Part 42 (2/2)
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 d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k 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 L50 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 sha' n't sleep in peace. You must e'en put it in your own pouch, and b.u.t.ton 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 pa.s.sionate 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, 'I 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 a 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 the 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 honour!”
She lingered a moment, smiled as if to herself, and then, gliding away, was lost amongst 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, towards 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.
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