Chapter 19

'You have heard,' he continued in a voice whose intense earnestness had an irresistible fascination for the ear, like that of a Hindoo charmer--'you have heard of the mother-bird who feeds her young from the blood of her own breast; that bird but feebly typifies her whom God, in His abundant love of me, gave me for a mother. There were ten of us--ten little children. My mother was a female blacksmith of Old Hill, who for four shillings and sixpence a week worked sixteen hours a day for the fogger, hammering hot iron into nails. The scar upon my forehead--look! it is shaped like the red-hot nail that one day leapt upon me from her anvil, as I lay asleep in my swing above her head. I would not lose it for all the diadems of all the monarchs of this world. She was much too poor to educate us. When the wolf is at the door, Mr. Aylwin, and the very flesh and blood of the babes in danger of perishing, what mother can find time to think of education, to think even of the salvation of the soul,--to think of anything but food--food? Have you ever wanted food, Mr. Aylwin?' he suddenly said, in a voice so magnetic from its very earnestness that I seemed for the moment to feel the faintness of hunger.

'No, no,' I said, a tide of grief rushing upon me; 'but there is one who perhaps--there is one I love more dearly than your mother loved her babes--'

Sinfi rose, and came and placed her hand upon my shoulder and whispered,

'She ain't a-starvin', brother; she never starved on the hills. She's only 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,' said Wilderspin, taking but little heed of even so violent an interruption as this.'No one has been entirely educated, Mr. Aylwin--no one knows the real primal meaning of that pathetic word Man--no one knows the true meaning of Man's position here among the other living creatures of this world, if he has never wanted food. Hunger gives a new seeing to 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 son Jericho, with a pipe in her mouth, weaving fancy baskets, and listening intently. 'The very airth under your feet seems to be a-sinkin' away, and the sweet sunshine itself seems as if it all belonged to the Gorgios, when you're a-follerin' the patrin with the emp'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 her burk [Footnote 2] never thanked God for wantin' food: it dries the milk, or else it sp'iles it.'

[Footnote 1: Child.]

[Footnote 2: Bosom.]

'In no way,' said Wilderspin, 'has the spirit-world neglected the education of the apostle of spiritual beauty. I became a "blower" in the smithy. As a child, from early sunrise till nearly midnight, I blew the bellows for eighteen pence a week. But long before I could read 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 nail on the smithy walls, that, unless the heavy world pressed too heavily upon me, I should become a great painter. Except anxiety about my mother and my little brothers and sisters, I, for my part, had no thought besides this of being some day a painter. Except love for her and for them, I had no other passion. By assiduous attendance at night-schools I learnt to read and write. This enabled me to take a better berth in Black Waggon Street, where I earned enough to take lessons in drawing from the reduced widow of a once prosperous fogger. But ah! so eager was I to learn, that I did not notice how my mother was fading, wasting, dying slowly. It was not till too late that I learnt the appalling truth, that while the babes had been nourished, the mother had starved--starved! On a few ounces of bread a day no woman can work the Oliver and prod the fire. Her last whispers 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! that makes 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, nodded in a patronising way to Wilderspin, and said, 'Reia, my mammy lives in the clouds, and I'll tell her to show you the Golden Hand, I will.'

'From the moment when I left my mother in the grave,' said Wilderspin, 'I had but one hope, that she who was watching my endeavours might not watch in vain. Art became now my religion: success in it my soul's goal. I went to London; I soon began to develop 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. What I 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 a commission. Oh! the joy of painting that first picture! My progress was now rapid. But I had few purchasers till Providence sent me a good 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 you get 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 a horn nataral, I likes him.'

'I never exhibited in the Academy,' continued Wilderspin, without heeding the interruption, 'I never tried to exhibit; but, thanks to the dear friend I have mentioned, I got to know the Master himself. People came to my poor studio, and my pictures were bought from my easel as fast as I could paint them. I could please my buyers, I could please my dear friend, I could please the Master himself; I could please every person in the world but one--myself. For years I had been struggling with what cripples so many artists--with ignorance--ignorance, Mr. Aylwin, of the million points of detail which must be understood and mastered before ever the sweetness, the apparent lawlessness and abandonment of Nature can be expressed by Art. But it was now, when I had conquered these,--it was now that I was dissatisfied, and no man living was so miserable as I. I dare say you are an artist yourself, Mr. Aylwin, and will understand me when I say that artists--figure-painters, I mean,--are divided into two classes--those whose natural impulse is to paint men, and those who are sent into the world expressly to paint women. My mother's death taught me that my mission was to paint women, women whom I--being the son of Mary Wilderspin--love and understand better than other men, because my soul (once folded in her womb) is purer than other men's souls.'

'Is not modesty a Gorgio virtue, Lady Sinfi?' murmured Cyril.

'Nothin' like a painter for thinkin' strong beer of hisself,' she replied; 'but I likes him--oh, I likes him.'

'No man whose soul is stained by fleshly desire shall render in art all that there is in a truly beautiful woman's face,' said Wilderspin. 'I worked hard at imaginative painting; I worked for years and years, Mr. Aylwin, but with scant success. It shames me to say that I was at last discouraged. Hut, after a time, I began to feel that the spirit-world was giving me a strength of vision second only to the Master's own, and a cunning of hand greater than any vouchsafed to man since the death of Raphael. This was once stigmatised as egotism; but "Faith and Love," and the predella "Isis behind the Veil," have told another story. I did not despair, I say; for I knew the cause of my failure. Two sources of inspiration were wanting to me--that of a superlative subject and that of a superlative model. For the first I am indebted to Philip Aylwin; for the second I am indebted to--'

'A greater still, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose Court,' interjected Cyril.

'For the second I'm indebted to my mother. And yet something else was wanting,' continued Wilderspin, 'to enable me for many months to concentrate my life upon one work--the self-sacrificing generosity of such 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. The autobiography of a man of genius is interesting; but I fear that yours 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 have a good way to walk to-night.'

'That's just like my friend,' said Wilderspin. 'That's my friend all over.'

With this they left us, and we betook ourselves to our usual evening occupations.

Next morning the two painters called upon us. Wilderspin sketched alone, while Sinfi, Rhona, Cyril, and I went trout-fishing in one of the 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 be like. Is he really as great a painter as he takes himself to he, or does his art begin and end with flowery words?'

'I believe,' said Cyril, pointing across to where Wilderspin sat at work, 'that the strange creature under that white umbrella is the greatest artistic genius now living. The death of his mother by starvation has turned his head, poor fellow, but turned it to good purpose: "Faith and Love" is the greatest modern picture in Europe. To be sure, he has the advantage of painting from the finest model ever seen, the lovely, if rather stupid, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose Court, whom he monopolises.'

Cyril had already, during the morning, told me that my mother, who was much out of health, was now staying in London, where he had for the first time in his life met her at Lord Sleaford's house. Notwithstanding their differences of opinion, my mother and he seemed to have formed a mutual liking. He also told me that my uncle Cecil Aylwin of Alvanley (who in this narrative must not, of course, be confounded with another important relative, Henry Aylwin, Earl of Aylwin) having just died and left me the bulk of his property, I had been in much request. I consequently determined to start for London on the following day, leaving my waggon in charge of Sinfi, who was to sit to Wilderspin in the open air.

During this conversation Sinfi was absorbed in her fishing, and wandered away up the brook, and I could see that Cyril's eyes were following 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 remain there for some little time, I wrote to Cyril to say so, sending some messages to Sinfi and her father about my own living-waggon.

My mother was now staying at my aunt's house, whither I went to call upon her shortly after my arrival in town.

Our meeting was a constrained and painful one. It was my mother's cruelty to Winifred that had, in my view, completely ruined two lives. I did not know then what an awful struggle was going on in her own breast between her pride and her remorse for having driven Winnie away, to be lost in Wales. Afterwards her sad case taught me that among all the agents of soul-torture that have ever stung mankind to madness the scorpion Remorse is by far the most appalling. But other events had to take place before she reached the state when the scorpion stings to death all other passions, even Pride and even Vanity, and reigns in the bosom supreme. We could hardly meet without softening towards each other. She was most anxious to know what had occurred to me since I left Raxton to search for Winnie. I gave her the entire story from my first seeing Winnie in the cottage, to my _rencontre_ with her at Knockers' Llyn. At this time she had accidentally been brought into contact with Miss Dalrymple, who had lately received a legacy and was now in better circumstances. Miss Dalrymple had spoken in high terms of Winnie's intelligence and culture, little thinking how she was making my mother feel more acutely than ever her own wrongdoing. Knowing that I was very fond of music, my mother persuaded me to take her on several occasions to the opera and the theatre. She with more difficulty persuaded me to consult a medical man upon the subject of my insomnia; and at last I agreed, though very reluctantly, to consult Dr. Mivart, late of Raxton, who was now living in London. Mivart attributed my ailment (as I, of course, knew he would) to hypochondria, and I saw that he was fully aware of the cause. I therefore opened my mind to him upon the subject. I told him everything in connection with Winifred in Wales.

He pondered the subject carefully and then said:

'What you need is to escape from these terrible oscillations between hope and despair. Therefore I think it best to tell you frankly that Miss Wynne is certainly dead. Even suppose that she did not fall down a precipice in Wales, she is, I repeat, certainly dead. So severe a form of hysteria as hers must have worn her out by this time. It is difficult for me to think that any nervous system could withstand a strain 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 blessing to herself, and the knowledge that she is dead will be a blessing to you.'

'A blessing to me?' I said.

'I mean that it will save you from the mischief of these alternations between hope and despair. You will remember that it was I who saw her in her first seizure and told you of it. Such a seizure having lasted so long, nothing could have given her relief but death or magnetic transmission of the seizure. It is a grievous case, but what concerns me now is the condition into which you yourself have passed. Nothing but a successful effort on your part to relieve your mind from the dominant idea that has disturbed it can save you from--from--'

'From what?'

'That drug of yours is the most dangerous narcotic of all. Increase your doses by a few more grains and you will lose all command over your nervous system--all presence of mind. Give it up, give it up and enter Parliament.'

I left Mivart in anger, and took a stroll through the streets, trying to amuse myself by looking at the shop windows and recalling the few salient incidents that were connected with my brief experiences as an art student.

Hours passed in this way, until one by one the shops were closed and only the theatres, public bars, and supper-rooms seemed to be open.

I turned into a restaurant in the Haymarket, for I had taken no dinner. I went upstairs into a supper-room, and after I had finished my meal, taking a seat near the window, I gazed abstractedly over the bustling, flashing streets, which to me seemed far more lonely, far more remote, than the most secluded paths of Snowdon. In a trouble such as mine it is not Man but Nature that can give companionship.

I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I did not observe whether I was or was not now alone in the room, till the name of Wilderspin fell 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. The face of the man who sat on the opposite side of the table confronted me.

If I had one tithe of that objective power and that instinct for description which used to amaze me in Winifred as a child, I could give here a picture of a face which the reader could never forget.

If it was not beautiful in detail it was illuminated by an expression that gave a unity of beauty to the whole. And what was the expression? I can only describe it by saying that it was the expression of genius; and it had that imperious magnetism which I had never before seen in any face save that of Sinfi Lovell. But striking as was the face of this man, I soon found that his voice was more striking still. In whatever assembly that voice was heard, its indescribable resonance would have marked it off from all other voices, and have made the ear of the listener eager to catch the sound. This voice, however, was not the one that had uttered the name of Wilderspin. It was from his companion, who sat opposite to him, with his great broad back, covered with a smart velvet coat, towards me, that the talk was now coming. This man was smoking cigarettes in that kind of furious sucking way which is characteristic of great smokers. Much smoking, however, had not dried up his skin to the consistence of blotting paper and to the colour of tobacco ash as it does in some cases, but tobacco juice, which seemed to ooze from his face like perspiration, or rather like oil, had made his complexion of a yellow green colour, something like a vegetable marrow. Although his face was as hairless as a woman's, there was not a feature in it that was not masculine. Although his cheek-bones were high and his jaw was of the mould which we so often associate with the prizefighter, he looked as if he might somehow be a gentleman. And when I got for a moment a full view of his face as he turned round, I thought it showed power and intelligence, although his forehead receded a good deal, a recession which was owing mainly to the bone above the eyes. Power and intelligence too were seen in every glance of his dark bright eyes. In a few minutes Wilderspin's name was again uttered by this man, and I found he was telling anecdotes of the eccentric painter--telling them with great gusto and humour, in a loud voice, quite careless of being overheard by me. Then followed other anecdotes of other people--artists for the most part--in which the names of Millais, Ruskin, Watts, Leighton, and others came up in quick succession.

That he was a professional anecdote-monger of extraordinary brilliancy, a _raconteur_ of the very first order, was evident enough. I found also that as a story-teller he was reckless and without conscience. He was, I thought, inventing anecdotes to amuse his companion, whose manifest enjoyment of them rather weakened the impression that his own personality had been making upon me.

After a while the name of Cyril Aylwin came up, and I soon found the man telling a story of Cyril and a recent escapade of his which I knew must be false. He then went rattling on about other people, mentioning names which, as I soon gathered, were those of female models known in the art world. The anecdotes he told of these were mostly to their disadvantage. I was about to move to another table, in order to get out of earshot of this gossip, when the name 'Lady Sinfi' fell upon my ears.

And then I heard the other man--the man of the musical voice--talk about Lady Sinfi with the greatest admiration and regard. He wound up by saying, 'By the bye, where is she now? I should like to use her in painting 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 Cyril Aylwin.'

My blood boiled with rage. I lost all control of myself. I longed to feel 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, 'What was that you said to me? Will you repeat your words?'

'To repeat one's words,' I said quietly, 'shows a limited vocabulary, so I will put it thus,--what you said just now about Sinfi 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 by listening to our conversation?'

The threatening look that he managed to put into his face was so entirely histrionic that it made me laugh outright. This seemed to damp his courage more than if I had sprung up and shown fight. The man had a somewhat formidable appearance, however, as regards build, which showed that he possessed more than average strength. It was the manifest genuineness of my laugh that gave him pause. And when I sat with my elbows on the table and my face between my palms, taking stock of him quietly, he looked extremely puzzled. The man of the musical 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 theatre is your histrionic friend attached? I should like to see him in a better farce than this.'

'Do you hear that, De Castro?' said the other. 'What is your theatre?'

'If he is really excited,' I said, 'tell him that people at a public supper-room should speak in a moderate tone or their conversation is likely 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 lie should 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 laid his 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 use his 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 you know something about my friend Lady Sinfi?'

'I do,' I said, 'and I am Cyril Aylwin's kinsman, whom you call his cousin, so perhaps, as every word your friend has said about Sinfi Lovell and me is false, you will allow me to call him a liar.'

A look of the greatest glee at the discomfiture of his companion overspread his face.

'Certainly,' he said with a loud laugh. 'You may call him that, you may even qualify the noun you have used with an adjective if the author of the _Proverbial Philosophy_ can think of one that is properly descriptive and yet not too unparliamentary. So you are Cyril Aylwin's kinsman. I have heard him,' he said, with a smile that he tried in vain to suppress, 'I have heard Cyril expatiate on the various 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 proud Aylwins. A man who, in a world like this, is proud and knows it, and is proud of confessing his pride, always interests me, but I will not ask you what makes the proud Aylwins proud, sir.'

'I will tell you what makes me proud,' I said: 'my great-grandmother was 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 I met a man who interested me'--he gave a sigh--'very long; and I hope that 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 and affectionate terms. In a few minutes, without withdrawing a word he had said about either of them, he had entirely changed the spirit of every word. At first I tried to resist his sophistry, but it was not to be resisted. I ended by apologising to him for my stupidity in misunderstanding him.