A “LADY BORN.”
“Have you no relatives anywhere?” Philip asked, when his little charge
had grown more calm.
“No, sir,” he answered, “I do not know of anybody in the world who
belongs to either father or mother who would care anything for me.”
Philip’s face lighted; if he took the boy to rear and educate he would
prefer not to be hampered by relatives--it would be much better and
pleasanter for both of them to have no one to interfere with their
plans or to criticise their movements.
“I am sure, sir, I don’t know what I am going to do,” pursued the boy,
plaintively. “I suppose I could work when I get well, if I only knew
what to do; but it will be rather hard to get around with only one
foot; and--it will take me a long time to pay up all I shall owe for
the doctor, and the nurse, and----”
“Eddie,” Philip interrupted, moved almost to tears by this evidence of
his instinctive honor, “how would you like to give yourself to me and
be my boy? I, too,” he added, with a keen pain at his heart, “have no
one in the world who care anything for me. I, too, am all alone. Would
you be willing to let me adopt you?”
“What, sir! would you be willing to take a boy like me? Why, I shall be
nothing but a cripple all my life, and not good for very much!” the boy
exclaimed, raising himself on his elbow, and staring in amazement at
his companion, while his pale face flushed crimson, and he was actually
panting with excitement.
“Yes, I would not only be ‘willing,’ but very glad if you would consent
to such an arrangement; and don’t be too sure about not being ‘good
for much,’” Philip returned, with a smile.
“But, sir, I am afraid that you pity me now, and you might be sorry
by and by,” Eddie returned, the flush still on his face, and his eyes
bright with gathering tears.
Philip reached out and took the thin, trembling hand that lay near him.
“Will you be my boy until you see that I am beginning to be ‘sorry’?”
he asked, smiling still.
“You are very good, sir,” Eddie replied, looking up again, and trying
to speak steadily. “I think I should like to stay with you very much;
but----”
“But what?” Philip asked, encouragingly.
“You said that you wanted to ‘adopt’ me--that means to make me the same
as your own child, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I know that is very kind,” he pursued, with evident embarrassment,
“but--I don’t think I could quite make up my mind to--to call you
‘father,’ at least, not just yet,” and his lips trembled painfully.
“I could not ask you to do that,” Philip returned, gently. “You may
call me ‘Uncle Philip,’ if you like; that will suit me better than any
other name, and I will try to make you forget as soon as possible that
I am not really and truly your uncle. Will this arrangement please you?”
“Yes, indeed, sir. I never expected to feel so happy again over
anything,” the child answered, with a very earnest little face, though
his lips trembled. “It seems strange, though, that anybody should be so
good to me, just when I need it the most. But I will try to be a good
boy and do just as you want me to.”
And so the weeks lapsed into months, Eddie Winthrope growing better
all the while, under kind and judicious treatment. His pale cheeks
filled out round and full, and grew rosy with health; his injured limb
healed as only healthful childish flesh can heal, and he was not long
in learning how to help himself, and make his well foot do the work of
two, for the other was still very sensitive, and it would be a long
time yet before he could bear to have a false one attached.
Philip had bought him a strong, but light crutch, and he soon grew very
expert with it, being able to walk as fast as even Philip himself cared
to go.
And the man was changed, also, in many respects; his nature seemed
to expand, his sympathies were enlarged, his affection broadened and
deepened with the thought and care which he was obliged to exercise
over his young charge, while Eddie, thinking that no one was ever so
grand and noble as “Uncle Philip,” grew to admire and love him more
and more every day.
As soon as he was able, Philip thought it best for him to resume
his lessons which had been so cruelly interrupted; but until he was
thoroughly strong and well he was unwilling to have him attend any
regular school, and so a competent teacher was secured to come to him
for a few hours each day.
The boy displayed quite a talent for drawing, and begged that he might
receive instruction in that also.
“You told me to ask for what I would like, Uncle Philip,” he said,
somewhat timidly, when he preferred this, his first request of any
moment.
“You shall learn to draw to your heart’s content,” was the ready
response; and a master was forthwith engaged.
* * * * *
About this time Arley returned.
She had traveled eight months with Lady Herbert and her son, instead of
four or five, as they had originally intended.
Nominally, she was the companion of Lady Herbert, but she was really
regarded more as a friend and equal by them both, while every day of
her stay with them seemed to strengthen their friendship and admiration
for her.
As soon as they discovered how deftly she handled pencil and brush,
both mother and son advised her to put herself under first-class
instruction.
It was what she had longed to do ever since she became conscious of the
genius burning within her; but she had lacked the means, besides not
feeling quite sure that her talent was of an order high enough to make
art a profession and give her name to the public unless she could excel
and her standard was high.
But Lady Herbert said so much, and Sir Charles, in his quiet but
conclusive way, having remarked that it would not be right for her to
slight her gift, she yielded, and during the two months of their stay
in Florence, and the three they were in Rome, she went every day to
paint under the teaching of the best masters that could be found.
She did not know that these opportunities were made purposely for her,
or that Sir Charles, in arranging with the artists with whom she was to
study, gave them to understand that their terms must be very reasonable
to the young lady, while he would make up the deficiency, if there
should be any.
This was Lady Herbert’s idea, for she was greatly interested in her
charming _protegee_; but had Arley suspected it, nothing would have
induced her to accept such costly favors.
So our young artist gave herself enthusiastically to her work, making
such rapid progress that her teachers promised her that some day she
would do something famous; but she did not feel quite easy in her mind,
and often cut her days short to devote herself to Lady Herbert.
She had told Lady Herbert all her sad story, and found in her a true
sympathizer and counselor; but after it was once related she strove to
hide all her unhappiness within her own heart, and to be always calm,
and even cheerful, in the presence of her friends.
After leaving Rome, where Arley completed her last picture--and “a
great success for so young an artist,” her master told her--they roamed
from place to place, stopping a few days here, a few days there--never
more than a week anywhere, for Lady Herbert thought her charge
looked thin and not quite as well as she might, and needed change of
scene--and thus Arley missed Elaine’s important communications.
It was not until they got back to Paris (where Sir Charles had of late
ordered all mail matter to be forwarded) that she received her first
letter relating to her discoveries. The others she never received.
Sir Charles handed it to her the morning after their arrival, while
they were sitting over their breakfast in Lady Herbert’s parlor.
She recognized the writing on the envelope at once, and, taking a
little penknife from her pocket, she cut it across the end with an
eager face, but little dreaming how important its contents were.
But she had not read more than a page or two before the sheets dropped
from her nerveless fingers, and she turned a pale, startled face upon
Lady Herbert.
“I must go home immediately,” she said, in tremulous tones.
They had intended remaining a couple of weeks longer in Paris, so that
Arley might have an opportunity to study some paintings in the Louvre,
which her master in Rome had recommended.
“Dear child, have you bad news in your letter?” Lady Herbert asked,
anxiously, while Sir Charles looked the concern he felt as he observed
her emotion.
“No, good news,” Arley replied, more steadily; “but it has taken me
so by surprise that I am wholly unprepared for it. You have heard me
speak of my friend, Lady Elaine Warburton; she writes me that she has
had quite an adventure, meeting that woman--Jane Collins, of whom I
have also told you--and through her she has gained the same clew to
my parentage which I learned when I met her in Madrid. It excited a
suspicion in her mind, and she resolved to take the tangled thread in
hand and unravel it, if it was a possible thing. She has succeeded--at
last she has discovered who I am,” and Arley’s cheeks were a flaming
scarlet as she made this announcement.
“That is as far as I was able to get in my letter,” she resumed. “I was
so startled that I could not go on; but if you will excuse me, I will
go away and finish it, and then come and tell you the result.”
Lady Herbert gave the desired permission, and Arley left the room.
But when she reached her own chamber she could not resume her letter at
once; she could only hug it to her throbbing heart, and weep tears of
joy that at last she would know her own place in the world.
She knew that it would be an honorable place, too, for in one eager,
joyful sentence, Lady Elaine had written:
“Arley, my darling, rejoice! rejoice! for you are a ‘lady born.’ But
come home quickly, for I must guard this grand secret until I can
whisper it directly into your own ear.”