the words of what she called the Welsh dukkeringgillie. As I listened and looked over the wide-stretching panorama before me, I felt my very flesh answering to every vibration; and when the songstopped and I suddenly heard Sinfi call out, 'Look, brother!' I feltthat my own being, physical and mental, had passed into a new phase, and that resistance to some mighty power governing my blood wasimpossible. 'Look straight afore you, brother, and you'll see Winnie's face. She's alive, brother, and the dukkeripen of the Golden Hand will cometrue, and mine will come true. Oh, mammy, mammy!' At first I saw nothing, but after a while two blue eyes seemed gazingat me as through a veil of evening haze. They were looking straightat me, those beloved eyes--they were sparkling with childishhappiness as they had sparkled through the vapours of the pool whenshe walked towards me that morning on the brink of Knockers' Llyn. Starting up and throwing up my arms, I cried, 'My darling!' Thevision vanished. Then turning round, I looked at Sinfi. She seemedlistening to a voice I could not hear--her face was pale withemotion. I could hear her breath coming and going heavily; her bosomrose and fell, and the necklace of coral and gold coins around herthroat trembled like a shuddering snake while she murmured, 'Mydukkeripen! Yes, mammy, I've gone ag'in you and broke my promise, and this is the very Gorgio as you meant. ' 'Call the vision back, ' I said; 'play the air again, dear Sinfi. ' She sprang in front of me, and seizing one of my wrists, she gazed inmy face, and said, 'Yes, it's "dear Sinfi"! You wants dear Sinfi tofiddle the Gorgie's livin' mullo back to you. ' I looked into the dark eyes, lately so kind. I did not know them. They were dilated and grown red-brown in hue, like the scorchedcolour of a North African lion's mane, and along the eyelashes aphosphorescent light seemed to play. What did it mean? Was it indeedSinfi standing there, rigid as a column, with a clenched brown fistdrawn up to the broad, heaving breast, till the knuckles shone white, as if about to strike me? What made her throw out her arms as ifstruggling desperately with the air, or with some unseen foe who wasbinding her with chains? I stood astounded, watching her, as she gradually calmed down andbecame herself again; but I was deeply perplexed and deeply troubled. After a while she said, 'Let's go back to "the Place, "' and withoutwaiting for my acquiescence, she strode along down the path towardsBeddgelert. I was quickly by her side, but felt as little in the mood for talkingas she did. Suddenly a small lizard glided from the grass. 'The Romany Sap!' cried Sinfi, and she--the fearless woman beforewhom the stoutest Gypsy men had quailed--sobbed wildly in terror. Shesoon recovered herself, and said: 'What a fool you must think me, Hal! It wur all through talkin' about the Romany Sap. At fust Ithought it wur the Romany Sap itself, an' it wur only a poor littleeffet arter all. There ain't a-many things made o' flesh and blood ascan make Sinfi Lovell show the white feather; but I know you'll thinkthe wuss o' me arter this, Hal. But while the pictur were a-showin' Iheard my dear mammy's whisper: "Little Sinfi, little Sinfi, beware o'Gorgios! This is the one. "' V By the time we reached the encampment it was quite dark. Panuel, andindeed most of the Gypsies, had turned into the tents for the night;but both Videy Lovell and Rhona Boswell were moving about as brisklyas though the time was early morning, one with guile expressed inevery feature, the other shedding that aura of frankness and sweetwinsomeness which enslaved Percy Aylwin, and no wonder. Rhona was in a specially playful mood, and came dancing round us morelike a child of six than a young woman with a Romany Rye for a lover. But neither Sinfi nor I was in the mood for frolic. My living-waggon, which still went about wherever the Lovells went, had been carefullyprepared for me by Rhona, and I at once went into it, not with theidea of getting much sleep, but in order to be alone with mythoughts. What was I to think of my experiences of that evening? WasI really to take the spectacle that had seemed to fall upon my eyeswhen listening to Sinfi's crwth, or rather when listening to hersong, as evidence that Winifred was alive? Oh, if I could, if Icould! Was I really to accept as true this fantastic superstitionabout the crwth and the spirits of Snowdon and the 'living mullo'?That was too monstrous a thought even for me to entertain. Notwithstanding all that had passed in the long and dire strugglebetween my reason and the mysticism inherited with the blood of twolines of superstitious ancestors, which circumstances had conspiredto foster, my reason had only been baffled and thwarted; it had notreally been slain. What, then, could be the explanation of the spectacle that had seemedto fall upon my eyes? 'It is hallucination, ' I said, 'and it is theresult of two very powerful causes--my own strong imagination, excited to a state of feverish exaltation by the long strain of mysuffering, and that power in Sinfi which D'Arcy had described as her"half-unconscious power as a mesmerist. " At a moment when my will, weakened by sorrow and pain, lay prostrate beneath my own feveredimagination, Sinfi's voice, so full of intense belief in her ownhallucination, had leapt, as it were, into my consciousness andenslaved my imagination, which in turn had enslaved my will and mysenses. ' For hours I argued this point with myself, and I ended by comingto the conclusion that it was 'my mind's eye' alone that saw thepicture of Winifred. But there was also another question to confront. What was the causeof Sinfi's astonishing emotion after the vision vanished? Such amingling of warring passions I had never seen before. I tried toaccount for it. I thought about it for hours, and finally fellasleep without finding any solution of the enigma. I had no conversation of a private nature with Sinfi until the nextevening, when the camp was on the move. 'You had no sleep last night, Sinfi; I can see it by the dark circlesround your eyes. ' 'That's nuther here nor there, brother, ' she said. I found to my surprise that the Gypsies were preparing to remove thecamp to a place not far from Bettws y Coed. I suggested to Sinfi thatwe two should return to the bungalow. But she told me that her staythere had come to an end. The firmness with which she made thisannouncement made me sure that there was no appeal. 'Then, ' said I, 'my living-waggon will come into use again. Thecamping place is near some of the best trout streams in theneighbourhood, and I sadly want some trout-fishing. ' 'We part company to-day, brother, ' she said. 'We can't be pals nomore--never no more. ' 'Sister, I will not be parted from you: I shall follow you. ' 'Reia--Hal Aylwin--you knows very well that any man, Gorgio orRomany, as followed Sinfi Lovell when she told him not, 'ud ketcha body-blow as wouldn't leave him three hull ribs, nor a ounce o'wind to bless hisself with. ' 'But I am now one of the Lovells, and I shall go with you. I am aRomany myself--I mean I am becoming more and more of a Romany everyday and every hour. The blood of Fenella Stanley is in us both. ' She looked at me, evidently astonished at the earnestness and theenergy of my tone. Indeed at that moment I felt an alien amongGorgios. 'I am now one of the Lovells, ' I said, 'and I shall go with you. ' 'We part company to-night, brother, fare ye well, ' she said. As she stood delivering this speech--her head erect, her eyesflashing angrily at me, her brown fists tightly clenched, I knew thatfurther resistance would be futile. 'But now I wants to be left alone, ' she said. She bent her head forward in a listening attitude, and I heard hermurmur, 'I knowed it 'ud come ag'in. A Romany sperrit likes to comeup in the evenin' and smell the heather an' see the shinin' starscome out. ' While she was speaking, she began to move off between the trees. Butshe turned, took hold of both my hands, and gazed into my eyes. Thenshe moved away again, and I was beginning to follow her. She turnedand said: 'Don't follow me. There ain't no place for ye among theRomanies. Go the ways o' the Gorgios, Hal Aylwin, an' let SinfiLovell go hern. ' As I leaned against a tree and watched Sinfi striding through thegrass till she passed out of sight, the entire panorama of my lifepassed before me. 'She has left me with a blessing after all, ' I said; 'my poor Sinfihas taught me the lesson that he who would fain be cured of thedisease of a wasting sorrow must burn to ashes Memory. He must fleeMemory and never look back. ' VI And did I flee Memory? When I re-entered the bungalow next day it wasmy intention to leave it and Wales at once and for ever, and indeedto leave England at once--perhaps for ever, in order to escape fromthe unmanning effect of the sorrowful brooding which I knew hadbecome a habit. 'I will now, ' I said, 'try the nepenthe that all myfriends in their letters are urging me to try--I will travel. Yes, Iwill go to Japan. My late experiences should teach me that Ja'afar's"Angel of Memory, " who refashioned for him his dead wife out of hisown sorrow and tears, did him an ill service. He who would fain becured of the disease of a wasting sorrow should try to flee the"Angel of Memory, " and never look back. ' And so fixed was my mind upon travelling that I wrote to several ofmy friends, and told them of my intention. But I need scarcely saythat as I urged them to keep the matter secret it was talked aboutfar and wide. Indeed, as I afterwards found to my cost, there wereparagraphs in the newspapers stating that the eccentric amateurpainter and heir of one branch of the Aylwins had at last gone toJapan, and that as his deep interest in a certain charming beauty ofan un-English type was proverbial, it was expected that he wouldreturn with a Japanese, or perhaps a Chinese wife. But I did not go to Japan; and what prevented me? My reason told me that what I had just seen near Beddgelert was anoptical illusion. I had become very learned on the subject of opticalillusions ever since I had known Sinfi Lovell, and especially since Ihad seen that picture of Winnie in the water near Bettws y Coed, which I have described in an earlier chapter. Every book I could getupon optical illusions I had read, and I was astonished to find howmany instances are on record of illusions of a much more powerfulkind than mine. And yet I could not leave Snowdon. The mountain's very breath grewsweeter and sweeter of Winnie's lips. As I walked about the hills Ifound myself repeating over and over again one of the verses whichWinnie used to sing to me as a child at Raxton. Eryri fynyddig i mi, Bro dawel y delyn yw, Lle mae'r defaid a'r wyn, Yn y mwswg a'r brwyn, Am cân inau'n esgyn i fyny, A'r gareg yn ateb i fyny, i fyny, O'r lle bu'r eryrod yn byw. [Footnote] [Footnote: Mountain-wild Snowdon for me! Sweet silence there for the harp, Where loiter the ewes and the lambs, In the moss and the rushes, Where one's song goes sounding up And the rocks re-echo it higher and higher In the height where the eagles live. ] But then I felt that Sinfi was the mere instrument of the mysteriousmagic of y Wyddfa, that magic which no other mountain in Europeexercises. I knew that among all the Gypsies Sinfi was almost theonly one who possessed that power which belonged once to her race, that power which is expressed in a Scottish word now universallymisused, 'glamour, ' the power which Johnnie Faa and his peoplebrought into play when they abducted Lady Casilis. Soon as they saw her well-faured face They cast the glamour oure her. 'Yes, ' I said, 'I am convinced that my illusion is the result of twocauses, my own brooding over Winnie's tragedy and the glamour thatSinfi sheds around her, either consciously or unconsciously; thatimperious imagination of hers which projects her own visions upon thesenses of another person either with or without an exercise of herown will. This is the explanation, I am convinced. ' Wheresoever I now went, Snowdon's message to my heart was, 'Shelives, ' and my heart accepted the message. And then the new blessedfeeling that Winnie was not lying in a pauper grave had an effectupon me that a few who read these pages will understand--only a few. Perhaps, indeed, even those I am thinking of, those who, having lostthe one being they loved, feel that the earth has lost all itsbeauty--perhaps even these may not be able to sympathise fully withme in this matter, never having had an experience remotely comparablewith mine. When I thought of Winifred lying at the bottom of some chasm inSnowdon, my grief was very great, as these pages show. Yet it was notintolerable; it did not threaten to unseat my reason, for even then, when I knew so little of the magic of y Wyddfa, I felt how close wasthe connection between my darling and the hills that knew her andloved her. But during the time that her death, amidst surroundingstoo appalling to contemplate, hung before my eyes in a dreadfulpicture--during the time when it seemed certain that her death in agarret, her burial in a pauper pit six coffins deep, was a hideoustruth and no fancy, all the beauty with which Nature seemed at onetime clothed was wiped away as by a sponge. The earth was nothingmore than a charnel-house, the skies above it were the roof of thePalace of Nin-ki-gal. But now that Snowdon had spoken to me, the oldlife which had formerly made the world so beautiful and so belovedcame back. All nature seemed rich and glowing with the deep expectance of myheart. The sunrise and the sunset seemed conscious of Winnie, and thevery birds seemed to be warbling at times 'She's alive. ' I think, indeed, that I had passed into that sufistic ecstasyexpressed by a writer often quoted by my father, an Oriental writer, Ferridoddin-- With love I burn: the centre is within me; While in a circle everywhere around me Its Wonder lies-- that exalted mood, I mean, described in the great chapter on theRenascence of Wonder which forms the very core and heart-thought ofthe strange book so strangely destined to govern the entire drama ofmy life, _The Veiled Queen_. The very words of the opening of that chapter came to me: 'The omnipotence of love--its power of knitting together the entireuniverse--is, of course, best understood by the Oriental mind. Justafter the loss of my dear wife I wrote the following poem called "TheBedouin Child, " dealing with the strange feeling among the Bedouinsabout girl children, and I translated it into Arabic. Among theseBedouins a father in enumerating his children never counts hisdaughters, because a daughter is considered a disgrace. 'Ilyàs the prophet, lingering 'neath the moon, Heard from a tent a child's heart-withering wail, Mixt with the message of the nightingale, And, entering, found, sunk in mysterious swoon, A little maiden dreaming there alone. She babbled of her father sitting pale 'Neath wings of Death--'mid sights of sorrow and bale, And pleaded for his life in piteous tone. '"Poor child, plead on, " the succouring prophet saith, While she, with eager lips, like one who tries To kiss a dream, stretches her arms and cries To Heaven for help--"Plead on; such pure love-breath, Beaching the Throne, might stay the wings of Death That, in the Desert, fan thy father's eyes. " 'The drouth-slain camels lie on every hand; Seven sons await the morning vultures' claws; 'Mid empty water-skins and camel maws The father sits, the last of all the band. He mutters, drowsing o'er the moonlit sand, "Sleep fans my brow: sleep makes us all pashas; Or, if the wings are Death's, why Azraeel draws A childless father from an empty land. " '"Nay, " saith a Voice, "the wind of Azraeel's wings A child's sweet breath has stilled: so God decrees:" A camel's bell comes tinkling on the breeze. Filling the Bedouin's brain with bubble of springs And scent of flowers and shadow of wavering trees, Where, from a tent, a little maiden sings. 'Between this reading of Nature, which makes her but "the superficialfilm" of the immensity of God, and that which finds a mystic heart oflove and beauty beating within the bosom of Nature herself, I know noreal difference. Sufism, in some form or another, could not possiblybe confined to Asia. The Greeks, though strangers to the mysticelement of that Beauty-worship which in Asia became afterwardssufism, could not have exhibited a passion for concrete beauty suchas theirs without feeling that, deeper than Tartarus, stronger thanDestiny and Death, the great heart of Nature is beating to the tuneof universal love and beauty. ' This was followed by a still more mystical poem called 'The PersianSlave Girl's Progress to Paradise, ' showing the Omnipotence of Love. [Footnote] [Footnote: This poem of Philip Aylwin's appears now in the presentwriter's volume, _The Coming of Love_. ] XIV SINFI'S COUP DE THÉÂTRE I Weeks passed by. I visited all the scenes that were in the leastdegree associated with Winnie. The two places nearest to me--Fairy Glen and the Swallow Falls--whichI had always hitherto avoided on account of their being thefavourite haunts of tourists--I left to the last, because Ispecially desired to see them by moonlight. With regard to FairyGlen, I had often heard Winnie say how she used to go there bymoonlight and imagine the Tylwyth Teg or the fairy scenes of the_Midsummer Night's Dream_ which I had told her of long ago--imaginethem so vividly that she could actually see, on a certain projectingrock in the cliffs that enclose the dell, the figure of Titaniadressed in green, with a wreath of leaves round her head. And withregard to the Swallow Falls, I remembered only too well her tellingme, on the night of the landslip, the Welsh legend of Sir John Wynn, who died in the seventeenth century, and whose ghost, imprisoned atthe bottom of the Falls on account of his ill deeds in the flesh, washeard to shriek amid the din of the waters. On that fatal night shetold me that on certain rare occasions, when the moon shines straightdown the chasm, the wail will become an agonised shriek. I had oftenwondered what natural sound this was which could afford such pabulumto my old foe, Superstition. So one night, when the moon was shiningbrilliantly--so brilliantly that the light seemed very littlefeebler than that of day--I walked in the direction of the SwallowFalls. Being afraid that I should not get much privacy at the Falls, Istarted late. But I came upon only three or four people on the road. I had forgotten that my own passion for moonlight was entirely aRomany inheritance. I had forgotten that a family of Englishtourists will carefully pull down the blinds and close the shutters, in order to enjoy the luxury of candlelight, lamp-light, or gas, when a Romany will throw wide open the tent's mouth to enjoy thelight he loves most of all--'chonesko dood, ' as he calls themoonlight. As I approached the Swallow Falls Hotel, I lingered tolet my fancy feast in anticipation on the lovely spectacle thatawaited me. When I turned into the wood I encountered only oneperson, a lady, and she hurried back to the hotel as soon as Iapproached the river. Following the slippery path as far as it led down the dell, Istopped at the brink of a pool about a dozen yards, apparently, from the bottom, and looked up at the water. Bursting like a vastbelt of molten silver out of an eerie wilderness of rocks and trees, the stream, as it tumbled down between high walls of cliff to theplatform of projecting rocks around the pool at the edge of which Istood, divided into three torrents, which themselves were againdivided and scattered by projecting boulders into cascades beforethey fell into the gulf below. The whole seemed one wide cataract ofliving moonlight that made the eyes ache with beauty. Amid the din of the water I listened for the wail which had so deeplyimpressed Winifred, and certainly there was what may be described asa sound within a sound, which ears so attuned to every note ofSuperstition's gamut as Winifred's might easily accept as the wail ofSir John Wynn's ghost. There was no footpath down to the bottom, but I descended without anygreat difficulty, though I was now soaked in spray. Here themysterious human sound seemed to be less perceptible amid the din ofthe torrent than from the platform where I had stayed to listen toit. But when I climbed up again to the spot by the mid-pool where Ihad originally stood, a strange sensation came to me. My recollectionof Winnie's words on the night of the landslip came upon me with suchovermastering power that the noise of the cataract seemed changed tothe sound of billows tumbling on Raxton sands, and the 'wail' of SirJohn Wynn seemed changed to that shriek from Raxton cliff whichappalled Winnie as it appalled me. The following night I passed into a moonlight as bright as that whichhad played me such fantastic tricks at the Swallow Falls. It was not until I had crossed the bridge over the Conway, and wasturning to the right in the direction of Fairy Glen, that I fullyrealised how romantic the moonlight was. Every wooded hill and everyprecipice, whether craggy and bald or feathered with pines, wasbathed in light that would have made an Irish bog, or an Essex marsh, or an Isle of Ely fen, a land of poetry. When I reached Pont Llyn-yr-Afange (Beaver Pool Bridge) I lingered tolook down the lovely lane on the left, through which I was to pass inorder to reach the rocky dell of Fairy Glen, for it was perfumed, notwith the breath of the flowers now asleep, but with the perfume Ilove most of all, the night's floating memory of the flowery breathof day. Suddenly I felt some one touching my elbow. I turned round. It wasRhona Boswell. I was amazed to see her, for I thought that all myGypsy friends, Boswells, Lovells, and the rest, were still attendingthe horse-fairs in the Midlands and Eastern Counties. 'We've only just got here, ' said Rhona; 'wussur luck that we got hereat all. I wants to get back to dear Gypsy Dell and Rington Wood;that's what I wants to do. ' 'Where is the camp?' I asked. 'Same place, twix Bettws and Capel Curig. ' She had been to the bungalow, she told me, with a message from Sinfi. This message was that she particularly wished to meet me at Mrs. Davies's cottage--'not at the bungalow'--on the following night. 'She'll go there to-morrow mornin', ' said Rhona, 'and make thingstidy for you; but she won't expect you till night, same time as shemet you there fust. She's got a key o' the door, she says, wot yougev her. ' I was not so surprised at Sinfi's proposed place of meeting as Ishould have been had I not remembered her resolution not to returnto the bungalow, and not to let me return to the camp. 'You must be sure to go to meet her at the cottage to-morrow night, else you'll be too late. ' 'Why too late?' I asked. 'Well, ' said Rhona, 'I can't say as I knows why ezackly. ButI know she's bin' an' bought beautiful dresses at Chester, orsomewheres, --an' I think she's goin' to be married the day arterto-morrow. ' 'Married to whom?' 'Well, I can't say as I rightly knows, ' said Rhona. 'Do you know whether Mr. Cyril is in Wales?' I asked. 'Yes, ' said Rhona, 'him and the funny un are not far from CapelCurig. Now I come to think on't, it's mose likely Mr. Cyril as she'sa-goin' to marry, for I know it ain't no Romany chal. It _can't_ bethe funny un, ' added she, laughing. 'But where's the wedding to take place?' 'I can't say as I knows ezackly, ' said Rhona; 'but I thinks it's byKnockers' Llyn if it ain't on the top o' Snowdon. ' 'Good heavens, girl!' I said. 'What on earth makes you think that?That pretty little head of yours is stuffed with the wildestnonsense. I ran make nothing out of you, so good-night. Tell her I'llbe there. ' And I was leaving her to walk down the lane when I turned back andsaid, 'How long has Sinfi been at the camp?' 'On'y jist come. She's bin away from us for a long while, ' saidRhona. And then she looked as if she was tempted to reveal some secret thatshe was bound not to tell. 'Sinfi's been very bad, ' she went on, 'but she's better now. Herdaddy says she's under a cuss. She's been a-wastin' away like, butshe's better now. ' 'So it's Sinfi who is under a curse now, ' I said to myself. 'Isuppose Superstition has at last turned her brain. This perhapsexplains Rhona's mad story. ' 'Does anybody but you think she's going to be married?' I asked her. 'Does her father think so?' 'Her daddy says it ain't Sinfi as is goin' to be married; but I thinkit's Sinfi! An' you'll know all about it the day arter to-morrow. 'And she tripped away in the direction of the camp. Lost in a whirl of thoughts and speculations, I turned into FairyGlen. And now, below me, lay the rocky dell so dearly beloved byWinnie; and there I walked in such a magic web of light and shade ascan only be seen in that glen when the moon hangs over it in acertain position. I descended the steps to the stream and sat down for a time on oneof the great boulders and asked myself if this was the very boulderon which Winnie used to sit when she conjured up her childishvisions of fairyland. And by that sweet thought the beauty of thescene became intensified. There, while the unbroken torrent ofthe Conway--glittering along the narrow gorge of the glen betweensilvered walls of rock as upright as the turreted bastions of acastle--seemed to flash a kind of phosphorescent light of its ownupon the flowers and plants and sparsely scattered trees along thesides, I sat and passed into Winifred's own dream, and the TylwythTeg, which to Winnie represented Oberon and Titania and the wholegroup of fairies, swept before me. Awaking from this dream, I looked up the wall of the cliff to enjoyone more sight of the magical beauty, when there fell upon my eyes, or seemed to fall, a sight that, though I felt it must be a delusion, took away my breath. Standing on a piece of rock that was flush withone of the steps by which I had descended was a slender girlishfigure, so lissom that it might have been the famous 'Queen of theFair People. ' 'Never, ' I said to myself, 'was there an optical illusion so perfect. I can see the moonlight playing upon her hair. But the hair is notgolden, as the hair of the Queen of the Tylwyth Teg should be; it isdark as Winnie's own. ' Then the face turned and she looked at the river, and then Iexclaimed 'Winifred!' And then Fairy Glen vanished and I was atRaxton standing by a cottage door in the moonlight. I was listeningto a voice--that one voice to whose music every chord of life withinme was set for ever, which said, 'I should have to come in the winds, and play around you on thesands. I should have to peep over the clouds and watch you. I shouldhave to follow you about wherever you went. ' The sight vanished. Although I had no doubt that what I had seen wasan hallucination, when I moved farther on and stood and gazed at thestream as it went winding round the mossy cliffs to join the Lledr, Ifelt that Winnie was by my side, her hand in mine, and that we werechildren together. And when I mounted the steps and strolled alongthe path that leads to the plantation where the moonlight, fallingthrough the leaves, covered the ground with what seemed symbolicalarabesques of silver and grey and purple, I felt the pressure oflittle fingers that seemed to express 'How beautiful!' And when Istood gazing through the opening in the landscape, and saw the rocksgleaming in the distance and the water down the Lledr valley, I sawthe sweet young face gazing in mine with the smile of the delightthat illumined it on the Wilderness Road when she discoursed of birdsand the wind. The vividness of the vision of Fairy Glen drove out for a time allother thoughts. The livelong night my brain seemed filled with it. 'My eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest, ' I said to myself as I lay awake. So full, indeed, was my mind of thisone subject that even Rhona's strange message from Sinfi was onlyrecalled at intervals. While I was breakfasting, however, thisincident came fully back to me. Either Rhona's chatter about Sinfi'sreason for wanting to see me was the nonsense that had floated intoRhona's own brain, the brain of a love-sick girl to whom everythingspelt marriage--or else poor Sinfi's mind had become unhinged. II As I was to sleep at the cottage, and as I knew not what part I mighthave to play in Sinfi's wild frolic, I told the servants that anyletters which might reach the bungalow next morning were to be sentat once to the cottage, should I not have returned thence. At about the hour, as far as I could guess, when I had first knockedat the cottage door at the beginning of my search for Winnie, I stoodthere again. The door was on the latch. I pushed it open. The scene I then saw was so exact a repetition of what had met myeyes when for the first time I passed under that roof, that it didnot seem as though it could be real; it seemed as though it must be afreak of memory: the same long low room, the same heavy beams acrossthe ceiling, the same three chairs, standing in the same places wherethey stood then, the same table, and upon it the crwth and bow. Therewas a brisk fire, and over it hung the kettle--the same kettle asthen. There were on the walls the same pictures, with the ruddyfingers of the fire-gleam playing upon them and illuminating them inthe same pathetic way, and in front of the fire sitting upon the samechair, was a youthful female figure--not Winnie's figure, taller thanhers, and grander than hers--the figure of Sinfi, her elbows restingupon her knees, and her face sunk meditatively between her hands. After standing for fully half a minute gazing at her, I went up toher, and laying my hand upon her shoulder, I said, 'This is a goodsight for the Swimming Rei, Sinfi. ' At the touch of my hand a thrill seemed to dart through her frame;she leaped up and stared wildly in my face. Her features becamecontorted by terror--as horribly contorted as Winnie's had been inthe same spot and under the same circumstances. Exactly the sameterrible words fell upon my ear:-- 'Let his children be vagabonds and beg their bread: let them seek italso out of desolate places. So saith the Lord. Amen. ' Then she fell on the floor insensible. At first I was too astonished, awed, and bewildered to stir from thespot where I was standing. Then I knelt down, and raising hershoulders, placed her head on my knee. For a time the expression ofhorror on her pale features was fixed as though graven in marble. Ajug of water, from which the kettle had been supplied, stood on thefloor in the recess. I sprinkled some water over her face. Themuscles relaxed, she opened her eyes; the seizure had passed. Sherecognised me, and at once the old brave smile I knew so well passedover her face. Rhona's words about the curse and the purchase of thedresses seemed explained now. Long brooding over Winnie's terriblefate had unhinged her mind. 'My girl, my brave girl, ' I said, 'have you, then, felt our sorrow sodeeply? Have you so fully shared poor Winnie's pain that your nerveshave given way at last? You are suffering through sympathy, Sinfi;you are suffering poor Winnie's great martyrdom. ' 'Oh, it ain't that!' she said, 'but how I must have skeared you!' She got up and sat upon the chair in a much more vigorous way than Icould have expected after such a seizure. 'I am so sorry, ' she said. 'It was the sudden feel o' your hand on myshoulder that done it. It seemed to burn me like, and then it made myblood seem scaldin' hot. If I'd only 'a' seed you come through thedoor I shouldn't have had the fit. The doctor told me the fits wurall gone now, and I feel sure as this is the last on 'em. You must goto Knockers' Llyn with me to-morrow mornin' early. I want you to goat the same time that we started when we tried that mornin' to findWinnie. ' 'Then Rhona's story is true, ' I thought. 'Her delusion is that she isgoing to Knockers' Llyn to be married. ' 'The weather's goin' to be just the same as it was then, ' she said, 'and when we get to Knockers' Llyn where you two breakfastedtogether, I want to play the crwth and sing the song just as I didthen. ' She made no allusion to a wedding. Getting up and pouring the boilingwater from the kettle into the teapot, 'Something tells me, ' she wenton, 'that when I touch my crwth to-morrow, and when I sing them wordsby the side of Knockers' Llyn, you'll see the picture you want tosee, the livin' mullo o' Winnie. ' 'Still no allusion to a wedding, but no doubt that will soon come, ' Imurmured. 'I want to go the same way we went that day, and I want for you andme to see everythink as we seed it then from fust to last. ' I was haunted by Rhona Boswell's words, and wondered when she wouldbegin talking about the wedding at Knockers' Llyn. She never once alluded to it; but at intervals when the talk betweenus flagged I could hear her muttering, 'He must see everythink justas he seed it then from fust to last, and then it's good-bye forever. ' At last she said, 'I've had both the rooms upstairs made tidy tosleep in--one for you and one for me. I'll call you in the mornin' atthe proper time. Goodnight. ' I was not sorry to get this summary dismissal and be alone with mythoughts. When I got to bed I was kept awake by recalling the sight Isaw on entering the cottage. There seemed no other explanation of itthan this, the tragedy of Winifred had touched Sinfi's sympatheticsoul too deeply. Her imagination had seized upon the spectacle ofWinifred in one of her fits, and had caused so serious a disturbanceof her nervous system that through sheer fascination of repulsion herface mimicked it exactly as Winifred's face had mimicked the originalspectacle of horror on the sands. III It was not yet dawn when I was aroused from the fitful slumber intowhich I had at last fallen by a sharp knocking at the door. When Ianswered the summons by 'All right, Sinfi, ' and heard her footstepsdescend the stairs, the words of Rhona Boswell again came to me. I found that I must return to the bungalow to get my bath. The startled servant who let me in asked if there was anything thematter. I explained my early rising by telling him that I was merelygoing to Knockers' Llyn to see the sunrise. He gave me a letter whichhad come on the previous evening, and had been addressed by mistaketo Carnarvon. As the handwriting was new to me, I felt sure that itwas only an unimportant missive from some stranger, and I put it intomy pocket without opening it. On my return I found Sinfi in the little room where we had supped. Iguessed that an essential part of her crazy project was that weshould breakfast at the llyn. On the table was a basket filled with the materials for thebreakfast. Another breakfast was spread for us two on the table, and the teapotwas steaming. Sinfi saw me look at the two breakfasts and smile. 'We've got a good way to walk before we get to the pool where we aregoin' to breakfast, ' she said, 'so I thought we'd take a snack beforewe start. ' As we went along I noticed that the air of Snowdon seemed to have itsusual effect on Sinfi. In taking the path that led to Knockers' Llynwe saw before us Cwm-Dyli, the wildest of all the Snowdonianrecesses, surrounded by frowning precipices of great height andsteepness. We then walked briskly on towards our goal. When the threepeaks that she knew so well--y Wyddfa, Lliwedd, and Crib Goch--stoodout in the still grey light she stopped, set down her basket, clappedher hands, and said, 'Didn't I tell you the mornin' was a-goin' to beezackly the same as then? No mists to-day. By the time we get to thellyn the colours o' the vapours, what they calls the Knockers' flags, will come out ezackly as they did that mornin' when you and me firstwent arter Winnie. ' All the way Sinfi's eyes were fixed on the majestic forehead of yWyddfa and the bastions of Lliwedd which seemed to guard it as thoughthe Great Spirit of Snowdon himself was speaking to her and drawingher on, and she kept murmuring 'The two dukkeripens. ' But still she said nothing about her wedding, though that some suchmad idea as that suggested by Rhona possessed her mind was manifestenough. 'Here we are at last, ' she said, when we reached the pool for whichwe were bound; and setting down her little basket she stood andlooked over to the valley beneath. The colours were coming more quickly every minute, and the entirepicture was exactly the same as that which I had seen on the morningwhen we last saw Winifred on the hills, so unlike the misty panoramathat Snowdon usually presents. Y Wyddfa was silhouetted against thesky, and looked as narrow and as steep as the sides of an acorn. Herewe halted and set down our basket. As we did so she said, 'Hark! the Knockers! Don't you hear them?Listen, listen!' I did listen, and I seemed to hear a peculiar sound as of a distantknocking against the rocks by some soft substance. She saw that Iheard the noise. 'That's the Snowdon spirits as guards more copper mines than everyet's been found. And they're dwarfs. I've seed 'em, and Winnie has. They're little, fat, short folk, somethin' like the woman in PrimroseCourt, only littler. Don't you mind the gal in the court said Winnieused to call the woman Knocker? Sometimes they knock to show to someTaffy as has pleased 'em where the veins of copper may be found, andsometimes they knock to give warnin' of a dangerous precipuss, andsometimes they knock to give the person as is talkin' warnin' thathe's sayin' or doin' somethin' as may lead to danger. They speaks toeach other too, but in a v'ice so low that you can't tell what wordsthey're a-speakin', even if you knew their language. My crwth andsong will rouse every spirit on the hills. ' I listened again. This was the mysterious sound that had socaptivated Winnie's imagination as a child. The extraordinary lustre of Sinfi's eyes indicated to me, who knewthem so well, that every nerve, every fibre in her system, wastrembling under the stress of some intense emotion. I stood andwatched her, wondering as to her condition, and speculating as towhat her crazy project could be. Then she proceeded to unpack the little basket. 'This is for the love-feast, ' said Sinfi. 'You mean betrothal feast, ' I said. 'But who are the lovers?' 'You and the livin' mullo that you made me draw for you by my crwthdown by Beddgelert--the livin' mullo o' Winnie Wynne. ' 'At last then, ' I said to myself, 'I know the form the mania hastaken. It is not her own betrothal, but mine with Winnie's wraith, that is deluding her crazy brain. How well I remember telling her howI had promised Winnie as a child to be betrothed by Knockers' Llyn. Poor Sinfi! Mad or sane, her generosity remains undimmed. ' Before the breakfast cloth could be laid--indeed before the basketwas unpacked--she asked me to look at my watch, and on my doing soand telling her the time, she jumped up and said, 'It's later than Ithought. We must lay the cloth arterwards. ' She then placed me inthat same crevice overlooking the tarn whence Winnie had come to meon that morning. Knockers' Llyn, it will perhaps be remembered, is enclosed in alittle gorge opening by a broken, ragged fissure at the back to theeast. Leading to this opening there is on one side a narrow, jaggedshelf which runs half-way round the pool. Sinfi's movements now werean exact repetition of everything she did on that first morning ofour search for Winnie. While I stood partially concealed in my crevice, Sinfi took up hercrwth, which was lying on the rock. 'What are you going; to do, Sinfi?' I said. 'I'm just goin' to bring back old times for you. You remember thatmornin' when my crwth and song called Winnie to us at this very llyn?I'm goin' to play on my crwth and sing the same song now. It's todraw her livin' mullo, as I did at Bettws and Beddgelert, so that thedukkeripen of the "Golden Hand" may come true. ' 'But how can it come true, Sinfi?' I said. 'The dukkeripen allus does come true, whether it's good or whetherit's bad. ' 'Not always, ' I said. 'No, not allus, ' she cried, starting up, while there came over herface that expression which had so amazed me at Beddgelert. When atlast breath came to her she was looking towards y Wyddfa through thekindling haze. 'There you're right, Hal Aylwin. It ain't every dukkeripen as comestrue. The dukkeripen allus comes true, unless it's one as says aGorgio shall come to the Kaulo Camloes an' break Sinfi Lovell'sheart. Before that dukkeripen shall come true Sinfi Lovell 'ud cuther heart out. Yes, my fine Gorgio, she'd cut it out--she'd cut itout and fling it in that 'ere llyn. She did cut it out when she tookthe cuss on herself. She's a-cuttin' it out now. ' Then without saying another word Sinfi took up her crwth and movedtowards the llyn. 'You'll soon come back, Sinfi?' I said. 'We've got to see about that, ' she replied, still pale and tremblingfrom the effects of that sudden upheaval of the passion of aTitaness. 'If the livin' mullo does come you can't have a love-feastwithout company, you know, and I sha'n't be far off if you find youwant me. ' She then took up her crwth, went round the llyn, and disappearedthrough the eastern cleft. In a few minutes I heard her crwth. Butthe air she played was not the air of the song she called the 'Welshdukkerin' gillie' which I had heard by Beddgelert. It was the air ofthe same idyll of Snowdon that I first beard Winifred sing on thesands of Raxton. Then I heard in the distance those echoes, magicaland faint, which were attributed by Winifred and Sinfi to theKnockers or spirits of Snowdon. IV There I stood again, as on that other morning, in the creviceoverlooking the same llyn, looking at what might well have been thesame masses of vapour enveloping the same peaks, rolling as then, boiling as then, blazing as then, whenever the bright shafts ofmorning struck them. There I stood again, listening to the wild notesof Sinfi's crwth in the distance, as the sun rose higher, pouring aradiance through the eastern gate of the gorge, and kindling theaerial vapours moving about the llyn till their iridescent sailssuggested the wings of some enormous dragon-fly of every hue. 'Her song does not come, ' I said, 'but, this time, when it does come, it will not befool my senses. Sinfi's own presence by my side--thatmagnetism of hers which D'Arcy spoke of--would be required before theglamour could be cast over me, now that I know she is crazy. PoorSinfi! Her influence will not to-day be able to cajole my eyes intoaccepting her superstitious visions as their own. ' But as I spoke a sound fell, not upon my ears alone, but upon everynerve of my body, the sound of a voice singing, a voice that was notSinfi's, but another's, 'I met in a glade a lone little maid, At the foot of y Wyddfa the white; Oh, lissom her feet as the mountain hind, And darker her hair than the night; Her cheek was like the mountain rose, But fairer far to see. As driving along her sheep with a song, Down from the hills came she. ' It was the same voice that I heard singing the same song on RaxtonSands. It was the same voice that I heard singing the same song inthe London streets--Winnie's! And then there appeared in the eastern cleft of the gorge on theother side of the llyn, illuminated as by a rosy steam, Winnie! Amidthe opalescent vapours gleaming round the llyn, with eyes nowshimmering as through a veil--now flashing like sapphires in thesun--there she stood gazing through the film, her eyes expressing asurprise and a wonder as great as my own. 'It is no phantasm--it is no hallucination, ' I said, while mybreathing had become a spasmodic, choking gasp. But when I remembered the vision of Fairy Glen, I said, 'Imaginationcan do that, and so can the glamour cast over me by Sinfi's music. Itdoes not vanish; ah, if the sweet madness should remain with me forever! It does not vanish--it is gliding along the side of the llyn:it is moving towards me. And now those sudden little ripples in thellyn--what do they mean? The trout are flying from her shadow. Thefeet are grating on the stones. And hark! that pebble which fallsinto the water with a splash; the glassy llyn is ribbed and rippledwith rings. Can a phantom do that? It comes towards me still. Hallucination!' Still the vision came on. When I felt the touch of her body, when I felt myself clasped in softarms, and felt falling on my face warm tears, and on my lips thepressure of Winnie's lips--lips that were murmuring, 'At last, atlast!'--a strange, wild effect was worked within me. The reality ofthe beloved form now in my arms declared itself; it brought back thescene where I had last clasped it. Snowdon had vanished; the brilliant morning sun had vanished. Themoon was shining on a cottage near Raxton Church, and at the door twolovers were standing, wet with the sea-water--with the sea-waterthrough which they had just waded. All the misery that had followedwas wiped out of my brain. It had not even the cobweb consistence ofa dream. When, after a while, Snowdon and the drama of the present came backto me, my brain was in such a marvellous state that it held twopictures of the same Winnie as though each hemisphere of the brainwere occupied with its own vision. I was kissing Winnie's sea-saltlips in the light of the moon at the cottage door, and I was kissingthem in the morning radiance by Knockers' Llyn. And yet sooverwhelming was the mighty tide of bliss overflowing my soul thatthere was no room within me for any other emotion--no room forcuriosity, no room even for wonder. Like a spirit awakening in Paradise, I accepted the heaven in whichI found myself, and did not inquire how I got there. This did not last long, however. Suddenly and sharply the moonlightscene vanished, and I was on Snowdon, and there came a burningcuriosity to know the meaning of this new life--the meaning of thelife of pain that had followed the parting at the cottage door. V 'Winnie, ' I said, 'tell me where we are. I have been very ill sincewe parted in your father's cottage. I have had the wildesthallucinations concerning you; dreams, intolerable dreams. And evennow they hang about me; even now it seems to me that we are far awayfrom Raxton, surrounded by the hills and peaks of Snowdon. If theywere real _you_ would be the dream, but you are real; this waist isreal. ' 'Of course we are on Snowdon, Henry!' said she. 'You must indeed havebeen ill--you must now be very ill--to suppose you are at Raxton. ' 'But what are we doing here?' I said. 'How did we come here?' 'Let Badoura speak for herself only, ' she said, with that arch smileof hers. She was alluding to the old days at Raxton, when she hopedthat some day her little Camaralzaman would be carried by genii toher as she sat thinking of him by the magic llyn. 'The genie whobrought me was Sinfi Lovell. But who brought Camaralzaman? That is aquestion, ' she said, 'I am dying to have answered. ' At the name of Sinfi Lovell the past came flowing in. 'Then there _is_ a Sinfi Lovell, Winnie! And yet she is one of thefigures in the dream. There was no Sinfi Lovell with us at Raxton. ' 'Of course there is a Sinfi Lovell! You begin to make me as dazed asyourself. You have known her well; you and she were seeking me when Iwas lost. ' 'Then you _were_ lost?' I said. 'That, then, is no dream. And yet ifyou were lost you have been--But you are alive, Winnie. Let mefeel the lips on mine again. You are alive! Snowdon told me at lastthat you were alive, but I dared not believe it, my darling. I darednot believe that my misery would end thus--thus. ' There came upon her face an expression of distressed perplexity whichdid more than anything else to recall me to my senses. 'Winnie, ' I said, 'my brain is whirling. Let us sit down. ' She sat down by my side. 'You thought your Winnie was dead, Henry. Sinfi Lovell has told meall about it. ' Then, looking intently at me, she said, 'And how yoursorrow has changed you, dear!' 'You mean it has aged me, Winnie. I have observed it myself, andpeople tell me it has made me look older than I am by many years. These furrows around the eyes--these furrows on my brow--you arekissing them, dear. ' 'Oh, I love them; how I love them!' she said. 'I am not kissing themto smooth them away. To me every line tells of your love for Winnie. ' 'And the hair, Winnie--look, it is getting quite grizzled. ' Then, asthe lovely head sank upon my breast. I whispered in her ears, 'Isthere at last sorrow enough in the eyes, Winnie? Has the hardeningeffect of wealth coarsened my expression? Can a rich man for onceenter the kingdom of love? Is the betrothal now complete? Are we bothbetrothed now?' I stopped, for bliss and love were convulsing her with sobs until youmight have supposed her heart was breaking. While she lay silent thus, I was able in some degree to call my witsaround me. And the difficulty of knowing in what course I ought todirect conversation presented itself, and seemed to numb my facultiesand paralyse me. After a while she became more composed, and sat in a trance, so tospeak, of happiness. But she remained silent. The conversation, I perceived, would have tobe directed entirely by me. With the appalling seizures ever presentin my mind, I felt that every word that came from my lips wasdangerous. 'Look, ' I said, 'the colours of the vapours round the llyn are asrich as they were when we breakfasted here together. ' 'We breakfasted here together! Why, what do you mean?' she said, looking in my face. 'You forget, Henry, you never knew me in Wales atall; it was only at Raxton that you ever saw me. ' 'I mean when you breakfasted with the Prince of the Mist. I was thePrince of the Mist, dear. ' She gave me a puzzled look which scared while it warned me. How cruelit seemed of Sinfi, who had planned this meeting, not to have told mehow much and how little Winnie knew of the past. 'You know nothing about the Prince of the Mist except what I told youon Raxton sands, ' she said. 'But you have been very ill; you will bewell now. ' 'Yes, ' I said; 'I have found the life I had lost, and these dreams ofmine will soon pass. ' As the conversation went on I began to see that she remembered ourmeetings on the sands--remembered everything up to a certain point. What was that point? This was the question that kept me ontenterhooks. Every word she uttered, however, shed light into my mind, and servedas a warning that I must feel my way cautiously. It was evident to methat in some unaccountable way Sinfi at some time after she left meat Beddgelert had discovered that Winnie was not really dead, and hadbrought her back to me--brought her back to me restored in mind, butwith all memory of what had passed during her dementia erased fromher consciousness. Everything depended now upon my learning how muchof her past she did remember. A single ill-judged word of mine--asingle false move--might ruin all, and bring back the life of miserywhich I seemed at last to have left behind me. VI 'Winnie, ' I said, 'you have not yet told me how you came here. Youhave not yet told me how it is that you meet me on Snowdon--meet mein this wonderful way. ' 'Oh, ' said she with a smile, 'Badoura has been a mere puppet in theplay. She had no idea she was going to meet her prince. Sinfi wassuddenly seized with a desire that she and I should come back, andvisit the dear old places we knew together. I was nothing loth, asyou may imagine, but I could not understand what had made her sether heart upon it. When we reached Carnarvonshire I found thatSinfi's people were all encamped near to Bettws y Coed, and we wentand stayed there. We visited all the places in the neighbourhood thatwere associated with her childhood and mine. ' 'You went to Fairy Glen?' I said. 'Yes; we went there the night before last and saw it in themoonlight. ' 'I was there, and I saw you. ' 'Ah! Then the man sitting on the boulder at the bottom was you! Howwonderful! Sinfi was there on the step round the corner; she musthave seen you. I know now why she suddenly hurried me away. She hadtold me that she wanted to see the Glen by moonlight' 'Then you did not know that you would meet me here?' 'My dear Henry, do you suppose that if I had known, I could have beeninduced to take part in anything so theatrical? When I saw youstanding here my amazement and joy were so great that I forgot thestrange way in which I stood exhibited. ' I felt that the longer she chatted about such matters as these themore opportunities I should get of learning how much and how littleshe knew of her own story, so I said, 'But tell me how Sinfi contrived to trick you. ' 'Well, this morning was the time fixed for our visiting LlynCoblynau, as we call Knockers' Lynn, which was my favourite place asa child. We were to see it when the colours of the morning were uponit. Then we were to go right to the top of Snowdon and take a mid-daymeal at the hut there, and in the evening go down to Llanberis andsleep there. To-morrow morning we were to go to dear old Carnarvonand see again the beloved sea. I find now that her plan was to bringyou and me together in this sensational way. ' 'Will she join us?' I asked. 'I know no more than you what will be Sinfi's next whim. At the lastmoment yesterday I was surprised to find that I was not to come withher here, as she was not to sleep in the camp last night because shehad promised to see a friend at Capel Curig. And now, shall I tellyou how she inveigled me into taking my part in this Snowdon play shewas getting up? She told me that she had the greatest wish todiscover how the "Knockers' echoes, " as they are called, would soundif, in the early morning, she were to play her crwth in one spot andI were to answer it from another spot with a verse of a Welsh song. It seemed a pretty idea, and it was agreed that when I reached thellyn I was to go round it to the opening at the east, pass throughthe crevice, and wait there till I heard her crwth. ' 'Well, Winnie, I must say that the way in which our Gypsy friendmanipulated you, and the way in which she manipulated me, shows amethod that would have done credit to any madness. ' 'You? How did she trick you?' I was determined not to talk about myself till I had felt my way. 'Winnie, dear, ' I said, 'seeing you is such a surprise, and myillness has left me so weak, that I must wait before talking aboutmyself. I shall be more able to do this after I have learnt more ofwhat has befallen you. You say that Sinfi proposed to bring you toWales; but where were you when she did so? And what brought you intocontact with Sinfi again after--after--after you and I were parted inRaxton?' 'Ah! that is a strange story indeed, ' said Winifred. 'It bewilders meto recall it as much as it will bewilder you when you come to hearit. I, too, seem to have been ill, and quite unconscious for monthsand months. ' 'Winnie, ' I said, 'tell me this strange story about yourself. Tell itin your own way, and do not let me interrupt you by a word. Wheneveryou see that I am about to speak, stop me--put your hand over mymouth. ' 'But where am I to begin?' 'Begin from our first meeting on the sands on the night of thelandslip. ' But while I spoke I thought I observed her looking at the breakfastprovided by Sinfi with something like the same wistful expressionthat was on her face on that morning forgotten by her but rememberedby me so well, when she breakfasted so heartily on the same spot. 'Winnie, ' I said, 'this mountain air has given me a voraciousappetite. I wonder whether you could manage to eat some of these goodthings provided by our theatrical manageress?' 'I wonder whether I could, ' said Winnie; 'I'll try--if you'll ask meno questions, but talk about Snowdon and watch the changes of theglorious morning. But we must call Sinfi. ' 'No, no. I want to talk to you alone first. By the time your story isover I at least shall be ready for another breakfast, and then wewill call her. ' This was agreed upon, and I sat down to my second breakfast withWinnie beside Knockers' Llyn. I sat with my face opposite to thellyn, and we had scarcely begun when I noticed Sinfi's face peepinground a corner of the little gorge. Winnie's back being turned fromthe llyn she did not see Sinfi, who gave me a sign that her part ofthat performance was to be looker-on. I have not time to dwell upon what was said and done during ourbreakfast in this romantic place, and under these more than romanticcircumstances. During the whole of the time the Knockers kept uptheir knockings, and it really seemed as though the good-naturedgoblins were expressing their welcome to the child of y Wyddfa. XV THE DAUGHTER OF SNOWDON'S STORY I After the breakfast was ended Winifred went over the entire drama ofthat night of the landslip as far as she knew it. There was not animportant incident that she missed. Every detail of her narrative wasso vividly given that I lived it all over again. She recalled ourmeeting on the sands, and my inexplicable bearing when she told me ofthe seaman's present of precious stones to her father. She dwelt uponmy mysterious conduct in insisting upon our ascending the cliff bydifferent gangways. She recalled her picking up from the sands aparchment scroll and spelling out by the moonlight the words of thecurse it called down upon the head of any one who should violate thetomb from which the parchment and the jewel had been stolen, but asshe repeated the words of the curse she was evidently unconscious ofthe tremendous import of the words in regard to herself and herfather. She told me of her desire to conceal from me, for my own sakemerely, the evidence afforded by the scroll that my father's tomb hadbeen violated. She recalled my seeing the parchment and being thrownthereby into a state of the greatest mental agony. She recalled mytaking her hand as we neared the new tongue of land made by the_débris_, and peering round it as though in dread of some concealedfoe, but evidently she had no idea of _what_ was behind there. Shedescribed the way in which my 'foot slipped on the sand, ' and how Iwas thrown back upon her as she stood waiting to pass the _débris_herself. She spoke of my unaccountable and apparently mad suggestionthat we should, although the tide was coming in, and we were alreadyin danger of being imprisoned in the cove and drowned, sit down onthe boulder made sacred to us both by our childish betrothal. Shespoke of her own suspicion, and then her conviction, that some greatcalamity was threatening me on account of the violation of the tomb, and that the knowledge of this was governing all these strangemovements of mine. She reminded me of my telling her that the shriekwe both heard at the moment when the cliff fell was connected withthe crime against my father, and that it was the call from the gravewhich, according to wild traditions, will sometimes come to the heirof an old family. She recalled the very words I used when I told herthat in answer to this call I intended to remain there until the tidecame in and drowned me. She dwelt upon the way in which I urged herto go and leave me, her own resolution to die with me, and hercutting up her shawl into a rope and tying herself to me. Sherecalled the sudden thunderous noise of the settlement in responseto the tide, and my springing up and running to the mass of _débris_and looking round it, and then my calling her to join me; and finallyshe described her running toward Needle Point in order to pass roundit before the tide should get any higher, her plunging into the seaand my pulling her round the Point. It was manifest, from the first word she uttered to the last, thatshe had no idea who was the 'miscreant, ' to use her oft-repeatedword, who committed the sacrilege; and nothing could express whatrelief this gave my heart. I felt as though I had just escaped fromsome peril too dire to think of with calmness. 'You remember, Henry, ' said she, 'how we ran to the cottage in ourwet clothes. You remember how we parted at the cottage door. Fromthat night till now we have never met, and now we meet--here onSnowdon--at the very llyn I was always so fond of. 'But tell me more, Winnie--tell me what occurred to you on the nextmorning. ' 'Well, ' said she, 'I was always a sound sleeper, but my fatigue thatnight made me sleep until quite late the next morning. I hurried upand got breakfast ready for father and myself. I then went and rappedat his door, but I got no answer. His room was empty. ' Winifred paused here as though she expected me to say something. Athousand things occurred to me to ask, but until I knew more--until Iknew how much and how little she remembered of that dreadful time, Idared ask her nothing--I dared make no remark at all. I said, 'Go on, Winnie; pray do not break your story. ' 'Well, ' said she, 'I found that my father had not returned during thenight. I did not feel disturbed at that, his ways were so uncertain. I did not even hurry over my breakfast, but dallied over it, recalling the scenes of the previous night, and wondering what someof them could mean. I then went down the gangway at Needle Point towalk on the sands. I thought I might meet father coming fromDullingham. I had to pass the landslip, where a great number ofRaxton people were gathered. They were looking at the frightfulrelics of Raxton churchyard. They were too dreadful for me to lookat. I walked right to Dullingham without meeting my father. AtDullingham I was told that he had not been there for some days. Then, for the first time, I began to be haunted by fears, but they took nodistinct shape. When I returned to the landslip the people were stillthere, and still very excited about it. In the afternoon I went againon the sands, thinking that I might see my father and also that Imight see you. I walked about till dusk without seeing either of you, and then I went back to the cottage. I had now become very anxiousabout my father, and sat up all night. The next morning afterbreakfast I went again on the sands. The number of people collectedround the landslip seemed greater than ever, and many of them, Ithink, came from Graylingham, Rington, and Dullingham. They seemedmore excited than they had been on the previous day, and they did notnotice me as I joined them. I heard some one say in a cracked andpiping voice, "Well, it's my belief as Tom lays under that theresettlement. It's my belief that he wur standing on the edge of thechurchyard cliff, and when the cliff fell he fell with it. " Then thekind and good-natured little tailor Shales saw me, and I thought hemust have made some signal to the others, for they all stood silent. I felt sure now that for some reason, unknown to me, it was generallybelieved that my father had perished in the landslip. Mrs. Shalestook me by the hand, and gently led me away up the gangway. When wereached the cottage I asked her whether my father's body had beenfound. She told me that it had not, and was not likely to be found, for if he had really fallen with the landslip his body lay under tonsupon tons of earth. I shall never forget the misery of that night;kind Mrs. Shales would not leave me, but slept in the cottage. I hadvery little doubt that the Raxton people were right in their dreadfulguesses about my father. I had very little doubt that while walkingalong the cliff, either to or from the cottage, he had reached thepoint at the back of the church at the moment of the landslip, andbeen carried down with it, and I now felt sure that the shriek youand I both heard was his shriek of terror as he fell. I bethought meof the jewels that my father's sailor friend was to give him, andsearched the cottage for them. As I could not find them, I felt surethat it was on his return from his meeting with his sailor friend, when the jewels were upon him, that he fell with the landslip. ' Again Winnie paused as if awaiting some question, or at least someremark from me. 'Did you make no inquiries about me?' I said. 'Oh yes, ' said she; 'my grief at the loss of my father was very muchincreased by my not being able to see you. Mrs. Shales told me thatyou were ill--very ill. And altogether, you may imagine my misery. Day after day I got worse and worse news of you. 'And day after dayit became more and more certain, that my father had perished in theway people supposed. I used to spend most of the day on the sands, gazing at the landslip, and searching for my father's body. Everyone tried to persuade me to give up my search, as it was hopeless, for his body was certain to be buried deep under the new tongue ofland. ' 'But you still continued your search, Winnie?' I said, rememberingevery word Dr. Mivart had told me in connection with her being foundby the fishermen. 'Yes, I found it impossible not to go on with it. But one morningafter there had been a great storm followed by a further settlementof the landslip, I went out alone on the cliffs. I said to myself, "This shall be my last search. " By this time the news of your illnessand the anxiety I felt about you helped much in blunting the anxietyI felt about my father's loss. But on this very morning I am speakingof something very extraordinary happened. 'Don't tell me, Winnie. For God's sake, don't tell me! It willdisturb you; it will make you ill again. ' She looked at me in evident astonishment at my words. 'Don't tell you, Henry? Why, there is nothing to tell, ' said she. 'AsI was walking along the sands, looking at the new tongue of land madeby the landslip, I seem to have lost consciousness. ' 'And you don't know what caused this?' 'Not in the least; unless it was my anxiety and want of sleep. Thiswas the beginning of the long illness that I spoke of, and I seem tohave remained quite without consciousness until a few weeks ago. Ioften try to make my mind bring back the circumstances under which Ilost consciousness. I throw my thoughts, so to speak, upon a wall ofdarkness, and they come reeling back like waves that are dashedagainst a cliff. ' 'Then don't do so any more, Winnie. I know enough of such matters totell you confidently that you never will recall the incidentsconnected with your collapse, and that the endeavour to do so isreally injurious to you. What interests me very much more is to knowthe circumstances under which you came to yourself. I am dying withimpatience to know all about that. ' II 'When I came to myself, ' said Winifred, 'I was in a world as new andstrange and wonderful as that in which Christopher Sly found himselfwhen he woke up to his new life in Shakespeare's play. ' She paused. She little thought how my flesh kindled with impatience. 'Yes, Winnie, ' I said; 'you are going to tell me how, and where, andwhen you were restored to life--regained your consciousness, Imean--unless it will too deeply agitate you to tell me. ' 'It would not agitate me in the least, Henry, to tell you all aboutit. But it is a long story, and this seems a strange place in whichto tell it, surrounded by these glorious peaks and covered by thisroof of sunrise. But do you tell me all about yourself, all aboutyour illness, which seems to have been a dreadful one. ' My story, indeed! What was there in my story that I could or daretell her? My story would have to be all about herself, and thetragedy of the supposed curse, and the terrible seizures from whichshe had recovered, and of which she must never know. I set to work topersuade her to tell me all she knew. At last she yielded, and said, 'Well, I awoke as from a deep sleep, and found myself lying on a couch, with a man's face bending overmine. I could not help exclaiming, "Henry!'" 'Then did he resemble me?' I asked. 'Only in this--that in his eyes there was the expression which hasalways appealed to me more than any other expression, whether inhuman eyes or in the eyes of animals. I mean the pleading, yearningexpression of loneliness that there was in your eyes when they werethe eyes of a little, lame boy who could not get up the gangwayswithout me. ' 'Ah, the egotism of love!' I exclaimed. 'You mean, Winnie, thatexpression which my unlucky eyes had lost when we met upon the sandsafter our childhood was passed. ' 'But which love, ' said she, 'love of Winnie, sorrow for the loss ofWinnie, have brought back, increased a thousandfold, till it gives mepain and yet a delicious pain to look into them. Oh, Henry, I can'tgo on; I really can't, if you look--' She burst into tears. When she got calmer she proceeded. 'It was only in the expression of your eyes that he resembled you. He was much older, and wore spectacles. He, on his part, gave a startwhen he looked into my eyes. It seemed to me that he had beenexpecting to see something in them which he did not find there, andwas a little disappointed. I then heard voices in the room, which wasevidently, from the sound of the voices, a large room, and I lookedround. I saw that there was another couch close to mine, but nearlyhidden from view by a large screen between the two couches. Evidentlya woman was lying on the other couch, for I could see her feet; shewas a tall woman, for her feet reached out much beyond my own. ' 'Good heavens, Winnie, ' I exclaimed, 'what on earth is coming? But Ipromised not to interrupt you. Pray go on, I am all impatience. ' 'Well, at the sound of the voices the gentleman started, and seemedmuch alarmed--alarmed on my account, I thought. 'I then heard a voice say, "A most successful experiment. Look at theface of this other patient, and see the expression on it. " 'The gentleman bent over me, and hurriedly raised me from the couch, and then fairly carried me out of the room. But you seem veryexcited, Henry, you have turned quite pale. ' It would have been wonderful if I had not turned pale. So deeplyburnt into my brain had been the picture I had imagined of Winniedead and in a pauper's grave that even now, with Winnie in my arms, it all came to me, and I seemed to see her lying in a pauper'sshroud, and being restored to life, and I said to her, 'Did youobserve--did you observe your dress, Winnie?' She answered my question by a little laugh. 'Did I observe my dressat such a moment? Well, I knew you could be satirical on my sex whenyou are in the mood, but, Henry, there are moments, I assure you, when the first thing a woman observes is not her dress, and this wasone. Afterwards I did observe it, and I can tell you what it was. Itwas a walking-dress. Perhaps, ' said she, with a smile, 'perhaps youwould like to know the material? But really I have forgotten that. ''Pardon my idle question, Winnie--pray go on. I will interrupt you nomore. ' 'Oh, you will interrupt me no more! We shall see. The gentleman thenled me through a passage of some length. ' 'Do describe it!' 'I felt quite sure you would interrupt me no more. Well! The dimlight in the windows made me guess I was in an old house, and fromthe sweet smell of hay and wild-flowers I thought we were near theWilderness, at Raxton. I could only imagine that I had falleninsensible on the sands and been taken to Raxton Hall. ' 'Ah! that's where you ought to have been taken. ' I could not helpexclaiming. 'Surely not, ' said Winnie. 'Why?' 'Your mother! But why have you turned so angry?' In spite of all that I had lately witnessed of my mother's sufferingsfrom remorse, in spite of all the deep and genuine pity that thosesufferings had drawn from me, Winnie's words struck deeper than anypity for any creature but herself, and for a moment my soul roseagainst my mother again. 'Go on, Winnie, pray go on, ' I said. 'You _will_ make me talk about myself, ' said Winifred, 'when I somuch want to hear all about you. This is what I call theself-indulgence of love. Well, then, the gentleman and I mounted somesteps and then we entered a tapestried room. The windows--they werequaint and old-fashioned casements--were open, and the sunlight waspouring through them. I then saw at once that I was not anywhere nearRaxton. Besides, there was no sea-smell mixed with the perfumes ofthe flowers and the songs of the birds. That I was not near Raxton, very much amazed me, you may be sure. And then the room was so new tome and so strange. I had never been in an artist's studio, but Sinfihad talked to me of such places, and there were many signs that I wasin a studio now. ' 'A studio! And not in London! Describe it, Winnie, ' I said. Although she had told me that the house was in the country, my mindflew at once to Wilderspin's studio. 'You say that the gentleman wasnot young, but that he had an expression of sorrow in his eyes. Hadhe long iron-grey hair, and was he dressed--dressed, like a--like ashiny Quaker?' So full was my mind of Mrs. Gudgeon's story that I waspositively using her language. 'Like a what?' exclaimed Winnie. 'Really, Henry, you have become veryeccentric since our parting. The gentleman had not iron-grey hair, and he was not dressed in the least like a Quaker, unless a loose, brown lounge coat tossed on anyhow over a waistcoat and trousers ofthe same colour is the costume of a shiny Quaker. But it was the roomyou asked me to describe. There were pictures on the walls, and therewere two easels, and on one of them I saw a picture. The gentlemanled me to a strange and very beautiful piece of furniture. If Iattempted to describe it I should call it a divan, under a gorgeouskind of awning ornamented with Chinese figures in ivory and preciousstones. Now, isn't it exactly like an _Arabian Nights_ story, Henry?' 'Yes, yes, Winnie; but pray go on. What did the gentleman do?' 'He drew a chair towards me, and without speaking looked into my faceagain. The expression in his eyes drew me towards him, as it had atfirst done when I awoke from my trance; it drew me towards him partlybecause it said, "I am lonely and in sorrow, " and partly fromanother cause which I could not understand and could never define, howsoever I might try. "Where am I?" I said; "I remember nothingsince I fell on the sands. Where is Henry? Is he better or worse? Canyou tell me?" The gentleman said, "The friend you inquire about is along way from here, and you are a long way from Raxton. " I asked himwhy I was a long way from Raxton, and said, "Who brought me here? Do, please, tell me what it means. I am amongst friends--of that I amsure; there is something in your voice which assures me of that; butdo tell me what this mystery means. " "You are indeed among friends, "he said. Then looking at me with an expression of great kindness, hecontinued, "It would be difficult to imagine where you could gowithout finding friends, Miss Wynne. "' 'Then he knew who you were, Winnie?' I said. 'Yes, he knew who I was, ' said she, looking meditatively across thehills as though my query had raised in her own mind some questionwhich had newly presented itself. 'The gentleman told me that I hadbeen very ill and was now recovered, but not so entirely recovered atpresent that I could with safety be burthened and perplexed with thelong story of my illness and what had brought me there. And when heconcluded by saying, "You are here for your good, " I exclaimed, "Ah, yes; no need for me to be told that, " for his voice convinced me thatit was so. "But surely you can tell me something. Where is Henry? Ishe still ill?" I said. He told me that he believed you to beperfectly well, and that you had lately been living in Wales, but hadnow gone to Japan. "Henry lately in Wales! now gone to Japan!" Iexclaimed, "and he was not with me during the illness that you say Ihave just recovered from?"' 'Winnie, ' I said, 'it was no wonder you asked those questions, but youwill soon know all. ' Whilst Winnie had been talking my mind had been partly occupied withwords that fell from her about the voice of her mysterious rescuer. They seemed to recall something. 'You were saying, Winnie, that the gentleman had a peculiarly musicalvoice, ' I said. 'So musical, ' she replied, 'that it seemed to delight and charm, notmy mind only, but every nerve in my body. ' 'Could you describe it?' 'Describe a voice, ' she said, laughing. 'Who could describe a voice?' 'You, Winnie; only you. Do describe it. ' 'I wonder, ' she said, 'whether you remember our first walk along theRaxton road, when I made invidious comparison between the voices ofbirds and the voices of men and women?' 'Indeed I do, ' I said. 'I remember how you suggested that among thebirds the rooks only could listen without offence to the cackle of acrowd of people. ' 'Well, Henry, I can only give you an idea of the gentleman's voice bysaying that the most fastidious blackbirds and thrushes that everlived would have liked it. Indeed they did seem to like it, as Iafterwards thought, when I took walks with him. It was music in everyvariety of tone; and, besides, it seemed to me that this music wasenriched by a tone which I had learnt from your own dear voice as achild, the tone which sorrow can give and nothing else. The listenerwhile he was speaking felt so drawn towards him as to love the manwho spoke. When his voice ceased, some part of his attraction ceased. But the moment the voice was again heard the magic of the manreturned as strong as ever. ' III For some time during Winnie's narrative glimmerings of thegentleman's identity had been coming to me, and what she said of thevoice seemed to be turning these glimmerings into shafts of light. Iwas now in a state of the greatest impatience to verify my surmise. But this only gave a sharper edge to my intense curiosity as to_how_ she had been rescued by him. 'Winnie, ' I said, 'you have said nothing about his appearance. Couldyou describe his face?' 'Describe his face?' said Winnie. 'If I were a painter I could paintit from memory. But who can paint a face in words?' Then she launched into a description of the gentleman's appearance, and gave me a specimen of that 'objective' power which used to amazeme as a child but which I afterwards found was a speciality of thegirls of Wales. 'I should like a description of him feature by feature, ' I said. She laughed, and said, 'I suppose I must begin with his foreheadthen. It was almost of the tone of marble, and contrasted, but nottoo violently, with the thin crop of dark hair slightly curling roundthe temples, which were partly bald. The forehead in its form was soperfect that it seemed to shed its own beauty over all the otherfeatures; it prevented me from noticing, as I afterwards did, thatthese other features--the features below the eyes, were not inthemselves beautiful. The eyes, which looked at me throughspectacles, were of a colour between hazel and blue-grey, but therewere lights shining within them which were neither grey, nor hazel, nor blue--wonderful lights. And it was to these indescribable lights, moving and alive in the deeps of the pupils, that his face owed itsextraordinary attractiveness. Have I sufficiently described him? oram I to go on taking his face to pieces for you?' 'Go on, Winnie--pray go on. ' 'Well, then, between the eyes, across the top of the nose, where thebridge of the spectacles rested, there was a strongly marked indentedline which had the appearance of having been made by long-continuedpressure of the spectacle frame. Am I still to go on?' 'Yes, yes. ' 'The beauty of the face, as I said before, was entirely confined tothe upper portion. It did not extend lower than the cheek-bones, which were well shaped. ' 'The mouth, Winnie? Describe that, and then I need not ask you hisname, though perhaps you don't know it yourself. ' 'A dark brown moustache covered the mouth. I have always thought thata mouth is unattractive if the lips are so close to the teeth thatthey seem to stick to them; and yet what a kind woman Mrs. Shales is, and her mouth is of this kind. But, on the other hand, where thespace between the teeth and the lips is too great no mouth can becalled beautiful, I think. Now though the mouth of the gentleman wasnot ill-cut, the lips were too far from the teeth, I thought; theywere too loose, a little baggy, in short. And when he laughed--' 'What about that, Winnie? I specially want to know about his laugh. ' 'Then I will tell you. When he laughed his teeth were a little toomuch seen; and this gave the mouth a somewhat satirical expression. ' 'Winnie, ' I said, 'there is no need now for you to tell me the nameof the gentleman. In a few sentences you have described him betterthan I could have done in a hundred. ' 'And certainly there is no reason why I should not tell you hisname, ' she said, laughing, 'for if there is a word that is musical inmy ears, it is the name of him whose voice is music--D'Arcy. When hetold me that I should know everything in time, and that there wasnothing for me to know except that which would give me comfort, andsaid, "You confide in me!" I could only answer, "Who would notconfide in you? I will wait patiently until you tell me what you haveto tell. " "Then, " said he, "the best thing you can do is to lie downfor an hour or two on that divan and rest yourself, and go to sleepif you can, while I go and attend to certain affairs that need me. "He then left the room. I was glad to be alone, for I was terriblytired. I felt as though I had been taking violent bodily exercise, but without feeling the staying power that Snowdon air can give. Ilay down on the divan, and must have fallen asleep immediately. WhenI woke I found the same kind face near me, and the same kind eyeswatching me. Mr. D'Arcy told me that I had been sleeping for twohours, and that it had, he hoped, much refreshed me. He told me alsothat he took a constitutional walk every day, and asked me if I wouldaccompany him. I said, "Yes, I should like to do so. " At this momentthere passed the window some railway men leaving some luggage. Onseeing them Mr. D'Arcy said, "I see that I must leave you for aminute or two to look after a package of canvases that has just comefrom my assistant in London, " and he left me. When I was left alone Ihad an opportunity of observing the room. The walls were covered withold faded tapestry, so faded indeed that its general effect was thatof a dull grey texture. On looking at it closely I found that it toldthe story of Samson. Every piece of furniture seemed to me to be arare curiosity. ' 'Now, Winnie, ' I said, 'I am not going to interrupt you any more. Iwant to hear your story as an unbroken narrative. ' IV 'Well, ' said Winnie, 'after a while Mr. D'Arcy returned and told methat he was now ready to take me for a stroll across the meadows, saying, "The doctor told me that, at first, your walks must be short;so while you go to your room I will get Mrs. Titwing in for my usualconsultation about our frugal meal. " '"My room, " I said, "my room, and Mrs. Titwing; who's--" '"Ha! I quite forgot myself, " he said, with an air of vexation, which he tried, I thought, to conceal. "I will ring for Mrs. Titwing--the housekeeper--and she will take you to your room. " 'He walked towards the bell, but before reaching it he stopped as ifarrested by a sudden thought. Then he said, "I will go to thehousekeeper's room and speak to Mrs. Titwing there. I shall be backin a minute. " And he passed from the room through the door by whichhe and I had first entered. 'Scarcely had the door closed behind him before a woman entered byanother door opposite to it. She was about the common height, slender, and of an extremely youthful figure for a woman of middleage. Her bright-complexioned face, lit by two watery blue eyes, waspleasant to look upon. It was none the less pleasant because itshowed clearly that she was as guileless as a child. 'I knew at once that she was the person--the housekeeper--that Mr. D'Arcy had gone to seek at the other side of the house. Evidently shehad come upon me unexpectedly, for she gave a violent start, then shemurmured to herself, '"So it's all over, and all went off well. " she said. Then she walkedquietly towards me and threw her arms round me and kissed me, saying, "Dear child, I am so glad. " 'The tone of voice in which she spoke to me was exactly that of anurse speaking to a little child. 'I was so taken by surprise that I pulled myself from her embracewith some force. The poor woman looked at me in a hurt way and thensaid, '"I beg your pardon, miss. I didn't notice at first how--how changedyou are. The look in your eyes makes me feel that you are not thesame person, and that I have done quite wrong. " 'While she was speaking, Mr. D'Arcy had re-entered the room by thedoor by which he went out. He had evidently heard the housekeeper'swords. '"Miss Wynne, " he said, "this is Mrs. Titwing, my excellenthousekeeper. She has been attending you during your illness; but yourweakness was so great that you were unconscious of all her kindness. " 'I went up to her and kissed her rosy cheek, at which she began tocry a little. I afterwards found that she was in the habit of cryinga little on most occasions. '"Will you, then, kindly show me my room?" I said to her. But as sheturned round to lead the way to the room, Mr. D'Arcy said to her, '"Before you show Miss Wynne the way, I should like one word withyou, Mrs. Titwing, in your room, about the arrangements for the day. " 'The two passed out of the room, and again I was left to myself andmy own thoughts. ' V 'Evidently there was some mystery about me, ' said Winifred, continuing her story. 'But the more I tried to think it out the morepuzzling it seemed. How had I been conveyed to this strange newplace? Who was the wizard whose eyes and whose voice began to enslaveme? and what time had passed since he caught me up on Raxton sands?It seemed exactly like one of those _Arabian Nights_ stories whichyou and I used to read together when we were children. The waking upon the couch, the sight of the end of the other couch behind thescreen, and the tall woman's feet upon it, the voices from unseenpersons in the room, and above all the strange magic of him whoseemed to be the directing genie of the story--all would have seemedto me unreal had it not been for the prosaic figure of Mrs. Titwing. About her there could not possibly be any mystery; she was what MissDalrymple would have called "the very embodiment of Britishcommonplace, " and when, after a minute or two, she returned with Mr. D'Arcy, I went and kissed her again from sheer delight of feelingthe touch of her real, solid; commonplace cheek, and to breathe thecommonplace smell of scented soap. Her bearing, however, towards mehad become entirely changed since she had gone out of the room. Shedid not return the kiss, but said, "Shall I show you the way, miss?"and led the way out. 'She took me through the same dark passage by which I had entered, and then I found myself in a large bedroom with low panelled walls, in the middle of which was a vast antique bedstead made of blackcarved oak, and every bit of furniture in the room seemed as old asthe bedstead. Over the mantelpiece was an old picture in a carved oakframe, a Madonna and Child, the beauty of which fascinated me. Iremember that on the bottom of the frame was written in printedletters the name "Chiaro dell' Erma. " I was surprised to find in theroom another walking-dress, not new, but slightly worn, laid outready for me to put on. I lifted it up and looked at it. I saw at aglance that it would most likely fit me like a glove. '"Whose dress is this?" I said. '"It's yours, miss. " '"Mine? But how came it mine?" '"Oh, please don't ask me any questions, miss, " she said. "Please askMr. D'Arcy, miss; he knows all about it. I am only the housekeeper, miss. " '"Mr. D'Arcy knows all about my dress!" I said. "Why, what on earthhas Mr. D'Arcy to do with my dress?" '"Please don't ask me any more questions, miss, " she said. "Praydon't. Mr. D'Arcy is a very kind man; I am sure nobody has ever heardme say but what he is a very kind man; but if you do what he says youare not to do, if you talk about what he says you are not to talkabout, he is frightful, he is awful. He calls you a chattering old--Idon't know what he won't call you. And, of course, I know you are alady, miss. Of course you look a lady, miss, when you are dressedlike one. But then, you see, when I first saw you, you were notdressed as you are now, and at first sight, of course, we go by thedress a good deal, you know. But Mr. D'Arcy needn't be afraid I shallnot treat you like a lady, miss. I'm only a housekeeper now, though, of course, I was once very different--very different indeed. But, ofcourse, anybody has only to look at you to see you are a lady, and, besides, Mr. D'Arcy says you are a lady, and that is quite enough. " 'At this moment there came through the door--it was ajar--Mr. D'Arcy's voice from the distance, so loud and clear that every wordcould be heard. '"Mrs. Titwing, why do you stay chattering there, preventing MissWynne from getting ready? You know we are going out for a walktogether. " '"Oh Lord, miss!" said the poor woman in a frightened tone, "I mustgo. Tell him I didn't chatter--tell him you asked me questions and Iwas obliged to answer them. " 'The mysteries around me were thickening every moment. What did thisprattling woman mean about the dress in which she had at first seenme? Was the dress in which she had first seen me so squalid that ithad affected her simple imagination? What had become of me after Ihad sunk down on Raxton sands, and why was I left neglected by everyone? I knew you were ill after the landslip, but Mr. D'Arcy had justtold me that you had since been well enough to go to Wales andafterwards to Japan. 'I put on the dress and soon followed her. When I reached thetapestried room there was Mr. D'Arcy talking to her in a voice sogentle, tender, and caressing, that it seemed impossible the roughvoice I had heard bellowing through the passage could have come fromthe same mouth, and Mrs. Titwing was looking into his face with thedelighted smile of a child who was being forgiven by its father forsome trifling offence. As I stood and looked at them I said tomyself, "Truly I am in a land of wonders. "' VI 'Mr. D'Arcy and I, ' said Winifred, 'went out of the house at theback, walked across a roughly paved stable-yard, and passed through agate and entered a meadow. Then we walked along a stream about aswide as one of our Welsh brooks, but I found it to be a backwaterconnected with a river. For some time neither of us spoke a word. Heseemed lost in thought, and my mind was busy with what I intended tosay to him, for I was fully determined to get some light thrown uponthe mystery. 'When we reached the river bank we turned towards the left, andwalked until we reached a weir, and there we sat down upon a fallenwillow tree, the inside of which was all touchwood. Then he said, '"You are silent, Miss Wynne. " '"And you are silent, " I said. '"My silence is easily explained, " he said. "I was waiting to hearsome remark fall from you as to these meadows and the river, whichyou have seen so often. " '"Which I see now for the first time, you mean. " '"Miss Wynne, " he said, looking earnestly in my face, "you and I havetaken this walk together nearly every day for months. " '"That, " I said, "is--is quite impossible. " '"It is true, " he said. And then again we sat silent. 'Then I said to him with great firmness, "Mr. D'Arcy, I'm only apeasant girl, but I'm Welsh; I have faith in you, faith in yourgoodness and faith in your kindness to me; but I must insist uponknowing how I came here, and how you and I were brought together. " 'He smiled, and said, "I was right in thinking that your faceexpresses a good deal of what we call character. I should havepreferred waiting for a day or two before relating all I have totell, " he said, "in answer to what you ask, but as you _insist_ uponhaving it now, " with a playful kind of smile, "it would be ill-bredfor me to insist that you must wait. But before I begin, would it notbe better if you were to tell me something of what occurred toyourself when you were taken ill at Raxton?" '"Then will your story begin where mine breaks off?" I said. '"We shall see that, " he said, "as soon as you have ended yours. " '"Do you know Raxton?" I said. 'At first he seemed to hesitate about his reply, and then said, '"No, I do not. " 'I then told him in as few words as I could our adventures on thesands on the night of the landslip, and my search for my father'sbody afterwards, until I suddenly sank down in a fit. When I hadfinished Mr. D'Arcy was silent, and was evidently lost in thought. Atlast he said, '"My story, I perceive, cannot begin where yours breaks off. I firstbecame acquainted with you in the studio of a famous painter namedWilderspin, one of the noblest-minded and most admirable men nowbreathing, but a great eccentric. " '"Why, Mr. D'Arcy, I never was in a studio in my life until to-day, "I said. '"You mean, Miss Wynne, that you were not consciously there, " hesaid. "But in that studio you certainly were, and the artist, whoreverenced you as a being from another world, was painting your facein a beautiful picture. While he was doing this you were takenseriously ill, and your life was despaired of. It was then that Ibrought you into the country, and here you have been living andbenefiting by the kind services of Mrs. Titwing for a long time. " '"And you know nothing of my history previously to seeing me in theLondon studio?" I asked. '"All that I could ever learn about that, " said he, in what seemed tome a rather evasive tone, "I had to gather from the incoherent andrambling talk of Wilderspin, a religious enthusiast whose genius isvery nearly akin to mania. He was so struck by you that he actuallybelieved you to be not a corporeal woman at all; he believed you hadbeen sent from the spirit-world by his dead mother to enable him topaint a great picture. " '"Oh, I must see him, and make him tell me all, " I said. '"Yes, " said he, "but not yet. " 'What Mr. D'Arcy told me, ' said Winnie, 'affected me so deeply that Iremained silent for a long time. Then came a thought which made mesay, '"You. Too, are a painter, Mr. D'Arcy?" '"Yes, " he said. '"During the months that I have been living here have you used me asyour model?" '"No; but that was not because I did not wish to do so. " 'Then he suddenly looked in my face and said, '"Is your family entirely Welsh, Miss Wynne?" '"Entirely, " I said. "But why did you not use me as your model, Mr. D'Arcy?" '"Poor Wilderspin believed you to be a spiritual body, " he said; "Idid not. I knew that you were a young lady in an unconsciouscondition. To have painted you in such a condition and without thepossibility of getting your consent would have been sacrilege, evenif I had painted you as a Madonna. " 'I could not speak, his words and tone were so tender. He broke thesilence by saying, '"Miss Wynne, there is one thing in connection with you that puzzlesme very much. You speak of yourself as though you were a kind ofWelsh peasant girl, and yet your conversation--well, I mustn't tellyou what I think of that. " 'This made me laugh outright, for ladies who called on Miss Dalrympleused to make the same remark. '"Mr. D'Arcy, " I said, "you are harbouring the greatest littleimpostor in the British Islands. I am the mere mocking-bird of one ofthe most cultivated women living. My true note is that of a simpleWelsh bird. " '"A Welsh warbler, " he said, with a smile, "but who was the originalof the impostor?" '"Miss Dalrymple, " I said. '"Miss Dalrymple, the writer!--why I knew her years ago--before youwere born. " 'Our talk had been so lively that we had not noticed the passage oftime, nor had we noticed that the clouds had been gathering for asummer shower. Suddenly the rain fell heavily; although we ran to thehouse, we were quite wet by the time we got in. 'We found poor Mrs. Titwing in a great state of excitement on accountof the rain, and also because the dinner had been waiting for nearlyan hour. That scamper in the rain, and the laughing and joking at ourpredicament, seemed to bring us closer together than anything elsecould have done. Mr. D'Arcy told Mrs. Titwing to take me to my roomto change my dress for dinner, and he seemed quite disappointed whenI told him that I could eat no dinner, and would like to retire to myroom for the night. The fact was that the events of that wonderfulday had exhausted all my powers; every nerve within me seemed cryingout for sleep. 'I went to my room, dismissed Mrs. Titwing, and went to bed at once. But no sooner had I got into bed than I began to perceive that, instead of sleep, a long wakeful night was before me. Mr. D'Arcy'sstory about finding me in a London studio took entire possession ofmy mind. How did I get there? Where had I been and what had been myadventures before I got there? Why did the painter, in whose studioMr. D'Arcy found me, believe that I had been super-naturally sent tohim? I shuddered as a thousand dreadful thoughts flowed into my mind. "Mr. D'Arcy, " I said to myself, "must know more than he has toldme. " Then, of course, came thoughts about you. I wondered why you hadallowed me to drift away from you in this manner. True, I wasprobably removed from Raxton immediately after my illness, when youwere very ill, as I knew; but then you had recovered!' VII When Winifred reached this point in her story, I said, 'And so you wondered what had become of me from your last seeing medown to your waking up in Mr. D'Arcy's house?' 'Yes, yes, Henry. Do tell me what you were doing all that time. ' As she said these words the whole tragedy of my life returned to mein one moment, and yet in that moment I lived over again everydreadful incident and every dreadful detail. The spectacle on thesands, the search for her in North Wales, the meeting in the cottage, the frightful sight as she leapt away from me on Snowdon, theheart-breaking search for her among the mountains, the sound of hervoice, singing by the theatre portico in the rain, the search for herin the hideous London streets, the scenes in the studios, thesoul-blasting drama in Primrose Court--all came upon me in such asuccession of realities that the beautiful radiant creature nowtalking to me seemed impossible except as a figure in a dream. Andshe was asking me to tell her what I had been doing during all thesemonths of nightmare. But I knew that I never could tell her, eithernow or at any future time. I knew that to tell her would be to killher. 'Winnie, ' I said, 'I will tell you all about myself, but I must hearyour story first. The faster you get on with that the sooner you willhear what I have to tell. ' 'Then I will get on fast, ' said she. 'After a while my thoughts, as Itossed in my bed, turned from the past to the future. What was thefuture that was lying before me? For months I had evidently beenliving on the charity of Mr. D'Arcy. My only excuse for having doneso was that I was entirely unconscious of it; but now that I did knowthe relations between us I must of course end them at once. But whatwas I to do? Whither was I to go? Besides Miss Dalrymple, whoseaddress I did not know, I had no friends except Sinfi Lovell and theGypsies and a few Welsh farmers. To live upon my benefactor'sgenerous charity now that I was conscious of it was, I felt, impossible. 'I was penniless. I had not even money to pay my railway fare to anypart of England. There was only one thing for me to do--write to you. When I rose in the morning it was with the full determination towrite to you at once. I had been told by Mrs. Titwing that Mr. D'Arcyalways breakfasted alone in a little anteroom adjoining his bedroom, and always breakfasted late. My breakfast, she said, would beprepared in what she called the little green room. And when I left mybedroom, dressed in a morning dress that was carefully laid out forme, I found the housekeeper moving about in the passages. Sheconducted me to the little green room. On the walls were twolooking-glasses in old black oak frames carved with knights at tiltand angels' heads hovering above them. Each frame contained twocircular mirrors surrounded by painted designs telling the story ofthe Holy Grail. The room was furnished with quaint sofas and chairson which beautiful little old-fashioned designs were painted. Shetold me that as I had not named an hour for breakfasting I shouldhave to wait about twenty minutes. 'In one corner of the room was a rather large whatnot, on which layone or two French novels in green and yellow paper covers and a fewdaily and weekly newspapers, which I went and turned over. Among themI was startled to find a paper called the _Raxton Gazette_. But I sawat once how it got there, for written on the margin at the top of thepaper was the address, "Dr. Mivart, Wimpole Street, London. " Mr. D'Arcy had told me that the gentleman whose voice I heard behind thescreen was the medical man who attended to me during my illness, andit now suddenly flashed upon my mind that at Raxton there was a Dr. Mivart, though I had never seen him during my stay there. These were, no doubt, one and the same person, and some one from Raxton hadposted the newspaper to the doctor's house in London. 'I looked down the columns of the paper with a very lively interest, and my eye was soon caught by a paragraph encircled by a thick bluepencil mark. It gave from a paper called the _London Satirist_ whatprofessed to be a long account of you, in which it was said that youwere living in a bungalow in Wales with a Gypsy girl. ' When Winifred said this I forgot my promise not to interrupt hernarrative, and exclaimed, 'And you believed this infamous libel, Winnie?' 'To say that I believed it as a simple statement of fact would ofcourse be wrong. I never doubted you loved me as a child. ' 'As a child! Do you then think that I did not love you that night onRaxton sands?' 'I did not doubt that you loved me then. But wealth, I had been told, is so demoralising, and I thought your never coming forward to findme and protect me in my illness might have something to do withinconstancy. Anyhow, these thoughts combined with my dread of yourmother to prevent me from writing to you. ' 'Winnie, Winnie!' I said, 'these theories of the so-called advancedthinkers, whom your aunt taught you to believe in--these ideas thatlove and wealth cannot exist together, are prejudices as narrow andas blind as those of an opposite kind which have sapped the naturesof certain members of my own family. ' 'The sight of your dear sad face when I first saw it here was proofenough of that, ' she said. 'As your life was said to be that of awanderer, I did not care to write to Raxton, and I did not know whereto address you. What I had read in the newspaper, I need not tellyou, troubled me greatly. I cried bitterly, and made but a poorbreakfast. After it was over Mr. D'Arcy entered the room, and shookme warmly by the hand. He saw that I had been crying, and he stoodsilent and seemed to be asking himself the cause. Drawing a chairtowards me, and taking a seat, he said, '"I fear you have not slept well, Miss Wynne. " '"Not very well, " I answered. Then, looking at him, I said, "Mr. D'Arcy, I have something to say to you, and this is the moment forsaying it. " 'He gave a startled look, as though he guessed what I was going tosay. '"And I have something to say to _you_, Miss Wynne, " he said, smiling, "and this seems the proper time for saying it. Up to thelast few weeks a young gentleman from Oxford has been acting as mysecretary. He has now left me, and I am seeking another. His duties, I must say, have not been what would generally be called severe. Iwrite most of my own letters, though not all, and my correspondenceis far from being large. His chief duty has been that of reading tome in the evening. For many years my eyes have not been so strong asa painter's ought to be, and the oculist whom I consulted told methat the strain of the painter's work was quite as much as my eyesought to bear, and that I could not afford much eyesight for readingpurposes. I am passionately fond of reading. To be without thepleasure that books can afford me would be to make me miserable, andI have looked upon my secretary's duty of reading aloud to me as animportant one. If you would take his place you would be conferringthe greatest service upon me. " '"Mr. D'Arcy, " I said, "I suspect you. " '"Suspect me, Miss Wynne?" '"I suspect that generous heart of yours. I suspect you are merelyinventing a post for me to fill, because you pity me. " '"No, Miss Wynne; upon my honour this is not so. I will not deny thatif it were not in your power to do me the service that I ask of you, I should still feel the greatest disappointment if you passed fromunder this roof. Your scruples about living here as you lived duringyour illness--simply as my guest--I understand, but do not approve. They show that you are not quite so free from the bondage of customas I should like every friend of mine to be. The tie of friendshipis, in my judgment, the strongest of all ties, stronger than that ofblood, because it springs from the natural kinship of soul to soul, and there is no reason in the world why I should not offer you a homeas a friend, or why, if the circumstances of our lives were reversed, you should not offer me one. But in this case it is the fact that theservice I am asking you to render me is greater than any service Ican render you. " 'I was so deeply touched by his words and by his way of speakingthem, that my lips trembled, and I could make no reply. '"It is a shame, " he said, "for me to talk about business so soonafter your recovery. Let us leave the matter for the moment, and cometo me in the studio during the morning, and let me show you thepictures I am painting, and some of my choice things. " 'The morning wore on, and still I sat pondering over the situation inwhich I found myself. The servant came and removed the breakfastthings, and her furtive glances at me showed that I was an object atonce familiar and strange to her. But very little attention did I payto her, in such a whirl of thoughts as I then was. The moment thatone course of action seemed to me the best, the very opposite wouldoccur to me as being the best. However, I was determined to know fromMr. D'Arcy, and at once, what was the state in which I was when I wasbrought to this place, and what had been the course of my life duringmy stay here. Mr. D'Arcy had told me that, for reasons which he sotouchingly alluded to, he had not used me as a model. How, then, hadmy time been passed? To question poor Mrs. Titwing would only be tofrighten her. I would ask Mr. D'Arcy for a full confession. 'Mrs. Titwing came into the room. She began pulling at the ribbon ofher black silk apron as though she wanted to speak and could not findthe proper words. At last she said, '"I hope, miss, there have been no words between you and Mr. D'Arcy?" ''"Words between me and Mr. D'Arcy? What do you mean?" I asked. '"He seems very much upset, miss, about something. He is not at hiseasel, but keeps walking about the studio, and every now and then heasks where you are. I'm sure he used to dote on you when you were achild, miss. " '"When I was a child?" I said, laughing. "But I see what it is. Ihave been very neglectful. I promised to go into the studio to seethe pictures, and he is, of course, impatient at my keeping himwaiting. I will go to him at once, " and I went. 'When I entered the studio he turned quickly round and said, '"Well?" '"You were so kind, " I said, "as to invite me to see your treasures. " '"To be sure, " he said. "I thought you came to give your decision. " 'He then showed me the curious divan upon which I had rested the daybefore, and explained to me the meaning of the carved designs. ' VIII Winifred described the designs on the divan so vividly that I couldalmost see them. But what interested me was the painter, not hissurroundings; and she now seemed to grow weary of talking aboutherself. 'Did he, ' I said, 'did he say anything about--about painters'models?' 'Yes, ' she said, 'Mr. D'Arcy took me to an easel and showed me apicture. It was only the half-length of a woman; but it was a tragedyrendered fully by the expression on one woman's face. '"I had no idea, " I said, "that any picture of a single face could dosuch work as that. Was this painted from a model?" '"Yes, " he said, with a smile, which was evidently at my ignorance ofart. "It was painted from life. " 'There were four other half-lengths in the room, all of them verybeautiful. '"Two of these, " he said, "are copies; the originals have been sold. The other two need still a few touches to make them complete. " '"And they were all painted from life?" I said. '"Yes, " he said. "Why do you repeat that question?" '"Because, " I said, "although they are all so wonderful and sobeautiful in colour, I can see a great difference between them--I canscarcely say what the difference is. They are evidently all paintedby the same artist, but painted in different moods of the artist'smind. " '"Ah, " he said, "I am much interested. Let me see you classify themaccording to your view. There are, as you see, two brunettes and twoblondes. " '"Yes, " I said, "between this grand brunette, to use your ownexpression, holding a pomegranate in her hand and the other brunettewhose beautiful eyes are glistening and laughing over the fruit sheis holding up, there is the same difference that there is between theblonde's face under the apple blossoms and the other blonde's face ofthe figure that is listening to music. In both faces the differenceseems to be that of the soul. " '"The two faces, " said he, "in which you see what you call soul arepainted from two dear friends of mine--ladies of high intelligenceand great accomplishments, who occasionally honour me by giving mesittings--the other two are painted from two of the finest hiredmodels to be found in London. " '"Then, " I said, "an artist's success depends a great deal upon hismodel? I had no idea of such a thing. " '"It does indeed, " he said. "Such success as I have won since mygreat loss is very largely owing to those two ladies, one so grandand the other so sweet, whom you are admiring. " 'The way in which he spoke the words "since my great loss" almostbrought tears into my eyes. He then went round the room, andexplained in a delightful way the various pictures and objects ofinterest. I felt that I was preventing him from working, and toldhim so. '"You are very thoughtful, " he said, "but I can only paint when Ifeel the impulse within me, and to-day I am lazy. But while you goand get your luncheon--I do not lunch myself--I must try to dosomething. You must have many matters of your own that you wouldlike to attend to. Will you return to the studio about five o'clock, and let me have your company in another walk?" 'Until five o'clock I was quite alone, and wandered about the houseand garden trying my memory as to whether I could recall something, but in vain. At any other time than this I should no doubt have foundthe old house a very fascinating one; but not for two minutestogether could my mind dwell upon anything but the amazing situationin which I found myself. The house was, I saw, built of grey stone, and as it had seven gables it suggested to me Nathaniel Hawthorne'sfamous story, of which my aunt was so fond. Inside I found every roomto be more or less interesting. But what attracted me most, I think, was a series of large attics in which was a number of enormous oakbeams supporting the antique roof. With the sunlight pouring throughthe windows and illuminating almost every corner, the place seemedcheerful enough, but I could not help thinking how ghostly it mustlook on a moonlight night. 'While the thought was in my mind, a strangle sensation came upon me. I seemed to hear a moan; it came through the door of the large atticadjoining the one in which I stood, and then I heard a voice thatseemed familiar to me, and yet I could not recall it. It wasrepeating in a loud, agonised tone the words of that curse written onthe parchment scroll which I picked up on Raxton sands. I was soastonished that for a long time I could think of nothing else. IX 'At five o'clock I was going towards the studio to keep myappointment when I met Mr. D'Arcy in his broad-brimmed felt hat, ready and waiting for me to take the proposed walk with him. 'Oh, what a lovely afternoon it was! A Welsh afternoon could not havebeen lovelier. In fact, it carried my mind back here. The sun, shining on the buttercups and the grey-tufted standing grass, madethe meadows look as though covered with a tapestry that shifted fromgrey to lavender, and then from lavender to gold, as the soft breezemoved over it. And many of the birds were still in full song; andbrilliant as was the music of the skylarks, the blackbirds andthrushes were so numerous that the music falling from the sky seemedcaught and swallowed up by the music rising from the hedgerows andtrees. 'I lingered at one of the gates through which we passed to enjoy thebeauty undisturbed by the motion of my own body. '"I have often wished, " Mr. D'Arcy said, "that I had a tithe of yourpassion for Nature, and all your knowledge of Nature. To have beenborn in London and to have passed one's youth there is a great loss. Nature has to be learnt, as art has to be learnt, in earliest youth. " '"What makes you know that my chief passion is love of Nature?" Iasked. '"It was, " he said, "the one thing you showed during yourillness--during your unconscious condition. " '"And yet I remember nothing of that time, " I said. "This gives me anopportunity of asking you something--an opportunity which I haddetermined to make for myself before another day went by. " '"And what is that?" he said, in a tone that betrayed someuneasiness. '"You have told me how I came here. I now want you to tell me, too, what was my condition when I came and what was my course of lifeduring all this long period. How did the time pass? What did I do? Iremember nothing. " '"I am glad you are asking me these questions, " he said, "for Ibelieve that the more fully and more exactly I answer them, thebetter for you and the better for me. Victor Hugo, in one of hisromances, speaks of the pensive somnambulism of the animals. 'Somnambulism, ' sometimes pensive and sometimes playful, is thevery phrase I should use in characterising your condition when youfirst came here and down to your recovery from that strange illness. But this somnambulism would every now and then change and pass intoa consciousness which I can only compare with that of a child. Butno child that I have ever seen was so bewitchingly child-like as youwere. It was this that made your presence such a priceless boon tome. " '"Priceless boon, Mr. D'Arcy!" I said. "How could such a being as youdescribe be a priceless boon to any one?" '"I will tell you, " he replied. "Even before that great sorrow whichhas made me the loneliest man upon the earth--even in the days whenmy animal spirits were considered at times almost boisterous, I wasalways at intervals subject to periods of great depression, orrather, I should say, to periods of _ennui_. I must either bepainting or reading or writing. I had not the precious faculty ofbeing able on occasions to sit and let the rich waters of life flowover me. I would yearn for amusement, and search in vain for someobject to amuse me. When you first came I was deeply interested in soextraordinary a case as yours; and after a while, when the acutenessof my curiosity and the poignancy of my sympathy for you had abated, you became to me a joy, as a child is a joy in the eyes of itsparents. " '"Then your interest in me, " I said, with a smile, "was that whichyou would feel towards a puppy or a kitten. " '"I perceive that you have a turn for satire, " he said, laughing. "I will not deny that I have an extraordinarily strong passion forwatching the movements of animals. I have, to the sorrow of myneighbours, filled my garden in London with all kinds of purchasesfrom Jamrach's. But from the moment that I knew you, who combined thefascination of a fawn and a child with that of a sylph or a fairy, mypoor little menagerie was neglected, and what became of its members Iscarcely know. I suppose I am very uncomplimentary to you, but youwould have the truth. The moment that I felt myself threatened by thefiend _Ennui_ I used to tell Mrs. Titwing, who was in the habit ofcalling you her baby, to bring you into the studio, and at once thefiend fled. At last I grew so attached to you that your presence wasa positive necessity of my life. Unless I knew that you were in thestudio I could not paint. It was necessary for me at intervals tolook across the room at that divan and see you there amusingyourself--playing with yourself, so to speak, sometimes like akitten, sometimes like a child. I would not have parted with you forthe world. " 'He did not say he would not now part with me for the world, Henry, and I thought I understood the meaning of that expression ofdisappointment which I had observed in his eyes when I first saw themlooking into mine. I thought I understood this extraordinary man--sounlike all others; I thought I knew why my eyes lost the charm he wasnow so eloquently describing to me the moment that they becamelighted with what he called self-consciousness. 'After a while I said, "But as I was in such an unconscious state asyou describe, how could you possibly know that a speciality of mineis a love of Nature?" '"It was only when you were out in the open air that the conditionwhich I have compared to somnambulism seemed at times to disappear. Then your consciousness seemed to spring up for a moment and to takeheed of what was passing around you. You would sometimes scamperthrough the meadows, pluck the wild-flowers and weave them intowreaths round your head, or stand listening to the birds, or hold outyour hands as if to embrace the sunny wind. One day when a friend ofmine, an enthusiastic angler, who comes here, was going down to theriver to fish, you showed the greatest interest in what was going on. The fishing tackle seemed so familiar to you that my friend put afishing rod into your hand and you went with him to the river. I donot myself care for angling, and I was at the time very busy with apicture, but I could not resist the temptation to follow you. Youskipped into the punt with the greatest glee, baited your hook, adjusted your float on the line, cast it into the water and fishedwith such skill that you caught two fish to my friend's one. Observing all these things, I came to the conclusion that you hadlived much in the open air, and other incidents made me know that youwere a great lover of Nature. " '"And you, " I said, "must also be a lover of Nature, or you could notfind such delight in watching animals. " '"No, " he said, "the interest I take in animals has nothing whateverto do with love of Nature or study of Nature. They interest me bythat unconsciousness of grace which makes them such a contrast toman. " 'We then went into the house. Our talk during our ramble in thefields seemed to remove effectually all awkwardness and restraintbetween us. X 'That day, ' said Winnie, 'a determination which had been caused bymany a reflection during the last few hours induced me at dinner tolead the conversation to the subject of pictures and models. In a fewminutes Mr. D'Arcy launched out in an eloquent discourse upon asubject which was so new to me and so familiar to him. '"You were saying this morning, Mr. D'Arcy, " I urged me to tell herwhat had befallen myself since we had parted at the cottage door atRaxton. Even had it been possible for me to talk about myself withouttouching upon some dangerous incident or another, my impatience toget at the mystery of mysteries in connection with her and her rescuefrom Primrose Court was so great that I could only implore her totell me what had occurred down to her leaving Hurstcote Manor, andalso what had been the cause of her leaving. 'Well, ' said Winnie, 'I am now going to tell you of an extraordinarything that happened. One fine night the moon was so brilliant thatafter I quitted Mr. D'Arcy I stole out of the side door into thegarden, a favourite place of mine, for old English flowers were mixedwith apple trees and pear trees. I was strolling about the garden, thinking over a thousand things connected with you, and myself, andMr. D'Arcy, when I saw stooping over a flower-bed the figure of atall woman. I could scarcely believe my eyes, for I had all the whilesupposed that, excepting Mr. D'Arcy, myself, and Mrs. Titwing, theservants were the only occupants of the place. I turned away, andwalked silently through the little wicket into what is called thehome close. As I pondered over the incident, I recalled certainthings which singly had produced no effect on my mind, but which nowfitted in with each other, and seemed to open up vistas of mysteryand suspicion. Mysterious looks and gestures on the faces of theservants pointed to there being some secret that was to be kept fromme. I had not given much heed to these things, but now I could nothelp connecting them with the appearance of the tall woman in thegarden. 'Some guests arrived next day, and when I pleaded headache Mr. D'Arcysaid, "Perhaps you would rather keep to your own room to-day. " 'I told him I should, and I spent the day alone--spent it mainly inthinking about the tall woman. In the evening I went into the garden, and remained there for a long time, but no tall woman made herappearance. 'I passed out through the wicket into the home close, and as I walkedabout in the grass, under the elms that sprang up from the tallhedge, I thought and thought over what I had seen, but could come tono explanation. I was standing under a tree, in the shadow which itsbranches made, when I became suddenly conscious that the tall womanwas close to me. I turned round, and stood face to face with SinfiLovell. The sight of a spectre could not have startled me more, butthe effect of my appearance upon her was greater still. Her face tookan expression that seemed to curdle my blood, and she shrieked, "Father! the curse! Let his children be vagabonds and beg theirbread; let them seek it also out of desolate places. " And then sheran towards the house. 'In a few minutes Mr. D'Arcy came out into the field without his hat, and evidently much agitated. '"Miss Wynne, " he said, "I fear you must have been half frightened todeath. Never was there such an unlucky _contretemps_. " '"But why is Sinfi Lovell here?" I said, "and why was I not told shewas here?" '"Sinfi is an old friend of mine, " he said. "I have been in the habitof using her as a model for pictures. She came here to sit to me, when she was taken ill. She is subject to fits, as you have seen. Thedoctor believed that they were over and would not recur, and I haddetermined that to-morrow I would bring you together. " 'I made no reply, but walked silently by his side across the field tothe little wicket. The confidence I had reposed in Mr. D'Arcy hadbeen like the confidence a child reposes in its father. '"Miss Wynne, " he said, in a voice full of emotion, "I feel that anunlucky incident has come between us, and yet if I ever did anythingfor your good, it was when I decided to postpone revealing the factthat Sinfi Lovell was under this roof until her cure was so completeand decisive that you could never by any chance receive the shockthat you have now received. " 'I felt that my resentment was melting in the music of his words. '"What caused the fits?" I said. "She talked about being under acurse. What can it mean?" '"That, " he said, "is too long a story for me to tell you now. " '"I know, " said I, "that some time ago the tomb of Mr. Aylwin'sfather was violated by some undiscovered miscreant, and I know thatthe words Sinfi uttered just now are the words of a curse written bythe dead man on a piece of parchment, and stolen with a jewel fromhis tomb. I have seen the parchment itself, and I know the wordswell. Her father, Panuel Lovell, is as innocent of the crime ofsacrilege as my poor father was. What could have made her supposethat she had inherited the curse from her father?" '"I have no explanation to offer, " he said. "As you know so much ofthe matter and I know so little, I am inclined to ask you for someexplanation of the puzzle. " 'I thought over the matter for a minute, and then I said to him, "Sinfi Lovell knows Raxton as well as Snowdon, and must have beenvery familiar with the crime. I can only suppose that she has broodedso long over the enormity of the offence and the appalling words ofthe curse that she has actually come at last to believe that poor, simple-minded Panuel Lovell is the offender, and that she, as hischild, has inherited the curse. " '"A most admirable solution of the mystery, " he said, his facebeaming with delight. ' XII When Winnie got to this point she said, 'Yes, Henry, poor Sinfi seemsin some unaccountable way to have learnt all about that piece ofparchment and the curse written upon it. She has been under theextraordinary delusion that her own father, poor Panuel Lovell, wasthe violator of the tomb, and that she has inherited the curse. ' 'Good God, Winnie!' I exclaimed; and when I recalled what I had seenof Sinfi in the cottage, I was racked with perplexity, pity, andwonder. What could it mean? 'Yes, ' said Winifred, 'she has been possessed by this astoundingdelusion, and it used to bring on fits which were appalling towitness. They are passed now, however. ' 'Is she recovered now?' 'Mr. D'Arcy, ' said Winnie, 'assured me that, in the opinion of thedoctor, the delusion would not he permanent, but that Sinfi wouldsoon be entirely restored to health. While Mr. D'Arcy and I weretalking about her Sinfi came through the wicket again. Rushing up tome and seizing my hand, she said, '"Oh, Winnie, how I must have skeared you! I dare say Mr. D'Arcy hastold you that I've been subject to fits o' late. It was comin' on yousuddint as I did under the tree that brought it on. I wouldn't letMr. D'Arcy tell you I wur here until I wur quite sure I should haveno more on 'em, but the doctor said this very day that I wur nowquite well. " 'My mind ran all night long upon the mystery of Sinfi Lovell. Mr. D'Arcy's explanation of her appearance at Hurstcote Manor wascertainly clear enough, but somehow its very clearness arousedsuspicion--no, I will not say suspicion--misgivings. If he had beenable, while he seemed so frank and open, to keep away from me asecret--I mean the secret of Sinfi Lovell's being concealed in thehouse--what secrets might he not be concealing from me about my ownmystery? Did he not know everything that occurred during that periodwhich was a blank in my mind, the period from my sinking down on thesands to my waking up in his house? 'From the very first, indeed, a feeling of mystery had haunted me. Ihad often pondered over every circumstance that attended my wakinginto life, but that incident which was the most firmly fixed in mymind was the sight of the feet of a tall woman whose body was hid bythe screen between my couch and the other one. When I asked Mr. D'Arcy about this, he did not say in so many words that I wassuffering from a delusion about those feet, but he talked about theillusion which generally accompanied a recovery from such illnessesas mine. Now of course I felt sure that Sinfi was the person I hadseen on the couch. But why was she there? 'I did not see Mr. D'Arcy until the afternoon after the guests hadleft, for in order to avoid seeing him and them, I took a long strollby the river and then got into the punt. I had scarcely done so whenSinfi appeared on the bank and hailed me. I took her into the punt. She was so entirely herself that I found it difficult to believe inthe startling spectacle of the previous evening, although herexpression was careworn, and she certainly looked a little paler thanshe used to look when she and I and Rhona Boswell were such greatfriends; her splendid beauty and bearing were as striking as ever, Ithought. I was expecting every minute that she would say somethingabout what occurred under the elm tree in the home close. But she didnot allude to it, and therefore I did not. We spent the entireafternoon in reminiscences of Carnarvonshire. When she told me thatshe knew you and that you had been there together, and when she toldme the cause of your being there, and told me of your search for me, and all the distress that came to you on my account, my longing tosee you was like a fever. 'But vivid as were the pictures that Sinfi gave me of your search forme, I could not piece them together in a plain tale. I tried to doso; it was impossible. What had happened to me after I had becomeunconscious on the sands in that unaccountable way--why I was foundin Wales--how I could possibly have got there without knowing aboutit--what had led to my being discovered by Mr. D'Arcy--discovered inLondon, above all places, and in a painter's studio--these questionswere with me night and day, and Sinfi was entirely unable to tell meanything about the matter, unless, as I sometimes half-thought, shewas concealing something from me. ' 'How could you have suspicions of poor Sinfi?' I said, for I wasbecoming alarmed at the way in which these inquiries were absorbingWinnie's mind. 'It is, I know, Henry, a peculiarity of my nature to be extremelyconfiding until I have once been deceived, and then to be just assuspicious. Kind as Mr. D'Arcy has been to me, I began to feelrestless in his haven of refuge. I think that he perceived it, for Ioften found his eyes fixed upon me with a somewhat inquiring andanxious expression in them. I felt that I must leave him and go outinto the world and take my place in the battle of life. ' 'But, Winnie, ' I said, 'you don't say that you intended to come tome. Battle of life, indeed! Where should Winnie stand in that battleexcept by the side of Henry? You knew now where to find me. Sinfi, of course, told you that I was in Wales. And you did not even writeto me! What can it mean?' 'Why, Henry, don't you know what it means? Don't you know that thenewspapers were full of long paragraphs about the heir of the Aylwinshaving left his famous bungalow and gone to Japan? Why, it wasactually copied into the little penny weekly thing that Mrs. Titwingtakes in, and it was there that I read it. ' 'This shows the folly of ignoring the papers, ' I said. 'I didundoubtedly say in some letters to friends that I proposed going toJapan; but my loss of you, my grief, my misery, paralysed everyfaculty of mine. My strength of purpose was all gone. I delayed anddelayed starting, and never left Wales at all, as you see. ' 'Two things, ' continued Winnie, 'prevented my leaving Hurstcote--mypromise to Mr. D'Arcy to sit to him for his picture of Zenelophon, and the prosaic fact that I had not money in my pocket to travelwith; for it was part of the delicate method of Mr. D'Arcy to furnishme with everything money could buy, but to give me no money. Hisextravagant expenditure upon me in the way of dress, trinkets, andevery kind of luxury that could be placed in my room by Mrs. Titwingappalled me. Mrs. Titwing's own bearing, when I spoke to her aboutthem, would have made one almost suppose that they grew there likemushrooms; and if I mentioned them to Mr. D'Arcy he would tell methat Mrs. Titwing was answerable for all that; he knew nothing aboutsuch matters. 'What I should in the end have done as to leaving Hurstcote orremaining there I don't know; but after a while something occurred toremove my difficulties. One morning, when I was giving Mr. D'Arcy along sitting for his picture, a Gypsy friend of Sinfi's, belonging toa family of Lees encamped two or three miles off, called to see her. It was a man, Sinfi told me, whom I did not know, and he had goneaway without my seeing him. 'In the afternoon, when Sinfi and I were in the punt fishingtogether, I could not help noticing that she was much absorbed inthought. '"This 'ere fishin' brings back old Wales, don't it?" she said. '"Yes, " I said, "and I should love to see the old places again. " '"You would?" she said; and her excitement was so great that shedropped her fishing-rod in the river. "Jake Lee has been tellin' methat our people are there, all camped in the old place by Bettws yCoed. I told him to write to my daddy--Jake can write--and tell himthat I'm goin' to see him. " '"But you already knew they were there, Sinfi; you told me. Whatmakes you so suddenly want to go?" '"That's nuther here nor there. I do want to go. Why can't you gowith me?" '"I should much like it, " I said, "but it's impossible. " '"Why? You can come back to Mr. D'Arcy again. " '"But, Sinfi, " I said, "how are we to travel without money? I havenot a copper. " '"Ah, but I've got gold balansers about me, and they're better norcopper. " '"Dear Sinfi!" I said, "I'd rather borrow of you than any one in theworld. " '"Borrow!" said she, --"all right! Now we shall have to speak to Mr. D'Arcy about it. It'll be like drawin' one o' his teeth partin' withyou. " 'When I next saw Mr. D'Arcy I found that Sinfi had already spoken tohim about our project. He seemed very reluctant for me to leave him, although I promised him that I would return. '"It is a strange fancy of Sinfi's, Miss Wynne, " said he, "and a verydisconcerting one to me; but I feel that it must be yielded to. Whatever can be done to serve or even gratify Sinfi Lovell, it is myduty and yours to do. " 'Mr. D'Arcy always spoke of Sinfi in this way. She seems to have donesomething of a peculiarly noble kind for him and for me too, but whatit is I have tried in vain to discover. 'And a few days after this we started for Wales. 'Oh, Henry, I wonder whether any one who is not Welsh-born canunderstand my delight as we passed along the railway at nightfall andI first felt upon my cheek the soft rich breath of the Welsh meadows, smelling partly of the beloved land and partly of the beloved sea. "Yr Hen Wlad, yr Hen Gartref!" I murmured when at Prestatyn I heardthe first Welsh word and saw the first white-washed Welsh cottage. From head to foot I became a Welsh girl again. The loveliness ofHurstcote Manor seemed a dull, grey, far-away house in a dream. Butif I had known that I should also find you, my dear! If I had dreamedthat I should find Henry!' And then silence alone would satisfy her. And Snowdon was speaking to usboth. XIII And what about Sinfi Lovell? In those supreme moments of bliss didWinifred and I think much about Sinfi? Alas, that love and happinessshould be so selfish! When at last the sound of Sinfi's crwth and song came from some spota good way up the rugged path leading to the summit, it quitestartled us. 'That's Sinfi's signal, ' said Winnie; 'that is the way we used tocall each other when we were children. She used to sing one verse ofa Snowdon song, and I used to answer it with another. Upon my word, Henry, I had forgotten all about her. What a shame! We have not seeneach other since we parted yesterday at the camp. ' And she sprang up to go. 'No, don't leave me, ' I said; 'wait till she comes to us. She's sureto come quite soon enough. Depend upon it she is eager to see how her_coup de théâtre_ has prospered. ' 'I must really go to her, ' said Winifred; 'ever since we leftHurstcote I have fallen in with her wishes in everything. ' 'But why?' 'Because I am sure from Mr. D'Arcy's words that she has rendered mesome great service, though what it is I can't guess in the least. ' 'But what are really the plans of the day of this important Gypsy?' 'There again I can't guess in the least, ' said Winifred. 'Probablythe walk to the top and then down to Llanberis, and then on toCarnarvon, is really to take place, as originally arranged--only withthe slight addition that _some one_ is to join us! I shall soon beback, either alone or with Sinfi, and then we shall know. ' She ran up the path. Against her wish I followed her for a time. Shemoved towards the same dangerous ledge of rock where I had last seenher on that day before she vanished in the mist. I cried out as I followed her, 'Winnie, for God's sake don't run thatdanger!' 'No danger at all, ' she cried. 'I know every rock as well as you knowevery boulder of Raxton Cliffs. ' I watched her poising herself on the ledge; it made me dizzy. Herconfidence, however, was so great that I began to feel she was safe;and after she had passed out of sight I returned to the llyn where wehad breakfasted. Sinfi's music ceased, but Winifred did not return. I sat down on therock and tried to think, but soon found that the feat was impossible. The turbulent waves of my emotion seemed to have washed my brainclear of all thoughts. The mystery in connection with Sinfi was nowas great as the mystery connected with the rescue of Winifred fromthe mattress in Primrose Court. So numbed was my brain that I at lastpinched myself to make sure that I was awake. In doing this I seemedto feel in one of my coat pockets a hard substance. Putting my handinto the pocket, I felt the sharp corner of a letter pricking betweena finger and its nail. The acute pain assured me that I was awake. Ipulled out the letter. It was the one that the servant at thebungalow had given me in the early morning when I called to get mybath. I read the address, which was in a handwriting I did notknow:-- 'HENRY AYLWIN, ESQ. , 'Carnarvon, North Wales. ' The Carnarvon postmark and the words written on the envelope, 'TryCapel Curig, ' showed the cause of the delay in the letter's reachingme. In the left-hand corner of the envelope were written the words'Very urgent. Please forward immediately. ' I opened it, and found itto be a letter of great length. I looked at the end and gave a start, exclaiming, 'D'Arcy!' XVI D'ARCY'S LETTER This is how the letter ran:-- HURSTCOTE MANOR. MY DEAR AYLWIN, I have just learned by accident that you are somewhere in Wales. Ihad gathered from paragraphs in the newspapers about you that youwere in Japan, or in some other part of the East. Miss Wynne and Sinfi Lovell are at this moment in Wales, and I writeat once to furnish you with some facts in connection with Miss Wynnewhich it is important for you to know before you meet her. I canimagine your amazement at learning that she you have lost so longhas been staying here as my guest. I will tell you all without morepreamble. One day, some little time after I parted from you in the streets ofLondon, I chanced to go into Wilderspin's studio, when I found himin great distress. He told me that the beautiful model who had satfor his picture 'Faith and Love' had suddenly died. The mother of thegirl had on the previous day been in and told him that her daughterhad died in one of the fits to which at intervals she had beensubject. Wilderspin, in his eccentric way, had always declared that themodel was not the woman's daughter. He did not think her, as I did, to have been kidnapped; he believed her to be not a creature of fleshand blood at all, but a spiritual body sent from heaven by his motherin order that he might use her as a model. As to the woman Gudgeon, who laid claim to be her mother, he thought she was suffering from adelusion--a beneficent delusion--in supposing the model to be herdaughter. And now he thought that this beautiful phantom from thespirit-world had been recalled because his picture was complete. WhenI entered the studio he was just starting for the second time, as hetold me, to the woman's house, in the belief that the body of thegirl which he had seen lying on a mattress was a delusion--aspiritual body, and must by this time have vanished. I had reasons for wishing to prevent his going there and being againbrought into contact with the woman before I saw her myself. From myfirst seeing the woman and the model, I had found it impossible tobelieve that there could be any blood relationship between them, forthe girl's frame from head to foot was as delicate as the woman'sframe from head to foot was coarse and vulgar. Naturally, therefore, it occurred to me that this was an excellentopportunity to find out the truth of the matter. I determined to goand bully the impudent hag into a confession; but of courseWilderspin was the last man I should choose to accompany me on sucha mission. Your relative, Cyril Aylwin, was, as I believed, on theContinent, expecting Wilderspin to join him there, or I might havetaken him with me. I have always had great influence over Wilderspin, and I easilypersuaded him to remain in the studio while I went myself to thewoman's address, which he gave me. I knew that if the model werereally dead she would have to be buried by the parish at a pauperfuneral, that is to say, lowered into a deep pit with other paupers. It was painful to me to think of this, and I determined to get herburied myself. So I took a hansom and drove to the squalid court inthe neighbourhood of Holborn, where the woman lived. On reaching the house, I found the door open. Wilderspin haddescribed to me the room occupied by Mrs. Gudgeon, so I went at onceupstairs. I found the model upon a mattress, her features horriblycontorted, lying in the same clothes apparently in which she hadfallen when seized. In an armchair in the middle of the room was Mrs. Gudgeon, in adrunken sleep so profound that I could not have roused her had Itried. While I stood looking at the girl, something in the appearanceof her flesh--its freshness of hue--made me suspect that she wasstill alive, and that she was only suffering from a seizure of a moreacute kind than any the woman had yet seen. As I stood looking atthese two it occurred to me that should the model recover from theseizure this would be an excellent and quite unexpected opportunityfor me to get her away. The woman, I thought, would after a whilewake up, and find to her amazement the body gone of her whom shethought dead. If she had really kidnapped the girl she would beafraid to set any inquiry afoot. She might even perhaps imagine thatthe girl's relations had traced her, found the dead body, and removedit for burial while she, the kidnapper, was asleep. After a while the expression of terror on the model's face began torelax, and she soon awoke into that strange condition which hadcaused Wilderspin to declare that she had been sent from anotherworld. She recognised me in the semi-conscious way in which sherecognised all those who were brought into contact with her, andlooked into my face with that indescribably sweet smile of hers. Fromthe first she had in her dazed way seemed attached to me, and I hadnow no difficulty whatever in persuading her to accompany medownstairs and out of the house. Before going, however, the whim seized me to write on the wall inlarge letters, with a piece of red drawing-chalk I had in mywaistcoat pocket, '_Kidnapper, beware! Jack Ketch is on your track_. 'I took the girl to my house, and put her under the care of myhousekeeper (much to the worthy lady's surprise), who gave her everyattention. I then went to Wilderspin's studio. 'Well, ' said he, 'there is no body lying there, I suppose?' 'None, ' I said. 'Did I not tell you that the spirit-world had called her back? WhatI saw has vanished, as I expected. How could you suppose that amaterial body could ever be so beautiful?' As I particularly wished that the model should, for a time at least, be removed from all her present surroundings, I thought it well tolet Wilderspin retain his wild theory as to her disappearance. I had already arranged to go on the following day to Hurstcote Manor, where several unfinished pictures were waiting for me, and I decidedto take the model with me. Before, however, I started for the country with her, I had thecuriosity to call next morning upon the woman in Primrose Court, in order to discover what had been the effect of my stratagem. Ifound her sitting in a state of excitement, and evidently in greatalarm, gazing at the mattress. The words I had written on the wallhad been carefully washed out. 'Well, Mrs. Gudgeon, ' I said, 'what has become of your daughter?' 'Dead, ' she whimpered, 'dead. ' 'Yes, I know she's dead, ' I said. 'But where is the body?' 'Where's the body? Why, buried, in course, ' said the woman. 'Buried? Who buried her?' I said. 'What a question, sure_lie_!' she said, and kept repeating the wordsin order, as I saw, to give herself time to invent some story. Then alook of cunning overspread her face, and she whimpered, 'Who _does_bury folks in Primrose Court? The parish, to be sure. ' These words of the woman's showed that matters had taken exactly thecourse I should have liked them to take. She would tell otherinquirers as she had told me, that her daughter had been buried bythe parish. No one would take the trouble, I thought, to inquire intoit, and the matter would end at once. So I said to her, 'Oh, if the parish buried her, that's all right; noone ever makes inquiries about people who are buried by the parish. ' This seemed to relieve the woman's mind vastly, and she said, 'Incourse they don't. What's the use of askin' questions about people asare buried by the parish?' Not thinking that the time was quite ripe for cross-examining Mrs. Gudgeon as to her real relations to the model, I left her, and thatsame afternoon I took the model down to Hurstcote Manor, determiningto keep the matter a secret from everybody, as I intended todiscover, if possible, her identity. I need scarcely remind you that although you told me some little ofthe story of yourself and a young lady to whom you were deeplyattached, you were very reticent as to the cause of her dementia; andyour story ended with her disappearance in Wales. I, for my part, hadnot the smallest doubt that she had fallen down a precipice and wasdead. Everything--especially the fact that you last saw her on thebrink of a precipice, running into a volume of mist--pointed to butone conclusion. To have imagined for a moment that she andWilderspin's model, who had been discovered in the streets of London, were the same, would have been, of course, impossible. Besides, youhad given me no description of her personal appearance, nor had yousaid a word to me as to her style of beauty, which is undoubtedlyunique. When I got the model fairly settled at Hurstcote her presence becamea delight to me such as it could hardly have been to any other man. It is difficult for me to describe that delight, but I will try. Do you by chance remember our talk about animals and the charm theyhad for me, especially young animals? And do you remember my sayingthat the most fascinating creature in the world would be a beautifulyoung girl as unconscious as a child or a young animal; if such acombination of charms were possible? Such a young girl as this it waswhom I was now seeing every day and all day. The charm she exercisedover me was no doubt partly owing to my own peculiar temperament--tomy own hatred of self-consciousness and to an innate shyness whichis apt to make me feel at times that people are watching me, whenthey most likely are doing nothing of the kind. And charming as she is now, restored to health andconsciousness--charming above most young ladies with her sweetintelligence and most lovable nature--the inexpressible witchery Ihave tried to describe has vanished, otherwise I don't know how Ishould have borne what I now have brought myself to bear, partingfrom her. I seemed to have no time to think about prosecuting inquiries inregard to her identity. I am afraid there was much selfishness inthis, but I have never pretended to be an unselfish man. The one drop of bitterness in my cup of pleasure was the recurrenceof the terrible paroxysms to which she was subject. I was alarmed to find that these became more and more frequent andmore and more severe. I felt at last that her system could not standthe strain much longer, and that the end of her life was not fardistant. It was in a very singular way that I came to know her name and alsoher relations with you. In my original perplexity about finding amodel for my Zenelophon, I had bethought me of Sinfi Lovell, who, with a friend of hers named Rhona Boswell, sat to Wilderspin, to yourcousin, and others. I had made inquiries about Sinfi, but had beentold that she was not now to be had, as she had abandoned Londonaltogether, and was settled in Wales. One day, however, I was startled by seeing Sinfi walking across themeadows along the footpath leading from the station. She told me that she had quitted Wales for good, and had left youthere, and that on reaching London and calling at one of the studioswhere she used to sit, she had been made aware of my inquiries afterher. As she had now determined to sit a good deal to painters, shehad gone to my studio in London. Being told there that I was atHurstcote Manor, where she had sat to me on several occasions, shehad taken the train and come down. During our conversation the model passed through the garden gate andwalked towards the Spinney, and stood looking in a rapt way at thesunset clouds and listening to the birds. When Sinfi caught sight of her she stood as if petrified, andexclaimed, 'Winnie Wynne! Then she ain't dead; the dukkeripen wastrue; they'll be married arter all. Don't let her see me suddenly, itmight bring on fits. ' Miss Wynne, however, had observed neither Sinfi nor me, and we twopassed into the garden without any difficulty. In the studio Sinfi sat down, and in a state of the deepest agitationshe told me much of the story, as far as she knew it, of yourself andMiss Wynne, but I could see that she was not telling me all. We were both perplexed as to what would be the best course of actionto take in regard to Miss Wynne--whether to let her see Sinfi or not, for evidently she was getting worse, the paroxysms were getting morefrequent and more severe. They would come without any apparentdisturbing cause whatever. Now that I had to connect her you had lostin Wales with the model, many things returned to me which I hadpreviously forgotten, things which you had told me in London. I hadquite lately learnt a good deal from Dr. Mivart, who formerlypractised near the town in which you lived, but who now lives inLondon. He had been attending me for insomnia. While speculating asto what would be best to do, it occurred to me that I would write toMivart, asking him to run down to me at Hurstcote Manor and consultwith me, because he had told me that he had given attention to casesof hysteria. I did this, and persuaded Sinfi to remain and to keepout of Miss Wynne's sight. Although Sinfi was still as splendid awoman as ever, I noticed a change in her. Her animal spirits hadfled, and she had to me the appearance of a woman in trouble; butwhat her trouble was I could not guess, and I cannot now guess. Perhaps she had been jilted by some Gypsy swain. When Dr. Mivart came he was much startled at recognising in MissWynne his former patient of Raxton, whom he had attended on her firstseizure. He said that it would now be of no use for me to write toyou, as it was matter of common knowledge that you had gone to Japan. If it had not been for this I should have written to you at once. Hetook a very grave view of Miss Wynne's case, and said that hernervous system must shortly succumb to the terrible seizures. SinfiLovell was in the room at the time. I asked Dr. Mivart if there wasany possible means of saving her life. 'None, ' he said, 'or rather there is one which is unavailable. ' 'And what is that?' I asked. 'They have a way at the Salpêtrière Hospital of curing cases of acutehysteria By transmitting the seizure to a healthy patient by means ofa powerful magnet. My friend Marini, of that hospital, has hadrecently some extraordinary successes of this kind. Indeed, by astrange coincidence, as I was travelling here this morning I chancedto buy a _Daily Telegraph_, in which this paragraph struck my eye. ' Mivart then pointed out to me a letter from Paris in the _DailyTelegraph_, giving an account of certain proceedings at theSalpêtrière Hospital, and in the same paper there was a long leadingarticle upon the subject. The report of the experiments was to me soamazing that at first I could not bring my mind to believe in it. Asyou will, I am sure, feel some incredulity, I have cut out theparagraph, and here it is pasted at the bottom of this page:-- 'The chief French surgeons and medical professors have, for sometime, been carefully studying the effect of mesmerism on the femalepatients of the Salpêtrière Hospital, and M. Marini, a clinicalsurgeon of that establishment, has just effected a series ofexperiments, the results of which would seem to open up a new fieldfor medical science. M. Marini tried to prove that certain hystericalsymptoms could be transferred by the aid of the magnet from onepatient to another. He took two subjects: one a dumb woman afflictedwith hysteria, and the other a female who was in a state of hypnotictrance. A screen was placed between the two, and the hysterical womanwas then put under the influence of a strong magnet. After a fewmoments she was rendered dumb, while speech was suddenly restored tothe other. Luckily for his healthier patients, however, theirborrowed pains and symptoms did not last long. ' And Mivart was able to give me some more extraordinary instances ofthe transmission of hysterical seizures from one patient toanother--instances where permanent cures were effected. [Footnote]Naturally I asked Mivart what befell the new victims of the seizures. [Footnote: The transmissions here alluded to were mostly effected byM. Babinski of the Salpêtrière. They excited great attention inParis. ] 'That depends, ' said Mivart, 'upon three circumstances--the acutenessof the seizure, the strength of the recipient's nervous system, andthe kind of imagination she has. In all Marini's experiments the newpatient has quickly recovered, and the original patient has remainedentirely cured and often entirely unconscious that she has eversuffered from the paroxysms at all. ' Mivart went on to say that the case of Miss Wynne was so severe a onethat if the new patient's imagination were very strong the risk toher would be exceptionally great. At the end of this discussion Mivart directed my attention to SinfiLovell. She sat as though listening to some voice. Her head was bentforward, her lips were parted, and her eyes were closed. Then I heardher say in a loud whisper, 'Yis, mammy dear, little Sinfi'sa-listenin'. Yis, this is the way to make her dukkeripen come true, and then mine can't. Yis, this is the very way. They shall meet againby Knockers' Llyn, where I seed the Golden Hand, and arter that, never shall little Sinfi go agin you, dear. And never no more shallany one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, bring their gries and theirbeautiful livin'-waggins among tents o' ourn. Never no more shallthey jine our breed--never no more, never no more. And then mydukkeripen _can't_ come true. ' Then, springing up, she said, 'I'll stand the risk anyhow. You maypass the cuss on to me if you can. ' 'The seizure has nothing to do with any curse, ' said Mivart, 'but ifyou think it has, you are the last person to whom it should betransmitted. ' 'Oh, never fear, ' said Sinfi; 'Gorgio cuss can't touch Romany. Butif you find you can pass the cuss on to me, I'll stand the cuss allthe same. ' I always admired this noble girl very much, and I pointed out to herthe danger of the experiment to one of her temperament, but assuredher the superstition about the Gorgio curse was entirely an idle one. 'Danger or no danger, ' she said, 'I'll chance it; I'll chance it. ' 'It might be the death of you, ' I said, 'if you believe that theseizure is a curse. ' 'Death!' she murmured, with a smile. 'It ain't death as is likely toscare a Romany chi, 'specially if she happens to want to die;' andthen she said aloud, 'I tell you I mean to chance it, but I think mydear old daddy ought to know about it. So if you'll jist write to himat Gypsy Dell, by Rington, and ask him to come and see me here, I'mright well sure he'll come and see me at wonst. He can't read theletter hisself, of course, but the Scollard can, and so can RhonaBoswell. One on 'em will read it to him, and I know he'll come atwonst. I shouldn't like to run such a risk without my dear blessedold daddy knowin' on it. ' It ended in Mivart's writing to Sinfi's father, and Panuel Lovellturned up the next evening in a great state of alarm as to what hewas wanted for. Panuel's opposition to the scheme was so strong thatI refused to urge the point. It was a very touching scene between him and Sinfi. 'You know what your mammy told you about you and the Gorgios, ' saidhe, with tears trickling down his cheeks. 'You know the dukkeripensaid as you wur to beware o' Gorgios, because a Gorgio would come tothe Kaulo Camloes as would break your heart. ' She looked at her father for a second, and then she broke into apassion of tears, and threw herself upon the old man's neck, and I_thought_ I heard her murmur, 'It's broke a'ready, daddy. ' But Ireally am not quite sure that she did not say the opposite of this. I had no idea before how strong the family ties are between theGypsies. It seems to me that they are stronger than with us, and Iwas really astonished that Sinfi could, in order to be of service totwo people of another race, resist the old Gypsy's appeal. She did, however, and it was decided that at the next seizure the experimentshould be made, and Dr. Mivart telegraphed to London for hisassistant to bring one of Marini's magnets. We had not long to wait, for the very next day, just as Mivart waspreparing to leave for London, Miss Wynne was seized by anotherparoxysm. It was more severe than any previous one--so severe, indeed, that it seemed to me that it must be the last. It was with great reluctance that Mivart consented to use Sinfi asthe recipient of the seizure, because of her belief that it was theresult of a curse. However, he at last consented, and ordered twocouches to be placed side by side with a large magnet between them. Then Miss Wynne was laid on one couch, and Sinfi Lovell on the other;a screen was placed between the couches, and then the wonderfuleffect of the magnetism began to show itself. The transmission was entirely successful, and Miss Wynne awoke asfrom a trance, and I saw as it were the beautiful eyes change as thesoul returned to them. She was no longer the fascinating child whohad become part of my life. She was another person, a stranger whoseacquaintance I had now to make, and whose friendship I had yet towin. Indeed the change in the expression was so great that it wasreally difficult to believe that the features were the same. Thiswas owing to the wonderful change in the eyes. To Sinfi Lovell the seizure was transmitted in a way that waspositively uncanny--she passed into a paroxysm so severe that Mivartwas seriously alarmed for her. Her face assumed the same expressionof terror which I had seen on Miss Wynne's face, and she uttered thecry, 'Father!' and then fell back into a state of rigidity. 'The transmission was just in time, ' said Mivart; 'the other patientwould never have survived this. ' Strong as Sinfi Lovell was, the effect of the transmission upon hernervous system was to me appalling. Indeed it was much greater, Mivart said, than he was prepared for. Poor Panuel Lovell kept gazingat us, and then said, 'It's cruel to let one woman kill herself foranother; but when her as kills herself is a Romany, and t'other aGorgie, it's what I calls a blazin' shame. She would do it, my poorchavi would do it. "No harm can't come on it, " says she, "because aGorgio cuss can't touch a Romany. " An' now see what's come on it. ' Mivart would not hear of Sinfi's returning at present to the Gypsies, as she required special treatment. Hence there was no course leftopen to us but that of keeping her here attended by a nurse whomMivart sent. While the recurrent paroxysms were severe, Sinfi was tobe carefully kept apart from Miss Wynne until it should become quiteclear how much and how little Miss Wynne remembered of her past life. Mivart, however, leaned to the opinion that nothing could recall toher mind the catastrophe that caused the seizure. By an unforeseenaccident they met, and I was at first fearful of the consequences, but soon found that Mivart's theory was right. No ill effectswhatever followed the meeting. Sinfi's transmitted paroxysms havegradually become less acute and less frequent, and Miss Wynne hasbeen constantly with her and ministering to her; the affectionbetween them seems to have been of long standing, and very great. I found that Miss Wynne remembered all her past life down to herfirst seizure on Raxton sands, while everything that had since passedwas a blank. Since her recovery her presence here has seemed to sheda richer sunlight over the old place, but of course she is no longerthe fairy child who before her cure fascinated me more than any otherliving creature could have done. Apart from her sweet companionship, she has been of great service tome in my art. When I learnt who she was, I should not have dreamed ofasking her to sit to me as a model without having first taken yourviews, and you were, as I understood, abroad; but she herselfgenerously volunteered to sit to me for a picture I had in my mind, 'The Spirit of Snowdon. ' It was a failure, however, and I abandonedit. Afterwards, knowing that I was at my wits' end for a model in thepainting I have been for a long time at work upon, 'Zenelophon, ' sheagain offered to sit to me. The result has been that the picture, nownear completion, is by far the best thing I have ever done. I had noticed for some time that Sinfi's mind seemed to be runningupon some project. Neither Miss Wynne nor I could guess what it was. But a few days ago she proposed that Miss Wynne and she should take atrip to North Wales in order to revisit the places endeared to themboth by reminiscences of their childhood. Nothing seemed more naturalthan this. And Sinfi's noble self-sacrifice for Miss Wynne hadentitled her to every consideration, and indeed every indulgence. And yesterday they started for Wales. It was not till after they weregone that I learnt from another newspaper paragraph that you did notgo to Japan, and are in Wales. And now I begin to suspect thatSinfi's determination to go to Wales with Miss Wynne arose from herhaving suddenly learnt that you are still there. And now, my dear Alywin, having acted as a somewhat prosaic reporterof these wonderful events, I should like to conclude my letter with aword or two about what took place when I parted from you in thestreets of London. I saw then that your sufferings had been verygreat, and since that time they must have been tenfold greater. Andnow I rejoice to think that, of all the men in this world who haveever loved, you, through this very suffering, have been the mostfortunate. As Job's faith was tried by Heaven, so has your love beentried by the power which you call 'circumstance' and which Wilderspincalls 'the spiritual world. ' All that death has to teach the mind andthe heart of man you have learnt to the very full, and yet she youlove is restored to you, and will soon be in your arms. I, alas! havelong known that the tragedy of tragedies is the death of a belovedmistress, or a beloved wife. I have long known that it is as the Kingof Terrors that Death must needs come to any man who knows what theword 'love' really means. I have never been a reader of philosophy, but I understand that the philosophers of all countries have beenpreaching for ages upon ages about resignation to Death--about thefinal beneficence of Death--that 'reasonable moderator and equipoiseof justice, ' as Sir Thomas Browne calls him. Equipoise of justiceindeed! He who can read with tolerance such words as these most haveknown nothing of the true passion of love for a woman as you and Iunderstand it. The Elizabethans are full of this nonsense; but wheredoes Shakespeare, with all his immense philosophical power, ever showthis temper of acquiescence? All his impeachments of Death have thedeep ring of personal feeling--dramatist though he was. But, what Iam going to ask you is, How shall the modern materialist, who youthink is to dominate the Twentieth Century and all the centuries tofollow--how shall he confront Death when a beloved mistress is struckdown? When Moschus lamented that the mallow, the anise, and theparsley had a fresh birth every year, whilst we men sleep in thehollow earth a long, unbounded, never-waking sleep, he told us whatyour modern materialist tells us, and he re-echoed the lamentationwhich, long before Greece had a literature at all, had been heardbeneath Chaldean stars and along the mud-banks of the Nile. Yourbitter experience made you ask materialism, What comfort is there inbeing told that death is the very nursery of new life, and that ourheirs are our very selves, if when you take leave of her who was andis your world it is 'Vale, vale, in æternum vale'? The doggedresolution with which at first you fought and strove for materialismstruck me greatly. It made you almost rude to me at our last meeting. When I parted from you I should have been blind indeed had I failedto notice how scornfully you repudiated my suggestion that you shouldreplace the amulet in the tomb from which it had been stolen. I didnot then know that the tomb was your father's. Had I known it mysuggestion would have been much more emphatic. I saw that you hadthe greatest difficulty in refraining from laughing in my face when Isaid to you that you would eventually replace it. Yes, you had greatdifficulty in refraining from laughing. I did not take offence. Ifelt sure that the cross was in some way connected with the younglady you had lost in Wales, but I could not guess how. Had you toldme that the cross had been taken from your father's tomb I should nodoubt have connected it with the cry of 'Father' which had, I knew, several times been uttered in Wilderspin's studio by the model in herparoxysms, and I should have earlier done what I was destined todo--I should earlier have brought you together. From sympathy thatsprang from a deep experience I knew you better than you knewyourself. When I learnt from Sinfi Lovell that you had fulfilledmy prophecy I did not laugh. Tears rather than laughter would havebeen more in my mood, for I realised the martyrdom you must havesuffered before you were impelled to do it. I knew how you musthave been driven by sorrow--driven against all the mental methodsand traditions of your life--into the arms of supernaturalism. But you were simply doing what Hamlet would have done in suchcircumstances--what Macbeth would have done, and what he would havedone who spoke to the human heart through their voices. All men, Ibelieve, have Macbeth's instinct for making 'assurance doubly sure, 'and I cannot imagine the man who, entangled as you were in a net ofconflicting evidence--the evidence of the spiritual and theevidence of the natural world--would not, if the question were thatof averting a curse from acting on a beloved mistress, have done asyou did. That paralysis of Hamlet's will which followed when theevidence of two worlds hung in equipoise before him, no one canpossibly understand better than I. For it was exactly similar to myown condition on that never-to-be-forgotten night when she whom Ilost... While the marvellous sight fell, or appeared to fall, upon my eyes, my blood, like Hamlet's, became so masterful that my reason seemednothing but a blind and timorous guide. No sooner had the sweetvision fled than my reason, like Hamlet's, rose and rejected it. Itwas not until I became acquainted with the _rationale_ of sympatheticmanifestations--it was not till I learnt, by means of thatextraordinary book of your father's, which seems to have done itspart in turning friend Wilderspin's head, what is the supposedmethod by which the spiritual world acts upon the materialworld--acts by the aid of those same natural bonds which keep thestars in their paths--that my blood and my reason became reconciled, and a new light came to me. And I knew that this would be your case. Yes, my dear Aylwin, I knew that when the issues of Life are greatlybeyond the common, and when our hearts are torn as yours has beentorn, and when our souls are on fire with a flame such as that whichI saw was consuming you, the awful possibilities of this universe--ofwhich we, civilised men or savage, know nothing--will come before us, and tease our hearts with strange wild hopes, 'though all the"proofs" of all the logicians should hold them up to scorn. ' I am, my dear Aylwin, Your sincere Friend, T. D'ARCY. XVII THE TWO DUKKERIPENS Was the mystery at an end? Was there one point in this story ofstories which this letter of D'Arcy's had not cleared up? Yes, indeedthere was one. What motive--or rather, what mixture of motives--hadimpelled Sinfi to play her part in restoring Winifred to me? Heraffection for me was, I knew, as strong as my own affection for her. But this I attributed largely to the mysterious movements of theblood of Fenella Stanley which we both shared. In many matters therewas a kinship of taste between us, such as did not exist between meand Winnie, who was far from being scornful of conventions, and towhom the little Draconian laws of British 'Society' were not objectsof mere amusement, as they were to me and Sinfi. All this I attributed to that 'prepotency of transmission in descent'which I knew to be one of the Romany characteristics. All this Iattributed, I say, to the far-reaching influence of Fenella Stanley. But would this, coupled with her affection for Winifred, have beenstrong enough to conquer Sinfi's terror of a curse and its supposedpower? And then that colloquy recorded by D'Arcy with what shebelieved to be her mother's spirit--those words about 'the twodukkeripens'--what did they mean? At one moment I seemed to guesstheir meaning in a dim way, and at the next they seemed moreinexplicable than ever. But be their import what it might, one thingwas quite certain--Sinfi had saved Winifred, and there swept throughmy very being a passion of gratitude to the girl who had acted sonobly which for the moment seemed to drown all other emotions. I had not much time, however, for bringing my thoughts to bear uponthis new source of wonderment; for I suddenly saw Winifred and Sinfidescending the steep path towards me. But what a change there was in Sinfi! The traces of illness had fledentirely from her face, and were replaced by the illumination of thetriumphant soul within--a light such as I could imagine shining onthe features of Boadicea fresh from a successful bout with the foe ofher race. Even the loveliness of Winnie seemed for the moment to palebefore the superb beauty of the Gypsy girl, whom the sun wascaressing as though it loved her, shedding a radiance over herpicturesque costume, and making the gold coins round her neck shinelike dewy whin-flowers struck by the sunrise. I understood well that expression of triumph. I knew that, with her, imagination was life itself. I knew that this imagination of hers hadjust escaped from the sting of the dominant thought which wasthreatening to turn a supposed curse into a curse indeed. I went to meet them. 'I promised to bring her livin' mullo, ' said Sinfi, 'and I have keptmy word, and now we are all going up to the top together. ' Winnie at once proceeded to pack up the breakfast things in Sinfi'sbasket. While she was doing this Sinfi and I went to the side of thellyn. 'Sinfi, I know all--all you have done for Winnie, all you have donefor me. ' 'You know about me takin' the cuss?' she said in astonishment. 'Gorgio cuss can't touch Romany, they say, but it did touch me. I wurvery bad, brother. Howsomedever, it's all gone now. But how did youcome to know about it? Winnie don't know herself, so she couldn't ha'told you; and I promised Mr. D'Arcy that if ever I wur to see youanywheres I wouldn't talk about it--leaseways not till he could tellyou hisself or write to you full. ' 'Winnie does not know about it, ' I said, 'but I do. I know that inorder to save her life--in order to save us both--you allowed herillness to pass on to you, at your own peril. But you mustn't talk ofits being a curse, Sinfi. It was just an illness like any otherillness, and the doctor passed it on to you in the same way thatdoctors sometimes do pass on such illnesses. Doctors can't curecurses, you know. You will soon be quite well again, and then youwill forget all about what you call the curse. ' 'I'm well enough now, brother; but see, Winnie has packed the things, and she's waiting to go up. ' We then began the ascent. Ah, that ascent! I wish I had time and space to describe it. Up thesame path we went which Sinfi and I had followed on that memorablemorning when my heart was as sad as it was buoyant now. Reaching the top, we sat down in the hut and made our simpleluncheon. Winnie was a great favourite with the people there, andshe could not get away from them for a long time. We went down toBwlch Glas, and there we stood gazing at the path that leads toLlanberis. I had not observed, but Winnie evidently had, that Sinfi wanted tospeak to me alone; for she wandered away pretending to be lookingfor a certain landmark which she remembered; and Sinfi and I wereleft together. 'Brother, ' said Sinfi, 'I ain't a-goin' to Llanberis an' Carnarvonwith you two. You take that path; I take this. ' She pointed to the two downward paths. 'Surely you are not going to leave us at a moment like this?' I said. 'That's jist what I am a-goin' to do, ' she said. 'This is the verytime an' this is the very place where I am a-goin' to leave you an'all Gorgios. ' 'Part on Snowdon, Sinfi!' I exclaimed. 'That's what we're a-goin' to do, brother. What I sez to myself whenI made up my mind to take the cuss on me wur this: "I'll make herdukkeripen come true; I'll take her to him in Wales, and then we'llpart. We'll part on Snowdon, an' I'll go one way an' they'll goanother, jist like them two streams as start from Gorphwysfa an' gorunnin' down till one on 'em takes the sea at Carnarvon, and t'otherat Tremadoc. " Yis, brother, it's on Snowdon where you an' WinnieWynne sees the last o' Sinfi Lovell. ' Distressed as I was at her words, that inflexible look on her face Iunderstood only too well. 'But there is Mr. D'Arcy to consider, ' Isaid. 'Winnie tells me that it is the particular wish of Mr. D'Arcythat you and she should return to him at Hurstcote Manor. He has beenwonderfully kind, and his wishes should be complied with. ' 'No, brother, ' said Sinfi, 'I shall never go to Hurstcote Manor nomore. ' 'Surely you will, Sinfi. Winnie tells me of the deep regard that Mr. D'Arcy has for you. ' 'Never no more. Winifred's dukkeripen on Snowdon has come true, andit wur me what made it come true. Yis, it wur Sinfi Lovell and nobodyelse what made that dukkeripen come true. ' And again her face was illuminated by the triumphant expression whichit wore when she returned to Knockers' Llyn with Winnie. 'It was indeed your noble self-sacrifice for Winnie and me that madethe dukkeripen of the Golden Hand come true. ' 'It worn't all for you and Winnie, Hal. I ain't a-goin' to let youthink better on me than I desarve. It wur partly for you, and it wurpartly for my dear mammy, and it wur partly for myself. Listen to me, Hal Aylwin. _When I made Winnie's dukkeripen come true I made my owndukkeripen come to naught at the same time_. The only way to make adukkeripen come to naught is to make another dukkeripen whatconterdicks it come true. That's the only way to master a dukkeripen. It ain't often that Romanies or Gorgios or anything that lives canmaster his own dukkeripen. I've been thinkin' a good deal about sichthings since I took that cuss on me. Night arter night have I laidawake thinkin' about these 'ere things, and, brother, I believe Ihave done what no livin' creatur ever done before--I've mastered myown dukkeripen. My mammy used to say that the dukkeripen of everylivin' thing comes true at last. "Is there anythink in the wholeworld, " she would say, "more crafty nor one o' those old broad-finnedtrouts in Knockers' Llyn? But that trout's got his dukkeripen, an' itcomes true at last. All day long he's p'raps bin a-flashin' his finsan' a-twiddlin' his tail round an' round the may-fly or the brandlin'worrum, though he knows all about the hook; but all at wonst comesthe time o' the bitin', and that's the time o' the dukkeripen, whenevery fish in the brook, whether he's hungry or not, begins to bite, an' then up comes old red-spots, an' grabs at the bait because he_must_ grab, an' swallows it because he _must_ swallow it; an'there's a hend of old red-spots jist as sure as if he didn't knowthere wur a hook in the bait. " That's what my mammy used to say. Butthere wur one as could, and did, master her own dukkeripen--ShuriLovell's little Sinfi. ' 'You have mastered your dukkeripen, Sinfi?' 'Yes, I've masteredmine, ' she said, with the same look of triumph on her face--'I sworeI'd master my dukkeripen, brother, an' I done it. I said to myselfthe dukkeripen is strong, but a Romany chi may be stronger still ifshe keeps a-sayin' to herself "I WILL master it; I WILL, I WILL. "' 'Then that explains something I have often noticed, Sinfi. I haveoften seen your lips move and nothing has come from them but awhisper, "I will, I will, I will. "' 'Ah, you've noticed that, have you? Well then, _now_ you know whatit meant. ' 'But, Sinfi, you have not told me what your dukkeripen is. You haveoften alluded to it, but you have never allowed me even to guess whatit is. ' Sinfi's face beamed with pride of triumph. 'You never guessed it? No, you never could guess it. An' months an'months have we lived together an' you heard me whisper "I will, Iwill, " an' you never guessed what them words meant. Lucky for you, myfine Gorgio, that you didn't guess it, ' she said, in an altered tone. 'Why?' ''Cos if you had a-guessed it you'd ha' cotch'd a left-hand body-blowthat 'ud most like ha' killed you. That's what you'd ha' cotch'd. Butnow as we're a-goin' to part for ever I'll tell you. ' 'Part for ever, Sinfi?' 'Yis, an' that's why I'm goin' to tell you what my dukkeripen wur. Many's the time as you've asked me how it was that, for all that youand I was pals, I hate the Gorgios in a general way as much as RhonaBoswell likes 'em. I used to like the Gorgios wonst as well as everRhona did--else how should I ever ha' been so fond o' Winnie Wynne?Tell me that, ' she said, in an argumentative way as though I hadchallenged her speech. 'If I hadn't ha' liked the Gorgios wonst, howshould I ha' been so fond o' Winnie Wynne? An' why don't I likeGorgios now? Many's the time you've ax'd me that question, an' now'sthe time for me to tell you. I know'd the time 'ud come, an' this isthe time to tell you, when you and me and Winnie are a-goin' to partfor ever at the top o' the biggest mountain in the world, this 'ereblessed Snowdon, as allus did seem somehow to belong to her an' me. When I wur fond o' the Gorgios, --fonder nor ever Rhona Boswell wur atthat time ('cos she hadn't never met then with the Gorgio she'sa-goin' to die for), --it wur when I war a little chavi, an' didn'tknow nothink about dukkeripens at all; but arterwards my mammy toldmy dukkeripen out o' the clouds, an' it wur jist this: I wur tobeware o' Gorgios, 'cos a Gorgio would come among the Kaulo Camloesan' break my heart. An' I says to her, "Mammy dear, afore my heartshall break for any Gorgio I'll cut it out with this 'ere knife, " an'I draw'd her knife out o' her frock an' put it in my own, and here itis. ' And Sinfi pulled out her knife and showed it to me. 'An' now, brother, I'm goin' to tell you somethink else, an' what I'm goin' totell you'll show we're goin' to part for ever an' ever. As sure asever the Golden Hand opened over Winnie Wynne's head an' yourn onSnowdon, so sure did I feel that you two 'ud be married, even when itseemed to you that she must he dead. An' as sure as ever my mammysaid I must beware o' Gorgios, so sure was I that you wur the veryGorgio as wur to break the Romany chi's heart--if that Romany chi'sheart hadn't been Sinfi Lovell's. You hadn't been my pal long aforeI know'd that. Arter I had been with you a-lookin' for Winnie orfishin' in the brooks, many's the time, when I lay in the tent withthe star-light a-shinin' through the chinks in the tent's mouth, thatI've said to myself, "The very Gorgio as my mother seed a-comin' tothe Lovells when she penned my dukkerin, he's asleep in hislivin'-waggin not five yards off. " That's what made me seem sostrange to you at times, thinkin' o' my mammy's words, an' sayin'"I will, I will. " An' now, brother, fare you well. ' 'But you must bid Winnie good-bye, ' I said, as I saw her returning. 'Better not, ' said she. 'You tell her I've changed my mind aboutgoin' to Carnarvon. She'll think we shall meet again, but wesha'n't. Tell her that they expect you and her at the inn atLlanberis. Rhona will be there to-night with Winnie's clo'es andthings. ' 'Sinfi, ' I said, 'I cannot part from you thus. I should be miserableall my days. No man ever had such a noble, self-sacrificing friend asyou. I cannot give you up. In a few days I shall go to the tents andsee you and Rhona, and my old friends, Panuel and Jericho; I shallindeed, Sinfi. I mean to do it. ' 'No, no, ' cried Sinfi; 'everythink says "No" to that; the clouds an'the stars says "No, " an' the win' says "No, " and the shine and theshadows says "No, " and the Romany Sap says "No. " An' I shall send yourlivin'-waggin away, reia; yis, I shall send it arter you, Hal, andyour two beautiful gries; an' I shall tell my daddy--as neverconterdicks his chavi in nothink, 'cos she's took the seein' eye fromShuri Lovell--I shall tell my dear daddy as no Gorgio and no Gorgie, no lad an' no wench as ever wur bred o' Gorgio blood an' bones, mustn't never live with our breed no more. That's what I shall tellmy dear daddy; an' why? an' why? 'cos that's what my mammy comes an'tells me every night, wakin' an' sleepin'--that's what she comes an'tells me, reia, in the waggin an' in the tent, an' aneath the sun an'aneath the stars--an' that's what the fiery eyes of the Romany Sapsays out o' the ferns an' the grass, an' in the Londra streets, whenever I thinks o' you. "The kair is kushto for the kairengro, butfor the Romany the open air. " [Footnote] That's what my mammy used tosay. ' [Footnote: The house is good for the house-dweller, the open air forthe Gypsy. ] She then left me and descended the path to Capel Curig, and was soonout of sight. XVIII THE WALK TO LLANBERIS When, on coming to rejoin us, Winnie learnt that Sinfi had left forCapel Curig, she seemed at first somewhat disconcerted, I thought. Her training, begun under her aunt, and finished under MissDalrymple, had been such that she was by no means oblivious of Welshproprieties; and, though I myself was entirely unable to see in whatway it was more eccentric to be mountaineering with a lover than witha Gypsy companion, she proposed that we should follow Sinfi. 'I have seen your famous living-waggon, ' she said. 'It goes whereverthe Lovells go. Let us follow her. You can stay at Bettws or CapelCurig, and I can stay with Sinfi. ' I told her how strong was Sinfi's wish that we should not do so. Winnie soon yielded her point, and we began leisurely our descentwestward, along that same path which Sinfi and I had taken on thatother evening, which now seemed so far away, when we walked down toLlanberis with the setting sun in our faces. If my misery could thenonly find expression in sighs and occasional ejaculations of pain, absolutely dumb was the bliss that came to me now, growing in powerwith every moment, as the scepticism of my mind about the reality ofthe new heaven before me gave way to the triumphant acceptance of itby my senses and my soul. The beauty of the scene--the touch of the summer breeze, soft asvelvet even when it grew boisterous, the perfume of the Snowdonianflowerage that came up to meet us, seemed to pour in upon me throughthe music of Winnie's voice which seemed to be fusing them all. Thatbeloved voice was making all my senses one. 'You leave all the talk to me, ' she said. But as she looked in myface her instinct told her why I could not talk. She knew that suchhappiness and such bliss as mine carry the soul into a region wherespoken language is not. Looking round me towards the left, where the mighty hollow of CwmDyli was partly in sunshine and partly in shade, I startled Winnie bysuddenly calling out her name. My thoughts had left the happy dreamof Winifred's presence and were with Sinfi Lovell. As I looked at thetall precipices rising from the chasm right up to the summit ofSnowdon, I recalled how Sinfi, notwithstanding her familiarity withthe scene, appeared to stand appalled as she gazed at the jaggedridges of Crib-y-Ddysgyl, Crib Goch, Lliwedd, and the heights of MoelSiabod beyond. I recalled how the expression of alarm upon Sinfi'sfeatures had made me almost see in the distance a starving girlwandering among the rocks, and this it was that made me now exclaim'Winnie!' With this my lost power of speech returned. We went to the ruined huts where Sinfi had on that memorable daylingered by the spring, and Winnie began to scoop out the water withher hand and drink it. She saw how I wanted to drink the water out ofthe little palm, and she scooped some out for me, saying, 'It's thepurest, and sweetest, and best water on Snowdon. ' 'Yes, ' I said, 'the purest, and sweetest, and best water in the worldwhen drunk from such a cup. ' She drew her hand away and let the water drop through her fingers, and turned round to look at the scene we had left, where the summitof Snowdon was towering beyond a reach of rock, bathed in the rapidlydeepening light. 'No idle compliments between you and me, sir, ' she said, with asmile. 'Remember that I have still time and strength to go back tothe top and follow Sinfi down to the camp. ' And then we both laughed together, as we laughed that afternoon inWilderness Road when she enunciated her theories upon the voices ofmen and the voices of birds. She then stood gazing abstractedly intoa pool of water, upon which the evening lights were now falling. As Isaw her reflected in the surface of the stream, which was as smoothas a mirror--saw her reflected there sometimes on an almostcolourless surface, sometimes amid a procession in which every colourof the rainbow took part, I sighed. 'Why do you sigh?' said she. I could not tell her why, for I was recalling Wilderspin's wordsabout her matchless beauty and its inspiring effect upon the painterwho painted it. It would indeed, as Wilderspin had said, endowmediocrity with genius. 'Why do you sigh?' she repeated. 'Oh, if I could paint that, Winnie, if I could paint that picture inthe water. ' 'And why should you not?' she said, in a dreamy way. And then asudden thought seemed to strike her, and she said with much energy, 'Become a painter, Henry! Become a painter! No man ever yet satisfieda true woman who did not work--work hard at something--anything--ifnot in the active affairs of life, in the world of art. My love youmust always have now--you must always have it under anycircumstances. I could not help under any circumstances giving youlove. But I fear I could not give a rich, idle man--even if he wereHenry himself--enough love to satisfy a yearning like yours. ' She bent her face again over the water, and looked at the picture. 'You have often told me that my face is beautiful, Henry, and youknow you never could make me believe it. But suppose you should beright after all, and suppose that you were a painter, and used it fora picture of the Spirit of Snowdon, I should then thank God forhaving given me a beautiful face, for it would enable you to win yourgoal. And afterwards, when its beauty had passed away, as it soonwould, I should have no further need for beauty, for mypainter-husband would, partly through me, have won. ' As we walked along, she pointed to the tubular bridge over the MenaiStraits and to the coast of Anglesey. The panorama had thatfairy-like expression which belongs so peculiarly to Welsh scenery. Other mountainous countries in Europe are beautiful, and since thatdivine walk I have become intimately acquainted with them, but forassociations romantic and poetic, there is surely no land in theworld equal to North Wales. 'Do you remember, Winnie, ' I murmured, 'when you so delighted me byexclaiming, "What a beautiful world it is!"?' 'Ah, yes, ' said Winnie, 'and how I should love to paint its beauty. The only people I really envy are painters. ' We were now at the famous spot where the triple echo is best heard, and we began to shout like two children in the direction of LlynDdu'r Arddu. And then our talk naturally fell on Knockers' Llyn andthe echoes to be heard there. She then took me to another famoussight on this side of Snowdon, the enormous stone, said to be fivethousand tons in weight, called the Knockers' Anvil. While welingered here Winnie gave me as many anecdotes and legends of thisstone as would fill a little volume. But suddenly she stopped. 'Look!' she said, pointing to the sunset. 'I have seen that sightonly once before. I was with Sinfi. She called it "the Dukkeripenof the Trushul. "' The sun was now on the point of sinking, and his radiance, falling onthe cloud-pageantry of the zenith, fired the flakes and vapoury filmsfloating and trailing above, turning them at first into aruby-coloured mass, and then into an ocean of rosy fire. A horizontalbar of cloud which, until the radiance of the sunset fell upon it, had been dull and dark and grey, as though a long slip from the slatequarries had been laid across the west, became for a moment a deeplavender colour, and then purple, and then red-gold. But what Winniewas pointing at was a dazzling shaft of quivering fire where the sunhad now sunk behind the horizon. Shooting up from the cliffs wherethe sun had disappeared, this shaft intersected the bar of clouds andseemed to make an irregular cross of deep rose. When Winnie turned her eyes again to mine I was astonished to seetears in them. I asked her what they meant. She said, 'While I waslooking at that cross of rose and gold in the clouds it seemed to methat there came on the evening breeze the sound of a sob, and that itwas Sinfi's, my sister Sinfi's; but of course by this time Snowdonstands between us and her. ' POSTSCRIPT In every case where I have brought into this story facts connectedwith medical matters, I have been most cautious to avail myself ofthe authority of medical men. I will give here the words of Mr. JamesDouglas upon this matter. After stating the fact that the story wasin part dictated to my dear friend Dr. Gordon Hake during a stay withhim at Roehampton, he says:-- Dr. Hake is mainly known as the 'parable poet, ' but as a fact he wasa physician of extraordinary talent who had practised first at BurySt. Edmunds and afterwards at Spring Gardens, London, until he partlyretired to be private physician to the late Lady Ripon. After herdeath he left practice altogether in order to devote himself toliterature, for which he had very great equipments. As _Aylwin_touched upon certain subtle nervous phases, it must have been a greatadvantage to the author to dictate these portions of the story to soskilled and experienced a friend. The rare kind of cerebralexaltation into which Henry Aylwin passed after his appallingexperience in the cove, in which the entire nervous system wasdisturbed, was not what is known as brain fever. The record of it in_Aylwin_ is, I understand, a literal account of a rare and wonderfulcase brought under the professional notice of Dr. Hake. But I am now going to touch upon a much more important medicalsubject. Since the appearance of _Aylwin_, I have received manyletters enquiring whether the transmission of hysteria from onepatient to another by means of a magnet is an imaginary experiment, or whether it is based on fact. It has been impossible for me toanswer all these letters. But some of them, coming from lovingrelatives of those who have suffered from hysteria, have been couchedin such earnest and pathetic words that they could not be leftunanswered, and this has caused me great inconvenience. I havetherefore determined to give the reader some tangible data upon thissubject. The extract from the _Daily Telegraph_ which appears on page465 is a real extract, and records a real case of transmission ofhysteria. Upon the same subject I take the following admirableremarks from an article in the _Quarterly Review_ for July 1890, called 'Mesmerism and Hypnotism. ' _The Influence of Magnets_. --We have briefly referred to the actionof magnets on the muscles in speaking of the physiological phenomena, but they possess other properties which hardly come under that head. They have the power of attracting hypnotised subjects. Thus, if agood-sized magnet is placed at some little distance from the subject, and behind a screen so that he cannot see it, after a time he willget up and go towards it. If now another magnet be placed at an equaldistance behind him, he will stop and remain as it were balancedbetween the two. By withdrawing one or other he can be drawnbackwards or forwards. Further, he can be charged with magnetism byplacing near him a large magnet with five ends. If it be suddenlyremoved and hidden in another room, he is impelled to follow it withsuch force that he will fling aside all obstacles in his way, andtracking it step by step will walk straight up to it. 'Once he sightsit, he either remains in dumb contemplation of it in front of its twopoles, or else lays his hands on both of the poles with a kind ofprofound satisfaction. ' These experiments with magnets are veryexhausting. * * * * * Finally, if the senses can be so heightened as in the cases alreadycited from Braid and the clinique of La Salpêtrière, it requires nogreat stretch of imagination to suppose them carried still furtheruntil they become comparable to those inexplicable faculties which wecall instinct in animals, that for instance by which animals--cats, dogs, and sheep--can find their way home, sometimes over hundreds ofmiles of unknown country. Concerning the faculty of presensation, it is worth while to say alittle more. The early mesmerists made a great point of the power ofsome patients to diagnose the condition of another. Dr. Puysegur'spatient Joly, mentioned above, possessed the faculty to an unusualdegree. He was an educated man, of good position, and could expresshimself intelligibly:-- C'est une sensation veritable que j'éprouve dans un endroitcorrespondant à la partie qui souffre chez celui que je touche: mamain va naturellement se porter à l'endroit de son mal, et je ne peuxpas plus m'y tromper que je ne pourrois le faire en portant ma mainoù je souffrirois moi-meme. Now, the following experiment has been carried out by Charcot at LaSalpêtrière. A young girl suffering from hysterical hemiplegia(paralysis of one side) came up one day from the country. She wasplaced in a chair behind a screen and a hypnotic patient sent forfrom the wards. The latter was placed on the other side of the screenand hypnotised. Neither of the patients was aware of the other'spresence. At the end of a minute the hypnotised patient was found tohave acquired the other's hemiplegia. The experiment was repeatedevery day, and in four days the new comer was relieved of hertrouble, which had lasted over a year. The same experiment was triedin many cases, and always succeeded, although in some of them theaffections imitated were of a very complex character, such asparalysis of half the tongue. With these facts in view, the allegedexperiences of the older mesmerists appear by no means impossible. APPENDICES I. IN DEFENCE OF A GREAT AND BELOVED POET WHOSE CHARACTER IS DELINEATED IN THIS STORY. II. A KEY TO "AYLWIN, " BY THOMAS ST. E. HAKE, REPRINTED FROM "NOTES AND QUERIES. " APPENDIX I D. G. R. Thou knewest that island, far away and lone, Whose shores are as a harp, where billows break In spray of music and the breezes shake O'er spicy seas a woof of colour and tone, While that sweet music echoes like a moan In the island's heart, and sighs around the lake, Where, watching fearfully a watchful snake. A damsel weeps upon her emerald throne. Life's ocean, breaking round thy senses' shore, Struck golden song, as from the strand of Day: For us the joy, for thee the fell foe lay-- Pain's blinking snake around the fair isle's core, Turning to sighs the enchanted sounds that play Around thy lovely island evermore. Certain remarks that have been made upon the character of _D'Arcy_ in_Aylwin_ have rendered it an imperative--nay, a sacred--duty for theauthor to seize an opportunity that may never occur again of sayinghere a few words upon the subject. It is universally acknowledged that characters in fiction are notcreations projected from the author's inner consciousness, but arefounded more or less upon characters that he was brought into contactwith in real life. Mr. A. C. Benson, in his monograph on D. G. Rossetti, in _English Menof Letters_, says, 'It was for a long time hoped that Mr. Watts-Dunton would give the memoir of his great friend to the world, but there is such a thing as knowing a man too well to be hisbiographer. It is, however, an open secret that a vivid sketch ofRossetti's personality has been given to the world in Mr. Watts-Dunton's well-known romance _Aylwin_, where the artist D'Arcyis drawn from Rossetti. ' Since the appearance of these words many people who take anincreasing interest in the most mysterious and romantic figure in theartistic world of the mid-Victorian period, have urged the author totell them whether the portrait of Rossetti in _Aylwin_ is a true one, or whether it is not idealized as certain cynical critics haveaffirmed. Nothing but the dread of being charged with egotism hasprevented the author's stating publicly, and once for all, that theportrait of Rossetti in _Aylwin_ showing him to be the creature ofvarying moods, gay and even frolicsome at one moment, profoundlymeditative at the next, deeply dejected at the next, but always themost winsome of men, is true to the life. It is more than hinted inthe story that _D'Arcy's_ melancholy was the result of the loss ofone he deeply loved. From such a loss it was that Rossetti'smelancholy moods resulted. There are documentary evidences of theverisimilitude of the picture in every respect. Let one be given outof many. There exists a pathetic record that has never yet beenpublished, by one who knew Rossetti--knew him with specialintimacy--the poet Swinburne--depicting the great tragedy whichdarkened Rossetti's life--the loss of his wife. It gives the only authorized account of that tragedy--a tragedy whichever since the publication of William Bell Scott's _AutobiographicalNotes_ has been so grievously misunderstood and misrepresented. Inthis narrative Swinburne tells how, when first introduced toRossetti, he himself was an Oxford undergraduate of twenty. Herecords how he and Rossetti had lived on terms of affectionateintimacy: shaped and coloured on Rossetti's side by the cordialkindness and exuberant generosity which, to the last, distinguishedhis recognition of younger men's efforts: on his (Swinburne's) partby gratitude as loyal and admiration as fervent as ever strove andever failed to express 'all the sweet and sudden passion of youthtowards greatness in its elder. ' He records how, during that year, hehad come to know, and to regard with little less than a brother'saffection, the noble lady whom Rossetti had recently married. Herecords how on the evening of her terrible death, they all three haddined together at a restaurant which Rossetti had been accustomed tofrequent. He records how next morning, on coming by appointment tosit for his portrait, he heard that she had died in the night, undercircumstances which afterwards made necessary his (Swinburne's)appearance and evidence at the inquest held on her remains. He dwellsupon the anguish of the widower, when next they met, under the roofof the mother with whom he had sought refuge. He records how Rossettiappealed to his friendship in the name of the dead lady's regard forhim--a regard such as she had felt for no other of Rossetti'sfriends--to cleave to him in this time of sorrow, to come and keephouse with him as soon as a residence could be found. Can there be a more convincing and a more beautiful testimony as to afriend's sorrow and its cause? Over and above the touching testimony of Swinburne, no one will denythat if ever one man knew another too well to be his biographer, asMr. Benson says, the author of _Aylwin_ was that man with regard toRossetti. No one has ever ventured to challenge the assertion in thearticle on Rossetti in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ that there was atime when with the exception of his own family the poet-painter sawscarcely any one save the writer of this book, whom he was nevertired of designating his friend of friends. There is no need tomultiply instances of this friendship, which has been enlarged uponby Rossetti's brother, and by many others. Elizabeth Luther Gary, inthe best of all the books upon Rossetti, published by G. P. Putnam'sSons two years after the first edition of _Aylwin_, speaks of_D'Arcy_ as being 'the mouthpiece of Rossetti. ' It may be added that Rossetti's _Ballads and Sonnets_, published in1882, were dedicated to the author in these words: 'To the Friendwhom my verse won for me, these few more pages are affectionatelyinscribed. ' When he drew his last breath at Birchington it was inthat friend's arms. It is necessary to dwell upon such facts as theabove to show how fully equipped is the author of _Aylwin_ forunderstanding and depicting the great poet-painter, to whose memoryhe addressed the sonnet at the head of this note. As to the personality of Rossetti, to which Mr. Benson alludes, tosay that it was the one that stood out among the lives of theVictorian poets is to state the case very feebly. It has been thefortune of the delineator of D'Arcy to be thrown intimately acrossseveral of the great poets of his time, not one of whom displayed apersonality so dominant as Rossetti's. Fine as is Rossetti's poetryand fine as are his paintings, they but inadequately represent theman. As to his personal fascination, among all the poets of Englandwe have no record of anything equal to it. It asserted itself notonly in relation to the pre-Raphaelite group, but in relation to allother members of society with whom he was brought into contact. Todescribe the magnetism of such a man is, of course, impossible. Muchhas been written upon what is called the _demonic_ power in certainindividuals--the power of casting one's own influence over allothers. Napoleon's case is generally instanced as a typical one. ButNapoleon's demonic power was of a self-conscious kind. It would seem, however, that there is another kind of demonic power--the power ofshedding quite unconsciously one's personality upon all brought intocontact with it. The demonic power of Rossetti, like that of _D'Arcy_in this story, was quite unconscious. In Rossetti's presence, as in_D'Arcy's_, it was impossible not to yield to this strange, mysterious power. At the time when he was not so entirely reclusiveas he afterwards became, when he used to meet all sorts of people, the author had many opportunities of noticing its effect upon others. He has seen them try to resist it, and in vain. On a certain occasiona very eminent man, much used to society, and much used to thebrilliant literary clubs of London, was quite cowed and silencedbefore Rossetti. It is necessary to dwell upon these subtledistinctions, because this is the D'Arcy who, as a critic hasremarked, 'is the real protagonist of _Aylwin_--although the readerdoes not discover it until the very end of the story, where D'Arcyis the character who unravels and explains all. ' Without D'Arcy, indeed, and the demonic power possessed by him, the story would haveno existence. It is, of course, in the illustrated editions of _Aylwin_ thatD'Arcy's identification with Rossetti and his importance in the storybecome specially manifest. On page 204 of the illustrated editions anexact picture has been given by Rossetti's pupil, Dunn, of the famousstudio at 16 Cheyne Walk--the studio which will always be associatedwith Rossetti's name. It has been immortalized by his friend, Dr. Gordon Hake, in the following lines addressed to the author of_Aylwin_ in the sonnet-sequence, _The New Day_: Sitting with him, his tones as Petrarch's tender, With many a speaking vision on the wall, The fire, a-blaze, flashing the studio fender, Closed in from London shouts and ceaseless brawl-- Twas you brought Nature to the visiting, Till she herself seemed breathing in the room, And Art grew fragrant in the glow of Spring With homely scents of gorse and heather bloom. Or sunbeams shone by many an Alpine fountain, Fed by the waters of the forest stream; Or glacier-glories in the rock-girt mountain, Where they so often fed the poet's dream; Or else was mingled the rough billow's glee With cries of petrels on a sullen sea. Again on page 393 of the same editions will be found Miss MayMorris's beautiful water colour of Kelmscott Manor, the country-housejointly occupied by Rossetti and William Morris in which takes placewhat has been called 'the crucial scene in _Aylwin_. ' APPENDIX II So many questions about the characters depicted in _Aylwin_ were putto the editor of _Notes and Queries_ that he suggested that a key tothe novel would he found acceptable. Some weeks after this suggestionwas made there appeared in that journal (7th June 1902) the followingcontribution by Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake, an intimate friend ofRossetti, and of other leading characters of the story. Therepublication of it here has been kindly sanctioned by Mr. J. C. Francis, a name so indissolubly associated both with the _Athenæum_and _Notes and Queries_. Mr. Hake writes as follows: Ever since the publication of _Aylwin_ I have, at various times, seenin _Notes and Queries_, the _Daily Chronicle_, the _ContemporaryReview_, and other organs, inquiries as to the identification of thecharacters that appear in that story. And now that an inquiry comesfrom so remote a place as Libau in Russia, I think I may come forwardand say what I know on the subject. But, of course, within the limitedspace that could possibly be allotted to me in _Notes and Queries_, Ican only say a few words on a subject that would require many pages totreat adequately. Until _Aylwin_ appeared, Mr. Joseph Knight'smonograph on Rossetti in the 'Great Writers' series was, with the soleexception of what has been written about him by his own family and bymy late father, Dr. Gordon Hake, in his _Memoirs of Eighty Years_, theonly account that gave the reader the least idea of the man--hisfascination, his brilliance, his generosity, and his whimsicalqualities. But in _Aylwin_ Rossetti lives as I knew him; it isimpossible to imagine a more living picture of the man. I have stayedwith Rossetti at 16 Cheyne Walk for weeks at a time, and at Bognoralso, and at Kelmscott--the 'Hurstcote' of _Aylwin_. With regard to'Hurstcote, ' I well knew 'the large bedroom with low-panelled wallsand the vast antique bedstead made of black carved oak' upon whichWinifred Wynne slept. In fact, the only thing in the description ofthis room that I do not remember is the beautiful _Madonna and Child_upon the frame of which was written 'Chiaro dell' Erma' (readers of_Hand and Soul_ will remember that name). This quaint and picturesquebedroom leads by two or three steps to the tapestried room 'coveredwith old faded tapestry--so faded, indeed, that its general effectwas that of a dull grey texture'--depicting the story of Samson. Rossetti used the tapestry room as a studio, and I have seen in itthe very same pictures that so attracted the attention of WinifredWynne: the 'grand brunette' (painted from Mrs. Morris) 'holding apomegranate in her hand'; the 'other brunette, whose beautiful eyesare glistening and laughing over the fruit she is holding up'(painted from the same famous Irish beauty named Smith who appearsin _The Beloved_), and the blonde 'under the apple blossoms' (paintedfrom a still more beautiful woman--Mrs. Stillman). These pictureswere not permanently placed there, but, as it chanced, they werethere (for retouching) on a certain occasion when I was visiting atKelmscott. With regard to the green room in which Winifred took herfirst breakfast at 'Hurstcote' I am a little in confusion. It seemsto me more like the green dining-room in Cheyne Walk, decorated withantique mirrors, which was painted by Dunn, showing Rossetti readinghis poems aloud. This is the only portrait of Rossetti that reallycalls up the man before me. As Mr. Watts-Dunton is the owner ofDunn's drawing, and as so many people want to see what Rossetti'sfamous Chelsea house was like inside, it is a pity he does not giveit as a frontispiece to some future edition of _Aylwin_. Unfortunately, Mr. G. F. Watts's picture, now in the NationalPortrait Gallery, was never finished, and I never saw upon Rossetti'sface the dull, heavy expression which that portrait wears. I thinkthe poet told me that he had given the painter only one or twosittings. As to the photographs, none of them is really satisfactory. The 'young gentleman from Oxford who has been acting as mysecretary, ' as mentioned in _Aylwin_, was my brother. [Footnote] Withregard to the two circular mirrors surrounded by painted designstelling the story of the Holy Grail, 'in old black oak frames carvedwith knights at tilt, ' I do not remember seeing these there. But theyare evidently the mirrors decorated with copies of the lost HolyGrail frescoes once existing on the walls of the Union Reading-Roomat Oxford. These beautiful decorations I have seen at 'The Pines, 'but not elsewhere. I have often seen 'D'Arcy' in the company ofseveral of the other characters introduced into _Aylwin_; forinstance, 'De Castro' and 'Symonds' (the late F. R. Leyland, at thattime the owner of the Leyland line of steamers, living at Prince'sGate, where was the famous Peacock Room painted by Mr. Whistler). Idid not myself know that quaint character Mrs. Titwing, but I havebeen told by people who knew her well that she is true to the life. With regard to 'De Castro, ' it is a matter of regret to those whoknew him that, after giving us that most vivid scene between 'D'Arcy'and 'De Castro' at Scott's oyster-rooms (a place which Rossetti wasvery fond of frequenting in those nocturnal rambles that caused 'DeCastro' to give him the name of Haroun al Raschid), the author didnot go on and paint to the full the most extraordinary man of thevery extraordinary group, the centre of which was Rossetti's Chelseahouse. Rossetti was a well-known figure at Scott's and at Rule'soyster-rooms at the time he encountered 'Henry Aylwin. ' That scene atScott's is, in my opinion, the most living thing in the book--apicture that whenever I turn to it makes me feel that everything saidand done must have occurred. 'De Castro' seemed to belong not merelyto the Rossetti group, but to all groups, for he was brought intotouch with almost every remarkable man of his time, and fascinatedevery one of them. Literary and artistic London was once full ofstories of him, and no one that knew him doubted he was what must becalled a man of genius--although a barren genius. Among others, hewas brought into close relations with Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and, Ithink, Smetham ('Wilderspin'), and others. [Footnote: This was George Hake, who died in Central Africa a fewyears ago. ] Rossetti used to say that since Blake there has been no morevisionary painter in the art world than Smetham. Rossetti had a quiteaffectionate feeling towards Smetham, and several of his pictures(small ones) were on Rossetti's studio walls. I remember one or twoextraordinary pictures of his--especially one depicting a dragon in afen, of which Rossetti had a great opinion; and I believe this, withother pictures of Smetham's, is in the hands of Mr. Watts-Dunton. Theauthor of _Aylwin_ would have been much amused had he seen, as I did, in an American magazine the statement that 'Wilderspin' wasidentified with William Morris--a man who was as much the oppositeof the visionary painter as a man can be. Morris, whom I had theprivilege of knowing very well, and with whom I have stayed atKelmscott during the Rossetti period, is alluded to in _Aylwin_(chap. Ix. Book xv. ) as the 'enthusiastic angler' who used togo down to 'Hurstcote' to fish. At that time this fine oldseventeenth-century manor house was in the joint occupancy ofRossetti and Morris. 'Wilderspin' was Smetham with a variation:certain characteristics of another painter of genius were introduced, I believe, into the portrait of him in _Aylwin_; and the story of'Wilderspin's' early life was not that of Smetham. The series of'large attics in which was a number of enormous oak beams' supportingthe antique roof was a favourite resort of my own; but all theghostly noise that I there heard was the snoring of young owls--apeculiar sound that had a special fascination for Rossetti; and afterdinner Rossetti, my brother, and I would go to the attics to listento them. But a more singular mistake with regard to the _Aylwin_ charactersthan that of Morris being confounded with 'Wilderspin' was that ofconfounding, as certain newspaper paragraphs at the time did, 'CyrilAylwin' with Mr. Whistler. I am especially able to speak of thischaracter, who has been inquired about more than any other in thebook. I knew him, I think, even before I knew Rossetti and Morris, orany of that group. He was a brother of Mr. Watts-Dunton's--Mr. AlfredEugene Watts. He lived at Park House, Sydenham, and died suddenlyeither in 1870 or 1871, very shortly after I had met him at a weddingparty. Among the set in which I moved at that time he had a greatreputation as a wit and humorist. His style of humour always struckme as being more American than English. While bringing out humorousthings that would set a dinner-table in a roar, he would himselfmaintain a perfectly unmoved countenance. And it was said of him, as'Wilderspin' says of 'Cyril Aylwin, ' that he was never known tolaugh. The pen-picture of him in _Aylwin_ is one of the most vividthings in the book. With regard to the most original character in the story, those whoknew Clement's Inn, where I myself once resided, and Lincoln's InnFields, will be able at once to identify Mrs. Gudgeon, who lived inone of the streets running into Clare Market. Her business was thatof night coffee-stall keeper. At one time, I believe--but I am notcertain about this--she kept a stall on the Surrey side of WaterlooBridge, and it might have been there that, as I have been told, herportrait was drawn for a specified number of early breakfasts by anunfortunate artist who sank very low, but had real ability. Herconstant phrase was 'I shall die o' laughin'--I know I shall!' Onaccount of her extra-ordinary gift of repartee, and her inexhaustiblefund of wit and humour, she was generally supposed to be anIrishwoman. But she was not: she was cockney to the marrow. Recluseas Rossetti was in his later years, he had at one time been verydifferent, and could bring himself in touch with the lower orders ofLondon in a way such as was only known to his most intimate friends. With all her impudence, and I may say insolence, Mrs. Gudgeon was agreat favourite with the police, who were the constant butts of herchaff. With regard to the gipsies, although I knew George Borrow intimately, and saw a great deal of Mr. Watts-Dunton's other Romany Rye friend, the late Frank Groome, I did not know Sinfi Lovell or Rhona Boswell. But I may say that those who have said that Sinfi Lovell was paintedfrom the same model as Mr. Meredith's Kiomi are mistaken. SinfiLovell was extremely beautiful, whereas Kiomi, I believe, was neververy beautiful. But that they are represented as being contemporariesand friends is shown by D'Arcy's mention of Kiomi in Scott'soyster-rooms. The characters who figure in the early Raxton scenes Icannot speak of for reasons which may be pretty obvious; nor can Ispeak of the Welsh chapters in _Aylwin_, which have been a good dealdiscussed in recent numbers of _Notes and Queries_. But being myselfan East Anglian by birth--one of my Christian names is St. Edmund, because I was born at Bury St. Edmunds--I can say something aboutwhat the East Anglian papers call 'Aylwinland, ' and of the truth ofthe pictures of the east coast to be found in the story, Since_Aylwin_ was published an interesting attempt has been made by acorrespondent in the _Lowestoft Standard_ (25th August 1900) toidentify Pakefield Church as the 'Raxton' Church of the story, andthe writer of the letter mentions the most remarkable, and to mequite new fact, that although the guide-books of Lowestoft and thedistrict are quite silent as to a curious crypt at the east end ofPakefield Church, there is exactly such a crypt as that described in_Aylwin_, and that in the early days of the correspondent in questionit was used as a storehouse for bones. The readers of _Aylwin_ willremember the author's words: 'The crypt is much older than thechurch, and of an entirely different architecture. It was once thedepository of the bones of Danish warriors killed before the Normanconquest. ' THOMAS ST. E. HAKE. In _Notes and Queries_ [9th S. , ix. 369, 450; x. 16] a letter hadappeared, signed 'Jay Aitch, ' inquiring as to the school of mysticsfounded by Lavater, alluded to on page 83 of the _IllustratedAylwin_. This afforded Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake another opportunity ofunloading his wallet of Rossetti and _Aylwin_ lore. And in the samejournal, for 2nd August 1902, he wrote as follows: The question raised by Jay Aitch as to the school of mystics foundedby Lavater, and the large book _The Veiled Queen_, by 'PhilipAylwin, ' which contains quotations that Jay Aitch affirms havehaunted him ever since he read them, are certainly questions about asinteresting as any that could have been raised in connexion with thestory. And in answering these queries I find an opportunity of sayinga few authentic words on a subject upon which many unauthentic oneshave been-uttered--that of the occultism of D. G, Rossetti and someof his friends. It has been frequently said that Rossetti was aspiritualist, and it is a fact that he went to several _séances_; butthe word 'spiritualism' seems to have a rather elastic meaning. Aspiritualist, as distinguished from a materialist, Rossetti certainlywas, but his spiritualism was not, I should say, that which in commonparlance bears this name. It was exactly like 'Aylwinism, ' whichseems to have been related to the doctrines of the Lavaterian sectabout which Jay Aitch inquires. As a matter of fact, it was not theoriginal of 'Wilderspin' nearly so much as the original D'Arcy whowas captured by the doctrine of what is called in the story the'Aylwinian. ' With regard to Johann Kaspar Lavater, Jay Aitch is no doubt awarethat, although this once noted writer's fame rests entirely upon histreatise _Physiognomische Fragmente_, he founded a school of mysticsin Switzerland. This was before what is called spiritualism came intovogue. I believe that the doctrines of _The Veiled Queen_ are closelyrelated to the doctrines of the Lavaterians; but my knowledge on thismatter is of a second-hand kind, and is derived from conversationsupon Lavater and his claims as a physiognomist, which I heard manyyears ago at Coombe and during walks in Richmond Park, between theauthor of _Aylwin_ and my father, who, admittedly a man ofintellectual grasp, went even further than Lavater. A writer in the _Literary World_, in some admirable remarks upon thisstory, is, as far as I know, the only critic who has dwelt upon theextraordinary character of 'Philip Aylwin. ' He says: 'The melancholy, the spiritual isolation, and the passionate love ofthis master-mystic for his dead wife are so finely rendered that thereader's sympathies go out at once to this most pathetic and lonelyfigure.... It would be difficult for any sensitive man or woman tofollow Philip Aylwin's story as related by his son without thetribute of aching heart and scalding tears. To our thinking, theman's sanity is more moving, more supremely tragic, than even themadness of Winifred, which is the culminating tragedy of the book. ' I must say that I agree with this writer in thinking 'Philip Aylwin'to be the most impressive character in the story. The most remarkablefeature of the novel, indeed, is that, although 'Philip Aylwin'disappears from the scene so early, his opinions, his character, andhis dreams are cast so entirely over the book from beginning to endthat the novel might have been called _Philip Aylwin_. I have aspecial interest in this character, because I knew the undoubtedoriginal of the character with a considerable amount of intimacy. Without the permission of the author of _Aylwin_, I can only touch onoutward traits--the deep, spiritual life of this man is beyond me. Although a very near relation, he was not, as has been so oftensurmised, the author's father. [Footnote] He was a man ofextraordinary learning in the academic sense of the word, andpossessed still more extraordinary general knowledge. He lived formany years the strangest kind of hermit life, surrounded by hisbooks and old manuscripts. His two great passions were philologyand occultism. He knew more, I think, of those strange writersdiscussed in Vaughan's _Hours with the Mystics_ than any otherperson--including, perhaps, Vaughan himself; but he managed tocombine with his love of Mysticism a deep passion for the physicalsciences, especially astronomy. He seemed to be learning languages upto almost the last year of his life. His method of learning languageswas the opposite of that of George Borrow, that is to say, he madegreat use of grammars; and when he died it is said that from four tofive hundred treatises on grammar were found among his books. He usedto express great contempt for Borrow's method of learning languagesfrom dictionaries only. [Footnote: He was Mr. Watts-Dunton's uncle--Mr. James Orlando Watts. ] I do not think that any one connected with literature--with theexception of Mr. Watts-Dunton, Mr. Swinburne, my father, and Dr. R. G. Latham--knew so much of him as I did. His personal appearance wasexactly like that of 'Philip Aylwin, ' as described in the novel. Although he never wrote poetry, he translated, I believe, a good dealfrom the Spanish and Portuguese poets. I remember that he was anextraordinary admirer of Shelley. His knowledge of Shakespeare andthe Elizabethan dramatists was a link between him and Mr. Swinburne. At a time when I was a busy reader at the British MuseumReading-Room, I used frequently to see him, and he never seemed toknow any one among the readers except myself, and whenever he spoketo me it was always in a hushed whisper, lest he should disturb theother readers, which in his eyes would have been a heinous offence. For very many years he had been extremely well known to thesecond-hand booksellers, for he was a constant purchaser of theirwares. He was a great pedestrian, and, being very much attached tothe north of London, would take long, slow tramps ten miles out inthe direction of Highgate, Wood Green, etc. I have a very distinctrecollection of calling upon him in Myddelton Square at the time whenI was living close to him in Percy Circus. Books were piled up fromfloor to ceiling, apparently in great confusion, but he seemed toremember where to find every book and what there was in it. It is asingular fact that the only person outside those I have mentioned whoseems to have known him was that brilliant but eccentric journalist, Thomas Purnell, who had an immense opinion of him and used to callhim 'the scholar. ' How Purnell managed to break through the icy wallthat surrounded the recluse always puzzled me; but I suppose theymust have come across one another at one of those pleasant inns inthe north of London where 'the scholar' was taking his chop andbottle of Beaune. He was a man that never made new friends, and asone after another of his old friends died he was left so entirelyalone that, I think, he saw no one except Mr. Swinburne, the authorof _Aylwin_, and myself. But at Christmas he always spent a week at'The Pines, ' when and where my father and I used to meet him. Hismemory was so powerful that he seemed to be able to recall not onlyall that he had read, but the very conversations in which he hadtaken a part. He died, I think, at a little over eighty, and hisfaculties up to the last were exactly like those of a man in theprime of life. He always reminded me of Charles Lamb's descriptionof George Dyer. Such is my outside picture of this extraordinary man; and it is onlyof externals that I am free to speak here, even if I were competentto touch upon his inner life. He was a still greater recluse thanthe 'Philip Aylwin' of the novel. I think I am right in saying thathe took up one or two Oriental tongues when he was seventy years ofage. Another of his passions was numismatics, and it was in thesestudies that he sympathized with the author of _Aylwin's_ friend, thelate Lord de Tabley. I remember one story of his peculiarities whichwill give an idea of the kind of man he was. He had a brother who wasthe exact opposite of him in every way--strikingly good-looking, withgreat charm of mariner and _savoir faire_, but with an ordinaryintellect and a very superficial knowledge of literature, or, indeed, anything else, except records of British military and navalexploits--where he was really learned. Being full of admiration ofhis student brother, and having a parrot-like instinct for mimicry, he used to talk with great volubility upon all kinds of subjectswherever he went, and repeat in the same words what he had beenlistening to from his brother, until at last he got to be called the'walking encyclopedia. ' The result was that he got the reputation ofbeing a great reader and an original thinker, while the true studentand book-lover was frequently complimented on the way in which hetook after his learned brother. This did not in the least annoy thereal student, it simply amused him, and he would give with a dryhumour most amusing stories as to what people had said to him on thissubject. THOMAS ST. E. HAKE. The editor of _Notes and Queries_ has the following footnote: 'We hail some acquaintance with the being Mr. Hake depicts (Mr. JamesOrlando Watts) and can testify to the truth of the portraiture. '