Shortly after this discourse of Riccabocca's, an incident occurred
to Leonard that served to carry his mind into new directions. One
evening, when his mother was out, he was at work on a new mechanical
contrivance, and had the misfortune to break one of the instruments
which he employed. Now it will be remembered that his father had been
the Squire's head-carpenter; the widow had carefully hoarded the tools
of his craft, which had belonged to her poor Mark; and though she
occasionally lent them to Leonard, she would not give them up to his
service. Amongst these, Leonard knew that he should find the one that
he wanted; and being much interested in his contrivance, he could not
wait till his mother's return. The tools, with other little relics of
the lost, were kept in a large trunk in Mrs Fairfield's sleeping room;
the trunk was not locked, and Leonard went to it without ceremony or
scruple. In rummaging for the instrument, his eye fell upon a bundle
of MSS.; and he suddenly recollected that when he was a mere child,
and before he much knew the difference between verse and prose, his
mother had pointed to these MSS. and said, "One day or other, when you
can read nicely, I'll let you look at these, Lenny. My poor Mark wrote
such verses--ah, he _was_ a scollard!" Leonard, reasonably enough,
thought that the time had now arrived when he was worthy the privilege
of reading the paternal effusions, and he took forth the MSS. with a
keen but melancholy interest. He recognised his father's handwriting,
which he had often seen before in account-books and memoranda, and read
eagerly some trifling poems, which did not show much genius, nor much
mastery of language and rythm--such poems, in short, as a self-educated
man, with poetic taste and feeling, rather than poetic inspiration or
artistic culture, might compose with credit, but not for fame. But
suddenly, as he turned over these 'Occasional Pieces,' Leonard came to
others in a different handwriting--a woman's handwriting--small, and
fine, and exquisitely formed. He had scarcely read six lines of these
last, before his attention was irresistibly chained. They were of a
different order of merit from poor Mark's; they bore the unmistakeable
stamp of genius. Like the poetry of women in general, they were
devoted to personal feeling--they were not the mirror of a world,
but reflections of a solitary heart. Yet this is the kind of poetry
most pleasing to the young. And the verses in question had another
attraction for Leonard: they seemed to express some struggle akin to
his own--some complaint against the actual condition of the writer's
life, some sweet melodious murmurs at fortune. For the rest, they were
characterised by a vein of sentiment so elevated that, if written in
by a man, it would have run into exaggeration; written by a woman, the
romance was carried off by so many genuine revelations of sincere,
deep, pathetic feeling, that it was always natural, though true to a
nature from which you would not augur happiness.
Leonard was still absorbed in the perusal of these poems, when Mrs
Fairfield entered the room.
"What have you been about, Lenny?--searching in my box?"
"I came to look for my father's bag of tools, mother, and I found these
papers, which you said I might read some day."
"I doesn't wonder you did not hear me when I came in," said the widow
sighing. "I used to sit still for the hour together, when my poor Mark
read his poems to me. There was such a pretty one about the 'Peasant's
Fireside,' Lenny--have you got hold of that?"
"Yes, dear mother; and I remarked the allusion to you: it brought tears
to my eyes. But these verses are not my father's--whose are they? They
seem a woman's hand."
Mrs Fairfield looked--changed colour--grew faint--and seated herself.
"Poor, poor Nora!" said she falteringly. "I did not know as they were
there; Mark kep 'em; they got among his--"
LEONARD.--"Who was Nora?"
MRS FAIRFIELD.--"Who?--child,--who? Nora was--was my own--own sister."
LEONARD (in great amaze, contrasting his ideal of the writer of these
musical lines, in that graceful hand, with his homely uneducated
mother, who can neither read nor write.)--"Your sister--is it possible?
My aunt, then. How comes it you never spoke of her before? Oh! you
should be so proud of her, mother."
MRS FAIRFIELD (clasping her hands.)--"We were proud of her, all of
us--father, mother--all! She was so beautiful and so good, and not
proud she! though she looked like the first lady in the land. Oh! Nora,
Nora!"
LEONARD (after a pause.)--"But she must have been highly educated?"
MRS FAIRFIELD.--"'Deed she was!"
LEONARD.--"How was that?"
MRS FAIRFIELD (rocking herself to and fro in her chair.)--"Oh! my Lady
washer godmother--Lady Lansmere I mean--and took a fancy to her when
she was that high! and had her to stay at the Park, and wait on her
ladyship; and then she put her to school, and Nora was so clever that
nothing would do but she must go to London as a governess. But don't
talk of it, boy!--don't talk of it!"
LEONARD.--"Why not, mother?--what has become of her?--where is she?"
MRS FAIRFIELD (bursting into a paroxysm of tears.)--"In her grave--in
her cold grave! Dead, dead!"
Leonard was inexpressibly grieved and shocked. It is the attribute of
the poet to seem always living, always a friend. Leonard felt as if
some one very dear had been suddenly torn from his heart. He tried to
console his mother; but her emotion was contagious, and he wept with
her.
"And how long has she been dead?" he asked at last, in mournful accents.
"Many's the long year, many; but," added Mrs Fairfield, rising, and
putting her tremulous hand on Leonard's shoulder, "you'll just never
talk to me about her--I can't bear it--it breaks my heart. I can bear
better to talk of Mark--come down stairs--come."
"May I not keep these verses, mother? Do let me."
"Well, well, those bits o' paper be all she left behind her--yes, keep
them, but put back Mark's. Are _they_ all here?--sure?" And the widow,
though she could not read her husband's verses, looked jealously at
the MSS. written in his irregular large scrawl, and, smoothing them
carefully, replaced them in the trunk, and resettled over them some
sprigs of lavender, which Leonard had unwittingly disturbed.
"But," said Leonard, as his eye again rested on the beautiful
handwriting of his lost aunt--"but you call her Nora--I see she signs
herself L."
"Leonora was her name. I said she was my Lady's godchild. We called her
Nora for short"--
"Leonora--and I am Leonard--is that how I came by the name?"
"Yes, yes--do hold your tongue, boy," sobbed poor Mrs Fairfield; and
she could not be soothed nor coaxed into continuing or renewing a
subject which was evidently associated with insupportable pain.