Violante and Jemima were both greatly surprised, as the reader may
suppose, when they heard, on their return, the arrangements already
made for the former. The Countess insisted on taking her at once,
and Riccabocca briefly said, "Certainly, the sooner the better."
Violante was stunned and bewildered. Jemima hastened to make up a
little bundle of things necessary, with many a woman's sigh that
the poor wardrobe contained so few things befitting. But among the
clothes she slipped a purse, containing the savings of months,
perhaps of years, and with it a few affectionate lines, begging
Violante to ask the Countess to buy her all that was proper for her
father's child. There is always something hurried and uncomfortable
in the abrupt and unexpected withdrawal of any member from a quiet
household. The small party broke into still smaller knots. Violante
hung on her father, and listened vaguely to his not very lucid
explanations. The Countess approached Leonard, and, according to
the usual mode with persons of quality addressing young authors,
complimented him highly on the books she had not read, but which her
son assured her were so remarkable. She was a little anxious to know
where Harley had met with Mr Oran, whom he called his friend; but
she was too high-bred to inquire, or to express any wonder that rank
should be friends with genius.
She took it for granted that they had formed their acquaintance
abroad.
Harley conversed with Helen.--"You are not sorry that Violante is
coming to us? She will be just such a companion for you as I could
desire; of your own years too."
HELEN, (ingenuously.)--"It is hard to think I am not younger than
she is."
HARLEY.--"Why, my dear Helen?"
HELEN.--"She is so brilliant. She talks so beautifully. And I--"
HARLEY.--"And you want but the habit of talking, to do justice to
your own beautiful thoughts."
Helen looked at him gratefully, but shook her head. It was a common
trick of hers, and always when she was praised.
At last the preparations were made--the farewell was said. Violante
was in the carriage by Lady Lansmere's side. Slowly moved on
the stately equipage with its four horses and trim postilions,
heraldic badges on their shoulders, in the style rarely seen in the
neighbourhood of the metropolis, and now fast vanishing even amidst
distant counties.
Riccabocca, Jemima, and Jackeymo continued to gaze after it from the
gate.
"She is gone," said Jackeymo, brushing his eyes with his
coat-sleeve. "But it is a load off one's mind."
"And another load on one's heart," murmured Riccabocca. "Don't cry,
Jemima; it may be bad for you, and bad for _him_ that is to come. It
is astonishing how the humours of the mother may affect the unborn.
I should not like to have a son who has a more than usual propensity
to tears."
The poor philosopher tried to smile; but it was a bad attempt. He
went slowly in, and shut himself up with his books. But he could not
read. His whole mind was unsettled. And though, like all parents,
he had been anxious to rid himself of a beloved daughter for life,
now that she was gone but for a while, a string seemed broken in the
Music of Home.