‘And there she was right,’ I cried.  ’But you did ask her questions,—­I see you did, you asked her about her father and brought on another catastrophe.’

‘No,’ said Wilderspin with gentle dignity; ’I was careful not to ask her questions, for her mother told me that she was liable to fits.’

‘Mr. Wilderspin, I beg your pardon,’ I said.

‘I see you are deeply troubled,’ said he; ’but, Mr. Aylwin, you need not beg my pardon.  Since I saw Mary Wilderspin, my mother, die for her children, no words of mere Man have been able to give me pain.’

‘Go on, go on.  What did the woman say to you?’

’She said, “The fewer questions you ask her the better, and don’t pay her any money.  She’d only lose it; I’ll come for it at the proper times.”  From that day the model came to the sittings alone, and Mrs. Gudgeon came at the end of every week for the money.’

‘And did the model maintain her silence all this time?’

’She did.  She would, every few minutes, sink into a reverie, and appear to be stone-deaf.  But sometimes her face would become suddenly alive with all sorts of shifting expressions.  A few days ago she had another fit, exactly like the former one.  That was on the day preceding my call at your hotel with your father’s books.  This time we had much more difficulty in bringing her round.  We did so at last; and when she was gone I gave the final touch to my picture of “The Lady Geraldine and Christabel.”  I was at the moment, however, at work upon “Ruth and Boaz,” which I had painted years before—­removing the face of Ruth originally there.  I worked long at it; and as she was not coming for two days I kept steadily at the picture.  This was the day on which I called upon you, wishing you to postpone your visit, lest you should interrupt me while at work upon the head of Ruth, which I was hoping to paint.  On Thursday I waited for her at the appointed hour, but she did not come, and I saw her no more.’

V

‘Mr. Wilderspin,’ I said, as I rose hurriedly, with the intention of going at once in search of Winifred, ’let me see the picture you allude to—­“Christabel,” and then tell me where to find her.’

‘Better not see it!’ said Wilderspin solemnly; ’there’s something to tell you yet, Mr. Aylwin.’

’Yes, yes; but let me see the picture first.  I can bear anything now.  Howsoever terrible it may be, I can bear it now; for she’s found—­she’s safe.’  And I rushed into the next room, and began turning round in a wild manner one after another some dozens of canvases that were standing on the floor and leaning against the wall.

Half the canvases had been turned, and then I came upon what I sought.

I stood petrified.  But I heard Wilderspin’s voice at my side say, ’Do not let an imaginary scene distress you, Mr. Aylwin.  The picture merely represents the scene in Coleridge’s poem where the Lady Christabel, having secretly and in pity brought to her room to share her bed the mysterious lady she had met in the forest at midnight, watches the beautiful witch undress, and is spell-bound and struck dumb by some “sight to dream of, not to tell,” which she sees at the lady’s bosom.’