Chapter 37

'From the very first, indeed, a feeling of mystery had haunted me. I had often pondered over every circumstance that attended my waking into life, but that incident which was the most firmly fixed in my mind was the sight of the feet of a tall woman whose body was hid by the 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 was suffering from a delusion about those feet, but he talked about the illusion which generally accompanied a recovery from such illnesses as mine. Now of course I felt sure that Sinfi was the person I had seen on the couch. But why was she there?

'I did not see Mr. D'Arcy until the afternoon after the guests had left, for in order to avoid seeing him and them, I took a long stroll by the river and then got into the punt. I had scarcely done so when Sinfi 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 in the startling spectacle of the previous evening, although her expression was careworn, and she certainly looked a little paler than she used to look when she and I and Rhona Boswell were such great friends; her splendid beauty and bearing were as striking as ever, I thought. I was expecting every minute that she would say something about what occurred under the elm tree in the home close. But she did not allude to it, and therefore I did not. We spent the entire afternoon in reminiscences of Carnarvonshire. When she told me that she knew you and that you had been there together, and when she told me 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 to see you was like a fever.

'But vivid as were the pictures that Sinfi gave me of your search for me, I could not piece them together in a plain tale. I tried to do so; it was impossible. What had happened to me after I had become unconscious on the sands in that unaccountable way--why I was found in Wales--how I could possibly have got there without knowing about it--what had led to my being discovered by Mr. D'Arcy--discovered in London, above all places, and in a painter's studio--these questions were with me night and day, and Sinfi was entirely unable to tell me anything about the matter, unless, as I sometimes half-thought, she was concealing something from me.'

'How could you have suspicions of poor Sinfi?' I said, for I was becoming alarmed at the way in which these inquiries were absorbing Winnie's mind.

'It is, I know, Henry, a peculiarity of my nature to be extremely confiding until I have once been deceived, and then to be just as suspicious. Kind as Mr. D'Arcy has been to me, I began to feel restless in his haven of refuge. I think that he perceived it, for I often found his eyes fixed upon me with a somewhat inquiring and anxious expression in them. I felt that I must leave him and go out into the world and take my place in the battle of life.'

'But, Winnie,' I said, 'you don't say that you intended to come to me. Battle of life, indeed! Where should Winnie stand in that battle except 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 write to me! What can it mean?'

'Why, Henry, don't you know what it means? Don't you know that the newspapers were full of long paragraphs about the heir of the Aylwins having left his famous bungalow and gone to Japan? Why, it was actually copied into the little penny weekly thing that Mrs. Titwing takes in, and it was there that I read it.'

'This shows the folly of ignoring the papers,' I said. 'I did undoubtedly say in some letters to friends that I proposed going to Japan; but my loss of you, my grief, my misery, paralysed every faculty of mine. My strength of purpose was all gone. I delayed and delayed starting, and never left Wales at all, as you see.'

'Two things,' continued Winnie, 'prevented my leaving Hurstcote--my promise 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 travel with; for it was part of the delicate method of Mr. D'Arcy to furnish me with everything money could buy, but to give me no money. His extravagant expenditure upon me in the way of dress, trinkets, and every kind of luxury that could be placed in my room by Mrs. Titwing appalled me. Mrs. Titwing's own bearing, when I spoke to her about them, would have made one almost suppose that they grew there like mushrooms; and if I mentioned them to Mr. D'Arcy he would tell me that Mrs. Titwing was answerable for all that; he knew nothing about such matters.

'What I should in the end have done as to leaving Hurstcote or remaining there I don't know; but after a while something occurred to remove my difficulties. One morning, when I was giving Mr. D'Arcy a long sitting for his picture, a Gypsy friend of Sinfi's, belonging to a 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 gone away without my seeing him.

'In the afternoon, when Sinfi and I were in the punt fishing together, I could not help noticing that she was much absorbed in thought.

'"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 she dropped her fishing-rod in the river. "Jake Lee has been tellin' me that our people are there, all camped in the old place by Bettws y Coed. I told him to write to my daddy--Jake can write--and tell him that I'm goin' to see him."

'"But you already knew they were there, Sinfi; you told me. What makes you so suddenly want to go?"

'"That's nuther here nor there. I do want to go. Why can't you go with 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 have not a copper."

'"Ah, but I've got gold balansers about me, and they're better nor copper."

'"Dear Sinfi!" I said, "I'd rather borrow of you than any one in the world."

'"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' with you."

'When I next saw Mr. D'Arcy I found that Sinfi had already spoken to him 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 very disconcerting 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 my duty and yours to do."

'Mr. D'Arcy always spoke of Sinfi in this way. She seems to have done something of a peculiarly noble kind for him and for me too, but what it 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 can understand my delight as we passed along the railway at nightfall and I 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 heard the first Welsh word and saw the first white-washed Welsh cottage. From head to foot I became a Welsh girl again. The loveliness of Hurstcote Manor seemed a dull, grey, far-away house in a dream. But if I had known that I should also find you, my dear! If I had dreamed that I should find Henry!'

And then silence alone would satisfy her. And Snowdon was speaking to us both.

XIII

And what about Sinfi Lovell? In those supreme moments of bliss did Winifred and I think much about Sinfi? Alas, that love and happiness should be so selfish!

When at last the sound of Sinfi's crwth and song came from some spot a good way up the rugged path leading to the summit, it quite startled us.

'That's Sinfi's signal,' said Winnie; 'that is the way we used to call each other when we were children. She used to sing one verse of a 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 seen each 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 sure to 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 left Hurstcote 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 me some 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. 'Probably the walk to the top and then down to Llanberis, and then on to Carnarvon, is really to take place, as originally arranged--only with the slight addition that _some one_ is to join us! I shall soon be back, either alone or with Sinfi, and then we shall know.'

She ran up the path. Against her wish I followed her for a time. She moved towards the same dangerous ledge of rock where I had last seen her on that day before she vanished in the mist.

I cried out as I followed her, 'Winnie, for God's sake don't run that danger!'

'No danger at all,' she cried. 'I know every rock as well as you know every boulder of Raxton Cliffs.'

I watched her poising herself on the ledge; it made me dizzy. Her confidence, 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 we had breakfasted.

Sinfi's music ceased, but Winifred did not return. I sat down on the rock and tried to think, but soon found that the feat was impossible. The turbulent waves of my emotion seemed to have washed my brain clear of all thoughts. The mystery in connection with Sinfi was now as great as the mystery connected with the rescue of Winifred from the mattress in Primrose Court. So numbed was my brain that I at last pinched myself to make sure that I was awake. In doing this I seemed to feel in one of my coat pockets a hard substance. Putting my hand into the pocket, I felt the sharp corner of a letter pricking between a finger and its nail. The acute pain assured me that I was awake. I pulled out the letter. It was the one that the servant at the bungalow had given me in the early morning when I called to get my bath. I read the address, which was in a handwriting I did not know:--

'HENRY AYLWIN, ESQ., 'Carnarvon, North Wales.'

The Carnarvon postmark and the words written on the envelope, 'Try Capel Curig,' showed the cause of the delay in the letter's reaching me. In the left-hand corner of the envelope were written the words 'Very urgent. Please forward immediately.' I opened it, and found it to 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. I had gathered from paragraphs in the newspapers about you that you were in Japan, or in some other part of the East.

Miss Wynne and Sinfi Lovell are at this moment in Wales, and I write at once to furnish you with some facts in connection with Miss Wynne which it is important for you to know before you meet her. I can imagine your amazement at learning that she you have lost so long has been staying here as my guest. I will tell you all without more preamble.

One day, some little time after I parted from you in the streets of London, I chanced to go into Wilderspin's studio, when I found him in great distress. He told me that the beautiful model who had sat for his picture 'Faith and Love' had suddenly died. The mother of the girl had on the previous day been in and told him that her daughter had died in one of the fits to which at intervals she had been subject.

Wilderspin, in his eccentric way, had always declared that the model 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 flesh and blood at all, but a spiritual body sent from heaven by his mother in 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 a delusion--a beneficent delusion--in supposing the model to be her daughter. And now he thought that this beautiful phantom from the spirit-world had been recalled because his picture was complete. When I entered the studio he was just starting for the second time, as he told me, to the woman's house, in the belief that the body of the girl which he had seen lying on a mattress was a delusion--a spiritual body, and must by this time have vanished.

I had reasons for wishing to prevent his going there and being again brought into contact with the woman before I saw her myself. From my first seeing the woman and the model, I had found it impossible to believe that there could be any blood relationship between them, for the girl's frame from head to foot was as delicate as the woman's frame from head to foot was coarse and vulgar.

Naturally, therefore, it occurred to me that this was an excellent opportunity to find out the truth of the matter. I determined to go and bully the impudent hag into a confession; but of course Wilderspin was the last man I should choose to accompany me on such a mission. Your relative, Cyril Aylwin, was, as I believed, on the Continent, expecting Wilderspin to join him there, or I might have taken him with me.

I have always had great influence over Wilderspin, and I easily persuaded him to remain in the studio while I went myself to the woman's address, which he gave me. I knew that if the model were really dead she would have to be buried by the parish at a pauper funeral, 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 her buried myself. So I took a hansom and drove to the squalid court in the neighbourhood of Holborn, where the woman lived.

On reaching the house, I found the door open. Wilderspin had described to me the room occupied by Mrs. Gudgeon, so I went at once upstairs. I found the model upon a mattress, her features horribly contorted, lying in the same clothes apparently in which she had fallen when seized.

In an armchair in the middle of the room was Mrs. Gudgeon, in a drunken sleep so profound that I could not have roused her had I tried. While I stood looking at the girl, something in the appearance of her flesh--its freshness of hue--made me suspect that she was still alive, and that she was only suffering from a seizure of a more acute kind than any the woman had yet seen. As I stood looking at these two it occurred to me that should the model recover from the seizure this would be an excellent and quite unexpected opportunity for me to get her away. The woman, I thought, would after a while wake up, and find to her amazement the body gone of her whom she thought dead. If she had really kidnapped the girl she would be afraid to set any inquiry afoot. She might even perhaps imagine that the girl's relations had traced her, found the dead body, and removed it for burial while she, the kidnapper, was asleep.

After a while the expression of terror on the model's face began to relax, and she soon awoke into that strange condition which had caused Wilderspin to declare that she had been sent from another world. She recognised me in the semi-conscious way in which she recognised all those who were brought into contact with her, and looked into my face with that indescribably sweet smile of hers. From the first she had in her dazed way seemed attached to me, and I had now no difficulty whatever in persuading her to accompany me downstairs and out of the house.

Before going, however, the whim seized me to write on the wall in large letters, with a piece of red drawing-chalk I had in my waistcoat pocket, '_Kidnapper, beware! Jack Ketch is on your track_.' I took the girl to my house, and put her under the care of my housekeeper (much to the worthy lady's surprise), who gave her every attention. 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? What I saw has vanished, as I expected. How could you suppose that a material 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 to let 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 decided to take the model with me.

Before, however, I started for the country with her, I had the curiosity to call next morning upon the woman in Primrose Court, in order to discover what had been the effect of my stratagem. I found her sitting in a state of excitement, and evidently in great alarm, gazing at the mattress. The words I had written on the wall had 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 words in order, as I saw, to give herself time to invent some story. Then a look 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 the course I should have liked them to take. She would tell other inquirers as she had told me, that her daughter had been buried by the parish. No one would take the trouble, I thought, to inquire into it, and the matter would end at once.

So I said to her, 'Oh, if the parish buried her, that's all right; no one ever makes inquiries about people who are buried by the parish.'

This seemed to relieve the woman's mind vastly, and she said, 'In course they don't. What's the use of askin' questions about people as are 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 that same afternoon I took the model down to Hurstcote Manor, determining to keep the matter a secret from everybody, as I intended to discover, if possible, her identity.

I need scarcely remind you that although you told me some little of the story of yourself and a young lady to whom you were deeply attached, you were very reticent as to the cause of her dementia; and your story ended with her disappearance in Wales. I, for my part, had not the smallest doubt that she had fallen down a precipice and was dead. Everything--especially the fact that you last saw her on the brink of a precipice, running into a volume of mist--pointed to but one conclusion. To have imagined for a moment that she and Wilderspin's model, who had been discovered in the streets of London, were the same, would have been, of course, impossible. Besides, you had given me no description of her personal appearance, nor had you said a word to me as to her style of beauty, which is undoubtedly unique.

When I got the model fairly settled at Hurstcote her presence became a 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 they had for me, especially young animals? And do you remember my saying that the most fascinating creature in the world would be a beautiful young girl as unconscious as a child or a young animal; if such a combination of charms were possible? Such a young girl as this it was whom I was now seeing every day and all day. The charm she exercised over me was no doubt partly owing to my own peculiar temperament--to my own hatred of self-consciousness and to an innate shyness which is apt to make me feel at times that people are watching me, when they most likely are doing nothing of the kind.

And charming as she is now, restored to health and consciousness--charming above most young ladies with her sweet intelligence and most lovable nature--the inexpressible witchery I have tried to describe has vanished, otherwise I don't know how I should have borne what I now have brought myself to bear, parting from her.

I seemed to have no time to think about prosecuting inquiries in regard to her identity. I am afraid there was much selfishness in this, but I have never pretended to be an unselfish man.

The one drop of bitterness in my cup of pleasure was the recurrence of the terrible paroxysms to which she was subject.

I was alarmed to find that these became more and more frequent and more and more severe. I felt at last that her system could not stand the strain much longer, and that the end of her life was not far distant.

It was in a very singular way that I came to know her name and also her relations with you. In my original perplexity about finding a model for my Zenelophon, I had bethought me of Sinfi Lovell, who, with a friend of hers named Rhona Boswell, sat to Wilderspin, to your cousin, and others. I had made inquiries about Sinfi, but had been told that she was not now to be had, as she had abandoned London altogether, and was settled in Wales.

One day, however, I was startled by seeing Sinfi walking across the meadows along the footpath leading from the station.

She told me that she had quitted Wales for good, and had left you there, and that on reaching London and calling at one of the studios where she used to sit, she had been made aware of my inquiries after her. As she had now determined to sit a good deal to painters, she had gone to my studio in London. Being told there that I was at Hurstcote Manor, where she had sat to me on several occasions, she had taken the train and come down.

During our conversation the model passed through the garden gate and walked towards the Spinney, and stood looking in a rapt way at the sunset clouds and listening to the birds.

When Sinfi caught sight of her she stood as if petrified, and exclaimed, 'Winnie Wynne! Then she ain't dead; the dukkeripen was true; they'll be married arter all. Don't let her see me suddenly, it might bring on fits.'

Miss Wynne, however, had observed neither Sinfi nor me, and we two passed into the garden without any difficulty.

In the studio Sinfi sat down, and in a state of the deepest agitation she told me much of the story, as far as she knew it, of yourself and Miss Wynne, but I could see that she was not telling me all.