II

As soon as I reached London, thinking that Wilderspin was still on

the Continent, I went first to D'Arcy's studio, but was there told

that D'Arcy was away--that he had been in the country for a long

time, busy painting, and would not return for some months. I then

went to Wilderspin's studio, and found, to my surprise and relief,

that he and Cyril had returned from Paris. I learnt from the servant

that Wilderspin had just gone to call on Cyril; accordingly to

Cyril's studio I went.

'He is engaged with the Gypsy-model, sir,' said Cyril's man, pointing

to the studio door, which was ajar. 'He told me that if ever you

should call you were to be admitted at once. Mr. Wilderspin is there

too.'

'You need not announce me,' I said, as I pushed open the door.

Entering the studio, I found myself behind a tall easel where Cyril

was at work. I was concealed from him, and also from Wilderspin and

Sinfi. On my left stood Cyril's caricature of Wilderspin's 'Faith and

Love,' upon which the light from a window was falling aslant!

Before I could pass round the easel into the open space I was

arrested by overhearing a conversation between Cyril, Sinfi, and

Wilderspin.

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 veil

of the goddess-queen in the caricature appeared to become

illuminated; the tragedy of our love (from the spectacle of her

father's dead body shining in the moonlight, with a cross on his

breast, down to the hideous-grotesque scene of the woman at the

corner of Essex Street) appeared to be represented on the veil of the

mocking queen in little pictures of scorching flame. These are the

words I heard:

'Keep your head in that position, Lady Sinfi,' said Cyril, 'and pray

do 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, it

must ha' bin all a fancy o' mine. But you see, Mr. Cyril, she wur

once 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 feyther

was?'

I heard Wilderspin's voice say. 'No, indeed. _I_ would never have

asked who her father was. Ah, Mr. Cyril, I knew how mysteriously she

had come to me; why should I ask who was her father? Her earthly

parentage was not an illusion. But you will remember that I was not

in the studio at the time of the fit. Mr. Ebury had called about a

commission, and I had gone into the next room to speak to him. You

came into the studio at the time, Mr. Cyril. When I returned, I found

her in the fit, and you standing over her.'

'No, don't get up, Sinfi, my girl,' I heard Cyril say. 'Sit down

quietly, and I will tell you what, passed. There is no doubt I did

ask her about her father, poor thing; but I did it with the best

intentions--did it for her good, as I thought--did it to learn

whether she had been kidnapped, and certainly not from idle

curiosity.'

'Scepticism, the curse of the age,' said Wilderspin.

I heard Cyril say, 'Who could have thought it would turn out so? But

you yourself had told me, Wilderspin, of Mother Gudgeon's injunction

not to ask the girl who her father was, and of course it had upon me

the 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 such

a root. I thought it very likely that the woman had told you this to

prevent your getting at the truth about their connection; so I

decided to question the model myself, but determined to wait till you

had had a good number of sittings, lest there should come a quarrel

with 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 father

alive?"'

'Ah!' cried Sinfi, 'it was as I thought. It was the word "feyther" as

killed her! An' what'll become o' _him_?'

'The word "father" seemed to shoot into her like a bullet,' said

Cyril. 'She shrieked "Father," and her face looked--'

'No, don't, tell me how she looked!' said Sinfi. 'Mr. Wilderspin's

pictur' o' the witch and the lady shows how she looked--whoever she

was. But if it was Winnie Wynne. what'll become o' _him_?'

Then I heard. Cyril address Wilderspin again. 'We had great

difficulty, you remember, Wilderspin, in bringing her round, and

afterwards I took her out of the house, put her into a cab, and you

directed 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 marry

Winifred Wynne. Ah! surely the Swimmin' Rei is in the room! I thought

I heard that choke come in his throat as comes when he frets about

Winnie. 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 is

stronger than the hand of Death,' said Cyril; 'and yet I wish from my

heart I could believe it.'

'My poor mammy used to say, "The Gorgios believes when they ought to

disbelieve, and they disbelieve when they ought to believe, and that

gives the Romanies a chance."'

'Sinfi Lovell,' said Wilderspin, 'that saying of your mother's

touches at the very root of romantic art.'

'Well, if Gorgios don't believe enough, Sinfi,--if there is not

enough superstition among certain Gorgio acquaintances of mine, it's

a 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 the

dukkeripen o' the clouds; but if I was on Snowdon with my crwth I

could 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 [Footnote

1] as she was so fond on. If she was dead, she wouldn't hear it, but

if she was alive she would, and her livin' mullo [Footnote 2] 'ud

come 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 to

myself certain wise and pregnant words quoted from an Oriental book

by the great Philip Aylwin--words which tell us that he is too bold

who dares say what he will believe, what disbelieve, not knowing in

any wise the mind of God--not knowing in any wise his own heart and

what it shall one day suffer.'

'But,' said Sinfi, 'about her as sat to Mr. Wilderspin; did she never

talk 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 those

wonderful miracles of hers, and I muttered "St. Winifred." The face

of the model immediately grew bright with a new light, and she spoke

the 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 of

movement, as though she were dipping water from a well, and said,

"Please, good St. Winifred, bless the holy water and make it

cure--"'

'Ah, for God's sake stop!' cried Sinfi. 'Look! the Swimmin' Rei! He's

in 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. I

heard her say,

'There ain't nothink so cruel as seein' him take on like that; I've

seed 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 be

dead 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 might

ha' bin some poor innocent as her feyther used to beat. It's

wonderful how cruel Gorgio feythers is to poor born naterals. And she

might 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 but

you 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 and

Wilderspin good-bye and passed out of the studio, I did so too. In

the street she stood and looked wistfully at me, as though she saw me

through a mist, and then bade me good-bye, saying that she must go to

Kingston Vale where her people were encamped in a hired field. We

separated, and I wandered I knew not whither.