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 neighborhood 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 any thing but a secret!"
"Fie," said Violante, with arch reproach, for she knew her father's
humors 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 cruelest 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 of 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--hooked-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 peacemaker, stood smiling, awhile at
both, and then lifted her eyes gratefully to heaven, and stole away.