Leonard drew his arm round her waist affectionately: "I fear that I have put you out sadly—my dear grandmother."
Mrs. Avenel glided hastily from his arm, and her countenance worked much—every nerve in it twitching as it were; then, placing her hand on his locks, she said with passion, "God bless you, my grandson," and left the room.
Leonard dropped his knapsack on the floor, and looked around him wistfully. The room seemed as if it had once been occupied by a female. There was a work-box on the chest of drawers, and over it hanging shelves for books, suspended by ribbons that had once been blue, with silk and fringe appended to each shelf, and knots and tassels here and there—the taste of a woman, or rather of a girl, who seeks to give a grace to the commonest things around her. With the mechanical habit of a student, Leonard took down one or two of the volumes still left on the shelves. He found Spenser's Fairy Queen, Racine in French, Tasso in Italian; and on the fly-leaf of each volume, in the exquisite hand-writing familiar to his memory, the name "Leonora." He kissed the books, and replaced them with a feeling akin both to tenderness and awe.
He had not been alone in his room more than a quarter of an hour, before the maid-servant knocked at his door and summoned him to tea.
Poor John had recovered his spirits, and his wife sate by his side holding his hand in hers. Poor John was even gay. He asked many questions about his daughter Jane, and did not wait for the answers. Then he spoke about the Squire, whom he confounded with Audley Egerton, and talked of elections, and the Blue party, and hoped Leonard would always be a good Blue; and then he fell to his tea and toast, and said no more.
Mrs. Avenel spoke little, but she eyed Leonard askant, as it were, from time to time; and after each glance the nerves of the poor severe face twitched again.
A little after nine o'clock Mrs. Avenel lighted a candle, and placing it in Leonard's hand, said, "You must be tired—you know your own room now. Good-night."
Leonard took the light, and, as was his wont with his mother, kissed Mrs. Avenel on the cheek. Then he took John's hand and kissed him too. The old man was half asleep and murmured dreamily, "That's Nora."
Leonard had retired to his room about half-an-hour, when Richard Avenel entered the house softly, and joined his parents.
"Well, mother?" said he.