arly girlhood, her father (to satisfy her curiosity, eager
for general description) had drawn from memory a sketch of the features
of the Englishman--drawn Harley, as he was in that first youth,
flattered and idealized, no doubt, by art and by partial gratitude--but
still resembling him as he was then; while the deep mournfulness of
recent sorrow yet shadowed and concentrated all the varying expression
of his countenance; and to look on him was to say,--"So sad, yet so
young!" Never did Violante pause to remember that the same years which
ripened herself from infancy into woman, were passing less gently over
that smooth cheek and dreamy brow--that the world might be altering the
nature, as time the aspect. To her, the hero of the Ideal remained
immortal in bloom and youth. Bright illusion, common to us all, where
Poetry once hallows the human form! Who ever thinks of Petrarch as the
old time-worn man? Who does not see him as when he first gazed on
Laura?--

"Ogni altra cosa ogni pensier va fore;
E sol ivi von voi rimansi Amore!"

CHAPTER XII.

And Violante, thus absorbed in reverie, forgot to keep watch on the
Belvidere. And the Belvidere was now deserted. The wife, who had no
other ideal to distract _her_ thoughts, saw Riccabocca pass into the
house.

The exile entered his daughter's room, and she started to feel his hand
upon her locks and his kiss upon her brow.

"My child!" cried Riccabocca, seating himself, "I have resolved to leave
for a time this retreat, and to seek the neighborhood of London."

"Ah, dear father, _that_, then, was your thought? But what can be your
reason? Do not turn away; you know how carefully I have obeyed your
command and kept your secret. Ah, you will confide in me."

"I do, indeed," returned Riccabocca, with emotion. "I leave this place,
in the fear lest my enemies discover me. I shall say to others that you
are of an age to require teachers, not to be obtained here. But I should
like none to know where we go."

The Italian said these last words through his teeth, and hanging his
head. He said them in shame.

"My mother--(so Violante always called Jemima)--my mother, you have
spoken to her?"

"Not yet. _There_ is the difficulty."

"No difficulty, for she loves you so well," replied Violante, with soft
reproach. "Ah, why not also confide in her? Who so true? so good?"

"Good--I grant it!" exclaimed Riccabocca. "What then? 'Da cattiva Donna
guardati, ed alla buona