"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 can
not, it is true, go back to our cottage--I can not 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 Lunnon--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 know 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 sate 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 further 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--!"