“I must see Philip’s boy,” said Lord Ashden, with a sigh of retrospection. “Poor Philip! He literally threw away his life; and such a life—so full of hope and promise. I hope this boy’s life may be a happier one than his father’s was.” And he strode off toward the house, where they told him Philip would be found, impelled by a feeling of real interest, the first he had experienced in many sad and weary months.
Chapter XII
The Renewal of an Acquaintance
FOLLOWING Mrs. Seldon’s directions, Lord Ashden climbed the narrow stairs which led to the haunted chamber. And as he approached the room he was surprised to hear a faint tinkling sound as of some one running his fingers over the keys of an old piano. Lord Ashden was puzzled, and approaching more softly he gently pushed open the door of the room and looked within. It was a pretty picture upon which his eyes rested, and one which he long remembered. A fair, slender lad with a pale, expressive face, which reminded the silent on-looker of the well-known portrait of Milton at the age of twelve, was standing beside the old harp which had belonged to the poor, foolish maid of honor. He was touching the dusty strings with the greatest care and reverence, and a smile of perfect delight played about his sensitive, mobile mouth. But Lord Ashden did not remain long unobserved, for a shaggy little dog which had been lying quietly at the boy’s feet raised his head, and, perceiving the stranger, began to bark fiercely.
“Down, Dash!” said Lord Ashden, advancing into the room and holding out his hand.
“As I live, my old friend Philip and his dog Dash! How stupid I was not to know that those eyes could belong only to Philip Norton’s boy!” And Philip remembered in a flash the happy day, now more than a year since, which he and Dash had spent on the lake with the tall stranger whose name was “Frederick.” He quite forgot his awe of Lord Ashden in explaining why he had not returned for the promised row on the lake, and he found himself talking easily, and with no sense of reserve, to this tall stranger whom he already looked up to with boyish love and almost reverence.
“So your mother is dead,” said Lord Ashden kindly. “Poor little chap, I think I know somewhat how it feels to always carry an aching heart. You must tell me all about her some day. I have always wanted to know more about Philip Norton’s wife; but let me tell you, my boy, that you have reason to be proud of your father.”
“Did you know my father so very well?” asked Philip timidly, hoping to hear something about him.
“Yes, indeed,” said Lord Ashden. “Has no one told you that we were chums at college?—and afterward we travelled together for over a year. Your father was an artist, you know, and I had a painting fever myself in those days, and used to perch by poor Philip’s side day after day, copying the same picture.”