Blanche has contrived to associate herself, if not
with my more active diversions,—in running
over the country and making friends with the farmers,—still
in all my more leisurely and domestic pursuits.
There is about her a silent charm that it is very
hard to define; but it seems to arise from a kind
of innate sympathy with the moods and humors of those
she loves. If one is gay, there is a cheerful
ring in her silver laugh that seems gladness itself;
if one is sad, and creeps away into a corner to bury
one’s head in one’s hand and muse, by and
by, and just at the right moment, when one has mused
one’s fill, and the heart wants something to
refresh and restore it, one feels two innocent arms
round one’s neck, looks up, and lo! Blanche’s
soft eyes, full of wistful, compassionate kindness,
though she has the tact not to question; it is enough
for her to sorrow with your sorrow,—she
cares not to know more. A strange child,—fearless,
and yet seemingly fond of things that inspire children
with fear; fond of tales of fay, sprite, and ghost,
which Mrs. Primmins draws fresh and new from her memory
as a conjurer draws pancakes hot and hot from a hat.
And yet so sure is Blanche of her own innocence that
they never trouble her dreams in her lone little room,
full of caliginous corners and nooks, with the winds
moaning round the desolate ruins, and the casements
rattling hoarse in the dungeon-like wall. She
would have no dread to walk through the ghostly keep
in the dark, or cross the church-yard what time,—
“By the moon’s
doubtful and malignant light,”—
the gravestones look so spectral, and the shade from
the yew-trees lies so still on the sward. When
the brows of Roland are gloomiest, and the compression
of his lips makes sorrow look sternest, be sure that
Blanche is couched at his feet, waiting the moment
when, with some heavy sigh, the muscles relax, and
she is sure of the smile if she climbs to his knee.
It is pretty to chance on her gliding up broken turret-stairs,
or standing hushed in the recess of shattered casements;
and you wonder what thoughts of vague awe and solemn
pleasure can be at work under that still, little brow.
She has a quick comprehension of all that is taught
to her; she already tasks to the full my mother’s
educational arts. My father has had to rummage
his library for books to feed (or extinguish) her desire
for “further information,” and has promised
lessons in French and Italian— at some
golden time in the shadowy “By and by”—which
are received so gratefully that one might think Blanche
mistook “Telema que” and “Novelle
Morali” for baby-houses and dolls. Heaven
send her through French and Italian with better success
than attended Mr. Caxton’s lessons in Greek
to Pisistratus! She has an ear for music which
my mother, who is no bad judge, declares to be exquisite.
Luckily there is an old Italian, settled in a town
Copyrights
The Caxtons — Volume 12 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
