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.
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.
"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?"
"But why has the portrait remained unfinished?"
"The death of the original interrupted the sittings. She knew that she was doomed and wished to bequeath her portrait to her son; but apparently no one cared for her or respected her last wish, since the sketch has never been claimed by the family. It is said that she was most unhappy, and wept her life away. I am as attached to this portrait as to a living person. It watches me and smiles upon me; I speak to it and it responds. How many times have I kissed those poor hands which are now folded in death! I have wished that my mother might resemble her, and in my folly I have more than once addressed her by that holy name. Athwart the space which separates us my heart yearns towards her. What would I not give to have known and consoled her! What do you think of such foolishness, Miss Woodville?"