LADY ALICE.
A day or two after her visit to Jane Collins, Arley was impelled to go
to the art exhibition.
She had thought much about the pale, intellectual boy, and she felt
herself growing unaccountably interested in the poor little cripple.
Perhaps it was because of his condition, and the fact that he was an
orphan, which appealed to her sympathies; or it might be on account of
his evident love for art; at all events, she hoped she would meet him
again, and she found herself looking eagerly about for him in every
room that she entered.
She spent two or three hours in the galleries, but without catching
sight of her new little friend, and she had at length come to the
conclusion that he was not there at all, and, with a feeling of
disappointment, was about to take her own departure, when she suddenly
espied him in a small room, sitting upon a box behind a huge easel, as
if he desired to escape observation, and working away in his sketchbook
most diligently.
“Ah! I have found you at last,” Arley said, in a low, eager tone, as
she bent over his shoulder to see what he was engaged upon. “I have
been looking for you this long time.”
“Have you?” Eddie cried, lifting a bright, flushed face to her, while
he might have told her that he had anxiously scanned every face there
for several days in the hope of seeing her again.
“Yes, I have; and, do you know, I went away the other day without
asking your name, and so I’ve been obliged to think of you as ‘that
boy’ ever since,” Arley said, with a musical laugh.
“My name is Eddie Winthrope.”
“Thank you, Eddie,” she returned, “and your uncle?”
“Oh, he isn’t my uncle really, you know.”
“Not your uncle!” Arley cried, with a sudden thrill.
“No, but you are almost a stranger to me, and perhaps you wouldn’t
care anything about it,” Eddie said, beginning to feel as if he was
thrusting his story upon her.
“Oh, yes I do care; please tell me. I always love to know about people
who are kind and good,” Arley returned.
Then the boy told of the accident and of how he had been adopted.
Arley felt very strangely while listening to the boy’s story, and the
thought had flashed upon her, “what if he should prove to be Philip
Paxton?”
Then she scorned the idea, for there was not the least similarity of
character between him and this good man of whom she had just been told;
it could not be possible that it was Philip.
“I tried to have him come here with me to-day,” Eddie resumed, “for he
was not able to go to his office; he had an ill turn a few days ago,
and does not seem to get over it.”
“An ill turn!” Arley repeated, absently.
“Yes; the other night we were sitting together, and the postman brought
him a letter--it was a very thick one and his face lighted up all over
when he saw the writing on the back of it. But when he opened it he
grew so white and looked so pained that I was frightened, and ran to
get him some water to drink. I asked him what was the matter, and he
said his head ached very badly--he has had the headache ever since
he got hurt, and the surgeon said he mustn’t work hard or he would
have trouble. He went into his room after a little while, but I don’t
believe that he slept much, for I heard him ever so many times in the
night, and he has looked pale and sick ever since.”
For a moment Arley thought she should surely fall to the floor, for all
her strength forsook her.
Eddied talk about that thick letter, and his uncle’s emotion upon
receiving it, was beginning to open her eyes to the truth.
“He must have had bad news,” she said, in a low tone, and struggling
for self-command; “but I thought you told me that he had no friends.”
“He said he had nobody to care for him, and I’m sure I don’t know who
his letter could have been from; I thought the writing was in a lady’s
hand, and I don’t think he read it, for he put it right away in his
desk, and I’m sure I heard him groan as he locked the drawer.”
Arley made a slight noise, and Eddie looked up at her in a startled way.
“Are you faint?” he asked, for she was deathly white.
“No, but I’m not feeling very well; I think I will go home now,” she
replied. “But, Eddie,” she added, hesitatingly, “before I go won’t you
tell me--what your Uncle Philip’s other--name is?”
“Why, yes, of course I will; he is Philip Paxton, Esq.,
attorney-at-law,” the boy said, proudly.
For an instant every sense seemed to be leaving Arley; her heart
bounded into her throat, and then sank like lead in her bosom; a mist
came before her eyes and a feeling of numbness stole over her.
Then, calling all her will to her aid, she thanked her unsuspicious
companion, bade him a hasty good-by, and escaped from the place as
quickly as she could.
* * * * *
Wednesday morning, long before it was time for fashionable callers to
make their appearance, Miss McAllister’s door-bell rang. There was a
low, sweet-voiced inquiry of the maid who answered it; then the swift
rush of footsteps up the stairs, a rustle of soft garments along the
corridor, and a black-robed figure stopped before the door of Arley’s
boudoir. Then there was a soft tap, and in answer to a low “come in,”
Lady Elaine turned the handle, and, almost before Arley had time to
realize her presence, she had glided to her side, and a pair of arms
encircled her neck, a pair of tremulous, dewy lips met hers, and those
sweet, well-remembered blue eyes were looking an unutterable love into
hers.
“My darling! oh, my darling! how impatiently I have waited and longed
for this moment!” Lady Elaine said, in a fond, eager tone. “What shall
I say to you? How shall I tell you the blessed news in store for you? I
asked Nannie, at the door, if you were in, and alone. I wanted to come
to you and tell you when no one else was by; and when she told me you
were up here, I came without waiting to be announced--I knew you would
not mind, and I could not wait a moment longer.”
Arley regarded her friend in surprise while she returned her tender
greeting; she had never seen the fair, calm Lady Elaine so excited and
disconcerted before.
The arms which encircled her trembled, the lips that kissed her
quivered, and her voice shook with emotion.
Was it because this meeting brought back sad memories of poor, lost
Wil, and opened her wounds afresh?
She could not think so, for there seemed to be no sadness or thought of
self in her greeting--only joy, and love, and eagerness.
A feeling of restful content suddenly settled upon Arley as she nestled
closer into her clinging arms, and clasped her own about Lady Elaine’s
slight waist.
“I, too, have been very impatient to see you,” she said, “I can never
tell you how I have longed for you during the two years that we have
been separated. I have often thought if I could only have poured my
sorrows and trials into your sympathizing ear, and had you to guide and
counsel me with your calm, wise judgment, I should have suffered much
less; but that was a selfish feeling, wasn’t it, dear? when you have
had your own sorrows, and such heavy ones, too, to bear.”
“We will not talk of ‘sorrow’ now, Arley,” Lady Elaine replied, but
growing white with sudden pain, “we both have had peculiar trials to
bear, I know, but we have so much to be thankful for that we must put
our grief out of sight--and, perhaps, but for these very sorrows the
present joys would never have been granted to us. Oh! Arley--you know
what I am here for--you know that I have solved all the mystery of your
birth, and the result is wonderful! you could never--never imagine the
truth! and you will be rich, my dear, far richer than you have ever
been before; you have a fortune of nearly five hundred thousand pounds
coming to you.”
“Elaine! you cannot mean it!” Arley cried, in astonishment, “but,” she
added, flushing, and tears starting to her eyes, “I do not care for
riches if I can only have some one to own and love me.”
“Ah, my dear--my dear! I have not told you the best of my tidings,”
responded her companion, tremulously, “let me clasp you closely; let me
look full into your dear eyes while I tell it; my own Arley, you must
never call me Lady Elaine again, for you are a ladyship your own sweet
self. My dearest, I will not keep you in suspense a moment longer--you
are Lady Alice, eldest daughter of his grace, the Duke of Mordaunt,
and, therefore, my own--my very own sister!”