(p. 45)

CAPÍTULO 8.

 

            THUS during James Maynard’s month in Rome he almost daily walked and talked with Margaret: not careful always to be within her comprehension so long as he knew that he was accustoming her to a larger view of things than was consistent with a total self-abandonment to the devotional spirit which had for her hitherto pervaded the place, and inspired all her art. The life of this fair girl had ever lain so far apart from intercourse with others of her own age, that the thoughtful and serious side of her nature had attained an unusual predominance. The faculty of playfulness, the cultivation of which is essential to a complete and healthy development of all the mental and physical powers, was as yet in almost total abeyance. Her nearest approaches to it had been in the companionship of Maynard, as when together they roamed gaily over the hills and vales of the Neckar, or now when her spirits became exhilarated amid the glories of the Campagna, as on their pic-nic excursion to the Grotto of Egeria, when James, insisted on confounding the mythologies, regarding Margaret as Proserpine, and decking her with a profusion of the maidenhair fern which she had been gathering from the fountain consecrated to Numa’s Nymph; himself with his long dark hair as gloomy Dis, and good nurse Partridge as her mother-earth Demeter. Or, again, when making a pilgrimage to the temple of Vesta, that overhangs the cataract of Tivoli, he had won from her contagious laughter, as, in compliance with the custom of the place, he ordered ‘four paulsworth of waterfall’ to be turned on. The dame more than once expressed to James her delight at seeing her young lady so cheerful, and said she hoped it would keep fancies out of her head, for what with always painting religious pictures and visiting churches and convents, she feared she would become too much in love with a dismal life ever to be happy like other people.

 

            As his time drew near for returning to England, he sought to learn her exact position and intended destination in the world; but the dame either could not or would not divulge anything beyond that her guardian found it convenient to leave them in Rome since the death of his sister Lady Primavera, who had taken them there, and that she could not at all say what plans he had in store for her.

 

(p. 46)

            James left Rome resolving not to lose sight of Margaret, for whom he felt all of, at least, a brother’s regard, and cherishing a new and grateful feeling of delight as he thought over the pleasant picture made by the group of which he had formed a member. The tall slim girl in her simple black and white dress, with her fair abundant hair escaping from beneath the shelter of her wide straw hat, and her earnest greyish-blue eyes and grave expression; the dame with her careful motherly aspect; and the contrast they must all three have made in the eyes of bystanders. He felt very grateful to the dame for the free intercourse she enabled him to have with her charge. He had half feared that she would have thought it her duty to her employer to have made difficulties, and thrown obstacles in the way of their frequent meeting. But she had no reason for so interfering to restrict their liberty. It is true that as an old retainer of Lord Littmass’s, she was entirely dependent on him, but she had known both James and Margaret from infancy; she understood their characters, and, moreover, was acquainted with the secret of James’s birth. And as to her master, he had given her no instructions whatever about Margaret, no hint of his intentions with regard to her, but merely told her to look after her, and see that she got some education, and to spend as little money as possible.

 

            The peculiar position of the old woman had given her a certain indeterminateness of manner which puzzled strangers, and led them to doubt her genuineness. Aware that she knew more of Lord Littmass’s affairs than he would like to know that she knew, she cultivated a habit of silence, and so escaped the risk of gossiping about his secrets. She had, moreover, heavy bitternesses of her own early life, which she was resolved to bear in silence; and the air imparted to her demeanour by these recollections, combined but inharmoniously with her real kindliness and simplicity of character. Margaret’s attachment to her nurse was one of unconscious habit, though not the less complete and well-grounded. For Margaret was absorbed in a world of her own, and one into which none other intruded. Devoid of that peculiar catechetical religious training, which is considered an essential part of education in England, she was troubled by no early instilled suspicion of evil, either in herself or in others. Alike ignorant of a mother’s love and of girlish friendships, she repined not at what she did not miss, and accepted her isolation as a matter of course.

(p. 47)

Thus she had grown up as a neglected flower in a lonely waste, yet by force of her own nature imbibing and assimilating to herself all sweet energies afforded by sun and atmosphere to her heart and brain; for Nature was a mother to her, and let no heavy cloud come nigh to overshadow her young life.

 

 

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