CHAPTER XVIII.

The servant saw that something had gone wrong, and, under pretence of

syringing the orange-trees, he lingered near his master, and peered

through the sunny leaves upon Riccabocca's melancholy brows.

The Doctor sighed heavily. Nor did he, as was his wont, after some such

sigh, mechanically take up that dear comforter, the pipe. But though

the tobacco-pouch lay by his side on the balustrade, and the pipe stood

against the wall between his knees, childlike lifting up its lips to

the customary caress--he heeded neither the one nor the other, but laid

the letter silently on his lap, and fixed his eyes upon the ground.

"It must be bad news indeed!" thought Jackeymo, and desisted from

his work. Approaching his master, he took up the pipe and the

tobacco-pouch, and filled the bowl slowly, glancing all the while to

that dark musing face on which, when abandoned by the expression of

intellectual vivacity or the exquisite smile of Italian courtesy, the

deep downward lines revealed the characters of sorrow. Jackeymo did not

venture to speak; but the continued silence of his master disturbed

him much. He laid that peculiar tinder which your smokers use upon

the steel, and struck the spark--still not a word, nor did Riccabocca

stretch forth his hand.

"I never knew him in this taking before," thought Jackeymo; and

delicately he insinuated the neck of the pipe into the nerveless

fingers of the hand that lay supine on those quiet knees--the pipe fell

to the ground.

Jackeymo crossed himself, and began praying to his sainted namesake

with great fervour.

The Doctor rose slowly, and, as if with effort, he walked once or twice

to and fro the terrace; and then he halted abruptly, and said--

"Friend!"

"Blessed Monsignore San Giacomo, I knew thou wouldst hear me!" cried

the servant; and he raised his master's hand to his lips, then abruptly

turned away and wiped his eyes. "Friend," repeated Riccabocca, and this

time with a tremulous emphasis, and in the softest tone of a voice

never wholly without the music of the sweet South, "I would talk to

thee of my child."--

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 424, February 1851 · 第 6 / 20 章