Perched up on the bed, with an embroidered smoking-cap on his head, was a gentleman in gold spectacles. He was writing rapidly with a pencil in a large manuscript book, and he scarcely looked up as Uncle Luke entered. But when Uncle Luke, whose heart was full and overflowed at the sight of one whom he believed to be a friend of the family, trotted over to the bedside and took his hand, crying like a child, he dropped his notebook and seemed aghast. Then, recognising his visitor, he questioned him, and soon knew the whole sad story—of Uncle Mark’s accidental death, of the break-up of the little home, of the despair of the family, and their conviction that they could no longer do their duty by Madeline.
‘And Madlin’s here,’ cried Uncle Luke. ‘I brung her, but, Lord, she don’t guess why I brung her; she thinks she’s a-going back. Oh, Mr. White, be a father to her! She ain’t got ne’er another, now her Uncle Mark’s dead.’ Mr. White wiped his spectacles, and seemed utterly stupefied; at last he nodded, as if he had made up his mind.
‘Give me those trousers,’ he said, ‘I’ll get up.’
In another minute he had slipped into an old pair of tweed trousers, a pair of very dirty fancy slippers, and an old dressing-gown. Thus attired he even looked less engaging than when composing in bed. His hands were greatly in need of soap, his whiskers were ragged and ornamented with fragments of yolk of egg, and his face, which was otherwise kindly and good-humoured, looked parboiled. Seizing a brush, he went through the formality of brushing the very minute bunches of hair which ornamented his bald head, and then, after a momentary struggle with his whiskers, led the way into the ‘studio.’ Here they found Madeline in high delight, for Cheveley, seizing a piece of charcoal, had dashed off a rough likeness of her on a canvas which stood vacant. The wild locks, the great wistful eyes, the delicate mouth, were happily caught, and for the moment the child forgot all her troubles.
‘Look, Uncle Luke,’ she cried, running to him and pointing out the likeness. ‘It’s me.’
Uncle Luke, still pale and trembling with his great grief, grinned from ear to ear, and gazed upon the artist in pathetic admiration. Meantime White stood blinking benignly through his spectacles; at last Madeline caught his look, and returned it with no little astonishment.
‘This is Madlin,’ said Uncle Luke, gently.
Thus introduced, Madeline dropped her eyes timidly, and gave a country curtsey, as she had been accustomed to do to the magnates of the village.