"Yes," he said—"His daughter! That is what I have come to tell you! The girl who lives with you—the famous author whose name is just now ringing through the world is his child!—and her mother was my wife!"
There was a little stifled cry—she dropped back in her chair and covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that rushed to her eyes.
"Innocent!" she murmured, sobbingly—"His child!—Innocent!"
He was silent, watching her, his own heart deeply moved. He thought of her life of unbroken fidelity—wasted in its youth—solitary in its age—all for the sake of one man. Presently, mastering her quiet weeping, she looked up.
"Does she—the dear girl!—does she know this?" she asked, in a half whisper.
"She has known it all the time," he answered—"She knew who her mother was before she came to London—but she kept her own counsel—I think to save the honour of all concerned. And she has made her name famous to escape the reproach of birth which others fastened upon her. A brave child!—it must have been strange to her to find her father's portrait here—did you ever speak of him to her?"
"Often!" replied Miss Leigh. "She knows all my story!"
He smiled, very kindly
"No wonder she was silent!" he said.
Just then they heard the sound of a latch-key turning in the lock of the hall door—there was a light step in the passage—they looked at one another half in wonder, half in doubt. A moment more and Innocent entered, radiant and smiling. She stopped on the threshold, amazed at the sight of Lord Blythe.