“Never had it taken!” repeated Durward, in some surprise.
“No, never,” said ’Lena, and Durward continued drawing her nearer to him, “It is time you had, then. So have it taken for me. I mean what I say,” he continued, as he met the glance of her merry eyes. “There is nothing I should prize more than your miniature, except, indeed the original, which you will not refuse me, when I ask it, will you?”
’Lena’s mirth was all gone—she knew he was in earnest now. She felt it in the pressure of his arm, which encircled her waist; she saw it in his eye, and heard it in the tones of his voice. But what should she say? Closer he drew her to his side; she felt his breath upon her cheek; and an inaudible answer trembled on her lips, when noiselessly through the door came Mr. Graham, starting when he saw their position, and offering to withdraw if he was intruding. ’Lena was surprised and excited, and springing up, she laid her hand upon his arm as he was about to leave the room, bidding him stay and saying he was always welcome there.
So he stayed, and with the first frown upon his brow which ’Lena had ever seen, Durward left—left without receiving an answer to his question, or even referring to it again, though ’Lena accompanied him to the door, half dreading, yet hoping, he would repeat it. But he did not, and wishing her much pleasure in his father’s company, he walked away, writing in his heart bitter things against him, not her. On his way home he fell in with Du Pont, who, Frenchman-like, had taken a little too much wine, and was very talkative.
“Vous just come from Mademoiselle Rivers,” said he. “She be von fine girl. What relation be she to Monsieur Graham?”
“None whatever. Why do you ask?”
“Because he pay her musique lessons and——”
Here Du Pont suddenly remembered his promise, so he kept back Mr. Graham’s assertion that he was a near relative, adding in its place, that “he thought probable he related; but you no tell,” said he, “for Monsieur bid me keep secret and I forgot.”
Here, having reached a cross-road, they parted, and again Durward wrote down bitter things against his father, for what could be his object in wishing it kept a secret that he was paying for ’Lena’s lessons, or why did he pay for them at all—and did ’Lena know it? He thought not, and for a time longer was she blameless in his eyes.
On reaching home he found both the parlor and drawing-room deserted, and upon inquiry learned that his mother was in her own room. Something, he could hardly tell what, prompted him to knock for admission, which being granted, he entered, finding her unusually pale, with the trace of tears still upon her cheek. This of itself was so common an occurrence, that he would hardly have observed it had not there been about her a look of unfeigned distress which he had seldom seen before.