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 humours 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 hands, 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 conjuror 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 churchyard, what time,
"By the moon's doubtful and malignant light,"
the grave-stones 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 windowless
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 "farther 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 _Telemaque_
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 ten miles off, who is said to be
an excellent music master, and who comes the round of the neighbouring
squirearchy twice a-week. I have taught her to draw--an accomplishment
in which I am not without skill--and she has already taken a sketch
from nature, which, barring the perspective, is not so amiss; indeed,
she has caught the notion of "idealising" (which promises future
originality) from her own natural instincts, and given to the old
wych-elm, that hangs over the stream, just the bough that it wanted to
dip into the water, and soften off the hard lines. My only fear is,
that Blanche should become too dreamy and thoughtful. Poor child,
she has no one to play with! So I look out, and get her a dog--frisky
and young, who abhors sedentary occupations--a spaniel, small and
coal-black, with ears sweeping the ground. I baptise him "Juba," in
honour of Addison's Cato, and in consideration of his sable curls and
Mauritanian complexion. Blanche does not seem so eerie and elf-like,
while gliding through the ruins, when Juba barks by her side, and
scares the birds from the ivy.
One day I had been pacing to and fro the hall, which was deserted; and
the sight of the armour and portraits--dumb evidences of the active and
adventurous lives of the old inhabitants, which seemed to reprove my
own inactive obscurity--had set me off on one of those Pegaséan hobbies
on which youth mounts to the skies--delivering maidens on rocks, and
killing Gorgons and monsters--when Juba bounded in, and Blanche came
after him, her straw hat in her hand.
BLANCHE.--I thought you were here, Sisty: may I stay?
PISISTRATUS.--Why, my dear child, the day is so fine, that
instead of losing it in-doors, you ought to be running in the fields
with Juba.
JUBA.--Bow--wow!
BLANCHE.--Will you come too? If Sisty stays in, Blanche does
not care for the butterflies!
Pisistratus, seeing that the thread of his day-dreams is broken,
consents with an air of resignation. Just as they gain the door,
Blanche pauses, and looks as if there were something on her mind.
PISISTRATUS.--What now, Blanche? Why are you making knots in
that ribbon, and writing invisible characters on the floor with the
point of that busy little foot?
BLANCHE--(_mysteriously_).--I have found a new room, Sisty. Do
you think we may look into it?
PISISTRATUS.--Certainly, unless any Bluebeard of your
acquaintance told you not. Where is it?
BLANCHE.--Up stairs--to the left.
PISISTRATUS.--That little old door, going down two stone
steps, which is always kept locked?
BLANCHE.--Yes! it is not locked to-day. The door was ajar, and
I peeped in; but I would not do more till I came and asked you if you
thought it would not be wrong.
PISISTRATUS.--Very good in you, my discreet little cousin. I
have no doubt it is a ghost-trap; however, with Juba's protection, I
think we might venture together.
Pisistratus, Blanche, and Juba, ascend the stairs, and turn off down
a dark passage to the left, away from the rooms in use. We reach the
arch-pointed door of oak planks nailed roughly together; we push it
open, and perceive that a small stair winds down from the room: it is
just over Roland's chamber.
The room has a damp smell, and has probably been left open to be aired,
for the wind comes through the unbarred casement, and a billet burns
on the hearth. The place has that attractive, fascinating air which
belongs to a lumber room, than which I know nothing that so captivates
the interest and fancy of young people. What treasures, to them, often
lie hid in those quaint odds and ends which the elder generations have
discarded as rubbish! All children are by nature antiquarians and
relic-hunters. Still there is an order and precision with which the
articles in that room are stowed away that belies the true notion of
lumber--none of the mildew and dust which give such mournful interest
to things abandoned to decay.
In one corner are piled up cases, and military-looking trunks of
outlandish aspect, with R. D. C. in brass nails on their sides. From
these we turn with involuntary respect, and call off Juba, who has
wedged himself behind in pursuit of some imaginary mouse. But in the
other corner is what seems to me a child's cradle--not an English one
evidently--it is of wood, seemingly Spanish rosewood, with a rail-work
at the back, of twisted columns; and I should scarcely have known it to
be a cradle but for the fairy-like quilt and the tiny pillows, which
proclaimed its uses.
On the wall above the cradle were arranged sundry little articles,
that had, perhaps, once made the joy of a child's heart--broken
toys with the paint rubbed off, a tin sword and trumpet, and a few
tattered books, mostly in Spanish--by their shape and look, doubtless,
children's books. Near these stood, on the floor, a picture with its
face to the wall. Juba had chased the mouse that his fancy still
insisted on creating, behind this picture, and, as he abruptly drew
back, it fell into the hands I stretched forth to receive it. I
turned the face to the light, and was surprised to see merely an old
family portrait; it was that of a gentleman in the flowered vest and
stiff ruff which referred the date of his existence to the reign of
Elizabeth--a man with a bold and noble countenance. On the corner was
placed a faded coat of arms, beneath which was inscribed, "HERBERT
DE CAXTON, EQ: AUR: ÆTAT: 35."
On the back of the canvass I observed, as I now replaced the picture
against the wall, a label in Roland's handwriting, though in a younger
and more running hand than he now wrote. The words were these:--"The
best and bravest of our line. He charged by Sidney's side on the field
of Zutphen; he fought in Drake's ship against the armament of Spain. If
ever I have a ----" The rest of the label seemed to have been torn off.
I turned away, and felt a remorseful shame that I had so far gratified
my curiosity,--if by so harsh a name the powerful interest that had
absorbed me must be called. I looked round for Blanche; she had
retreated from my side to the door, and, with her hands before her
eyes, was weeping. As I stole towards her, my glance fell on a book
that lay on a chair near the casement, and beside those relics of an
infancy once pure and serene. By the old-fashioned silver clasps I
recognised Roland's bible. I felt almost as if I had been guilty of
profanation in my thoughtless intrusion. I drew away Blanche, and we
descended the stairs noiselessly, and not till we were on our favourite
spot, amidst a heap of ruins on the feudal justice-hill, did I seek to
kiss away her tears and ask the cause.
"My poor brother," sobbed Blanche; "they must have been his--and we
shall never, never see him again!--and poor papa's bible, which he
reads when he is very, very sad! I did not weep enough when my brother
died. I know better what death is now! Poor papa, poor papa! Don't die,
too, Sisty!"
There was no running after butterflies that morning; and it was long
before I could soothe Blanche. Indeed, she bore the traces of dejection
in her soft looks for many, many days; and she often asked me,
sighingly, "Don't you think it was very wrong in me to take you there?"
Poor little Blanche, true daughter of Eve, she would not let me bear
my due share of the blame; she would have it all in Adam's primitive
way of justice,--"The woman tempted me, and I did eat." And since then
Blanche has seemed more fond than ever of Roland, and comparatively
deserts me, to nestle close to him, and closer, till he looks up and
says, "My child, you are pale; go and run after the butterflies;" and
she says now to him, not to me,--"Come too!" drawing him out into the
sunshine with a hand that will not loose its hold.
Of all Roland's line this Herbert de Caxton was "the best and bravest!"
yet he had never named that ancestor to me--never put any forefather in
comparison with the dubious and mythical Sir William. I now remembered
once, that, in going over the pedigree, I had been struck by the name
of Herbert--the only Herbert in the scroll--and had asked, "What of
him, uncle?" and Roland had muttered something inaudible and turned
away. And I remembered also, that in Roland's room there was the mark
in the wall where a picture of that size had once hung. It had been
removed thence before we first came, but must have hung there for years
to have left that mark on the wall;--perhaps suspended by Bolt, during
Roland's long Continental absence. "If ever I have a ----." What were
the missing words? Alas, did they not relate to the son--missed for
ever, evidently not forgotten still?