Chapter XIII: The Portrait

Miss McAllister was not gone many minutes.

The door soon opened again and she entered, followed by a servant bearing a picture.

It was the portrait of Evelyn Wentworth.

“Place it here upon this table,” she said, in a low tone to the man, “and then you may go.”

He obeyed, and then quietly left the room.

As soon as the door closed after him, Miss McAllister turned to their visitor and said:

“I want you to come and stand beside this picture, dear, and let Mr. Paxton compare your face with the one painted there.”

She took the young girl by the hand and led her forward.

She went tremblingly, a sort of mist coming over her eyes so that she could not see distinctly; but as she came close to it she bent forward and scanned it eagerly.

There was one moment of breathless silence, then a low cry of surprise and joy burst from her.

“Yes--yes, it is true--I know that she was my mother,” she said, looking tearfully up into Miss McAllister’s face, while her own glowed with a tender happiness which made her exceedingly lovely.

“Mr. Paxton,” said the old lady, “come here and look for yourself. I think this test cannot fail to put to flight all your doubts.”

She turned the girl and placed her side by side with the picture as she spoke.

Philip felt obliged to obey, but he came forward very reluctantly, while Arley also bent forward to look.

The face of the young maiden and that of the portrait were almost identical.

There were the same large, deep-blue eyes, the same soft, sunny-brown hair and broad, low forehead with its straight, shapely brows. The nose of the young girl was a trifle more delicate in outline than that of the portrait, but the mouth was the same--sweet and tender in expression, and with a sensitive droop at the corners that was somewhat peculiar--while the chin of each rounded and curved into the beautiful white throat precisely alike.

“Do you wish--can you ask any stronger proof than that before you?” Miss McAllister asked of Philip, a trifle sternly. “There cannot be the slightest doubt that you are looking upon the mother and child. It has always been a matter of regret to me that Arley did not bear more resemblance to her parents; I have thought at times that I could trace something of her father’s expression in her features, but it was never satisfactory; but it is all explained now, and from this moment I must own this child as Evelyn Wentworth’s daughter.”

“Oh, auntie, auntie!” wailed poor Arley, stretching out her hand with a despairing gesture to her, and feeling almost as if she had been driven forth into exile as she listened to these words; while Philip Paxton, convinced at last because he was obliged to be, clenched his teeth and ground his heel into the soft carpet in impotent rage.

Without warning or preparation, twenty thousand pounds were swept beyond his reach, while he and his bride of but an hour or two were, comparatively speaking, beggars.

Miss McAllister went to Arley and drew her head upon her bosom.

“Be still, my child,” she said, brokenly, but with exceeding tenderness. “I do not love my darling one whit less. Surely you do not imagine that the affection of eighteen years’ growth can be transferred to another simply by a question of mistaken identity? No, dear, but I must be just--I must acknowledge the evidence of my own senses. While from this moment I must own this young girl as Evelyn’s child, you will ever be the same to me that you have been--a daughter in all but name. You two shall be like a pair of sisters, and I shall claim you both.”

She held out her hand, as she ceased speaking, to Ina, who came forward and raised it to her lips, while tears streamed over her cheeks.

She had never expected to be received so heartily and kindly into the bosom of a family where another had reigned so absolutely for so long.

“Oh! but who am I? to whom do I belong? who are my kin? I am stripped of everything--I have not even a name left,” Arley cried, despairingly.

She had been very brave to renounce everything when convinced that it did not belong to her, but she felt very desolate and unhappy now. She would not have minded it so much if Philip had been noble and manly regarding the matter; but it almost seemed as if he, too, had deserted her in this trying hour.

“She should not say that when she has her husband’s name,” Ina said, sorrowfully, and looking up with tears into Miss McAllister’s face, “and she must retain that of ‘Arley’ also; she has always been known by it, and it would be very awkward to change it now. All my life I have been called ‘Ina,’ and I do not believe I could answer to any other. She”--glancing at Arley--“will be known after this as Mrs. Paxton, and so I will assume the name of Wentworth; in nothing else need there be any change. You are very kind to receive me so cordially as your niece, and I shall always love you for it; if I had not made her so unhappy”--with a sympathetic look at the weeping bride--“I should be content.”

Miss McAllister looked greatly relieved as she listened to this, while she longed to take the sweet maiden into her arms and kiss her for trying to make the rough way so smooth for them all.

“Arley, do you hear?” she said, turning to her; “there is to be no change; Ina wishes to retain her first name, and desires that you will keep yours.”

“Ah! but that does not explain who I am,” cried the poor child, who, weary and weak from the excitement of the day, and cut to the heart by her husband’s strange treatment, was fast losing self-control.

“You are Philip Paxton’s wife,” Miss McAllister said, with a glance of stern appeal at the newly-made husband, who still stood before the portrait of Evelyn Wentworth as if in a trance.

She felt that he ought to come and comfort the afflicted girl, and not stand there moodily brooding over what could not be helped.

He started at her words, as if a viper had stung him, muttered an angry oath, and without even so much as a glance at his unhappy bride, he abruptly turned and left the room.

This was the one bitter drop too much in Arley’s cup of woe, and with a moan of pain she lay back in Miss Angeline’s arms and fainted away.

Philip Paxton stalked downstairs, looking like anything rather than a happy bridegroom.

His face was startlingly pale, his eyes glowed with a fierce, lurid light, and his manner was wild and excited.

Meeting Wil Hamilton at the foot of the stairs--for he was going up to see what was detaining the young couple so long--he told him that Arley had been taken suddenly ill, and would be unable either to take leave of her friends or go on her journey at present, and he begged him to excuse them both to the company.

Then, without waiting to explain anything further, he dashed on into the library to hide himself, his rage and disappointment, from every eye.

But here he found another lion in his path, in the form of a strange gentleman, who was sitting quietly there, and apparently waiting for some one.

“I beg pardon,” Philip said, stiffly, and glaring at him almost savagely. “I was not aware that there was any one here.”

“My name is Alden, sir, and I am waiting for a young lady who has gone upstairs to see Mrs. Paxton,” the man returned, rising and bowing politely to Philip.

Philip bit his lip fiercely at this intelligence.

“I am Mr. Paxton,” he said, abruptly, “and I have just left my wife.”

“Indeed! then doubtless you have learned the nature of the business which brought Miss Corrillion and myself hither. I regret that we were obliged to come to-day, but it could not be avoided, and, indeed, Miss Wentworth’s--your wife’s--lawyer advised us to see her, and you also, before you went away,” Mr. Alden explained.

“Don’t you think your errand a strange and rather doubtful one?” Philip asked, with curling lips.

“A ‘strange’ one it certainly is; a doubtful one, no. I had no doubt regarding the identity of the young lady, who, for three years past, has been a member of my family, even before I saw the portrait which a servant has just removed from this room. I asked whose picture it was, and was told that it was Miss Wentworth’s mother; but I certainly never saw a closer resemblance between mother and daughter than there is between my _protege_ and that portrait.”

“And if you succeed in establishing the identity of your _protege_, as you call her, I suppose you expect to obtain for her the fortune which Dr. McAllister left,” Philip said, with a sneer.

The gentleman changed color slightly at this.

“If her identity is proved, there can be no doubt that it properly belongs to her,” Mr. Alden answered, with grave politeness. “It is Miss Corrillion’s wish not to make any trouble, or put forth any claim for this money; but it seems to me that full justice should be done, and the fortune which rightly belongs to her be made over to her.”

“She shall never have it if I can prevent it,” Philip retorted. “I am a lawyer, and I shall do my utmost to save my wife from being wronged in this way. Dr. McAllister left it to her, and no other. He brought her up from a little child, believing she belonged to him. He loved her as his own, and he meant that she alone should have this money.”

“Yes, that is doubtless all true,” replied his companion; “but if the revelation of to-day had been made while he was living--if he had learned that Mrs. Paxton was not the child of his daughter, as he had always supposed, and if it had been proved, on the other hand, that Ina Corrillion was, your common sense, sir, as well as my own, tells you that his will would have been very different, without regard to what his affection might have dictated.”

The man’s argument was very sensible and forcible, and Philip knew well enough, if the matter was pushed, that the law would give that coveted twenty thousand pounds to the new claimant, and the thought exasperated him beyond endurance, and he put an end to the debate by abruptly walking to the other end of the room.

He was bound to acknowledge to himself, in consideration of the proofs which the girl had presented, and her wonderful resemblance to the portrait, that she was indeed and in truth the child of Evelyn Wentworth. He knew that any jury before whom the facts should be presented would so rule; but it was a most bitter pill for him to swallow.

What would now become of all the hopes and plans which had so depended upon the winning of Arley’s fortune?

He had not a hundred pounds of his own in the world, but the thought had not given him the slightest trouble until now. He had felt comfortably secure from all pecuniary anxiety with the snug income which he believed his wife would bring him. He knew that they could live in a very easy, happy manner upon it; while, with his talents and the reputation which he had been rapidly acquiring during the last two or three years, he believed it would not be long before he would be independent.

But now the loss of this money maddened him, and made him reckless of what he said or did, particularly when he remembered how he had stooped to win it.

“What on earth are we to do?” he muttered gloomily to himself. “Here I am, saddled with a wife poorer than I am--that is, if this fortune has to go, as I fear it must--and I see nothing but pinching poverty before us, at least for the present. I swear my pride will not stand it; I expected to live at my ease and in style--to go about in the same society in which Arley has always moved, and enjoy the luxuries of life. But now nothing remains to us but to hide ourselves in cheap lodgings, and live from hand to mouth. I vow I never will do it! I’ll turn Bohemian and live by my wits first. I haven’t the courage to face all London after this ignominious tumble from the pinnacle of my glory.”

While he was thus absorbed in his bitter musings, the door opened again, and the inoffensive object of his wrath entered.

She went up to Mr. Alden, and said, with a smile:

“I have kept you waiting for a long time, sir. I am sorry, but there seemed so much to explain and talk over.”

“And do they acknowledge your claim?” her companion asked, with a doubtful glance at Philip.

“Yes, sir, at least Mrs. Paxton and Miss McAllister have been very kind; they have received me very cordially, and I am henceforth to be known as Ina Wentworth. I am to keep my old first name, and Mrs. Paxton is to retain hers, as we both think it would be very awkward to change.”

“And the----” Mr. Alden began, eagerly, but she stopped him with a gesture, and a warning look to Philip.

“That is as far as we have been able to get as yet,” she said, with a significant glance. “Mrs. Paxton is, of course, greatly disturbed and excited over the revelations which I have made, and the mystery with which they enshroud her own identity.”

“That, of course, is to be expected; but I am very glad to know that so few difficulties have been placed in your path,” Mr. Alden returned, evidently well pleased with the result of her interview.

“Miss McAllister insists,” Ina continued, “that I shall remain here with her; she says she will be left alone when Mrs. Paxton goes away, and she feels that this ought henceforth to be my home. I have consented to stay for a while at least, so you will be obliged to take my regrets to Mrs. Alden, and go home without me,” she concluded, with a smile that was not altogether tearless, as she thought of the three little ones whom she had learned to love so well.

“That is as it should be, and you will probably remain here permanently,” Mr. Alden remarked, with evident satisfaction, as he arose to go, then added, in a tone of genuine regret:

“We shall be loath to lose you, Miss Corril--Miss Wentworth,” he corrected, with a smile, “but, of course, we rejoice over your good fortune. You have been very faithful and kind to my children, who love you dearly, and will miss you sadly.”

“And I them,” Ina returned, in a husky voice, “while I shall always regard you and your wife as among my best friends.”

She held out her hand as she ceased speaking, and Mr. Alden shook it heartily, and then took his departure.