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 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.