Chapter XXXVIII: Arley’s Amazement

A great disappointment came to Arley soon after Sir Charles and Lady Herbert’s departure.

A note was brought to her from Sir Anthony Hamilton saying that he had just received a letter from Lady Hamilton containing the intelligence that the housekeeper at Hazelmere was ill, consequently everything was going wrong, and she and Lady Elaine would be obliged to remain a week longer at least.

Sir Anthony wrote that he was very sorry, and if Arley felt that she could not wait that time to learn the precious secret, he would telegraph Lady Elaine of her return, and she could come immediately up to London, and leave his wife to attend to the home difficulties.

At first Arley thought that she could not wait a whole week, and perhaps longer, before having the tantalizing mystery solved.

But remembering how Lady Hamilton clung to Lady Elaine, she said:

“I will not be so childish--‘good news will keep;’ I will be patient and wait until they see fit to return.”

Accordingly she sat down and replied to Sir Anthony’s note to that effect, telling him to do nothing to disarrange his wife’s plans--to let them take their own time, and she would try to be content.

Three days later she went to the art gallery to see her pictures.

She had chosen an hour when she thought the fewest people of her acquaintance would be abroad, and she saw no one anywhere whom she knew. She wandered about for an hour or more, visiting the different rooms, and examining the pictures, and finally came back to take one more look at her own before going home.

The room just then was almost deserted; there was only a young lad there, and he was standing before one of her pictures, pencil and paper in hand, trying to sketch its outlines to take away with him.

Arley was attracted by his bright and intelligent, though rather pale, face, at once; and she noticed, with a thrill of sympathy, that he had one foot, and walked, or rather leaned upon a crutch.

Of course it was none other than Eddie Winthrope.

Dearly loving everything connected with art, he had asked Philip if he might attend the exhibition, and he had replied by presenting him with a season ticket, greatly to his delight, and after that he was scarcely visible all day long, disappearing about nine in the morning, and hurrying away to the art gallery, where he would remain absorbed in its treasures until it grew too dark to see.

He always went provided with pencil and sketchbook, and if anything particularly struck his fancy, he would make an attempt to copy it, and then amused himself during the evening after his return, by trying to fill in and do the shading, and thus try to describe to Philip what he had seen during the day.

Thus Arley found him on the third day of the exhibition intent upon trying to make an outline sketch of one of her pictures.

She pretended not to notice him, but in passing him she glanced over his shoulder, with a smile of amusement, expecting to see a shapeless contortion of her work, but she was surprised to find his copy assuming quite a correct likeness to the original.

Actuated by an irresistible impulse, she stopped and said, kindly:

“My boy, you use your pencil very deftly; will you allow me to look at what you are doing?”

Arley had put up her veil when she saw how nearly empty the room was, and Eddie, turning quickly at the sound of her voice, looked up into what he thought was the most beautiful face that he had ever seen in his life.

He flushed with both pleasure and shyness at her request, and clung to his drawing hesitatingly.

“It is nothing,” he stammered; “of course, I cannot do it nicely, but it is so pretty,” with a longing glance at Arley’s picture, “that I wanted something to remember it by.”

“Please let me see,” Arley said.

And he reluctantly yielded it up into her outstretched hand.

“Who taught you to draw?” she asked, seeing native talent in every stroke of his pencil.

“I began to learn at school,” Eddie replied, “then father bought me a ‘guide to art,’ and that helped me a great deal; but since I have been sick and could not go about much,” with a sigh and a glance at where his missing foot should have been, “Uncle Philip has let me have a teacher at home.”

Arley caught her breath; the familiar name was like a stab, even though she had no suspicion that it belonged to any one whom she knew.

“Do you love to draw?” she asked.

“Oh, yes’m,” he replied, with an enthusiastic emphasis that made her smile.

“So do I. Would you like me to help you a little on this, so that you can carry it home more complete?”

Again a vivid flush swept over the boy’s pale face, and this time it was one of pleasure.

“Yes’m, I should like it, if--if it would not be too much trouble.”

“No; I should like to do it for you. You perceive,” she added, taking his pencil and book from him, “that you have made the lines here too heavy, while here in the foreground this figure is not prominent enough--here you want the shading dark, and here a little lighter; see?”

She worked rapidly while she pointed out these defects to him, and the boy’s face glowed as he watched her, and saw the picture grow beneath her graceful touch.

“Oh, how different you have made it look already!” he said, delightedly; then he added, with a sigh: “I’m afraid I shall never make an artist, I am so clumsy.”

“Indeed, you are not clumsy at all,” Arley returned, heartily. “I think you do remarkably well. I have seen a good many people, older than you, too, and imagining themselves quite proficient, who could not make so true a copy of a picture as you have done. Should you like to be an artist?”

“That is what I mean to be; and if I ever am able to paint a picture as pretty as that, I believe I shall be perfectly happy,” he returned, earnestly.

Arley smiled somewhat bitterly, and replied, almost before she knew what she was saying:

“That is a pretty strong statement, my boy; for I painted that picture; but I am not perfectly happy by any means.”

“You? Oh, did you do that?” Eddie cried, his face almost radiant. “I am so glad that you have told me; I have wished that I might know who painted it, and there is no card anywhere to tell.”

Arley colored with vexation, and then laughed. She had spoken out unconsciously.

“It was rather foolish in me to tell you of it, since I wished to remain _incognito_; however, as you do not know my name, it will not matter much.”

Eddie looked as if he would like to ask her name, but dare not after what she had said; so he watched her pretty hand as it glided over his sketch, and said nothing.

She worked away in silence for a few moments longer, and then handed it to him, greatly improved; in fact, she had made a charming little picture of it.

“There, perhaps that will help you to remember my painting, since you like it so much,” she said, smiling, as she gave it to him.

“Thank you very much,” he said, earnestly, and so delighted that the tears actually sprang to his eyes.

“Do you come here often?” she asked, as she drew on her glove.

“Yes, every day, and I stay almost all day, too,” the boy replied. “When Uncle Philip found that I wanted to come, he gave me a season ticket, and,” with a smile, “I mean to make the most of it.”

“That is right,” Arley said, smiling back into his eager face, and thinking what an interesting lad he was; “it will do you good to study the pictures here. Now, good-by, and perhaps I shall see you again, for I may come some other day myself.”

“I hope you will,” Eddie returned, wistfully; and he stood looking after her until she disappeared from sight.

“How proud that child is of his ‘Uncle Philip,’” Arley thought, as she made her way out of the building, “for every other sentence was full of him and his virtues. Why could not Philip Paxton have been such a man,” her despairing heart cried out, “when almost every other whom it has been my privilege to know has been so noble and true? Sir Charles, Sir Anthony, Wil, and now this boy’s uncle, who bears the same name, is held up before me as a model of perfection.”

A bitter sigh escaped her, and she felt as if her lot was very hard.

The next day she went to see Jane Collins--Miss McAllister having learned where she lived from Lady Elaine--and the woman appeared as glad to see her as if she had been a long-absent child of her own.

After chatting a while, Arley arose to go, and as she said good-by, she laid an envelope on the woman’s lap.

“I have not forgotten your generous loan, Mrs. Collins, with all the rest of your kindness, and you will find the sum, with interest, in this; and, believe me, I shall never cease to be grateful to you,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

“Lor’, miss, I couldn’t take no interest,” Jane began, growing painfully crimson, and looking suspiciously at the envelope.

“Well, call it a little gift of remembrance, then,” Arley said, smiling, “and if you do not wish to use it for yourself, get your husband something nice with it. Good-by again. I shall come often to see you now,” and without waiting for any reply, she went away.

Mrs. Collins examined the contents of the envelope after she had gone, and found fifty pounds--just double the amount she had lent Arley in her necessity.