II

'When I came to myself,' said Winifred, 'I was in a world as new and

strange and wonderful as that in which Christopher Sly found himself

when 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, and

when you were restored to life--regained your consciousness, I

mean--unless it will too deeply agitate you to tell me.'

'It would not agitate me in the least, Henry, to tell you all about

it. But it is a long story, and this seems a strange place in which

to tell it, surrounded by these glorious peaks and covered by this

roof of sunrise. But do you tell me all about yourself, all about

your illness, which seems to have been a dreadful one.'

My story, indeed! What was there in my story that I could or dare

tell her? My story would have to be all about herself, and the

tragedy of the supposed curse, and the terrible seizures from which

she had recovered, and of which she must never know. I set to work to

persuade 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 over

mine. 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 has

always appealed to me more than any other expression, whether in

human eyes or in the eyes of animals. I mean the pleading, yearning

expression of loneliness that there was in your eyes when they were

the eyes of a little, lame boy who could not get up the gangways

without me.'

'Ah, the egotism of love!' I exclaimed. 'You mean, Winnie, that

expression which my unlucky eyes had lost when we met upon the sands

after our childhood was passed.'

'But which love,' said she, 'love of Winnie, sorrow for the loss of

Winnie, have brought back, increased a thousandfold, till it gives me

pain and yet a delicious pain to look into them. Oh, Henry, I can't

go 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 start

when he looked into my eyes. It seemed to me that he had been

expecting to see something in them which he did not find there, and

was a little disappointed. I then heard voices in the room, which was

evidently, from the sound of the voices, a large room, and I looked

round. I saw that there was another couch close to mine, but nearly

hidden from view by a large screen between the two couches. Evidently

a woman was lying on the other couch, for I could see her feet; she

was a tall woman, for her feet reached out much beyond my own.'

'Good heavens, Winnie,' I exclaimed, 'what on earth is coming? But I

promised not to interrupt you. Pray go on, I am all impatience.'

'Well, at the sound of the voices the gentleman started, and seemed

much alarmed--alarmed on my account, I thought.

'I then heard a voice say, "A most successful experiment. Look at the

face 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 very

excited, Henry, you have turned quite pale.'

It would have been wonderful if I had not turned pale. So deeply

burnt into my brain had been the picture I had imagined of Winnie

dead 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's

shroud, and being restored to life, and I said to her, 'Did you

observe--did you observe your dress, Winnie?'

She answered my question by a little laugh. 'Did I observe my dress

at such a moment? Well, I knew you could be satirical on my sex when

you 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 was

one. Afterwards I did observe it, and I can tell you what it was. It

was a walking-dress. Perhaps,' said she, with a smile, 'perhaps you

would like to know the material? But really I have forgotten that.'

'Pardon my idle question, Winnie--pray go on. I will interrupt you no

more.'

'Oh, you will interrupt me no more! We shall see. The gentleman then

led me through a passage of some length.'

'Do describe it!'

'I felt quite sure you would interrupt me no more. Well! The dim

light in the windows made me guess I was in an old house, and from

the sweet smell of hay and wild-flowers I thought we were near the

Wilderness, at Raxton. I could only imagine that I had fallen

insensible on the sands and been taken to Raxton Hall.'

'Ah! that's where you ought to have been taken.' I could not help

exclaiming.

'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 sufferings

from remorse, in spite of all the deep and genuine pity that those

sufferings had drawn from me, Winnie's words struck deeper than any

pity for any creature but herself, and for a moment my soul rose

against my mother again.

'Go on, Winnie, pray go on,' I said.

'You _will_ make me talk about myself,' said Winifred, 'when I so

much want to hear all about you. This is what I call the

self-indulgence of love. Well, then, the gentleman and I mounted some

steps and then we entered a tapestried room. The windows--they were

quaint and old-fashioned casements--were open, and the sunlight was

pouring through them. I then saw at once that I was not anywhere near

Raxton. Besides, there was no sea-smell mixed with the perfumes of

the 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 to

me and so strange. I had never been in an artist's studio, but Sinfi

had talked to me of such places, and there were many signs that I was

in 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 mind

flew at once to Wilderspin's studio. 'You say that the gentleman was

not young, but that he had an expression of sorrow in his eyes. Had

he long iron-grey hair, and was he dressed--dressed, like a--like a

shiny Quaker?' So full was my mind of Mrs. Gudgeon's story that I was

positively using her language.

'Like a what?' exclaimed Winnie. 'Really, Henry, you have become very

eccentric 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 of

the same colour is the costume of a shiny Quaker. But it was the room

you asked me to describe. There were pictures on the walls, and there

were two easels, and on one of them I saw a picture. The gentleman

led me to a strange and very beautiful piece of furniture. If I

attempted to describe it I should call it a divan, under a gorgeous

kind of awning ornamented with Chinese figures in ivory and precious

stones. 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 face

again. The expression in his eyes drew me towards him, as it had at

first done when I awoke from my trance; it drew me towards him partly

because it said, "I am lonely and in sorrow," and partly from

another cause which I could not understand and could never define,

howsoever I might try. "Where am I?" I said; "I remember nothing

since I fell on the sands. Where is Henry? Is he better or worse? Can

you tell me?" The gentleman said, "The friend you inquire about is a

long way from here, and you are a long way from Raxton." I asked him

why 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 am

sure; there is something in your voice which assures me of that; but

do tell me what this mystery means." "You are indeed among friends,"

he said. Then looking at me with an expression of great kindness, he

continued, "It would be difficult to imagine where you could go

without finding friends, Miss Wynne."'

'Then he knew who you were, Winnie?' I said.

'Yes, he knew who I was,' said she, looking meditatively across the

hills as though my query had raised in her own mind some question

which had newly presented itself. 'The gentleman told me that I had

been very ill and was now recovered, but not so entirely recovered at

present that I could with safety be burthened and perplexed with the

long story of my illness and what had brought me there. And when he

concluded 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 that

it was so. "But surely you can tell me something. Where is Henry? Is

he still ill?" I said. He told me that he believed you to be

perfectly well, and that you had lately been living in Wales, but had

now gone to Japan. "Henry lately in Wales! now gone to Japan!" I

exclaimed, "and he was not with me during the illness that you say I

have just recovered from?"'

'Winnie,' I said, 'it was no wonder you asked those questions, but you

will soon know all.'

Whilst Winnie had been talking my mind had been partly occupied with

words 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 musical

voice,' I said.

'So musical,' she replied, 'that it seemed to delight and charm, not

my 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 the

Raxton road, when I made invidious comparison between the voices of

birds and the voices of men and women?'

'Indeed I do,' I said. 'I remember how you suggested that among the

birds the rooks only could listen without offence to the cackle of a

crowd of people.'

'Well, Henry, I can only give you an idea of the gentleman's voice by

saying that the most fastidious blackbirds and thrushes that ever

lived would have liked it. Indeed they did seem to like it, as I

afterwards thought, when I took walks with him. It was music in every

variety of tone; and, besides, it seemed to me that this music was

enriched by a tone which I had learnt from your own dear voice as a

child, the tone which sorrow can give and nothing else. The listener

while he was speaking felt so drawn towards him as to love the man

who spoke. When his voice ceased, some part of his attraction ceased.

But the moment the voice was again heard the magic of the man

returned as strong as ever.'