CHAPTER XVIII.

The servant saw that something had gone wrong, and, under pretense 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 fervor.

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."

Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. II, No. X., March 1851 · 第 6 / 18 章