Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 424, February 1851. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ Riccabocca was now looking again at the letter, and did not notice either the gesture or the remark of his servant.

      "My aunt is no more!" said he, after a pause.

      "We will pray for her soul!" answered Jackeymo solemnly. "But she was very old, and had been a long time ailing. Let it not grieve the Padrone too keenly: at that age, and with those infirmities, death comes as a friend."

      "Peace be to her dust!" returned the Italian. "If she had her faults, be they now forgotten for ever; and in the hour of my danger and distress, she sheltered my infant! That shelter is destroyed. This letter is from the priest, her confessor. You know that she had nothing at her own disposal to bequeath my child, and her property passes to the male heir – mine enemy."

      "Traitor!" muttered Jackeymo; and his right hand seemed to feel for the weapon which the Italians of lower rank often openly wear in their girdles.

      "The priest," resumed Riccabocca calmly, "has rightly judged in removing my child as a guest from the house in which my enemy enters as lord."

      "And where is the Signorina?"

      "With that poor priest. See, Giacomo – here, here – this is her handwriting at the end of the letter – the first lines she ever yet traced to me."

      Jackeymo took off his hat, and looked reverently on the large characters of a child's writing. But large as they were, they seemed indistinct, for the paper was blistered with the child's tears; and on the place where they had not fallen, there was a round fresh moist stain of the tear that had dropped from the lids of the father. Riccabocca renewed, – "The priest recommends a convent."

      "To the devil with the priest!" cried the servant; then crossing himself rapidly, he added, "I did not mean that, Monsignore San Giacomo – forgive me! But your Excellency2 does not think of making a nun of his only child!"

      "And yet why not?" said Riccabocca mournfully; "what can I give her in the world? Is the land of the stranger a better refuge than the home of peace in her native clime?"

      "In the land of the stranger beats her father's heart!"

      "And if that beat were stilled, what then? Ill fares the life that a single death can bereave of all. In a convent at least (and the priest's influence can obtain her that asylum amongst her equals and amidst her sex) she is safe from trial and from penury – to her grave."

      "Penury! Just see how rich we shall be when we take those fields at Michaelmas."

      "Pazzie!" (follies) said Riccabocca listlessly. "Are these suns more serene than ours, or the soil more fertile? Yet in our own Italy, saith the proverb, 'he who sows land reaps more care than corn.' It were different," continued the father after a pause, and in a more irresolute tone, "if I had some independence, however small, to count on – nay, if among all my tribe of dainty relatives there were but one female who would accompany Violante to the exile's hearth – Ishmael had his Hagar. But how can we two rough-bearded men provide for all the nameless wants and cares of a frail female child? And she has been so delicately reared – the woman-child needs the fostering hand and tender eye of a woman."

      "And with a word," said Jackeymo resolutely, "the Padrone might secure to his child all that he needs, to save her from the sepulchre of a convent; and ere the autumn leaves fall, she might be sitting on his knee. Padrone, do not think that you can conceal from me the truth, that you love your child better than all things in the world – now the Patria is as dead to you as the dust of your fathers – and your heart-strings would crack with the effort to tear her from them, and consign her to a convent. Padrone, never again to hear her voice – never again to see her face! Those little arms that twined round your neck that dark night, when we fled fast for life and freedom, and you said, as you felt their clasp, 'Friend, all is not yet lost!'"

      "Giacomo!" exclaimed the father reproachfully, and his voice seemed to choke him. Riccabocca turned away, and walked restlessly to and fro the terrace; then, lifting his arms with a wild gesture as he still continued his long irregular strides, he muttered, "Yes, heaven is my witness that I could have borne reverse and banishment without a murmur, had I permitted myself that young partner in exile and privation. Heaven is my witness that, if I hesitate now, it is because I would not listen to my own selfish heart. Yet never, never to see her again – my child! And it was but as the infant that I beheld her! O Friend, friend – " (and, stopping short with a burst of uncontrollable emotion, he bowed his head upon his servant's shoulder;) "thou knowest what I have endured and suffered at my hearth, as in my country; the wrong, the perfidy, the – the – " His voice again failed him; he clung to his servant's breast, and his whole frame shook.

      "But your child, the innocent one – think now only of her!" faltered Giacomo, struggling with his own sobs.

      "True, only of her," replied the exile, raising his face – "only of her. Put aside thy thoughts for myself, friend – counsel me. If I were to send for Violante, and if, transplanted to these keen airs, she drooped and died – look, look – the priest says that she needs such tender care; or if I myself were summoned from the world, to leave her in it alone, friendless, homeless, breadless perhaps, at the age of woman's sharpest trial against temptation, would she not live to mourn the cruel egotism that closed on her infant innocence the gates of the House of God?"

      Giacomo was appalled by this appeal; and indeed Riccabocca had never before thus reverently spoken of the cloister. In his hours of philosophy, he was wont to sneer at monks and nuns, priesthood and superstition. But now, in that hour of emotion, the Old Religion reclaimed her empire; and the sceptical world-wise man, thinking only of his child, spoke and felt with a child's simple faith.

      CHAPTER XX

      "But again I say," murmured Jackeymo scarce audibly, and after a long silence, "if the Padrone would make up his mind – to marry!"

      He expected that his master would start up in his customary indignation at such a suggestion – nay, he might not have been sorry so to have changed the current of feeling; but the poor Italian only winced slightly, and mildly withdrawing himself from his servant's supporting arm, again paced the terrace, but this time quietly and in silence. A quarter of an hour thus passed. "Give me the pipe," said Dr Riccabocca, passing into the Belvidere.

      Jackeymo again struck the spark, and, wonderfully relieved at the Padrone's return to his usual adviser, mentally besought his sainted namesake to bestow a double portion of soothing wisdom on the benignant influences of the weed.

      CHAPTER XXI

      Dr Riccabocca had been some little time in the solitude of the Belvidere, when Lenny Fairfield, not knowing that his employer was therein, entered to lay down a book which the Doctor had lent him, with injunctions to leave on a certain table when done with. Riccabocca looked up at the sound of the young peasant's step.

      "I beg your honour's pardon – I did not know – "

      "Never mind; lay the book there. I wish to speak with you. You look well, my child; this air agrees with you as well as that of Hazeldean?"

      "Oh yes, sir."

      "Yet it is higher ground, more exposed?"

      "That can hardly be, sir," said Lenny; "there are many plants grow here which don't flourish at the Squire's. The hill yonder keeps off the east wind, and the place lays to the south."

      "Lies, not lays, Lenny. What are the principal complaints in these parts?"

      "Eh, sir?"

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