"He might have been hers," was the reply, which spoke volumes. He approached, and the child used to many strange faces looked fearlessly upon him, but with the strange, grave look we have before noticed. Tremenhere opened his arms, and the little boy's were around his neck, and the eyes, so like his own, fixed upon him. Something for the first time passed through the father's heart; he thought of his own, and involuntarily passed his hand over the head, where the golden curls were springing up, thick and clustering. He turned up the little unsmiling face, and his stern lip pressed the baby cheek.
"Bless you, my boy!" he whispered.
Strange, he never asked his name, or any thing about him, but gazed, and gazed on the face in bitterness of thought. As he did so, he turned towards the picture. The child stared a moment—the eyes distended—and then the whole sad face lighted up with a smile of angel beauty, as he paid the highest compliment which could be offered to Miles's art, by stretching forth his arms towards it; and the little tongue tried to syllable a name. The boy knew his mother!
D'Estrées and Skaife turned pale, as a hasty glance passed between them: they deemed it impossible so strange a recognition could pass unsuspected: they trembled for the moment of avowal. But Miles's mind was obscured from all thought of the truth; he only saw a childish rapture on beholding a picture; and again kissing the boy and hastily passing him to d'Estrées, seated himself at the easel, and beneath his pencil placed the outline of his boy in its mother's arms.
Tremenhere had resolved upon one thing both as a duty—a sacred one—and secondly, if possible, to give some more healthy tone to his heart, by the necessity for activity of mind and body. This was, to labour for the means of proceeding to Gibraltar, to seek proof of his mother's marriage. With his conviction of Minnie's innocence, this thought had sprung up with renewed vigour; for this reason he remained more at home, working at the picture for which his own unknown child was daily sitting. For this, when completed, he expected a large sum, with which he purposed at once proceeding to Gibraltar. Moreover, it was a labour of love, though of deep sorrow; for Minnie lived again before him, and the hours passed, in contemplating the face and form perfecting beneath his hand.
Lady Dora was lost in vain conjectures as to the cause of his estrangement; though a momentary doubt might arise, yet her unfailing pride came in to soothe her—"he durst not trust himself!" Thus she thought, and with this conviction arose a determination to go to his studio; this was not difficult of accomplishment. By a cleverly turned hint to her mother about Lord Randolph's impatience respecting her picture, Lady Ripley wrote, expressing a desire for its completion, as soon as he conveniently might attend to it; and soliciting an hour when Lady Dora might give him a sitting. This lady so arranged it, that her mother asked from herself without naming any impatience on her part, but Tremenhere smiled in scorn and triumph; for he saw the whole affair, as though it had been planned beneath his eye. He wrote, regretting much occupation had obliged him to banish himself from her ladyship's circle; for the happy indolence which there crept over him, unfitted him for other less pleasing occupations, but fixing an hour in which he should be too happy to see Lady Dora. Every line of this had been guardedly penned; and each word had a signification in that lady's eyes, flattering to herself. Lord Randolph had seen him several times, and always reported something about the mysteriously veiled picture; she was convinced in her own mind, that this was some portrait of herself, and she resolved, if practicable, to verify the fact; however, when she arrived there with an appearance of calm dignity, accompanied by her mother, nothing was to be seen but herself as Diana on the easel, and as unfinished as when she had last seen it. This confirmed her impression of some strange mystery; and Tremenhere's suffering face, which nothing could disguise, made her heart bound high in triumphant pride—it was suffering on her account. His manner still further strengthened this deep error on her part,—her mother accompanied her, consequently their words, beyond mere general ones, were few; still, when she spoke of his absenting himself from all society, the significance with which he whispered, "Better live with a sad memory, than a vain and dangerous reality," lost nothing of the effect he intended it to convey. The real truth was, he felt too worn in spirit, even for revenge sake, just then to continue his comedy with herself—he had only courage to suffer; but his absenting himself was as politic a thing as he could have done; and she left the studio with a tremor in her heart, of which she had thought herself incapable—one which not a little startled her yet rebelling pride, and made her look every hour with deeper gloom, or nervous excitement, on the preparations which were progressing for her marriage with Lord Randolph, whom she almost hated, and yet had not the courage to come to an open rupture with, lest Tremenhere should quite read her heart. She was bent upon bringing him to her feet, and then permitting a hope to gleam over his doubts.
CHAPTER XIX.
She was in this mood one day when he called, and found her in a tête-à-tête with Lord Randolph. She was dressed à l'Amazone, for her horse was awaiting its lovely mistress below.
"I have arrived mal à propos," he said, after the salutations of meeting were over. "I see your ladyship is going out."