"Then," inquired Esther, "am I to understand that you are happy?" The young man lowered his eyes and was silent for a moment.
"I am," he answered, "profoundly grateful to my master for all his kindness, for the friendship which every one testifies for me, and for the interest which such men as Mr. Burke and Dr. Johnson take in my studies. But can I be wholly happy? Nothing can replace the affection of a mother,—unless it be that of a wife. There is a void in my heart. Will it ever be filled?"
So humble, so penetrating was the accent of the poor, lonely fellow at this moment that Esther was more deeply moved than she had been by the recital of his boyish sufferings. In her turn her eyes drooped as if, in the young man's words, something had particularly affected her.
"Ah!" he murmured, "you are laughing at me now; but, since I began to speak and you deigned to listen to me, I have told you all. Now I am going to show you the one who, since my entrance into this house, has consoled and sustained me in the hours of discouragement and sadness." And taking her by the hand, he led Esther into his studio, before an unframed picture, from which he drew aside the drapery which covered it.
"A portrait! A portrait of a woman!"
In fact it was the counterfeit presentment of a young woman clothed in white. The picture was still unfinished. The attire, the accessories, the background were scarcely indicated; the head alone seemed almost complete. It was a fine, delicate head, softly illumined by a faint smile as by a ray of autumnal sunshine, the eyes of a dull blue, hesitant in glance as though weary of the light,—infinite weariness in the inclination of the neck and the droop of the shoulders. An indefinable charm of sorrow and resignation overspread the entire countenance. The very uncertainty of the sketch lent to it an ethereal, almost supernatural character, enveloping it in that vague, ideal film which veils the figures in a dream.
"Who is this lady?" inquired Esther.
"She died twenty years ago, and I never saw her in life. I only know that she is called Lady Mowbray."
"Lady Mowbray! The mother of young Lord Mowbray whom you resemble so closely?"
"The same."