"Listen to me, my dear mother," said Leonard the next morning, as with
his knapsack on his shoulder and Mrs. Fairfield on his arm, he walked
along the high road; "I do assure you, from my heart, that I do not
regret the loss of favors which I see plainly would have crushed out
of me the very sense of independence. But do not fear for me; I have
education and energy--I shall do well for myself, trust me. No; I
cannot, it is true, go back to our cottage--I cannot be a gardener
again. Don't ask me--I should be discontented, miserable. But I will
go up to London! That's the place to make a fortune and a name: I will
make both. O yes, trust me, I will. You shall soon be proud of your
Leonard; and then we will always live together--always! Don't cry."
"But what can you do in London--such a big place, Lenny?"
"What! Every year does not some lad leave our village, and go and seek
his fortune, taking with him but health and strong hands? I have
these, and I have more: I have brains, and thoughts, and hopes,
that--again I say, No, no--never fear for me!"
The boy threw back his head proudly; there was something sublime in
his young trust in the future.
"Well--but you will write to Mr. Dale, or to me? I will get Mr. Dale,
or the good Mounseer (now I knew they were not agin me) to read your
letters."
"I will, indeed!"
"And, boy, you have nothing in your pockets. We have paid Dick; these,
at least, are my own, after paying the coach fare." And she would
thrust a sovereign and some shillings into Leonard's waistcoat pocket.
After some resistance, he was forced to consent.
"And there's a sixpence with a hole in it. Don't part with that,
Lenny; it will bring thee good luck."
Thus talking, they gained the inn where the three roads met, and from
which a coach went direct to the Casino. And here, without entering
the inn, they sat on the green sward by the hedge-row, waiting the
arrival of the coach. Mrs. Fairfield was much subdued in spirits, and
there was evidently on her mind something uneasy--some struggle with
her conscience. She not only upbraided herself for her rash visit; but
she kept talking of her dead Mark. And what would he say of her, if he
could see her in heaven?
"It was so selfish in me, Lenny."
"Pooh, pooh! Has not a mother a right to her child?"
"Ay, ay, ay!" cried Mrs. Fairfield: "I do love you as a child--my own
child. But if I was not your mother, after all, Lenny, and cost you
all this--oh, what would you say of me then?"
"Not my own mother!" said Leonard, laughing, as he kissed her. "Well,
I don't know what I should say then differently from what I say
now--that you who brought me up, and nursed and cherished me, had a
right to my home and my heart, wherever I was."
"Bless thee!" cried Mrs. Fairfield, as she pressed him to her heart.
"But it weighs here--it weighs"--she said, starting up.
At that instant the coach appeared, and Leonard ran forward to inquire
if there was an outside place. Then there was a short bustle while the
horses were being changed; and Mrs. Fairfield was lifted up to the
roof of the vehicle. So all future private conversation between her
and Leonard ceased. But as the coach whirled away, and she waved her
hand to the boy, who stood on the road-side gazing after her, she
still murmured--"It weighs here--it weighs!"----