Part 45 (1/2)
When Leonard opened his eyes the next morning, they rested on the face of Mrs. Avenel, which was bending over his pillow. But it was long before he could recognize that countenance, so changed was its expression,--so tender, so mother-like. Nay, the face of his own mother had never seemed to him so soft with a mother's pa.s.sion.
”Ah!” he murmured, half rising, and flinging his young arms round her neck. Mrs. Avenel, this time taken by surprise, warmly returned the embrace; she clasped him to her breast, she kissed him again and again.
At length, with a quick start, she escaped, and walked up and down the room, pressing her hands tightly together. When she halted, her face had recovered its usual severity and cold precision.
”It is time for you to rise, Leonard,” said she. ”You will leave us to-day. A gentleman has promised to take charge of you, and do for you more than we can. A chaise will be at the door soon,--make haste.”
John was absent from the breakfast-table. His wife said that he never rose till late, and must not be disturbed.
The meal was scarcely over before a chaise and pair came to the door.
”You must not keep the chaise waiting,--the gentleman is very punctual.”
”But he is not come.”
”No; he has walked on before, and will get in after you are out of the town.”
”What is his name, and why should he care for me, Grandmother?”
”He will tell you himself. Be quick.”
”But you will bless me again, Grandmother? I love you already.”
”I do bless you,” said Mrs. Avenel, firmly. ”Be honest and good, and beware of the first false step.” She pressed his hand with a convulsive grasp, and led him to the outer door.
The postboy clanked his whip, the chaise rattled off. Leonard put his head out of the window to catch a last glimpse of the old woman; but the boughs of the pollard-oak, and its gnarled decaying trunk, hid her from his eye, and look as he would, till the road turned, he saw but the melancholy tree.
BOOK FIFTH.
INITIAL CHAPTER.
CONTAINING MR. CAXTON's UNAVAILING CAUTION NOT TO BE DULL.
”I hope, Pisistratus,” said my father, ”that you do not intend to be dull?”
”Heaven forbid, sir! What could make you ask such a question? Intend!
No! if I am dull it is from innocence.”
”A very long discourse upon knowledge!” said my father; ”very long! I should cut it out.”
I looked upon my father as a Byzantian sage might have looked on a Vandal. ”Cut it out!”
”Stops the action, sir!” said my father, dogmatically.
”Action! But a novel is not a drama.”
”No; it is a great deal longer,--twenty times as long, I dare say,”