And Violante, thus absorbed in reverie, forgot to keep watch on the
Belvidere. And the Belvidere was now deserted. The wife, who had no
other ideal to distract _her_ thoughts, saw Riccabocca pass into the
house.
The exile entered his daughter's room, and she started to feel his
hand upon her locks and his kiss upon her brow.
"My child!" cried Riccabocca, seating himself, "I have resolved to
leave for a time this retreat, and to seek the neighbourhood of
London."
"Ah, dear father, _that_, then, was your thought? But what can be
your reason? Do not turn away; you know how carefully I have obeyed
your command and kept your secret. Ah, you will confide in me."
"I do, indeed," returned Riccabocca, with emotion. "I leave this
place, in the fear lest my enemies discover me. I shall say to
others that you are of an age to require teachers, not to be
obtained here. But I should like none to know where we go."
The Italian said these last words through his teeth, and hanging his
head. He said them in shame.
"My mother--(so Violante always called Jemima)--my mother, you have
spoken to her?"
"Not yet. _There_ is the difficulty."
"No difficulty, for she loves you so well," replied Violante, with
soft reproach. "Ah, why not also confide in her? Who so true? so
good?"
"Good--I grant it!" exclaimed Riccabocca. "What then? 'Da cattiva
Donna guardati, ed alla buona non fidar niente,' (from the bad
woman, guard thyself; to the good woman trust nothing.) And if you
must trust," added the abominable man, "trust her with anything but
a secret!"
"Fie," said Violante, with arch reproach, for she knew her
father's humours too well to interpret his horrible sentiments
literally--"fie on your consistency, _Padre carissimo_. Do you not
trust your secret to me?"
"You! A kitten is not a cat, and a girl is not a woman. Besides, the
secret was already known to you, and I had no choice. Peace, Jemima
will stay here for the present. See to what you wish to take with
you; we shall leave to-night."
Not waiting for an answer, Riccabocca hurried away, and with a firm
step strode the terrace and approached his wife.
"_Anima mia_," said the pupil of Machiavel, disguising in the
tenderest words the cruellest intentions--for one of his most
cherished Italian proverbs was to the effect, that there is no
getting on with a mule or a woman unless you coax them--"_Anima
mia_,--soul of my being--you have already seen that Violante mopes
herself to death here."
"She, poor child! Oh no!"
"She does, core of my heart, she does, and is as ignorant of music
as I am of tent-stitch."
"She sings beautifully."
"Just as birds do, against all the rules, and in defiance of gamut.
Therefore, to come to the point, O treasure of my soul! I am going
to take her with me for a short time, perhaps to Cheltenham, or
Brighton--we shall see."
"All places with you are the same to me, Alphonso. When shall we go?"
"_We_ shall go to-night; but, terrible as it is to part from
you--you--"
"Ah!" interrupted the wife, and covered her face with her hands.
Riccabocca, the wiliest and most relentless of men in his maxims,
melted into absolute uxorial imbecility at the sight of that mute
distress. He put his arm round his wife's waist, with genuine
affection, and without a single proverb at his heart--"_Carissima_,
do not grieve so; we shall be back soon, and travelling is
expensive; rolling stones gather no moss, and there is so much to
see to at home."
Mrs Riccabocca gently escaped from her husband's arms. She withdrew
her hands from her face, and brushed away the tears that stood in
her eyes.
"Alphonso," she said touchingly, "hear me! What you think good, that
shall ever be good to me. But do not think that I grieve solely
because of our parting. No; I grieve to think that, despite all
these years in which I have been the partner of your hearth and
slept on your breast--all these years in which I have had no thought
but, however humbly, to do my duty to you and yours, and could have
wished that you had read my heart, and seen there but yourself and
your child--I grieve to think that you still deem me as unworthy
your trust as when you stood by my side at the altar."
"Trust!" repeated Riccabocca, startled and conscience-stricken;
"why do you say 'trust?' In what have I distrusted you? I am sure,"
he continued, with the artful volubility of guilt, "that I never
doubted your fidelity--hook-nosed, long-visaged foreigner though
I be; never pryed into your letters; never inquired into your
solitary walks; never heeded your flirtations with that good-looking
Parson Dale; never kept the money; and never looked into the
account-books!" Mrs Riccabocca refused even a smile of contempt at
these revolting evasions; nay, she seemed scarcely to hear them.
"Can you think," she resumed, pressing her hand on her heart to
still its struggles for relief in sobs--"can you think that I could
have watched, and thought, and tasked my poor mind so constantly,
to conjecture what might best soothe or please you, and not seen,
long since, that you have secrets known to your daughter--your
servant--not to me? Fear not--the secrets cannot be evil, or you
would not tell them to your innocent child. Besides, do I not know
your nature? and do I not love you because I know it?--it is for
something connected with these secrets that you leave your home. You
think that I should be incautious--imprudent. You will not take me
with you. Be it so. I go to prepare for your departure. Forgive me
if I have displeased you, husband."
Mrs Riccabocca turned away; but a soft hand touched the Italian's
arm. "O father, can you resist this? Trust her!--trust her! I am a
woman like her! I answer for her woman's faith. Be yourself--ever
nobler than all others, my own father."
"_Diavolo!_ Never one door shuts but another opens," groaned
Riccabocca. "Are you a fool, child? Don't you see that it was for
your sake only I feared--and would be cautious?"
"For mine! O then, do not make me deem myself mean, and the cause of
meanness. For mine! Am I not your daughter--the descendant of men
who never feared?"
Violante looked sublime while she spoke; and as she ended she led
her father gently on towards the door, which his wife had now gained.
"Jemima--wife mine!--pardon, pardon," cried the Italian, whose heart
had been yearning to repay such tenderness and devotion,--"come back
to my breast--it has been long closed--it shall be open to you now
and for ever."
In another moment, the wife was in her right place--on her
husband's bosom; and Violante, beautiful peace-maker, stood smiling
a while at both, and then lifted her eyes gratefully to heaven, and
stole away.