The next day, Mr. Dale had a long conversation with Mrs. Fairfield. At
first, he found some difficulty in getting over her pride, and inducing
her to accept overtures from parents who had so long slighted both
Leonard and herself. And it would have been in vain to have put before
the good woman the worldly advantages which such overtures implied. But
when Mr. Dale said, almost sternly, "Your parents are old, your father
infirm; their least wish should be as binding to you as their command,"
the widow bowed her head and said,
"God bless, them, sir, I was very sinful--'Honor your father and
mother.' I'm no scollard, but I know the Commandments. Let Lenny go. But
he'll soon forget me, and mayhap he'll learn to be ashamed of me."
"There I will trust him," said the Parson; and he contrived easily to
re-assure and soothe her.
It was not till all this was settled that Mr. Dale drew forth an
unsealed letter, which Mr. Richard Avenel, taking his hint, had given to
him, as from Leonard's grandparents, and said, "This is for you, and it
contains an inclosure of some value."
"Will you read it, sir? As I said before, I'm no scollard."
"But Leonard is, and he will read it to you."
When Leonard returned home that evening, Mrs. Fairfield showed him the
letter. It ran thus:
"DEAR JANE--Mr. Dale will tell you that we wish Leonard to come
to us. We are glad to hear you are well. We forward, by Mr.
Dale, a bank-note for L50, which comes from Richard, your
brother. So no more at present from your affectionate parents,
"JOHN AND MARGARET AVENEL."
The letter was in a stiff, female scrawl, and Leonard observed that two
or three mistakes in spelling had been corrected, either in another pen
or in a different hand.
"Dear brother Dick, how good in him!" cried the widow. "When I saw there
was money, I thought it must be him. How I should like to see Dick
again. But I s'pose he's still in Amerikay. Well, well, this will buy
clothes for you."
"No; you must keep it all, mother, and put it in the Savings' Bank."
"I'm not quite so silly as that," cried Mrs. Fairfield with contempt;
and she put the fifty pounds into a cracked teapot.
"It must not stay there when I'm gone. You may be robbed, mother."
"Dear me, dear me, that's true. What shall I do with it?--what do I want
with it, too? Dear me! I wish they hadn't sent it. I shan't sleep in
peace. You must e'en put it in your own pouch, and button it up tight,
boy."
Lenny smiled, and took the note; but he took it to Mr. Dale, and begged
him to put it into the Savings' Bank for his mother.
The day following he went to take leave of his master, of Jackeymo, of
the fountain, the garden. But, after he had gone through the first of
these adieus with Jackeymo--who, poor man, indulged in all the lively
gesticulations of grief which make half the eloquence of his countrymen;
and then, absolutely blubbering, hurried away--Leonard himself was so
affected that he could not proceed at once to the house, but stood
beside the fountain, trying hard to keep back his tears.
"You, Leonard--and you are going!" said a soft voice; and the tears fell
faster than ever, for he recognized the voice of Violante.
"Do not cry," continued the child, with a kind of tender gravity. "You
are going, but papa says it would be selfish in us to grieve, for it is
for your good; and we should be glad. But I am selfish, Leonard, and I
do grieve. I shall miss you sadly."
"You, young lady--you miss me!"
"Yes. But I do not cry, Leonard, for I envy you, and I wish I were a
boy: I wish I could do as you."
The girl clasped her hands, and reared her slight form, with a kind of
passionate dignity.
"Do as me, and part from all those you love!"
"But to serve those you love. One day you will come back to your
mother's cottage, and say, 'We have conquered fortune.' Oh that I could
go forth and return, as you will. But my father has no country, and his
only child is a useless girl."
As Violante spoke, Leonard had dried his tears; her emotion distracted
him from his own.
"Oh," continued Violante, again raising her head loftily, "what it is to
be a man! A woman sighs, 'I wish,' but man should say 'I will.'"
Occasionally before, Leonard had noted fitful flashes of a nature grand
and heroic, in the Italian child, especially of late--flashes the more
remarkable from their contrast to a form most exquisitely feminine, and
to a sweetness of temper which made even her pride gentle. But now it
seemed as if the child spoke with the command of a queen--almost with
the inspiration of a Muse. A strange and new sense of courage entered
within him.
"May I remember these words!" he murmured half audibly.
The girl turned and surveyed him with eyes brighter for their moisture.
She then extended her hand to him, with a quick movement, and, as he
bent over it, with a grace taught to him by genuine emotion, she
said,--"And if you do, then, girl and child as I am, I shall think I
have aided a brave heart in the great strife for honor!"
She lingered a moment, smiled as if to herself, and then, gliding away,
was lost among the trees.
After a long pause, in which Leonard recovered slowly from the surprise
and agitation into which Violante had thrown his spirits--previously
excited as they were--he went, murmuring to himself, toward the house.
But Riccabocca was from home. Leonard turned mechanically to the
terrace, and busied himself with the flowers. But the dark eyes of
Violante shone on his thoughts, and her voice rang in his ear.
At length Riccabocca appeared, followed up the road by a laborer, who
carried something indistinct under his arm.
The Italian beckoned to Leonard to follow him into the parlor, and after
conversing with him kindly, and at some length, and packing up, as it
were, a considerable provision of wisdom in the portable shape of
aphorisms and proverbs, the sage left him alone for a few moments,
Riccabocca then returned with his wife, and bearing a small knapsack:
"It is not much we can do for you, Leonard, and money is the worst gift
in the world for a keepsake; but my wife and I have put our heads
together to furnish you with a little outfit. Giacomo, who was in our
secret, assures us that the clothes will fit; and stole, I fancy, a coat
of yours for the purpose. Put them on when you go to your relations; it
is astonishing what a difference it makes in the ideas people form of
us, according as our coats are cut one way or another. I should not be
presentable in London thus; and nothing is more true than that a tailor
is often the making of a man."
"The shirts, too, are very good holland," said Mrs. Riccabocca, about to
open the knapsack.
"Never mind details, my dear," cried the wise man; "shirts are
comprehended in the general principle of clothes. And, Leonard, as a
remembrance somewhat more personal, accept this, which I have worn many
a year when time was a thing of importance to me, and nobler fates than
mine hung on a moment. We missed the moment, or abused it, and here I
am, a waif on a foreign shore. Methinks I have done with Time."
The exile, as he thus spoke, placed in Leonard's reluctant hands a watch
that would have delighted an antiquary, and shocked a dandy It was
exceedingly thick, having an outer case of enamel, and an inner one of
gold. The hands and the figures of the hours had originally been formed
of brilliants; but the brilliants had long since vanished. Still, even
thus bereft, the watch was much more in character with the giver than
the receiver, and was as little suited to Leonard as would have been the
red silk umbrella.
"It is old-fashioned," said Mrs. Riccabocca, "but it goes better than
any clock in the country. I really think it will last to the end of the
world."
"_Carissima mia!_" cried the Doctor, "I thought I had convinced you that
the world is by no means come to its last legs."
"Oh, I did not mean any thing, Alphonso," said Mrs. Riccabocca,
coloring.
"And that is all we do mean when we talk about that of which we can know
nothing," said the Doctor, less gallantly than usual, for he resented
that epithet of "old-fashioned," as applied to the watch.
Leonard, we see, had been silent all this time; he could not
speak--literally and truly, he could not speak. How he got out of his
embarrassment, and how he got out of the room, he never explained to my
satisfaction. But, a few minutes afterward, he was seen hurrying down
the road very briskly.
Riccabocca and his wife stood at the window gazing after him.
"There is a depth in that boy's heart," said the sage, "which might
float an argosy."
"Poor dear boy! I think we have put every thing into the knapsack that
he can possibly want," said good Mrs. Riccabocca musingly.
The DOCTOR (continuing his soliloquy.)--"They are strong, but they are
not immediately apparent."
Mrs. RICCABOCCA (resuming hers.)--"They are at the bottom of the
knapsack."
The DOCTOR.--"They will stand long wear and tear."
Mrs. RICCABOCCA.--"A year, at least, with proper care at the wash."
The DOCTOR (startled.)--"Care at the wash! What on earth are you talking
of, ma'am!"
Mrs. RICCABOCCA (mildly.)--"The shirts to be sure, my love! And you?"
The DOCTOR (with a heavy sigh.)--"The feelings, ma'am!" Then, after a
pause, taking his wife's hand affectionately--"But you did quite right
to think of the shirts; Mr. Dale said very truly--"
Mrs. RICCABOCCA.--"What?"
The DOCTOR.--"That there was a great deal in common between us--even
when I think of feelings, and you but of--shirts."