VII

When Winifred reached this point in her story, I said,

'And so you wondered what had become of me from your last seeing me

down 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 me

in one moment, and yet in that moment I lived over again every

dreadful incident and every dreadful detail. The spectacle on the

sands, the search for her in North Wales, the meeting in the cottage,

the frightful sight as she leapt away from me on Snowdon, the

heart-breaking search for her among the mountains, the sound of her

voice, singing by the theatre portico in the rain, the search for her

in the hideous London streets, the scenes in the studios, the

soul-blasting drama in Primrose Court--all came upon me in such a

succession of realities that the beautiful radiant creature now

talking to me seemed impossible except as a figure in a dream. And

she was asking me to tell her what I had been doing during all these

months of nightmare. But I knew that I never could tell her, either

now or at any future time. I knew that to tell her would be to kill

her.

'Winnie,' I said, 'I will tell you all about myself, but I must hear

your story first. The faster you get on with that the sooner you will

hear what I have to tell.'

'Then I will get on fast,' said she. 'After a while my thoughts, as I

tossed in my bed, turned from the past to the future. What was the

future that was lying before me? For months I had evidently been

living on the charity of Mr. D'Arcy. My only excuse for having done

so was that I was entirely unconscious of it; but now that I did know

the relations between us I must of course end them at once. But what

was I to do? Whither was I to go? Besides Miss Dalrymple, whose

address I did not know, I had no friends except Sinfi Lovell and the

Gypsies and a few Welsh farmers. To live upon my benefactor's

generous 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 any

part 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 to

write to you at once. I had been told by Mrs. Titwing that Mr. D'Arcy

always breakfasted alone in a little anteroom adjoining his bedroom,

and always breakfasted late. My breakfast, she said, would be

prepared in what she called the little green room. And when I left my

bedroom, dressed in a morning dress that was carefully laid out for

me, I found the housekeeper moving about in the passages. She

conducted me to the little green room. On the walls were two

looking-glasses in old black oak frames carved with knights at tilt

and angels' heads hovering above them. Each frame contained two

circular mirrors surrounded by painted designs telling the story of

the Holy Grail. The room was furnished with quaint sofas and chairs

on which beautiful little old-fashioned designs were painted. She

told me that as I had not named an hour for breakfasting I should

have to wait about twenty minutes.

'In one corner of the room was a rather large whatnot, on which lay

one or two French novels in green and yellow paper covers and a few

daily and weekly newspapers, which I went and turned over. Among them

I was startled to find a paper called the _Raxton Gazette_. But I saw

at once how it got there, for written on the margin at the top of the

paper was the address, "Dr. Mivart, Wimpole Street, London." Mr.

D'Arcy had told me that the gentleman whose voice I heard behind the

screen was the medical man who attended to me during my illness, and

it 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 had

posted 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 blue

pencil mark. It gave from a paper called the _London Satirist_ what

professed to be a long account of you, in which it was said that you

were living in a bungalow in Wales with a Gypsy girl.'

When Winifred said this I forgot my promise not to interrupt her

narrative, and exclaimed,

'And you believed this infamous libel, Winnie?'

'To say that I believed it as a simple statement of fact would of

course 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 on

Raxton 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 find

me and protect me in my illness might have something to do with

inconstancy. Anyhow, these thoughts combined with my dread of your

mother to prevent me from writing to you.'

'Winnie, Winnie!' I said, 'these theories of the so-called advanced

thinkers, whom your aunt taught you to believe in--these ideas that

love and wealth cannot exist together, are prejudices as narrow and

as blind as those of an opposite kind which have sapped the natures

of certain members of my own family.'

'The sight of your dear sad face when I first saw it here was proof

enough of that,' she said. 'As your life was said to be that of a

wanderer, I did not care to write to Raxton, and I did not know where

to address you. What I had read in the newspaper, I need not tell

you, troubled me greatly. I cried bitterly, and made but a poor

breakfast. After it was over Mr. D'Arcy entered the room, and shook

me warmly by the hand. He saw that I had been crying, and he stood

silent and seemed to be asking himself the cause. Drawing a chair

towards 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 for

saying it."

'He gave a startled look, as though he guessed what I was going to

say.

'"And I have something to say to _you_, Miss Wynne," he said,

smiling, "and this seems the proper time for saying it. Up to the

last few weeks a young gentleman from Oxford has been acting as my

secretary. He has now left me, and I am seeking another. His duties,

I must say, have not been what would generally be called severe. I

write most of my own letters, though not all, and my correspondence

is far from being large. His chief duty has been that of reading to

me in the evening. For many years my eyes have not been so strong as

a painter's ought to be, and the oculist whom I consulted told me

that the strain of the painter's work was quite as much as my eyes

ought to bear, and that I could not afford much eyesight for reading

purposes. I am passionately fond of reading. To be without the

pleasure that books can afford me would be to make me miserable, and

I have looked upon my secretary's duty of reading aloud to me as an

important one. If you would take his place you would be conferring

the 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 merely

inventing a post for me to fill, because you pity me."

'"No, Miss Wynne; upon my honour this is not so. I will not deny that

if 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 from

under this roof. Your scruples about living here as you lived during

your illness--simply as my guest--I understand, but do not approve.

They show that you are not quite so free from the bondage of custom

as I should like every friend of mine to be. The tie of friendship

is, in my judgment, the strongest of all ties, stronger than that of

blood, 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 home

as 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 the

service I am asking you to render me is greater than any service I

can render you."

'I was so deeply touched by his words and by his way of speaking

them, that my lips trembled, and I could make no reply.

'"It is a shame," he said, "for me to talk about business so soon

after your recovery. Let us leave the matter for the moment, and come

to me in the studio during the morning, and let me show you the

pictures I am painting, and some of my choice things."

'The morning wore on, and still I sat pondering over the situation in

which I found myself. The servant came and removed the breakfast

things, and her furtive glances at me showed that I was an object at

once familiar and strange to her. But very little attention did I pay

to her, in such a whirl of thoughts as I then was. The moment that

one course of action seemed to me the best, the very opposite would

occur to me as being the best. However, I was determined to know from

Mr. D'Arcy, and at once, what was the state in which I was when I was

brought to this place, and what had been the course of my life during

my stay here. Mr. D'Arcy had told me that, for reasons which he so

touchingly alluded to, he had not used me as a model. How, then, had

my time been passed? To question poor Mrs. Titwing would only be to

frighten her. I would ask Mr. D'Arcy for a full confession.

'Mrs. Titwing came into the room. She began pulling at the ribbon of

her black silk apron as though she wanted to speak and could not find

the 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 his

easel, but keeps walking about the studio, and every now and then he

asks where you are. I'm sure he used to dote on you when you were a

child, miss."

'"When I was a child?" I said, laughing. "But I see what it is. I

have been very neglectful. I promised to go into the studio to see

the pictures, and he is, of course, impatient at my keeping him

waiting. 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 day

before, and explained to me the meaning of the carved designs.'