CHAPTER VI.
As Violante became more familiar with her new home, and those around her
became more familiar with Violante, she was remarked for a certain
stateliness of manner and bearing, which, had it been less evidently
natural and inborn, would have seemed misplaced in the daughter of a
forlorn exile, and would have been rare at so early an age among children
of the loftiest pretensions. It was with the air of a little princess
that she presented her tiny hand to a friendly pressure, or submitted her
calm clear cheek to a presuming kiss. Yet withal she was so graceful,
and her very stateliness was so pretty and captivating, that she was not
the less loved for all her grand airs. And, indeed, she deserved to be
loved; for though she was certainly prouder than Mr. Dale could approve
of, her pride was devoid of egotism,--and that is a pride by no means
common. She had an intuitive forethought for others: you could see that
she was capable of that grand woman-heroism, abnegation of self; and
though she was an original child, and often grave and musing, with a
tinge of melancholy, sweet, but deep in her character, still she was not
above the happy genial merriment of childhood,--only her silver laugh was
more attuned, and her gestures more composed, than those of children
habituated to many play-fellows usually are. Mrs. Hazeldean liked her
best when she was grave, and said "she would become a very sensible
woman." Mrs. Dale liked her best when she was gay, and said "she was
born to make many a heart ache;" for which Mrs. Dale was properly
reproved by the parson. Mrs. Hazeldean gave her a little set of garden
tools; Mrs. Dale a picture-book and a beautiful doll. For a long time
the book and the doll had the preference. But Mrs. Hazeldean having
observed to Riccabocca that the poor child looked pale, and ought to be a
good deal in the open air, the wise father ingeniously pretended to
Violante that Mrs. Riccabocca had taken a great fancy to the picture-
book, and that he should be very glad to have the doll, upon which
Violante hastened to give them both away, and was never so happy as when
Mamma (as she called Mrs. Riccabocca) was admiring the picture-book, and
Riccabocca with austere gravity dandled the doll. Then Riccabocca
assured her that she could be of great use to him in the garden; and
Violante instantly put into movement her spade, hoe, and wheelbarrow.
This last occupation brought her into immediate contact with Mr. Leonard
Fairfield; and that personage one morning, to his great horror, found
Miss Violante had nearly exterminated a whole celery-bed, which she had
ignorantly conceived to be a crop of weeds.
Lenny was extremely angry. He snatched away the hoe, and said angrily,
"You must not do that, Miss. I'll tell your papa if you--"
Violante drew herself up, and never having been so spoken to before, at
least since her arrival in England, there was something comic in the
surprise of her large eyes, as well as something tragic in the dignity of
her offended mien. "It is very naughty of you, Miss," continued Leonard,
in a milder tone, for he was both softened by the eyes and awed by the
mien, "and I trust you will not do it again."
"Non capisco," murmured Violante, and the dark eyes filled with tears.
At that moment up came Jackeymo: and Violante, pointing to Leonard, said,
with an effort not to betray her emotion, "Il fanciullo e molto
grossolano."--["He is a very rude boy."]
Jackeymo turned to Leonard with the look of an enraged tiger. "How you
dare, scum of de earth that you are," cried he, "how you dare make cry
the signorina?" And his English not supplying familiar vituperatives
sufficiently, he poured out upon Lenny such a profusion of Italian abuse,
that the boy turned red and white, in a breath, with rage and perplexity.
Violante took instant compassion upon the victim she had made, and with
true feminine caprice now began to scold Jackeymo for his anger, and,
finally approaching Leonard, laid her hand on his arm, and said with a
kindness at once childlike and queenly, and in the prettiest imaginable
mixture of imperfect English and soft Italian, to which I cannot pretend
to do justice, and shall therefore translate: "Don't mind him. I dare
say it was all my fault, only I did not understand you: are not these
things weeds?"
"No, my darling signorina," said Jackeymo in Italian, looking ruefully at
the celery-bed, "they are not weeds, and they sell very well at this time
of the year. But still, if it amuses you to pluck them up, I should like
to see who's to prevent it."
Lenny walked away. He had been called "the scum of the earth,"--by a
foreigner too! He had again been ill-treated for doing what he conceived
his duty. He was again feeling the distinction between rich and poor,
and he now fancied that that distinction involved deadly warfare, for he
had read from beginning to end those two damnable tracts which the tinker
had presented to him. But in the midst of all the angry disturbance of
his mind, he felt the soft touch of the infant's hand, the soothing
influence of her conciliating words, and he was half ashamed that he had
spoken so roughly to a child.
Still, not trusting himself to speak, he walked away, and sat down at a
distance: "I don't see," thought he, "why there should be rich and poor,
master and servant." Lenny, be it remembered, had not heard the Parson's
Political Sermon.
An hour after, having composed himself, Lenny returned to his work.
Jackeymo was no longer in the garden: he had gone to the fields; but
Riccabocca was standing by the celerybed, and holding the red silk
umbrella over Violante as she sat on the ground, looking up at her father
with those eyes already so full of intelligence and love and soul.
"Lenny," said Riccabocca, "my young lady has been telling me that she has
been very naughty, and Giacomo very unjust to you. Forgive them both."
Lenny's sullenness melted in an instant: the reminiscences of tracts Nos.
1 and 2,--
"Like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Left not a wreck behind."
He raised eyes swimming with all his native goodness towards the wise
man, and dropped them gratefully on the infant peace-maker. Then he
turned away his head and fairly wept. The parson was right: "O ye poor,
have charity for the rich; O ye rich, respect the poor."
