, 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 expressions 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, timeworn man? 'Who does not see him as when he
first gazed on Laura?--

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

CHAPTER XII.

And Violante, thus absorbed in revery, 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 neighbourhood of London."

"Ah, dear father, that, then, was your thought? But what can be your
reason? Do not turn away; you know how care fully 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 non fidar niente.'_--[From the bad woman, guard
thyself; to the good woman trust nothing.]--And if you must trust,"
added the abominable man, "trust her with anything but a secret!"

"Fie," said Violante, with arch reproach, f