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Updated: June 17, 2025
Wilderspin's studio, to see the great painter's portrait of me, which is now, I understand, quite finished. 'Why did you not ask me to accompany you, instead of asking Sleaford? 'I did not know that you would care to do so. 'Dear mother, I said, in a tender tone that startled her, 'you must let me go with you and Sleaford to the studio.
'It might not have been Winifred, I shouted. But no sooner had I done so than the scene in the studio Wilderspin's story of the model's terror on seeing my mother's portrait came upon me, and 'Dead! dead! rang through me like a funeral knell: all the superstructure of Hope's sophisms was shattered in a moment like a house of cards: my imagination flew away to all the London graveyards I had ever heard of; and there, in the part divided by the pauper line, my soul hovered over a grave newly made, and then dived down from coffin to coffin, one piled above another, till it reached Winifred, lying pressed down by the superincumbent mass; those eyes staring.
Had you told me that the cross had been taken from your father's tomb I should no doubt have connected it with the cry of 'Father' which had, I knew, several times been uttered in Wilderspin's studio by the model in her paroxysms, and I should have earlier done what I was destined to do I should earlier have brought you together.
I can imagine your amazement at learning that she you have lost so long has been staying here as my guest. I will tell you all without more preamble. One day, some little time after I parted from you in the streets of London, I chanced to go into Wilderspin's studio, when I found him in great distress.
I looked round to see if she herself were not standing by me dressed in the dazzling draperies gleaming from Wilderspin's superb canvas. But in place of Winifred the profile of my mother's face, cold, proud, and white, met my gaze. Again did the stress of overmastering emotion make of me a child, as it had done on the night of the landslip. 'Mother! I said, 'you see who it is?
I could not tell her why, for I was recalling Wilderspin's words about her matchless beauty and its inspiring effect upon the painter who painted it. It would indeed, as Wilderspin had said, endow mediocrity with genius. 'Why do you sigh? she repeated. 'Oh, if I could paint that, Winnie, if I could paint that picture in the water. 'And why should you not? she said, in a dreamy way.
Sleaford thereupon directed me to Cyril's studio 'You'll find him at work, said he, 'doin' a caricature of Wilderspin's great picture, "Faith and Love." Mother Gudgeon is sittin' as his model. He does everything from models, you know. 'Mother Gudgeon? 'A female costermonger that he picked up some where in the slums, the funniest woman in London: haw! haw!
'My poor mammy's daddy, when she wur a little chavi, beat her so cruel that she was a ailin' woman all her life, and she used to say, "For good or for ill, you must dig deep to bury your daddy." I went back and resumed my seat by Wilderspin's side, while Sinfi returned to Cyril.
But I heard Wilderspin's voice at my side say, 'Do not let an imaginary scene distress you, Mr. Aylwin.
But Wilderspin's astonishment, apparently, was not at the rencontre: it was at the spectacle of his companion's hilarity. 'Wonderful! he murmured, with his eyes still fastened upon Cyril. 'My dear friend can laugh aloud. Most wonderful! What can have happened? This is what had happened.
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