He was evidently quite unconscious that he had given my mother’s features to Geraldine, and attributed the effect to his own superlative strength as a dramatic artist.

I ran to her:  she soon recovered, but asked to be taken to Belgrave Square at once.  Wild as I was with the desire to go in quest of Winifred; goaded as I was by a new, nameless, shapeless dread which certain words of Wilderspin’s had aroused, but which (like the dread that had come to me on the night of my father’s funeral) was too appalling to confront, I was obliged to leave the studio and take my mother to the house of my aunt, who was, I knew, waiting to start for the yacht.

XI

THE IRONY OF HEAVEN

I

As we stepped into the carriage, Sleaford, full of sympathy, jumped in.  This fortunately prevented a conversation that would have been intolerable both to my mother and to me.

‘Studio oppressively close,’ said Sleaford; ’usual beastly smell of turpentine and pigments and things.  Why the dooce don’t these fellows ventilate their studios before they get ladies to go to see their paintin’s!’ This he kept repeating, but got no response from either of us.

As to me, let me honestly confess that I had but one thought:  how much time would be required to go to Belgrave Square and back to the studio, to learn the whereabouts of Winifred.  ‘But she’s safe,’ I kept murmuring, in answer to that rising dread:  ’Wilderspin said she was safe.’

During that drive to Belgrave Square, he whose bearing towards my mother was that of the anxious, loving son was not I, the only living child of her womb, but poor, simple, empty-headed Sleaford.

When we reached Belgrave Square my mother declared that she had entirely recovered from the fainting fit, but I scarcely dared to look into those haggard eyes of hers, which showed only too plainly that the triumph of remorse in her bosom was now complete.  My aunt, who seemed to guess that something lowering to the family had taken place, was impatient to get on board the yacht.  I saw how my mother now longed to remain and learn the upshot of events; but I told her that she was far better away now, and that I would write to her and keep her posted up in the story day by day.  I bade them a hurried ‘Good-bye.’

’How shall I be able to stay out of England until I know all about her?’ said my mother.  ’Go back and learn all about her, Henry, and write to me; and be sure to get and take care of that dreadful picture, and write to me about that also.’

When the carriage left I walked rapidly along the Square, looking for a hansom.  In a second or two Sleaford was by my side.  He took my arm.

‘I suppose you’re goin’ back to cane him, aren’t you?’ said he.

‘Cane whom?’ I said impatiently, for that intolerable thought which I have hinted at was now growing within my brain, and I must, must be alone to grapple with it.