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Updated: July 17, 2025
If some gossip to whom she sighed and shook her head, and wondered what could possibly ail Arthur who still ate his dinner heartily, and had as many orders for portraits as he cared to fulfill suggested that there was a woman in the case, good Aunt Winnifred smiled bland incredulity. "Dear Mrs. Toxer, I should like to see that woman!"
Aunt Winnifred did not answer. Her eyes softened like eyes that see days and things far away like eyes in which shines the love of a heart that, under those conditions, would rather not be a goddess. Ellen Bennet, like May Newt, was a child no longer hardly yet a woman, or only a very young one.
"With friends!" answered the Marchioness. "But do not essay to speak. Drink this. You must husband your strength. Meantime, let us drive you to your home." Winnifred was lifted tenderly by the menservants into the aristocratic equipage. The brake was unset, the lever reversed, and the carriage thrown again into motion.
But let a poor girl, friendless and alone, tell you that rather than accept such a degradation she will die." "Very good," said the manager. "I go forth," cried Winnifred, "to perish." "All right," said the manager. The door closed behind her. Winnifred Clair, once more upon the street, sank down upon the steps of the building in a swoon.
Beneath it was a case containing a necklace of small but perfect pearls and a pair of tiny satin slippers. The rest of the compartment was filled with household linen, fine and costly but yellowed with age damask table linen and webs of the uncut fabric. In the second compartment lay a dress. Aunt Winnifred lifted it out reverently.
Let me restore you to your home!" "That voice!" cried Winnifred, resuming consciousness. "It is my benefactor." She would have swooned again, but the Unknown lifted her bodily up the steps of her home and leant her against the door. "Farewell," he said, in a voice resonant with gloom.
And I regret to say, Miss Clair, that it is my painful duty to convey to you a further disclosure of a distressing nature. It concerns your birth." "Just Heaven!" cried Winnifred, with a woman's quick intuition. "Does it concern my father?" "It does, Miss Clair. Your father was not your father." "Oh, sir," exclaimed Winnifred. "My poor mother! How she must have suffered!"
On the way Winnifred, at the solicitation of the Marchioness, related her story. "My poor child!" exclaimed the lady, "how you must have suffered. Thank Heaven it is over now. To-morrow we shall call for you and bring you away with us to Muddlenut Chase." Alas, could she but have known it, before the morrow should dawn, worse dangers still were in store for our heroine.
"How can I thank you enough?" cried Winnifred. Then she added eagerly, "And my birth, my descent?" "It is all right," interjected the Old Lawyer. "It is A 1. Your father, who died before you were born, quite a little time before, belonged to the very highest peerage of Wales. You are descended directly from Claer-ap-Claer, who murdered Owen Glendower. Your mother we are still tracing up.
"Oh! Arthur," she groaned. "It is my Madonna!" "Poor boy!" sighed she. "It is the face I worship." "Arthur! Arthur!" and his aunt despairingly patted her knees slowly with her hands. "But her name is not Mary." Aunt Winnifred looked surprised. "Her name is Diana." "Diana?" echoed his aunt, as if she were losing her mind. "Oh! I beg your pardon. Then it's only a portrait after all? Yes, yes.
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