Rico and Wiseli by Johanna Spyri

Author:Johanna Spyri
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Rico, Heidi, Johanna Spyri, Swiss, fairy tale, children, magic, bedtime, stories, folklore, family, society, social, heart-warming
Publisher: Sovereign
Published: 2015-10-26T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XX.

AT HOME.

One beautiful Sunday morning in autumn, Mrs. Menotti seated herself on the garden-bench in the midst of the glowing red flowers, and thoughtfully gazed about her,—now at the oleander and laurel bushes, now at the fig-trees laden with fruit, and again at the vines heavy with golden grapes; and she said, softly, “God knows I should be glad if I could lay aside this feeling of wrong-doing that weighs on my conscience, but certainly such a lovely spot as this one I could never find for a home.”

Presently Rico came into the garden. He was obliged to go away in the afternoon; and he never passed a whole day without paying them a visit, if it were possible to do otherwise. As he was passing on towards Silvio’s room, Mrs. Menotti called him.

“Come and sit down by me, Rico, for a moment. Who knows how long we may be able to stay in this place together?”

Rico was alarmed.

“Why do you say this, Mrs. Menotti? You do not think of going away, do you?”

Mrs. Menotti had to stop, for she could not tell him all her story. She remembered what Stineli had said to her the evening before about Rico. She was so full of her own thoughts at that time, that she did not fairly take in the import of her words. Now she began to wonder about it, the more she thought it over.

“Do tell me, Rico,” she said, “were you ever here earlier?—I mean before; or what made you want to see the lake again, as Stineli told me was the case yesterday?”

“Yes; when I was little,” said the lad. “Then I went away.”

“How did you get here when you were little, Rico?”

“I was born here.”

“What! here? What was your father, if he came here from the mountains yonder?”

“He did not come here from the mountains; only my mother did.”

“Do I hear aright, Rico? Was your father born here?”

“Certainly. He was a native of this place.”

“You never told me this before. This is wonderful. You have not a name like the people here. What was your father’s name?”

“What was his name? It was Henrico Trevillo.”

Mrs. Menotti sprang up from the seat as if she had had a shock.

“What did you say, Rico?” she cried out. “What did you say just now? Tell me again.”

“I told you my father’s name.”

Mrs. Menotti was not listening: she ran towards the door.

“Stineli, bring me a kerchief,” she cried. “I must go to the priest at once: I am trembling all over.”

In great surprise, Stineli brought out the kerchief.

“Come with me a few steps, Rico,” said the good woman, as she went through the garden. “I must ask you something more.”

Rico had to repeat his father’s name twice over; and when they had fairly reached the door of the priest’s house, for a third time Mrs. Menotti asked,—

“What did you say it was? Are you quite sure?”

She hurried into the priest’s house, and left Rico wondering what could have happened to put her into such a way.

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