IX

'At five o'clock I was going towards the studio to keep my

appointment when I met Mr. D'Arcy in his broad-brimmed felt hat,

ready and waiting for me to take the proposed walk with him.

'Oh, what a lovely afternoon it was! A Welsh afternoon could not have

been lovelier. In fact, it carried my mind back here. The sun,

shining on the buttercups and the grey-tufted standing grass, made

the meadows look as though covered with a tapestry that shifted from

grey to lavender, and then from lavender to gold, as the soft breeze

moved over it. And many of the birds were still in full song; and

brilliant as was the music of the skylarks, the blackbirds and

thrushes were so numerous that the music falling from the sky seemed

caught and swallowed up by the music rising from the hedgerows and

trees.

'I lingered at one of the gates through which we passed to enjoy the

beauty undisturbed by the motion of my own body.

'"I have often wished," Mr. D'Arcy said, "that I had a tithe of your

passion for Nature, and all your knowledge of Nature. To have been

born in London and to have passed one's youth there is a great loss.

Nature has to be learnt, as art has to be learnt, in earliest youth."

'"What makes you know that my chief passion is love of Nature?" I

asked.

'"It was," he said, "the one thing you showed during your

illness--during your unconscious condition."

'"And yet I remember nothing of that time," I said. "This gives me an

opportunity of asking you something--an opportunity which I had

determined to make for myself before another day went by."

'"And what is that?" he said, in a tone that betrayed some

uneasiness.

'"You have told me how I came here. I now want you to tell me, too,

what was my condition when I came and what was my course of life

during all this long period. How did the time pass? What did I do? I

remember nothing."

'"I am glad you are asking me these questions," he said, "for I

believe that the more fully and more exactly I answer them, the

better for you and the better for me. Victor Hugo, in one of his

romances, speaks of the pensive somnambulism of the animals.

'Somnambulism,' sometimes pensive and sometimes playful, is the

very phrase I should use in characterising your condition when you

first came here and down to your recovery from that strange illness.

But this somnambulism would every now and then change and pass into

a consciousness which I can only compare with that of a child. But

no child that I have ever seen was so bewitchingly child-like as you

were. It was this that made your presence such a priceless boon to

me."

'"Priceless boon, Mr. D'Arcy!" I said. "How could such a being as you

describe be a priceless boon to any one?"

'"I will tell you," he replied. "Even before that great sorrow which

has made me the loneliest man upon the earth--even in the days when

my animal spirits were considered at times almost boisterous, I was

always at intervals subject to periods of great depression, or

rather, I should say, to periods of _ennui_. I must either be

painting or reading or writing. I had not the precious faculty of

being able on occasions to sit and let the rich waters of life flow

over me. I would yearn for amusement, and search in vain for some

object to amuse me. When you first came I was deeply interested in so

extraordinary a case as yours; and after a while, when the acuteness

of my curiosity and the poignancy of my sympathy for you had abated,

you became to me a joy, as a child is a joy in the eyes of its

parents."

'"Then your interest in me," I said, with a smile, "was that which

you would feel towards a puppy or a kitten."

'"I perceive that you have a turn for satire," he said, laughing.

"I will not deny that I have an extraordinarily strong passion for

watching the movements of animals. I have, to the sorrow of my

neighbours, filled my garden in London with all kinds of purchases

from Jamrach's. But from the moment that I knew you, who combined the

fascination of a fawn and a child with that of a sylph or a fairy, my

poor little menagerie was neglected, and what became of its members I

scarcely know. I suppose I am very uncomplimentary to you, but you

would have the truth. The moment that I felt myself threatened by the

fiend _Ennui_ I used to tell Mrs. Titwing, who was in the habit of

calling you her baby, to bring you into the studio, and at once the

fiend fled. At last I grew so attached to you that your presence was

a positive necessity of my life. Unless I knew that you were in the

studio I could not paint. It was necessary for me at intervals to

look across the room at that divan and see you there amusing

yourself--playing with yourself, so to speak, sometimes like a

kitten, sometimes like a child. I would not have parted with you for

the world."

'He did not say he would not now part with me for the world, Henry,

and I thought I understood the meaning of that expression of

disappointment which I had observed in his eyes when I first saw them

looking into mine. I thought I understood this extraordinary man--so

unlike all others; I thought I knew why my eyes lost the charm he was

now so eloquently describing to me the moment that they became

lighted with what he called self-consciousness.

'After a while I said, "But as I was in such an unconscious state as

you describe, how could you possibly know that a speciality of mine

is a love of Nature?"

'"It was only when you were out in the open air that the condition

which I have compared to somnambulism seemed at times to disappear.

Then your consciousness seemed to spring up for a moment and to take

heed of what was passing around you. You would sometimes scamper

through the meadows, pluck the wild-flowers and weave them into

wreaths round your head, or stand listening to the birds, or hold out

your hands as if to embrace the sunny wind. One day when a friend of

mine, an enthusiastic angler, who comes here, was going down to the

river to fish, you showed the greatest interest in what was going on.

The fishing tackle seemed so familiar to you that my friend put a

fishing rod into your hand and you went with him to the river. I do

not myself care for angling, and I was at the time very busy with a

picture, but I could not resist the temptation to follow you. You

skipped into the punt with the greatest glee, baited your hook,

adjusted your float on the line, cast it into the water and fished

with such skill that you caught two fish to my friend's one.

Observing all these things, I came to the conclusion that you had

lived much in the open air, and other incidents made me know that you

were a great lover of Nature."

'"And you," I said, "must also be a lover of Nature, or you could not

find such delight in watching animals."

'"No," he said, "the interest I take in animals has nothing whatever

to do with love of Nature or study of Nature. They interest me by

that unconsciousness of grace which makes them such a contrast to

man."

'We then went into the house. Our talk during our ramble in the

fields seemed to remove effectually all awkwardness and restraint

between us.

X

'That day,' said Winnie, 'a determination which had been caused by

many a reflection during the last few hours induced me at dinner to

lead the conversation to the subject of pictures and models. In a few

minutes Mr. D'Arcy launched out in an eloquent discourse upon a

subject which was so new to me and so familiar to him.

'"You were saying this morning, Mr. D'Arcy," I urged me to tell her

what had befallen myself since we had parted at the cottage door at

Raxton. Even had it been possible for me to talk about myself without

touching upon some dangerous incident or another, my impatience to

get at the mystery of mysteries in connection with her and her rescue

from Primrose Court was so great that I could only implore her to

tell me what had occurred down to her leaving Hurstcote Manor, and

also what had been the cause of her leaving.

'Well,' said Winnie, 'I am now going to tell you of an extraordinary

thing that happened. One fine night the moon was so brilliant that

after I quitted Mr. D'Arcy I stole out of the side door into the

garden, a favourite place of mine, for old English flowers were mixed

with apple trees and pear trees. I was strolling about the garden,

thinking over a thousand things connected with you, and myself, and

Mr. D'Arcy, when I saw stooping over a flower-bed the figure of a

tall woman. I could scarcely believe my eyes, for I had all the while

supposed that, excepting Mr. D'Arcy, myself, and Mrs. Titwing, the

servants were the only occupants of the place. I turned away, and

walked silently through the little wicket into what is called the

home close. As I pondered over the incident, I recalled certain

things which singly had produced no effect on my mind, but which now

fitted in with each other, and seemed to open up vistas of mystery

and suspicion. Mysterious looks and gestures on the faces of the

servants pointed to there being some secret that was to be kept from

me. I had not given much heed to these things, but now I could not

help connecting them with the appearance of the tall woman in the

garden.

'Some guests arrived next day, and when I pleaded headache Mr. D'Arcy

said, "Perhaps you would rather keep to your own room to-day."

'I told him I should, and I spent the day alone--spent it mainly in

thinking about the tall woman. In the evening I went into the garden,

and remained there for a long time, but no tall woman made her

appearance.

'I passed out through the wicket into the home close, and as I walked

about in the grass, under the elms that sprang up from the tall

hedge, I thought and thought over what I had seen, but could come to

no explanation. I was standing under a tree, in the shadow which its

branches made, when I became suddenly conscious that the tall woman

was close to me. I turned round, and stood face to face with Sinfi

Lovell. The sight of a spectre could not have startled me more, but

the effect of my appearance upon her was greater still. Her face took

an expression that seemed to curdle my blood, and she shrieked,

"Father! the curse! Let his children be vagabonds and beg their

bread; let them seek it also out of desolate places." And then she

ran towards the house.

'In a few minutes Mr. D'Arcy came out into the field without his hat,

and evidently much agitated.

'"Miss Wynne," he said, "I fear you must have been half frightened to

death. Never was there such an unlucky _contretemps_."

'"But why is Sinfi Lovell here?" I said, "and why was I not told she

was here?"

'"Sinfi is an old friend of mine," he said. "I have been in the habit

of using her as a model for pictures. She came here to sit to me,

when she was taken ill. She is subject to fits, as you have seen. The

doctor believed that they were over and would not recur, and I had

determined that to-morrow I would bring you together."

'I made no reply, but walked silently by his side across the field to

the little wicket. The confidence I had reposed in Mr. D'Arcy had

been like the confidence a child reposes in its father.

'"Miss Wynne," he said, in a voice full of emotion, "I feel that an

unlucky incident has come between us, and yet if I ever did anything

for your good, it was when I decided to postpone revealing the fact

that Sinfi Lovell was under this roof until her cure was so complete

and decisive that you could never by any chance receive the shock

that you have now received."

'I felt that my resentment was melting in the music of his words.

'"What caused the fits?" I said. "She talked about being under a

curse. What can it mean?"

'"That," he said, "is too long a story for me to tell you now."

'"I know," said I, "that some time ago the tomb of Mr. Aylwin's

father was violated by some undiscovered miscreant, and I know that

the words Sinfi uttered just now are the words of a curse written by

the dead man on a piece of parchment, and stolen with a jewel from

his tomb. I have seen the parchment itself, and I know the words

well. Her father, Panuel Lovell, is as innocent of the crime of

sacrilege as my poor father was. What could have made her suppose

that she had inherited the curse from her father?"

'"I have no explanation to offer," he said. "As you know so much of

the matter and I know so little, I am inclined to ask you for some

explanation of the puzzle."

'I thought over the matter for a minute, and then I said to him,

"Sinfi Lovell knows Raxton as well as Snowdon, and must have been

very familiar with the crime. I can only suppose that she has brooded

so long over the enormity of the offence and the appalling words of

the curse that she has actually come at last to believe that poor,

simple-minded Panuel Lovell is the offender, and that she, as his

child, has inherited the curse."

'"A most admirable solution of the mystery," he said, his face

beaming with delight.'