REKA DOM.
"What is home, and where, but with the loving?"
FELICIA HEMANS.
At last Ida was allowed to go out. She was well wrapped up, andescorted by Nurse in a short walk for the good of her health. It wasnot very amusing, but the air was fresh and the change pleasant,although the street did not prove quite that happy region it hadlooked from the nursery windows. Moreover, however strong one mayfancy one has become indoors, the convalescent's first efforts out ofdoors are apt to be as feeble as those of a white moth that has justcrept from the shelter of its cocoon, giddy with daylight, andtrembling in the open air. By-and-by this feeling passed away, and oneafternoon Ida was allowed to go by herself into the garden, "just fora run."
The expression was metaphorical, for she was far from being able torun; but she crept quietly up and down the walks, and gathered somepolyanthuses, putting them to her face with that pleasure which thetouch of fresh flowers gives to an invalid. Then she saw that thehedge was budding, and that the gap through which she had scrambledwas filled up. Ida thought of the expedition and smiled. It hadcertainly made her very ill, but--it had led to Mrs. Overtheway.
The little old lady did not come that day, and in the evening Ida wassent for by her uncle. She had not been downstairs in the eveningssince her illness. These interviews with the reserved old gentlemanwere always formal, uncomfortable affairs, from which Ida escaped witha sense of relief, and that evening--being weak with illness anddisappointed by Mrs. Overtheway's absence--her nervousness almostamounted to terror.
Nurse did her best in the way of encouragement. It was true that Ida'suncle was not a merry gentleman, but there was such a nice dessert!What could a well-behaved young lady desire more than to wear her bestfrock, and eat almonds and raisins in the dining-room, as if she werethe lady of the house?
"Though I am sorry for the child," Nurse confided to the butler whenshe had left Ida with her uncle, "for his looks are enough to frightena grown person, let alone a little girl. And do you go in presently,like a good soul, if you can find an excuse, and let her see acheerful face."
But before the kind-hearted old man-servant could find a plausiblepretext for intruding into the dining-room, and giving an encouragingsmile from behind his master's chair, Ida was in the nursery oncemore.
She had honestly endeavoured to be good. She had made her curtsey atthe door without a falter--weak as she was. She had taken her place atthe head of the table with all dignity, and had accepted the almondsand raisins with sufficiently audible thanks. She had replied prettilyenough to her uncle's inquiries after her health; and, anxious to keepup the conversation, had told him that the hedge was budding.
"_What's_ the matter with the hedge?" he had asked rather sharply; andwhen Ida repeated her bit of spring news, he had not seemed to beinterested. It was no part of the gardener's work.
Ida relapsed into silence, and so did her uncle. But this was not all.He had sharp eyes, and fierce bushy eyebrows, from under which he wasapt to scrutinize Ida in a way that seemed to scatter all her presenceof mind. This night of all nights she found his eyes upon her oftenerthan usual. Whenever she looked up he was watching her, and herdiscomfort increased accordingly. At last he broke the silenceabruptly by saying:
"You were very sorry, child, were you not, when the news came of yourfather's death?"
The sudden introduction of this sacred subject made Ida's head reel.
"What?" she cried, and could get no further.
"Have you forgotten already?" the old gentleman said, almostreprovingly. "You did not know him, it is true; but you must rememberhearing that your poor father had been drowned at sea?"
Ida's only reply was such a passionate outburst of weeping that heruncle rang the bell in helpless dismay, and was thankful when the oldbutler lifted the child tenderly in his arms and carried her back toNurse. The old gentleman's feelings were more kindly than his looks,and he was really as much concerned as puzzled by the effect of hisremarks. When the butler returned with the report that Ida was goingquietly to bed, he sent her his "love" (the word seemed to strugglewith some difficulty from behind his neck-cloth), and all theremaining almonds and raisins.
"I can't eat them," said Ida, smiling feebly, for her head was aching,"but it is very kind of him; and please tell Brown to tell him that Iam very sorry, and please put the almonds and raisins into my box. Iwill make a dolls feast with them, if ever I make dolls' feastsagain."
With which the weary little maid turned upon her pillow, and at lastforgot her troubles in sleep.
The next morning Brown delivered a similar message from the oldgentleman. He had gone away by an early train on business, but hadleft Ida his love.
"It's very kind of him," said Ida, again. But she went sadly on withsome paper she was cutting into shapes. She was in low spirits thismorning.
Comfort was at hand, however. In the course of the day there came amessage from Mrs. Overtheway, asking Nurse to allow Ida to go to teawith her that evening. And Nurse consented.
Ida could hardly believe her senses when she found herself by thelittle old lady's own fireside. How dainty her room was! How full thebookshelves were! How many pictures hung upon the walls!
Above a little table, on which were innumerable pretty things, hungtwo pictures. One of these was a portrait of a man who, from hisapparent age, might have been the old lady's son, but that he was notat all like her. He might have been good-looking, though, Ida thought,and he had a kind, intelligent face, full of energy andunderstanding, and that is better still. Close under his portrait hunga little sketch. It was of a road running by a river. Opposite to theriver was a house and some trees. It was a pretty sketch, Ida thought,and the road looked interesting, as some roads do in pictures--makingone wish to get into the frame and walk down them to see whither theylead. Below the sketch were some curious-looking characters written inink, and of these Ida could make nothing.
Tea was soon ready. It was spread out on a little table by itself. Thewhite cloth seemed to Ida the whitest she had ever seen, the silverand glass glittered, the china was covered with a rosebud pattern, anda reading-lamp threw a clear soft light over all. The tea, the cream,the brown bread and butter, the fresh eggs, and the honey--all were ofthe very best--even the waiting-maid was pretty, and had something ofthe old lady's smile.
When she had finished her duties by taking away the things, andputting the tea-table into a corner, the two friends drew up to thefire.
"You look better for tea, my child," said the little old lady. "Do youeat enough at home?"
"As much as I can," said Ida, "but I am more hungry when somebodyelse has tea with me. There very seldom was anybody till you camethough. Only once or twice Lady Cheetham's housekeeper has been totea. She is Nurse's father's first cousin, and 'quite the lady,' Nursesays. So she won't let her have tea in the kitchen, so both she andNurse have tea in the nursery, and we have lots of tea-cakes and jam,and Nurse keeps saying, 'Help yourself, Miss Ida! Make yourself athome, Mrs. Savory!' And, you know, at other times, she's alwaystelling me not to be all night over my tea. So I generally eat a gooddeal then, and I often laugh, for Nurse and Mrs. Savory are so funnytogether. But Mrs. Savory's very kind, and last time she came shebrought me a pincushion, and the time before she gave me a Spa mug andtwo apples."
Mrs. Overtheway laughed, too, at Ida's rambling account, and the twowere in high good-humour.
"What shall I do to amuse you?" asked the little old lady.
"You couldn't tell me another story?" said Ida, with an accent thatmeant, "I hope you can!"
"I would, gladly, my dear, but I don't know what to tell you about;"and she looked round the room as if there were stories in thefurniture which perhaps there were. Ida's eyes followed her, and thenshe remembered the picture, and said:
"Oh! would you please tell me what the writing means under that prettylittle sketch?"
The little old lady smiled rather sadly, and looked at the sketch insilence for a few moments. Th
en she said:
"It is Russian, my dear. Their letters are different from ours. Thewords are 'Reka Dom' and they mean 'River House.'"
Ida gazed at the drawing with increased interest.
"Oh, do you remember anything about it? If you would tell me about_that_!" she cried.
But Mrs. Overtheway was silent again. She was looking down, andtwisting some of the rings upon her little hand, and Ida felt ashamedof having asked.
"I beg your pardon," she said, imploringly. "I was very rude, dearMrs. Overtheway; tell me what you like, please."
"You are a good child," said the little old lady, "a very good child,my dear. I _do_ remember so much about that house, that I fall intoday-dreams when I look at it. It brings back the memories of a greatdeal of pleasure and a great deal of pain. But it is one advantage ofbeing old, little Ida, that Time softens the painful remembrances, andleaves us the happy ones, which grow clearer every day."
"Is it about yourself?" Ida asked, timidly. She had not quiteunderstood the little old lady's speech; indeed, she did notunderstand many things that Mrs. Overtheway said, but they were verysatisfactory companions for all that.
"Yes, it is about myself. And since there is a dear child who caresabout old Mrs. Overtheway, and her prosy stories, and all that befellher long ago," said the little old lady, smiling affectionately atIda, "I will tell her the story--my story--the story of Reka Dom."
"Oh, how good of you!" cried Ida.
"There is not much merit in it," said the little old lady. "The storyis as much for myself as you. I tell myself bits of it every eveningafter tea, more so now than I used to do. I look far back, and Iendeavour to look far forward. I try to picture a greater happiness,and companionship more perfect than any I have known; and when I shallbe able to realize them, I shall have found a better Home than RekaDom."
Ida crept to the little old lady's feet, and softly stroked theslipper that rested on the fender. Then, while the March wind howledbeyond the curtains, she made herself a cosy corner by the fire, andcomposed herself to hear the story.
"I remember," said Mrs. Overtheway. "I remember Reka Dom. It was ournew home.
"Circumstances had made it necessary that we should change ourresidence, and the new home was to be in a certain quiet little town,not much bigger than some big villages--a town of pebble streets andsmall shops, silent, sunny, and rather dull--on the banks of a river.
"My health at this time was far from robust; but there is compensationeven for being delicate in that spring-time of youth, when the want ofphysical strength is most irksome. If evening parties are forbidden,and long walks impossible, the fragile member of the family is, on theother hand, the first to be considered in the matter of smallcomforts, or when there is an opportunity for 'change of air.' Iexperienced this on the occasion when our new home was chosen. It hadbeen announced to us that our father and mother were going away forone night, and that we were to be very good in the absence of thoseauthorized keepers of the peace. We had not failed ourselves toenlarge this information by the discovery that they were going to thelittle town by the river, to choose the house that was to be our home;but it was not till the night before their departure that I was toldthat I was to go with them. I had been unusually drooping, and it wassupposed that the expedition would revive me. My own joy wasunbounded, and that of my brothers and sisters was hardly less. Theywere generously glad for my sake, and they were glad, also, that oneof the nursery conclave should be on the spot when the great choicewas made. We had a shrewd suspicion that in the selection of a houseour elders would be mainly influenced by questions of healthysituation, due drainage, good water supply, moderate rent, and soforth; to the neglect of more important considerations, such as oddcorners for hide-and-seek, deep window-seats, plenty of cupboards, anda garden adapted to the construction of bowers rather than to thecultivation of vegetables. I do not think my hopes of influencing theparental decision were great; but still we all felt that it was wellthat I should be there, and my importance swelled with every piece ofadvice I received from the rest of the party.
"'It must be a big house, but, of course, that adds to the expense,'said one of the older boys, who prided himself upon being moregrown-up in his views than the rest, and considering the question froman elderly point of view. 'But if you don't take it out one way, youhave it another,' he continued. A manly-sounding sentence, whichimpressed us all. 'Don't think about smartness, Mary,' he went on,with a grand air of renouncing vanities; 'fine entrance, you know, andfront door. But a good back yard, if possible, and some emptyouthouses for carpenters' shops; and if you could meet with a placewith a few old boxes and barrels lying about, for rafts on the riverand so forth, it would be a good thing.'
"'I want a tidy box for a new baby-house, _dreadfully_,' added asister.
"'I hope there'll be deep window-places,' sighed the luxurious Fatima,'with print patchwork cushions, like those at the farm. And I hopesome of them will face west, for the sunsets.'
"'Above all'--and it was the final and most impressive charge Ireceived--'whatever else is wanting, let us have two tall trees for aswing.'
"Laden with responsibility, but otherwise light-hearted enough, I setout with my parents by the early coach, which was to put us down aboutmid-day in the little town by the river.
"I liked travelling with my father. What a father he was! But, indeed,he was an object of such special devotion to me, and his characterexercised so strong an influence over my young days, that I think, mydear Ida, that I must take the old woman's privilege ofdiscursiveness, and tell you something about him.
"I remember that he was a somewhat mysterious personage in our youngeyes. We knew little of his early life, and what we did know onlyenhanced the romantic mystery which we imagined to hang round it. Weknew that he had seen many foreign lands, and in those days muchtravelling was rare. This accounted for the fact that, absent andsomewhat unpractical as he was at home, he was invaluable on ajourney, making arrangements, and managing officials with theprecision of old habit. Where he had learnt his peculiar courtesy andhelpfulness with those under his charge was less obvious. My mothersaid he had been accustomed to 'good society' in his youth, though welived quietly enough now. We knew that, as a lad, he had been at sea,and sailors are supposed to be a handy and gentle-mannered race withthe weak and dependent. Where else he had been, and what he had done,we did not exactly know; but I think we vaguely believed him to havebeen concerned in not a few battles by land and sea; to be deep insecrets of state, and to have lived on terms of intimacy with severalkings and queens. His appearance was sufficiently striking to favourour dreams on his behalf. He had a tall, ungainly figure, made moreungainly by his odd, absent ways; but withal he was an unmistakablegentleman. I have heard it said of him that he was a man from whom noerrors in taste could be feared, and with whom no liberties could everbe taken. He had thick hair of that yellow over which age seems tohave no power, and a rugged face, wonderfully lighted up by eyes ofrare germander blue. His hair sometimes seemed to me typical of hismind and tastes, which Time never robbed of their enthusiasm.
"With age and knowledge the foolish fancies I wove about my fathermelted away, but the peculiar affection I felt for him, over and abovemy natural love as a daughter, only increased as I grew up. Our tasteswere harmonious, and we always understood each other; whereas Fatimawas apt to be awed by his stateliness, puzzled by his jokes, and attimes provoked by his eccentricities. Then I was never very robust inmy youth; and the refined and considerate politeness which he made apoint of displaying in his own family were peculiarly grateful to me.That good manners (like charity) should begin at home, was a petprinciple with him, and one which he often insisted upon to us.
"'If you will take my advice, young people,' he would say, 'you willbe careful never to let your sisters find other young gentlemen moreready and courteous, nor your brothers find other young ladies moregentle and obliging than those at home.'
"My father certainly practised what he preached, and i
t would not havebeen easy to find a more kind and helpful travelling companion thanthe one with whom my mother and I set forth that early morning insearch of our new abode.
"I was just becoming too much tired to care to look any longer out ofthe window, when the coach rumbled over the pebbly street into thecourtyard of the 'Saracen's Head.'
"I had never stayed at an inn before. What a palace of delights itseemed to me! It is true that the meals were neither better nor bettercooked than those at home, and that the little room devoted to my usewas far from being as dainty as that which Fatima and I habituallyshared; but the keen zest of novelty pervaded everything, and thefaded chintz and wavy looking-glass of No. 25 are pleasant memoriesstill. Moreover, it had one real advantage over my own bedroom. Highup, at the back of the house, it looked out and down upon the river.How the water glittered and sparkled! The sun was reflected from itsripples as if countless hosts of tiny naiads each held a mirror tocatch his rays. My home had been inland, and at some distance from ariver, and the sight of water was new and charming to me. I could seepeople strolling along the banks; and then a boat carrying sails of arich warm brown came into view and passed slowly under my eye, with astately grace and a fair wind. I was watching her with keen interest,when I was summoned to dinner.
"Here, again, novelty exercised its charm. At home I think I may saythat the nursery party without exception regarded dinner in the lightof a troublesome necessity of existence. We were apt to grudge thelength and formalities of the meal; to want to go out, or not to wantto come in; or possibly the dining-room had been in use as a kitemanufactory, or a juvenile artist's studio, or a doll's dressmaker'sestablishment, and we objected to make way for the roast meat andpudding. But on this occasion I took an interest in the dignities ofthe dinner-table, and examined the plates and dishes, and admired theold-fashioned forks and spoons, and puzzled over the entwined initialson their handles.
"After dinner we went out into the town, and looked through severalhouses which were to let. My high hopes and eager interest in thematter were soon quenched by fatigue; but faithful to my promise, Iexamined each house in turn. None of them proved satisfactory to myparents, and they were even less so to me. They were all new, allcommonplace, and all equally destitute of swing-trees, interestingcorners, deep window-seats, or superannuated boxes. Heat, fatigue, anddisappointment at last so overpowered me that my pale face attractednotice, and my father brought me back to the inn. He carried meupstairs to the sofa, and, pointing out a bookshelf for my amusement,and telling me to order tea if I wished for it, went back to mymother.
"It was a shabby little collection of volumes, that parlour library inthe 'Saracen's Head.' There was an old family Bible, a torn copy of'Culpepper's 'Herbal,' the Homilies in inexpressibly greasy blackcalf, a book of songs, a volume called 'Evelina,' which seemed chieflyremarkable for dashes and notes of admiration, and--the book I chose.
"The book I chose would look very dull in your eyes, I dare say, mydear Ida; you who live in an age of bright, smart story-books, withclear type, coloured pictures, and gorgeous outsides. You don't knowwhat small, mean, inartistic 'cuts' enlivened your grandmother'snursery library, that is, when the books were illustrated at all. Youhave no idea how very little amusement was blended with theinstruction, and how much instruction with the amusement in ourplaybooks then, and how few there were of them, and how precious thosefew were! You can hardly imagine what a treasure I seemed to havefound in a volume which contained several engravings the size of thepage, besides many small wood-cuts scattered through the letter-press.I lost sight alike of fatigue and disappointment, as I pored over thepictures, and read bits here and there.
"And such charming pictures there were! With quaint anglers insteeple-crowned hats, setting forth to fish, or breakfasting under atree (untrammelled by the formalities of a nursery meal), or bringingtheir spoils to a wayside inn with a painted fish upon the sign-board,and a hostess in a high hat and a stiff-bustled dress at the door.Then there were small wood-cuts which one might have framed for adoll's house; portraits of fish of all kinds, not easilydistinguishable by the unpractised eye; and nicer wood-cuts still ofcountry scenes, and country towns, and almost all of these with ariver in them. By the time that my father and mother returned, I hadcome to the conclusion that the bank of a river was, of allsituations, the most desirable for one's home, and had built endlessbowers in the air like that in which the anglers are seated in thepicture entitled 'The Farewell;' and had imagined myself in a tall hatand a stiff-bustled dress cooking fish for my favourite brothers afterthe recipes in Walton and Cotton's 'Complete Angler.'
"They came back with disappointment on their faces. They had not gota house, but my mother had got a headache, and we sat down to tea adispirited party.
"It is sometimes fortunate as well as remarkable, how soon everybodyknows everything about everybody else, especially in a small town. Asthe tea-things went downstairs, our landlord came up to help us in ourdifficulty. Had the gentleman succeeded in obtaining a house? If noneof the new lot suited him, the landlord believed that one or more ofolder date were to let near the river. It was not the fashionablequarter, but there had been well-to-do people and some goodsubstantial residences there.
"Our hopes rose again, and the idea of an old and substantialresidence in an unfashionable quarter was so much more favourable tonursery interests than the smart gimcrack houses at which we had beenlooking, that I should have been anxious to explore that part of thetown to which he directed us, even if it had not possessed a charmthat was now pre-eminent in my eyes. It was near the river.
"My mother was too much tired to attempt further investigations, but Ihad completely recovered from my fatigues, and was allowed to go withmy father on the new search. He and I were very good company, despitethe difference in age between us. We were never in each other's way,and whether we chatted or did not speak, we were happy together, andenjoyed ourselves in our respective fashions.
"It was a lovely evening. Hand in hand we turned out of the 'Saracen'sHead' into the shingly street, took the turning which led to theunfashionable quarter, and strolled on and on, in what Scott calls'social silence.' I was very happy. It was not only a lovelyevening--it was one of these when the sunlight seems no longer meresunlight, but has a kind of magical glow, as if a fairy spell had beencast over everything; when all houses look interesting--all countrylanes inviting--when each hedge, or ditch, or field seems a place madeto play in at some wonderful game that should go on for years.
"As we wandered on, we passed a line of small bright-looking houses,which strongly caught my fancy. Each had its gay little garden, itsshrubbery of lilac, holly, or laurustinus, and its creeper-coveredporch. They looked so compact and cosy, so easy to keep tidy, so snugand sunny, that one fancied the people who lived in them must behappy, and wondered who they were.
"'Oh, father!' I exclaimed, 'what delightful houses!'
"'They are very pretty, my dear,' he answered; 'but they are much toosmall for us; besides which, they are all occupied.'
"I sighed, and we were passing on, when I held him back with anotherexclamation.
"'Oh! _look_ at the carnations!' For in one of the gardens largeclumps of splendid scarlet cloves caught my eye.
"My father humoured me, and we drew near to the laurustinus hedge, andlooked over into the gay little garden. As we looked, we becameconscious of what appeared like a heap or bundle of clothing near oneof the beds, which, on lifting itself up, proved to be a tall slenderlady of middle age, who, with her dress tucked neatly round her, a bigprint hood on her head, and a trowel in her hand, was busilyadministering such tender little attentions as mothers will lavish ontheir children, and garden lovers on their flowers. She was not alonein the garden, as we soon perceived. A shorter and stouter and youngerlady sat knitting by the side of a gentleman in a garden-chair, whofrom some defect in his sight, wore a large green shade, which hid thegreater part of his face. The shade was made of covered pasteboard,and was large and round, an
d so very like a lamp shade, that I hardlyever look at one of those modern round globe lamps, my dear, if ithas a green shade, without being reminded of old Mr. Brooke.
"'Was that his name?' Ida asked.
"'Yes, my dear; but that we did not know till afterwards. When thegood lady lifted herself up, she saw us, and seemed startled. Myfather raised his hat, and apologized politely. 'My little girl was somuch taken with your carnations, madam,' he said, 'that we made boldto come near enough to look at them, not knowing that any one was inthe garden.'
"She seemed rather flustered, but pushed back her hood, and made astiff little curtsey in answer to my father's bow, and murmuredsomething about our being welcome.
"'Would you care to have some, my dear?' she added, looking at me. Igave a delighted assent, and she had gathered two lovely carnations,when we heard a quavering voice from under the green shade inquire--
"'What is it?'
"Our friend was at the old gentleman's side in a moment, speaking verydistinctly into his ear, as if he were deaf, whereby we heard heranswer,
"'It's a gentleman and his little daughter, James, admiring ourcarnations, and I am gathering a few for the young lady, dear James.'
"'Quite right, quite right,' he croaked. 'Anything that we have.Anything that we have.'
"It was a great satisfaction to me afterwards to remember that myfather had thanked these good people 'properly,' as I considered. Asfor myself, I had only been able to blush and stammer out somethingthat was far from expressing my delight with the lovely nosegay Ireceived. Then the slender lady went back to her gardening. Her sistertook up the knitting which she had laid down, the old gentleman noddedhis lamp-shade in the direction where he supposed us to be and said,'Good evening, sir, Good evening, miss;' and we went our way.
"The road wound on and on, and down and down, until we found ourselveson the edge of the river. A log lay conveniently on the bank, andthere we seated ourselves. The tide was out, and the river bed was abed of mud except for a narrow stream of water that ran down themiddle. But, ah! how the mud glistened in the evening sunshine whichwas reflected on it in prismatic colours. Little figures were dottedhere and there over its surface, and seawards the masts of somevessels loomed large through the shining haze.
"'How beautiful everything looks this evening!' I exclaimed.
"'I see them walking in an air of glory,' murmured my father,dreamily.
"He was quoting from a favourite old poem, which begins--
'They are all gone into a world of light, And I alone sit lingering here.'
"This 'air of glory,' indeed, was over everything. The mud and thetide pools, the dark human figures, the black and white seagulls thatsat like onyx pebbles on the river bed, the stream that spreadseawards like a silver scroll, the swans that came sailing, sailingdown the stream with just such a slow and stately pace as white-wingedships might have come down the river with the tide, to pass (as theswans did pass) into that 'world of light,' that shining seaward haze,where your eye could not follow them unless shaded by your hand.
"I do not quite know how long we sat gazing before us in silentenjoyment. Neither do I know what my father's thoughts were, as he satwith his hands clasped on his knees and his blue eyes on the river.For my own part, I fancied myself established in one of the littlehouses as 'hostess,' with a sign-board having a fish painted upon ithanging outside the door, and a bower of woodbine, sweet-briar,jessamine, and myrtle commanding a view of the river. The day dreamwas broken by my father's voice.
"'Mary, my dear, we must go about our business, or what will yourmother say to us? We must see after these houses. We can't live on theriver's bank.'
"'I wish we could,' I sighed; and though he had risen and turned away,I lingered still. At this moment my father exclaimed--
"'Bless my soul!' and I jumped up and turned round.
"He was staring at a wall with a gateway in it, enclosing a house andgarden on the other side of the road. On the two gateposts wereprinted in black Roman letters two words that I could notunderstand--_Reka Dom_.
"'What does it mean?' I asked.
"'Reka Dom?' said my father thoughtfully (and he pronounced it _RaykaDome_). 'It is Russian. It means River House. Very curious! I supposethe people who live here are Russians. It's a nice situation--a lovelyview--_lovely_!' and he had turned round to the river, but I caughthis arm.
"'Father, dear, no one lives here. Look!' and I pointed to a boardbeyond the gateway, which stated in plain English that the house wasto let.
* * * * *
"By the time that we returned to my mother, Reka Dom was to allintents and purposes our home.
"It is true that the house was old, rambling, and out of repair, andthat what we heard of the landlord was not encouraging. He was rich,we were told, but miserly; and 'a very queer old gentleman,' whoseoddness almost amounted to insanity. He had 'made himself sounpleasant' to various people who had thought of taking the house,that they drew back, and Reka Dom had been untenanted for some time.The old woman who took care of it, and from whom we got thisinformation, prophesied further that he would 'do nothing to the oldplace. He'd let it fall about his ears first.'
"It is also true that standing in the garden (which in its rambling,disorderly way was charming, and commanded a lovely view), my fatherrubbed his head ruefully, and said:
"'You know, Mary, your mother's chief objection to our latest homewas that the grounds were so much too large for our means of keepingthem in order; and this garden is the larger of the two, I fear.'
"And he did not seem to derive proportionate comfort from my reply.
"'But, father dear, you know you needn't keep it in order, and then wecan have it to play in.'
"And yet we took Reka Dom.
"The fact is that my father and I took a fancy to the place. On myside this is easily to be accounted for. If all the other houses atwhich we had looked had proved the direct reverse of what I (on behalfof myself and my brothers and sisters) was in search of, Reka Dom in aremarkable degree answered our requirements. To explore the garden waslike a tour in fairy land. It was oddly laid out. Three grass-plots orlawns, one behind another, were divided by hedges of honeysuckle andsweet-briar. The grass was long, the flower-borders were borders ofdesolation, where crimson paeonies and some other hardy perennials madethe best of it, but the odour of the honeysuckle was luxuriously sweetin the evening air. And what a place for bowers! The second lawn hadgreater things in store for me. There, between two tall elm trees hunga swing. With a cry of delight I seated myself, seized the ropes, andgave a vigorous push. But the impetus was strong, and the ropes wererotten, and I and the swing came to the ground together. This did notdeter me, however, from exploring the third lawn, where I made adiscovery to which that of the swing was as nothing.
"It was not merely that a small path through the shrubbery led me intoa little enclosed piece of ground devoted to those many-shaped,box-edged little flower-beds characteristic of 'children'sgardens,'--it was not alone that the beds were shaped like letters,and that there was indisputably an M among them--but they were six innumber. Just one apiece for myself and my brothers and sisters! Andthough families of six children are not so very uncommon as to make itimprobable that my father's predecessor should have had the samenumber of young ones as himself, the coincidence appeared to my mindalmost supernatural. It really seemed as if some kind old fairy hadconjured up the whole place for our benefit. And--bless the goodgodmother!--to crown all, there were two old tea-chests and abottomless barrel in the yard.
"Doubtless many causes influenced my father in _his_ leaning towardsReka Dom, and he did not confide them to me. But I do truly believethat first and foremost of the attractions was its name. To a realhearty lover of languages there is a charm in the sight of a strangecharacter, new words, a yet unknown tongue, which cannot be explainedto those who do not share the taste. And perhaps next to the mysticattraction of words whose meaning is yet hidden, is to discover
tracesof a foreign language in some unexpected and unlikely place. Russianis not extensively cultivated; my father's knowledge of it was butslight, and this quiet little water-side town an unlikely place for aninscription in that language. It was curious, and then interesting,and then the quaint simple title of the house took his fancy. Besidesthis, though he could not but allow that there was reason in mymother's views on the subject of large grounds in combination with oneman-of-all-work, he liked plenty of space and shrubbery where he couldwander about--his hands behind his back--without being disturbed; andfor his own part he had undoubtedly felt more pleasure in thepossession of large grounds than annoyance at seeing them neglected.So the garden tempted him. Finally, there was a room opening upon alaurel walk, which had at one time been a library. The shelves--old,common, dirty and broken--were still there, and on the most secure ofthem the housekeeper kept her cheese and candles, and an old shawl andbonnet.
"'The place is made for us!' I exclaimed on my return from discoveringthe old barrel and tea-chests. My father was standing in the librarylooking out upon the garden, and he did not say No.
"From the old woman we learnt something of the former tenants. She wasa good-natured old soul, with an aggrieved tone of voice, due probablyto the depressing effects of keeping an empty house for a cantankerouslandlord. The former tenant's name was Smith, she said (unmistakablyEnglish this!). But his lady was a _Roosian_, she believed. They hadlived in _Roosia_, and some of the children, having been born there,were little _Roosians_, and had _Roosian_ names. She could not speakherself, having no knowledge of the country, but she had heard thatthe _Roosians_ were heathens, though Mr. Smith and his family wentregularly to church. They had lived by a river, she believed, andtheir old home was called by the same outlandish name they had givento this. She had heard that it meant a house by the water-side, butcould not say, knowing no language but her own, and having (she wasthankful to say) found it sufficient for all purposes. She knew thatbefore Mr. Smith's time the house was called Montague Mount, and therewas some sense in that name. Though what the sense was, she did notoffer to explain.
"'Please, please take it!' I whispered in a pause of the conversation!'there are six little gardens, and--'
"My father broke in with mock horror on his face: 'Don't speak of sixgardens!' he exclaimed. 'The one will condemn the place, I fear, butwe must go home and consult your mother.'
"I suppose we did consult her.
"I know we described all the charms of the house and garden, andpassed rather a poor examination as to their condition, and what mightbe expected from the landlord. That my father endeavoured to concealhis personal bias, and that I made no secret of mine. At last mymother interrupted some elaborately practical details by saying inher gentle voice--
"'I think choosing a home is something like choosing a companion forlife. It is chiefly important to like it. There must be faultseverywhere. Do you take to the place, my dear?'
"'I like it certainly,' said my father. 'But the question is not whatI like, but what you like.'
"Then I knew it was settled, and breathed freely. For though my fatheralways consulted my mother's wishes, she generally contrived to choosewhat she knew he would prefer. And she chose Reka Dom.
* * * * *
"Henceforward good luck seemed to follow our new home.
"First, as to the landlord. The old woman had certainly notexaggerated his oddity. But one of his peculiarities was a mostfortunate one for us. He was a bibliomaniac--a lover and collector ofvaluable and curious books. When my father called on him to arrangeabout the house, he found him sitting almost in rags, apparentlydining upon some cheese-parings, and surrounded by a library, thevalue of which would have fed and clothed him with comfort for analmost indefinite period. Upon the chair behind him sat a large blackcat with yellow eyes.
"When my father was ushered in, he gazed for a moment in silentastonishment at the unexpected sight. Books in shelf after shelf up tothe ceiling, and piled in heaps upon the floor. As he stoodspeechless, the little old man put down the plate, gathered his raggeddressing-gown about him, and, followed by the cat, scrambled acrossthe floor and touched his arm.
"'You look at books as if you loved them?' he said.
"My father sighed as if a spell had been broken.
"'I am nearly half a century old,' he said, 'and I do not remember theday when I did not love them.'
"He confessed afterwards to my mother that not less than two hourselapsed before Reka Dom was so much as spoken of. Then his newacquaintance was as anxious to secure him for a tenant as he had beento take the house.
"'Put down on paper what you think wants doing, and it shall be done,'was the old gentleman's liberal order on the subject of repairs.'Lord! Lord!' he went on, 'it's one thing to have you, and anotherthing to put the house right for men who don't know an Elzevir from anannual in red silk. One fellow came here who would have given me fivepounds more than I wanted for the place; but he put his vile hat uponmy books. Lord! Lord!'
"The old man's strongest effort in my father's favour, however, wasthe proposal of a glass of wine. He seemed to have screwed himself upto the offer, and to be proportionately relieved when it was declined.
"'You're quite right,' he said, frankly; 'my wine is not so good as mybooks. Come and see them, whenever you like.'
"'The bookshelves shall be repaired, sir,' was his final promise inanswer to a hint from my father, who (it being successful, and hebeing a very straight-forward man) was ever afterwards ashamed of thispiece of diplomacy. 'And the fire-place must be seen to. Lord! Lord! Aman can live anywhere, but valuable books must be taken care of. Wouldyou believe it? I have a fire in this room three times a week in badweather. And fuel is terribly dear, terribly dear. And that slut inthe kitchen burns as much as if she had the care of the VaticanLibrary. She said she couldn't roast the meat without. "Then give mecold meat!" I said; but she roasts and boils all the same. So lastweek I forbade the butcher the house, and we've lived on cheese eversince, and _that's_ eightpence a pound. Food is terribly dear here,sir; everything is dear. It's enough to ruin a man. And you've got afamily. Lord! Lord! How a man can keep a family and books together, Ican't imagine. However, I suppose children live chiefly on porridge.'
"Which supposition served for long as a household joke against mybrothers, whose appetite for roast meat was not less than that ofother healthy boys of the period.
"It was a happy moment when my father came back from this interview,and Reka Dom was fairly ours. But a more delightful one was that inwhich I told the successful result of my embassy to the nurseryconclave. I certainly had not the remotest claim to credit in thematter, but I received an ovation proportionate to the good news Ibrought. I told my story skilfully, and made the six gardens thecrowning point; at which climax my brother and sisters raised a shoutthat so far exceeded the average of even nursery noises, that mymother hurried to the spot, where our little sister Phil flung herselfinto her arms, and almost sobbing with excitement, cried--
"'Oh, Mother dear! we're _hooraying_ for Reka Dom!'
* * * * *
"It was sagely prophesied by our nurse and others that we should soonbe tired of our new fancy, and find 'plenty to complain of' in RekaDom as elsewhere. (It is nursery wisdom to chasten juvenile enthusiasmby such depressing truths.) And undoubtedly both people and places areapt to disappoint one's expectations on intimate acquaintance; butthere are people and places who keep love always, and such an one wasReka Dom.
"I hardly know what to tell you of it, Ida. The happy years we spentthere were marked by no wonderful occurrences, and were not enlivenedby any particular gaiety. Beyond our own home our principal treat wasto take tea in the snug little house where we made our firstacquaintances. Those good ladies proved kind friends to us. Their bunswere not to be surpassed, and they had pale albums, and fadedtreasures of the preceding generation, which it was our delight tooverhaul. The two sisters lived with the
ir invalid brother, and thatwas the household. Their names were Martha and Mary, and theycherished a touching bit of sentiment in reference to the similaritybetween their circumstances and those of the Family of Bethany.
"'I think it reminds us of what we ought to be, my dear,' Miss Marysaid to me one day. 'Only it is I who should have been called Martha,for Martha is far more spiritually minded.' Humility was the mostprominent virtue in the character of these good ladies, and theycarried it almost to excess.
"I remember, as a child, thinking that even the holy sisters ofBethany could hardly have been more good than the Misses Brooke, but Iwas quite unable to connect any sentiment with the invalid brother. Hespoke little and did less, and yet his sisters continually quoted hissayings and criticisms, and spoke of his fine taste and judgment; butof all that he was supposed to say, only a few croaking common-placesever met our ears.
"'Dear James was so much pleased with that little translation youshowed me,' or 'Dear James hopes that his young friends keep up theirpractising. He considers music such a resource,' etc., etc.
"I believe they did hold conversations with him in which he probablyassented to their propositions, and they persuaded themselves that hewas very good company. And, indeed, he may have been all that theybelieved; I can only say that to me dear James's remarks neverexceeded, 'Good-day, Miss. How are your excellent parents?' or somesimilar civility. I really was afraid of him. There is somethingappalling in a hoarse voice coming from under a green shade, andconnected with eyes you cannot meet, and features that are alwayshidden. Beyond that shade we never saw to the day of his death.
"This occurred about four years after we first knew them. I wellremember the visit of condolence on which I accompanied my mother, thebitter grief of the sisters, and the slow dropping of Miss Mary'stears on to her black dress. Wonderful indeed is love! The mosttalented and charming companion in the world could not have filled tothem the place of the helpless, uninteresting invalid who had passedaway.
"The Misses Brooke caused a commotion in the gossiping world of ourlittle town by going to the funeral. It was not the custom for ladiesto go to funerals, and, as a general rule, the timid sisters would nothave ventured to act against public opinion; but on this occasion theywere resolute. To hear the voice of authority meet them with the verywords wherewith Divine lips had comforted those other sisters, wouldcomfort them, as nothing else could. I remember how from a window wewatched the funeral with childish awe and curiosity--the thrill withwhich we heard a maid announce 'the coffin,' and caught sight of theflapping pall, and tried to realize that old Mr. Brooke wasunderneath. Then close behind it came the two figures we knew so well,veiled, black, and bent, and clinging together in the agony of thatstruggle between faith and loss which every loving soul is some timecalled on to endure. As we leant out of the open window, cryingbitterly in sympathy with them, and with the gloomy excitement of theoccasion, they raised themselves a little and walked more steadily.The Rector's clear voice was cutting the air with the pathos of anunusual sympathy.
'I am the Resurrection and the Life--saith the Lord.'
"I understood then, and have never wondered since, how it was that theMisses Brooke braved the gossip of the neighbourhood, and followedtheir brother's body to the grave.
"These good people were, as I have said, our chief friends; but RekaDom itself afforded us ample amusement. The six children who had livedthere before us were a source of unfailing interest. The old woman ofthe house remained about the place for a short time in the capacity ofcharwoman, and she suffered many inquiries on our part as to thenames, ages, and peculiarities of our predecessors. As she had'charred' for them, she was able to satisfy our curiosity to aconsiderable extent, and then great was the pleasure of retailing toour mother, as she sat knitting in the twilight, the anecdotes we hadcollected of 'the little Russians.'
"'The Little Russians' certainly did much to cement our attachment toReka Dom. Their history was the history of our home. It was theromance of the walks we played in, the swing we sat in, the gardens wetended every day. To play at being the little Russians superseded allother games. To 'pretend' that the little Russians were with us, andto give dolls' entertainments in their honour, supplanted all formerfancies. Their gardens, by-the-by, were not allotted to theirsuccessors without some difficulty, and the final decision involved adisappointment to me. It seemed as if there could not be two opinionsas to the propriety of my having the letter M. But on furtherconsideration it appeared that as the remaining letters did not fitthe names of my brothers and sisters, some other way of distributingthem must be found. My mother at last decided that the letters of thesix beds were to be written on six separate bits of paper, and put ina bag, and that one was to be drawn by each in turn. I still hopedthat I might draw the letter M, but it was not to be. That large andsunny bed fell to my youngest brother, and I drew the letter I. Nownot only was the bed little more than a fourth of the size of thatwhich I had looked on as my own, but being very much in the shade, itwas not favourable to flowers. Then the four divisions of the letter Mafforded some scope for those effective arrangements which haunt one'sspring dreams for the coming summer; but what could be done with anarrow strip with two narrower ends where the box-edging almost met,and where nothing would blossom but lilies of the valley?
("Capricious things those lilies are! So obdurate under coaxing whentransplanted to some place they do not like, so immovably flourishingin a home that suits them!)
"What I did was to make the best of my fate. After trying to reducethe lilies of the valley to one neat group, and to cultivate gayerflowers in the rest of the bed, and after signally failing in bothattempts, I begged a bit of spare ground in the big garden for myroses and carnations, and gave up my share of the Russian plat to theluxuriant lilies.
"It had belonged to the eldest boy. One of those born in Russia, andwith the outlandish names of which the charwoman spoke. His name wasIvan. Many a time did I wish it had been William or Matthew, and once,I remember, I dreamt a tantalizing dream of discovering that it wasOliver, and of digging up the middle of the O, and effecting a roundbed of unrivalled brilliancy, with a white rose for the centre-pieceand crown. Once in the year, however, I had my revenge. In spring mylilies of the valley were the finest to be seen. We had a custom thatall through the flower season a bouquet was laid by my mother's platebefore she came down to breakfast, and very proud we were when theycame from our own gardens. There were no horticultural wonders inthese nosegays, but in my short season of triumph, the size andfragrance of my flowers never failed to excite admiration; and manygrown-up people besides my mother were grateful for bouquets from mynarrow bed. Credit in the matter I deserved none, for Ivan's liliestook care of themselves.
"Having learnt the names of the little Russians, we had no difficultyin discovering to which of them the respective letter beds hadbelonged; and one of our amusements was that each should endeavour tocarry out what (so far as we could learn) had been the habits andcustoms of the little Russian to whose garden he had succeeded. Thenwe had a whole class of partisan games which gave us wonderfulentertainment. Sometimes we pretended to be Scottish chieftains, orfeudal barons of England, or chiefs of savage tribes. Our gardenswere always the lands we had inherited or conquered, and we calledourselves by the names of the little Russians. When we were Highlandchiefs, I remember, we put Mac indiscriminately before all the names;in some cases with a comical, and in others with a very satisfactoryeffect. As chief of the MacIvans I felt justly proud of my title, buta brother who represented the MacElizabeths was less fortunate. In thesham battles our pet animals (we each had one) did duty for retainers,much to their bewilderment. The dogs, indeed, would caper about, andbark round the opposing parties in a way that was at leastinspiriting; but my Sandy Tom brandished his tail and took flyingleaps upon no principle whatever; and as to Fatima's tortoise, itnever budged from the beginning of the conflict to the end. Once,indeed, by strewing dandelion heads in the direction of the enemy'sground she ind
uced him to advance, and at the cry of 'Forward,MacPeters!' he put forth a lazy leg, and with elephantine dignity ledthe attack, on the way to his favourite food. But (in spite of thefable) his slow pace was against him, and in the ensuing _melee_ hewas left far behind.
"I could not learn much about Ivan, but of what I did discover somethings were easy enough for me to follow. He was fond of boating, ataste I was not allowed to cultivate; but also he was fond of books,the old woman said, and fond of sitting in the swing and reading, andI heartily approved his choice in this respect.
"In helping to unpack my father's library, I had discovered a copy ofWalton and Cotton's 'Angler,' similar in every respect, but its goodcondition, to the one that had charmed me at the inn. Sometimes theprecious volume was lent to me, and with it in my lap, and my armsround the ropes of the swing, I passed many a happy hour. What fanciesI wove after studying those quaint, suggestive old prints! As sweet asthat 'contexture of woodbines, sweet-briar, and myrtle' in which theanglers sat and sipped orange punch at Tottenham. The characters of_Piscater_, _Venater_, and _Auceps_, and the style of theirconversations by the wayside, I found by no means unlike those of thePilgrim's Progress. The life-like descriptions of nature (none theless attractive at my age from being quaintly mixed with fable andsymbolism, and pointed with pious morals) went straight to my heart;and though I skipped many of the fish chapters, I re-read many of theothers, and 'The Complete Angler' did not a little to feed my strongnatural love for out-door life and country pleasures, to confirm myhabit of early rising, and to strengthen my attachment to theneighbourhood of a river.
"But my father's library furnished another volume for my gardenstudies. From him I inherited some of that taste which finds a magicattraction in dictionaries and grammars; and I only wish that I hadproperly mastered about half the languages in which it was the delightof my girlhood to dabble. As yet, however, I only looked at the'grammar corner' with ambitious eyes, till one day there came upon methe desire to learn Russian. I asked my father for a Russian grammar,and he pointed out the only one that he possessed. My father seldomrefused to lend us his books, and made no inquiries as to why wewanted them; but he was intensely strict about their proper treatment,so that we early learnt to turn over leaves from the top, to avoiddogs' ears, and generally to treat books properly and put them awaypunctually. Thus I got the grammar, and carried it off to the swing.Alas! it was not even Russian and English. It was a fat old Frenchedition, interleaved for notes. The notes were my father's, and inEnglish, which was of some assistance, and I set myself resolutely tolearn the alphabet. But my progress was slow, and at last I got myfather to write _Reka Dom_ for me in Russian character, as I haddetermined to master these few letters first and then proceed. I soonbecame familiar with them, and was not a little proud of theachievement. I made a large copy to fasten upon the nursery wall; Iwrote it in all my books; and Fatima, who could not be induced toattack the fat grammar with me, became equally absorbed on her part inthe effort to reduce the inscription to cross-stitch for the benefitof her sampler.
"I borrowed the fat grammar again, and, in spite of my father'swarnings that it was too difficult for me as yet, I hoped soon to beproficient in the language of the little Russians. But warnings fromone's elders are apt to come true, and after a few vain efforts I leftthe tough old volume in its corner and took to easier pastimes.
"I had always an inventive turn, and was, as a rule, thedirector-in-chief of our amusements. I know I was often very tiresomeand tyrannical in the ensuing arrangements, and can only hope thetrouble I took on these occasions on behalf of my brothers andsisters, served in their eyes to balance my defects. I remember onedevice of mine that proved particularly troublesome.
"When sham battles had ended in real quarrels, and following in thefootsteps of the little Russians was becoming irksome--(especially toFatima, whose predecessor--Peter--had been of a military turn, and hadbegun fortifications near the kitchen garden which she was incompetentto carry out) a new idea struck me. I announced that letters properlywritten and addressed to the little Russians, 'Reka Dom, Russia,' andposted in the old rhubarb-pot by the tool-house, would be dulyanswered. The replies to be found in a week's time at the same office.
"The announcement was received with delight, and no doubt was everexpressed as to the genuineness of the answers which I regularlysupplied, written, by the by, in excellent English, but with Reka Domneatly effected in Russian characters on the note-paper. In the firstplace, I allowed no awkward inquiries into the machinery of my littleplots for the benefit of the rest; and in the second, we had all, Ithink, a sort of half-and-half belief, a wilful credulity in referenceto our many fancies (such as fairies and the like), of which it isimpossible to give the exact measure. But when, the six weekly lettershaving become rather burdensome, I left off writing answers from Ivanto myself, the others began to inquire why Ivan never wrote now. Asusual, I refused to give any explanations, and after inventing severalfor themselves which answered for awhile, they adopted by generalconsent an idea put forth by little Phillis. The child was sitting oneday with her fat cheek on her hand, and her eyes on the rhubarb-pot,waiting for her share of the correspondence to be read aloud to her,when the fancy seemed to strike her, and she said quietly, but with anair of full conviction--
"'_I___ know what it is--_Ivan is dead_.'
"The idea took strange hold of us all. We said, 'Perhaps he is dead,'and spoke and thought of him as dead, till I think we were fullypersuaded of it. No chair was set for him at the dolls' feasts, and Igained a sort of melancholy distinction as being without a partnernow. 'You know Mary has no little Russian, since Ivan is dead.'
"When our visible pets died, we buried them with much pomp, to thesound of a drum and a tin trumpet, in a piece of ground by thecabbage-bed; but in the present instance that ceremony was impossible.We resolved, however, to erect a gravestone to the memory of our fancyfriend in his own garden. I had seen letters cut on stone, and wasconfident that with a chisel and hammer nothing could be easier. Thesethe nursery tool-box furnished. I wrote out an elaborate inscriptionheaded by Reka Dom in Russian characters, and we got a stone and setto work. The task, however, was harder than we had supposed. My longcomposition was discarded, and we resolved to be content with thissimple sentence, _To the memory of Ivan_. But 'brevity is the soul ofwit,' and the TO took so long to cut, that we threw out three morewords, and the epitaph finally stood thus:
TO IVAN.
"In a rude fashion this was accomplished; and with crape on our armsand the accustomed music we set up the stone among the lilies.
* * * * *
"In time, Ida, we grew up, as it is called. Almost before we knew it,and whilst we still seemed to be looking forward to our emancipationfrom nursery authority and childish frocks, Fatima and I foundourselves grown-up young ladies, free to fashion our costume to ourown tastes, and far from Reka Dom. Yes, we had changed our home again.The River House was ours no longer. Childhood also had slipped fromour grasp, but slowly as the years had seemed to pass, they had notsufficed to accomplish every project we had made in them. Not one ofthose long summers by the river had seen that gorgeous display offlowers in our garden which in all good faith and energy we plannedwith every spring. I had not learnt Russian. Years had gone by since Ifirst took up the fat grammar, but I had acquired little since thattime beyond the familiar characters of the well-beloved name, RekaDom.
"The country town that circumstances had now made our home possessedat least one attraction for us. It was here that our old friends theMisses Brooke had settled when their brother's death broke up thequiet little household. I was very fond of the good ladies; not lessso now than I had been as a child, when their home-made buns and fadedalbums made an evening festive, and were looked forward to as a treat.They were good women, severe to themselves and charitable to others,who cultivated the grace of humility almost in excess. One littleweakness, however, in their otherwise estimable characters had attimes disturbed th
e even course of our friendship. I hardly know whatto call it. It was not want of candour. More truthful women do notexist than they were, and I believe they never wilfully deceivedanyone. I can only describe it as a habit of indulging in small plotsand suspicions; a want of trust in other people, partly traceable,perhaps, to a lack of due confidence in themselves, but which was veryprovoking to one as young, eager, and sincerely affectionate as I was.I was indignant to discover little plots laid to test my sincerity;and to find my genuine (if not minutely measured) expressions offeeling doubted. If this peculiarity had been troublesome in the earlystages of our acquaintance, it was doubly so when we met again, afterthe lapse of some years. For one thing, the dear ladies were older,and fidgety, foolish little weaknesses of this kind sometimes increasewith years. Then I was older also, and if they had doubted their ownpowers of entertainment when I was a child, they would still lessbelieve that I could enjoy their society now that I was a 'younglady.' Whereas the truth was, that though my taste for buns and myreverence for smooth pencil drawings in impossible perspective hadcertainly diminished, my real enjoyment of a quiet evening with my oldfriends was greater than before. I liked to take my sewing to theirundisturbed fireside, and not a few pieces of work which had flaggedunder constant interruptions at home were rapidly finished as Ichatted with them. I liked to draw out the acquirements which theywould not believe that they possessed. I enjoyed rubbing my modern anddesultory reading against their old-fashioned but solid knowledge. Iadmired their high and delicate principles, and respected their almostfatiguing modesty. At an age when religious questions move and oftenseriously trouble girls' minds, I drew comfort from their piety, which(although as quiet and modest as all their other virtues) had been foryears, under my eyes, the ruling principle of all they did, the onlysubject on which they had the courage to speak with decision, thecrown of their affections and pleasures, and the sufficientconsolation of their sorrow. In addition to all this, when I went tothem, I knew that my visit gave pleasure.
"It seemed hard that they could not always repose a similar confidencein me. And yet so it was. The consistent affection of years had failedto convince them that 'a young, pretty, lively girl' (as they werepleased to call me) could find pleasure in the society of 'two dullold women.' So they were apt to suspect either a second motive for myvisit, or affectation in my appearance of enjoyment. At times I waschafed almost beyond my powers of endurance by these fancies; and onone occasion my vexation broke all bounds of respect.
"'You think me uncandid, ma'am,' I cried; 'and what are you? If youwere to hear that I had spoken of you, elsewhere, as two dull oldwomen, you would be as much astonished as angered. You know you would.You know you don't think I think so. I can't imagine why you say it!'
"And my feelings being as much in the way of my logic as those of mostother women, I got no further, but broke down into tears.
"'She says we're uncandid, Mary' sobbed Miss Martha.
"'So we are, I believe,' said Miss Mary, and then we all criedtogether.
"I think the protracted worry of this misunderstanding (which had beena long one) had made me almost hysterical. I clearly remember thefeeling of lying with my face against the horsehair sofa in the littledining-room, feebly repeating, 'You shouldn't, you know. Youshouldn't!' amid my tears, my hair being softly stroked the while bythe two sisters, who comforted me, and blamed themselves with a depthof self-abasement that almost made me laugh. It had hardly seemedpossible that their customary humility could go lower. The affair waswound up with a good deal of kissing, and tea, and there were no moresuspicions for a long time.
* * * * *
"There had been peace, as I said, for long. But as, at the best oftimes, the Misses Brooke never gave us an invitation without goingthrough the form of apologizing for the probable dulness of theentertainment, I was not surprised one morning to find myself invitedto tea at Belle Vue Cottage for the following evening, on the strictcondition that I should refuse the invitation if I felt disinclined togo. I had met the good ladies as we came out of church. There wasMorning Prayer on Wednesdays and Fridays at one church in the town,and if the two little straw bonnets of the Misses Brooke had not beenseen bending side by side at every service, the rest of the scantycongregation would have been as much astonished as if every one in thetown who had time and opportunity for public worship had availedthemselves of the privilege. On this day they had been there as usual,and when we turned up the street together, the invitation was given.
"'And could you induce your respected father to come with you, Marydear?' added Miss Mary. 'You know our rooms are small, or we should beso glad to see Fatima. But we have a few friends coming, and she willunderstand.'
"'Only a few,' Miss Martha said, hastily. 'Don't make her thinkthere's anything worth coming for, Mary. And mind, Mary dear, if youdon't care to come, that you say so. There's no need for "excuses"with us. And you know exactly what our tea-parties are.'
"'Now, Miss Martha,' I said, shaking my fist at her, 'I won't bearit!'
"'Well, my dear, you know it's true. And if you should have aninvitation to the Lodge between now and to-morrow night, mind youthrow us over. There's no dancing and heavy supper at the Cottage.'
"'I'll eat a pound of beefsteak and have a private hornpipe to fortifyme before I come, ma'am. And if the Lightfoots should ask me betweennow and then, I'll think about throwing over my oldest friends tooblige you!'
"'You're very clever, my dear,' sighed Miss Martha, 'and it's easy tolaugh at a stupid old woman like me.'
"Now this was rather unfair, for I had only taken to banter on theseoccasions because a serious treatment of the subject had failed. Imade my peace, however, by grave and affectionate assurances that Iwished to come, and would like to come; and by adding a solemn promisethat if I felt averse from it when the time came, I would stay athome.
"I was vexed to find symptoms of the old misunderstanding arising. Thegood ladies were evidently in a fidgety humour to-day, and going homefull of it, I poured out my vexation to Fatima.
"Fatima's composure was not so easily ruffled as mine. She was apt tosit in easy, graceful attitudes, looking very idle, but gettingthrough a wonderful amount of exquisite needlework, and listening tomy passing grievances without being much disturbed herself.
"'I don't think I would worry myself,' she said, as she rapidly sortedthe greens for a leaf in her embroidery. 'My idea is, that you willfind the party more lively than usual. I have often noticed that whenthe old ladies are particularly full of apologies, something orsomebody is expected.'
"'I didn't want anything or anybody,' I said, dolefully; 'but I wishthey wouldn't take fancies, and I wish they wouldn't put one throughsuch cross-examinations about nothing. As to the party, who couldthere be, but the old set?'
"'Nobody, I suppose. There'll be the Wilkinsons, of course;' andFatima marked the fact with an emphatic stitch. 'And Mr. Ward, Isuppose, and Dr. Brown, and the Jones's girls, and--'
"'Oh, the rooms wouldn't hold more!' I said.
"'There's always room for one more--for a gentleman at any rate; and,depend upon it, it is as I say.'
"Fatima was not so fond of the Misses Brooke as I was. She did notscruple to complain of the trouble it cost to maintain intimaterelations with the excellent but touchy old ladies, and of the hotwater about trifles into which one must perpetually fall.
"'I hope I am pretty trustworthy,' she would say, 'and I am sure youare, Mary. And if we are not, let them drop our acquaintance. But theytreat their friends as we used to treat our flowers at Reka Dom! Theyare always taking them up to see how they are going on, and I like tovegetate in peace.'
"I could not have criticized my dear and respected old friends sofreely; but yet I knew that Fatima only spoke the truth.
"The subject was unexpectedly renewed at dinner.
"'Mary,' said my father, 'is there any mystery connected with thistea-party at Miss Brooke's?'
"Fatima gave me a mischievous glance
.
"'If there is, sir,' said I, 'I am not in the secret.'
"'I met them in the town,' he went on, 'and they were good enough toinvite me; and as I must see Ward about some registers, I ventured toask if he were to be of the party (thinking to save my old legs a walkto his place). The matter was simple enough, but Miss Martha seemed tofancy that I wanted to know who was going to be there. I fullyexplained my real object, but either she did not hear or she did notbelieve me, I suppose, for she gave me a list of the expectedcompany.'
"'I am sure she would have believed you, sir, if she had realized whatyou were saying,' I said. 'I know the sort of thing, but I think thatthey are generally so absorbed in their own efforts to do what theythink you want, they have no spare attention for what you say.'
"'A very ingenious bit of special pleading, my dear, but you have notheard all. I had made my best bow and was just turning away, whenMiss Martha, begging me to excuse her, asked with a good deal ofmystery and agitation if _you_ had commissioned me to find out who wasto be at the party. I said I had not seen you since breakfast, butthat I was quite able to assure her that if you had wished to find outanything on the subject, you would have gone direct to herself, withwhich I repeated my best bow in my best style, and escaped.'
"I was too much hurt to speak, and Fatima took up the conversationwith my father.
"'You will go, sir?' she said.
"'Of course, my dear, if Mary wishes it. Besides, Ward _is_ to bethere. I learnt so much.'
"'You learnt more, sir,' said Fatima, 'and please don't leave us todie of curiosity. Who is to be there, after all?'
"'The Wilkinsons, and Miss Jones and her sister, and Ward, and an oldfriend of Miss Brooke's, a merchant.'
"'But his name, please!' cried Fatima, for my father was retreating tohis study.
"'Smith--John Smith,' he answered laughing, and we were left alone.
"I was very much disposed to be injured and gloomy, but Fatima wouldnot allow it. She was a very successful comforter. In the first place,she was thoroughly sympathetic; and in the second, she had a greatdislike to any disturbance of the general peace and harmony, and atlast, her own easy, cheerful view of things became infectious where novery serious troubles were concerned.
"'People must have their little weaknesses,' she said, 'and I am surethey haven't many failings.'
"'This weakness is so unworthy of them,' I complained.
"'All good people's weaknesses are unworthy of them, my dear. And thebetter they are, the more unworthy the weakness appears. Now, Mary, dobe reasonable! You know at the bottom how true they are, and how fondof you. Pray allow them a few fidgety fancies, poor old dears. Nodoubt we shall be just as fidgety when we are as old. I'm sure I shallhave as many fancies as hairs in my wig, and as to you, consideringhow little things weigh on your mind now--'
"Fatima's reasoning was not conclusive, but I think I came at last tobelieve that Miss Brooke's distrust was creditable to herself, andcomplimentary to me--so it certainly must have been convincing.
"'And now,' she concluded, 'come upstairs and forget it. For I havegot two new ideas on which I want your opinion. The first is a newstitch, in which I purpose to work some muslin dresses for us both. Ithought of it in bed this morning. The second is a new plan forbraiding your hair, which came into my head whilst father was readingaloud that speech to us last night. I had just fastened up the lastplait when he laid down the paper.'
"'You absurd Fatima!' I cried. 'How could you! And it was sointeresting!'
"'Don't look shocked,' said Fatima. 'I shall never be a politician. Ofall studies, that of politics seems to me the most disturbing anduncomfortable. If some angel, or inspired person would tell me whichside was in the right, and whom to believe in, I could be a capitalpartisan. As it is, I don't worry myself with it; and last night whenyou were looking flushed and excited at the end of the speech, I wascalmly happy--'
"'But, Fatima,' I broke in, 'you don't mean to say--'
"'If it had lasted five minutes longer,' said Fatima, 'I should havecomfortably decided whether ferns or ivy would combine better with theloops.'
"'But, Fatima! were you really not listening when--'
"'On the whole I decide for ivy,' said Fatima, and danced out of theroom, I following and attempting one more remonstrance in the hall.
"'But, Fatima!--'
"'With perhaps a suspicion of white chrysanthemums,' she added overthe banisters.
"Both the new ideas promised to be successful, and the followingevening my hair was dressed in what Fatima now called the politicalplaits. From the first evening of my introduction into society she hadestablished herself as my lady's maid. She took a generous delight indressing me up, and was as clever as she was kind about it. Thisevening she seemed to have surpassed herself, as I judged by theadmiring exclamations of our younger sister Phillis--a good littlemaid, who stood behind my chair with combs and pins in her hand asFatima's aide-de-camp. Finally, the dexterous fingers interwove somesprays of ivy with the hair, and added white rosebuds for lack ofchrysanthemums.
"'Perfect!' Fatima exclaimed, stepping backwards with gestures ofadmiration that were provokingly visible in the glass before which Isat. 'And to think that it should be wasted on an uninterestingtea-party! You will not wear your new muslin, of course?'
"'Indeed, I shall,' I answered. 'You know I always make myself smartfor the Cottage.' Which was true, and my reason for it was this. Ihad once gone there to a quiet tea-party in a dress that was rathertoo smart for the occasion, and which looked doubly gay by contrastwith the sombre costume of the elderly friends whom I met. I wasfeeling vexed with myself for an error in taste, when Miss Mary cameup to me, and laying her hands affectionately on me, and smoothing myribbons, thanked me for having come in such a pretty costume.
"'You come in, my dear,' she said, 'like a fresh nosegay after winter.You see we are old women, my love, and dress mostly in black, sincedear James's death; and our friends are chiefly elderly andsombre-looking also. So it is a great treat to us to look at somethingyoung and pretty, and remember when we were girls, and took pains withsuch things ourselves.'
"'I was afraid I was too smart, Miss Mary,' I said.
"'To be sure it is a waste to wear your pretty things here,' Miss Maryadded; 'but you might let us know sometimes when you are going to agrand party, and we will come and look at you.'
"I was touched by the humble little lady's speech, and by the thoughtof how little one is apt to realize the fact that faded, fretful,trouble-worn people in middle life have been young, and remember theiryouth.
"Thenceforward I made careful toilettes for the Cottage, and thisnight was not an exception to the rule.
"I was dressed early; my father was rather late, and we three girlshad nearly an hour's chat before I had to go.
"We began to discuss the merchant who was to vary the monotony of oursmall social circle. Phillis had heard that a strange gentleman hadarrived in the town this afternoon by the London stage. Fatima had anidea on the subject which she boldly stated. One of the Misses Brookewas going to be married--to this London merchant. We were just at anage when a real life romance is very attractive, and the town was notrich in romances--at least, in our little society. So Fatima's ideafound great favour with us, and, as she described it, seemed reallyprobable. Here was an old friend, a friend of their youth, andprobably a lover, turned up again, and the sisters were in a naturalstate of agitation. (It fully accounted for Miss Martha's suspicioussensitiveness yesterday, and I felt ashamed of having beingaggrieved.) Doubtless the lovers had not been allowed to marry inearly life because he was poor. They had been parted, but had remainedfaithful. He had made a fortune, like Dick Whittington, and now, arich London merchant, had come back to take his old love home. Beingan old friend, it was obviously a youthful attachment; and being amerchant, he must be very rich. This happy combination--universal infiction, though not invariable in real life--was all that could bedesired, and received strong confirmation from the
fact of his comingfrom London; for in those days country girls seldom visited themetropolis, and we regarded the great city with awe, as the centre ofall that was wealthy and wonderful. It was a charming story, andthough we could not but wish that he had returned before Miss Marthatook to a 'front' and spectacles, yet we pictured a comfortabledomestic future for them; and Fatima was positive that 'worlds' mightbe done for the appearance of the future Mrs. Smith by more tastefulcostume, and longed ardently to assume the direction of her toilette.
"'I don't believe that she need wear a front,' she pleaded. 'I daresayshe has plenty of pretty grey hair underneath. Spectacles areintellectual, if properly worn; which, by the by, they need not be atmeals when your husband is looking at you across the table; and as tocaps--'
"But here my father knocked at the door, and I put on my cloak andhood, and went with him.
"The Misses Brooke received us affectionately, but I thought with someexcitement, and a flush on Miss Martha's cheeks almost made me smile.I could not keep Fatima's fancy out of my head. Indeed, I waspicturing my old friend in more cheerful and matronly costumepresiding over the elegant belongings of a stout, well-to-do,comfortable Mr. John Smith, as I moved about in the little room, andexchanged mechanical smiles and greetings with the familiar guests. Ihad settled the sober couple by their fireside, and was hesitatingbetween dove-colour and lavender-grey for the wedding silk, when MissMartha herself disturbed me before I had decided the importantquestion. I fancied a slight tremor in her voice as she said--
"'Mr. John Smith.'
"I dropped a more formal curtsey than I had hitherto done, as was dueto a stranger and a gentleman, and looked once at the object of mybenevolent fancies, and then down again at my mittens. His head wasjust coming up from a low bow, and my instantaneous impression was,'He wears a brown wig.' But in a moment more he was upright, and I sawthat he did not. And--he certainly was not suitable in point of age. Itook one more glance to make sure, and meeting his eyes, turnedhastily, and plunged into conversation with my nearest neighbour, notnoticing at the instant who it was. As I recovered from my momentaryconfusion, I became aware that I was talking to the rector's wife, andhad advanced some opinions on the subject of the weather which she wasenergetically disputing. I yielded gracefully, and went back to mythoughts. I hope Miss Martha did not feel as I did the loss of thatsuitable, comfortable, middle-aged partner my fancy had provided forher. It did seem a pity that he had no existence. I thought thatprobably marriage was the happiest condition for most people, and feltinclined to discuss the question with the rector's wife, who had hadabout twenty-two years' exemplary experience of that state. Then Ishould like to have helped to choose the silk--
"At this point I was asked to play.
"I played some favourite things of Miss Brooke's and some of my own,Mr. Smith turning over the leaves of my music; and then he was askedto sing, and to my astonishment, prepared to accompany himself. FewEnglish gentlemen (if any) could accompany their own songs on thepianoforte in my youth, Ida; most of them then had a wise idea thatthe pianoforte was an instrument 'only fit for women,' and would haveas soon thought of trying to learn to play upon it as of studying thespinning-wheel. I do not know that I had ever heard one play except myfather, who had lived much abroad. When Mr. Smith sat down at theinstrument, I withdrew into a corner, where Miss Martha followed me asif to talk. But when he began, I think every one was silent.
"The song he sang is an old one now, Ida, but it was comparatively newthen, and it so happened that very few of us had heard it before. Itwas 'Home, Sweet Home.' He had a charming voice, with a sweet patheticring about it, and his singing would have redeemed a song of farsmaller merit, and of sentiment less common to all his hearers. As itwas, our sympathies were taken by storm. The rector's wife sobbedaudibly, but, I believe, happily, with an oblique reference to the tenchildren she had left at home; and poor Miss Martha, behind me,touched away tear after tear with her thin finger-tips, and finallytook to her pocket-handkerchief, and thoughts of the dear deadbrother, and the little house and garden, and I know not what earlierhome still. As for me, I thought of Reka Dom.
"We had had many homes, but that was _the_ home _par excellence_--thebeloved of my father, the beloved of us all. And as the clear voicesang the refrain, which sounded in some of our ears like a tender cryof recall to past happiness,
'Home--Home--sweet, sweet Home!'
I stroked Miss Martha's knee in silent sympathy, and saw Reka Dombefore my eyes. The river seemed to flow with the melody. I swung tothe tune between the elm-trees, with Walton and Cotton on my lap. Whatwould Piscator have thought of it, had the milkmaid sung him thissong? I roamed through the three lawns that were better to me thanpleasures and palaces, and stood among the box-edged gardens. Then therefrain called me back again--
'Home--Home--sweet, sweet Home!'
I was almost glad that it ended before I, too, quite broke down.
"Everybody crowded round the singer with admiration of the song, andinquiries about it.
"'I heard it at a concert in town the other day,' he said, 'and itstruck me as pretty, so I got a copy. It is from an English operacalled "Clari," and seems the only pretty thing in it.'
"'Do you not like it?' Miss Jones asked me; I suppose because I hadnot spoken.
"'I think it is lovely,' I said, 'as far as I can judge; but itcarries one away from criticism; I do not think I was thinking of themusic; I was thinking of Home.'
"'Exactly.'
"It was not Miss Jones who said 'Exactly,' but the merchant, who wasstanding by her; and he said it, not in that indefinite tone of politeassent with which people commonly smile answers to each other'sremarks at evening parties, but as if he understood the words fromhaving thought the thought. We three fell into conversation about thesong--about 'Clari'--about the opera--the theatre--about London; andthen Dr. Brown, who had been educated in the great city, joined us,and finally he and Miss Jones took the London subject to themselves,and the merchant continued to talk to me. He was very pleasantcompany, chiefly from being so alive with intelligence that it wasmuch less trouble to talk with him than with any one I had ever met,except my father. He required so much less than the average amount ofexplanation. It hardly seemed possible to use too few words for him toseize your meaning by both ends, so to speak; the root your ideasprang from, and conclusion to which it tended.
"We talked of music--of singing--of the new song, and of the subjectof it--home. And so of home-love, and patriotism, and the charactersof nations in which the feeling seemed to predominate.
"'Like everything else, it depends partly on circumstances, Isuppose,' he said. 'I sometimes envy people who have only onehome--the eldest son of a landed proprietor, for instance. I fancy Ihave as much home-love in me as most people, but it has been divided;I have had more homes than one.'
"'_I_ have had more homes than one,' I said; 'but with me I do notthink it has been divided. At least, one of the homes has been so muchdearer than the others.'
"'Do you not think so because it is the latest, and your feelingsabout it are freshest?' he asked.
"I laughed. 'A bad guess. It is not my present home. This one was neara river.'
"'Exactly.'
"This time the 'exactly' did not seem so appropriate as before, and Iexplained further.
"'For one thing we were there when I was at an age when attachment toa place gets most deeply rooted, I think. As a mere child one enjoysand suffers like a kitten from hour to hour. But when one is just oldenough to form associations and weave dreams, and yet is still achild--it is then, I fancy, that a home gets almost bound up withone's life.'
"He simply said 'Yes,' and I went on. Why, I can hardly tell, exceptthat to talk on any subject beyond mere current chit-chit, and beunderstood, was a luxury we did not often taste at the tea-parties ofthe town.
"'And yet I don't know if my theory will hold good, even in our case,'I went on, 'for my father was quite as much devoted to the place as wewere, and fell in
love with it quite as early. But the foreign namewas the first attraction to him, I think.'
"'It was abroad, then?' he asked.
"I explained, and again I can hardly tell why, but I went on talkingtill I had given him nearly as full a history of Reka Dom as I havegiven to you. For one thing he seemed amazingly interested in therecital, and drew out many particulars by questions; and then the songhad filled my head with tender memories, and happy little details ofold times, and it was always pleasant to prose about the River Home,as indeed, my child, it is pleasant still.
"We were laughing over some childish reminiscence, when Miss Marthatapped me on the shoulder and said rather louder than usual--
"'Dear Mary, there are some engravings here, my love, I should likeyou to look at.'
"I felt rather astonished, for I knew every book and picture in thehouse as well as I knew my own, but I followed her to a table, whenshe added, in a fluttering whisper--
"'You'll excuse my interrupting you, my love, I'm sure; but it wasbecoming quite particular.'
"I blushed redder than the crimson silk binding of the 'Keepsake'before me. I wished I could honestly have misunderstood Miss Martha'smeaning. But I could not. Had I indeed talked too much and too long toa gentleman and a stranger? (It startled me to reflect how rapidly wehad passed that stage of civil commonplace which was the normalcondition of my intercourse with the gentlemen of the town.) I wascertainly innocent of any intentional transgression of those bounds ofreticence and decorum which are a young lady's best friends, but as tothe length of my conversation with the merchant I felt quite uncertainand unspeakably alarmed.
"I was indulging a few hasty and dismal reflections when Miss Marthacontinued--
"'When I was young, dear Mary, I remember a valuable piece of advicethat was given me by my excellent friend and schoolmistress, MissPeckham, "If you are only slightly acquainted with a gentleman, talkof indifferent matters. If you wish to be friendly but notconspicuous, talk of _his_ affairs; but only if you mean to be veryintimate, speak of yourself;"' and adding, 'I'm sure you'll forgiveme, my love,' Miss Martha fluttered from the table.
"At the moment I was feeling provoked both with her and with myself,and did not feel so sure about the forgiveness as she professed to be;but of one thing I felt perfectly certain. Nothing but sheer necessityshould induce me to speak another syllable to the London merchant.
"Circumstances did not altogether favour my resolution. I scrupulouslyavoided so much as a look at Mr. Smith, though in some mysterious wayI became conscious that he and my father were having a long_tete-a-tete_ conversation in a corner. I devoted myself exclusivelyto the rector's wife till supper, and then I carefully chose theopposite side of the table to that to which the merchant seemed to begoing. But when I was fairly seated, for some reason he gave up hisplace to someone else, and when it was impossible for me to change myseat, he took the one next to it. It was provoking, but I steadilyresisted his attempts to talk, and kept my face as much averted aspossible. Once or twice he helped me to something on the table, but Ibarely thanked him, and never lifted my eyes to his face. I couldnot, however, avoid seeing the hand that helped me, and idly noticinga ring that I had remarked before, when he was playing. It was a fineblue stone, a lapis lazuli, curiously and artistically set. 'Richmerchants can afford such baubles!' I thought. It was very tasteful,however, and did not look like English work. There was somethingengraven upon it, which did not look like English either. Was itGreek? I glanced at it with some curiosity, for it reminded me of--butthat was nonsense, a fancy that came because the subject was in mymind. At this moment the hand and ring were moved close to me and Ilooked again.
"It was not a fancy. There was no mistaking the inscription this time.I had learnt it too thoroughly--written it too often--loved it toowell--it was _Reka Dom_.
"For a moment I sat in blind astonishment. Then the truth suddenlyflashed upon me. The merchant's name was the name of our predecessorsat Reka Dom. True, it was such a common one that I had met more thanone family of Smiths since then without dreaming of any connectionbetween them and the River House. And yet, of course, it was therethat the Misses Brooke had known him. Before our time. Which could hebe? He was too young to be the father, and there was no John among thelittle Russians--unless, yes, it was the English version of one of theRussian names--and this was Ivan.
"It crowned my misfortunes. What would Miss Martha say if she knewwhat had been the subject of our conversation? Would that thatexcellent rule which had been the guide of her young ladyhood hadcurtailed the conversational propensities of mine! I thought of thethree degrees of intimacy with a shudder. Why had we not beensatisfied with discussing the merits of the song?
"We had gone on to talk of him and his homes, and as if that were notenough, had proceeded further to me and mine. I got red as I satlistening to some civil chat from Mr. Ward the curate (eminently inthe most innocent stage of the first degree), and trying to recallwhat we had not spoken of in connection with that Home which had beenso beloved of both of us, and that Ivan whose lilies I had tended foryears.
"I grew nearly frantic as I thought that he must think that I hadknown who he was, and wildly indignant with the fancy for smallmysteries which had kept Miss Brooke from telling us whom we weregoing to meet.
"At last the evening came to an end. I was cloaking myself in the hallwhen the merchant came up and offered his help, which I declined. Buthe did not go, and stood so that I could not help seeing a distressedlook in his eyes, and the nervous way in which he was turning the bluering upon his finger.
"'I have so wanted to speak to you again,' he said. 'I wanted tosay--'
"But at this moment I caught Miss Martha's eye in the parlour doorway,and, dropping a hasty curtsey, I ran to my father.
"'A very nice young fellow,' my father observed, as I took his armoutside; 'a superior, sensible, well informed gentleman, such as youdon't meet with every day.'
"I felt quite unequal to answering the remark, and he went on:
"'What funny little ways your old friends have, my dear, to be sure.Considering how few strangers come to the place, it would have beennatural for them to tell us all about the one they asked us to meet;and as they had known both him and us, as tenants of Reka Dom, it wasdoubly natural that they should speak of him to us, and of us to him.But he told me that we were just the people present of whom he had notheard a word. He seems both fond of them and to appreciate theirlittle oddities. He told me he remembers, as a boy, that they neverwould call him Ivan, which is as much his name as any by which a manwas ever baptized. They thought it might give him a tendency toaffectation to bear so singular a name in England. They always calledhim John, and keep up the discipline still. When he arrived yesterdaythey expressed themselves highly satisfied with the generalimprovement in him, and he said he could hardly help laughing as MissMartha added, 'And you seem to have quite shaken off that little habitof affectation which--you'll excuse me, dear John--you had as a boy.'He says that, to the best of his belief, his only approach toaffectation consisted in his being rather absent and ungainly, and ina strong aversion from Mr. Brooke.'
"'Did the old gentleman wear that frightful shade in his time?' Iasked.
"'Not always,' he says, 'but he looked worse without it. He told me agood deal about him that I had never heard. He remembered hearing itspoken of as a boy. It appears that the brother was very wild andextravagant in his youth; drank, too, I fancy, and gave his poorsisters a world of trouble, after breaking the heart of the widowedmother who had spoiled him. When she died the sisters lived together,and never faltered in their efforts to save him--never shut theirdoors against him when he would return--and paid his debts over andover again. He spent all his own fortune, and most of theirs, besidesbeing the means of breaking off comfortable marriages for both. Mr.Smith thinks that a long illness checked his career, and eventually hereformed.'
"'I hope he was grateful to his poor sisters,' I said.
"'One naturally thinks that he
must have been so, but Smith's remarkwas very just. He said, "I fancy he was both penitent and grateful asfar as he was able, but I believe he had been too long accustomed totheir unqualified self-sacrifice to feel it very sensitively!" And Ibelieve he is right. Such men not seldom reform in conduct if theylive long enough, but few eyes that have been blinded by years ofselfishness are opened to see clearly in this world.'
"'It ought to make one very tender with the good ladies' littleweaknesses,' I said, self-reproachfully; and I walked home in a morepeaceful state of mind. I forgave poor Miss Martha; also I wassecretly satisfied that my father had found the merchant'sconversation attractive. It seemed to give me some excuse for mybreach of Miss Peckham's golden rule. Moreover, little troubles andoffences which seemed mountains at Bellevue Cottage were apt todwindle into very surmountable molehills with my larger-mindedparents. I was comparatively at ease again. My father had evidentlyseen nothing unusual in my conduct, so I hoped that it had not beenconspicuous. Possibly I might never meet Mr. Smith any more. I ratherhoped not. Life is long, and the world wide, and it is sometimespossible to lose sight of people with whom one has disagreeableassociations. And then it was a wholesome lesson for the future.
"'And what was the old gentleman like?' was Fatima's first question,when I came upstairs. I had just been talking of Mr. Brooke, and noother old gentleman occurred to my memory at that moment.
"'What old gentleman?' I asked dreamily.
"'Miss Martha's old gentleman, the merchant--wasn't he there, afterall?'
"I blushed at my stupidity, and at a certain feeling of guiltiness inconnection with the person alluded to.
"'Oh, yes, he was there,' I answered; 'but he is not an oldgentleman.'
"'What is he, then?' Fatima asked, curiously.
"It is undoubtedly a luxury to be the bearer of a piece of startlingintelligence, and it is well not to spoil the enjoyment of it by overhaste. I finished unsnapping my necklace, and said, verydeliberately--
"'He is one of the little Russians.'
"Fatima's wit jumped more quickly than mine had done. It was she whoadded--
"'Then he is Ivan.'
* * * * *
"My hopes in reference to Mr. Smith were disappointed. I had not seenthe last of him. My mother was at this time from home, and I washousekeeper in her absence. It was on the morning following theBellevue tea-party that my father said to me--
"'Mr. Smith is coming up to refer to a book of mine to-day, my dear;and I asked him to stay to dinner. I suppose it will be convenient?'
"I said, 'Certainly, sir.'
"I could plead no domestic inconvenience; but I thought that Mr.Smith might have gone quietly back to London by the early coach, andspared me the agitation which the prospect of seeing him againundoubtedly excited. He came, however. It was the first visit, but byno means the last; and he lingered in the town, greatly to my father'ssatisfaction (who had taken a strong fancy for him), but not,apparently, to that of the Misses Brooke.
"As I afterwards found the clue to the somewhat strange conduct of ourold friends at this time, I may as well briefly state how it was.
"When the merchant first announced to them his proposed business visitto the town, and his intention of calling on them, the good ladies (intheir affection for me, and having a high opinion of him) planned akindly little romance of which he and I were to be the hero andheroine, and which was to end in our happy marriage. With this viewthey arranged for our meeting at the tea-party, and avoided allmention of each to the other, that we might meet in the (so to speak)incidental way characteristic of real love stories. With thatsuspiciousness of people in general, and of young people inparticular, which haunted Miss Martha, she attributed my readyacceptance of the invitation to my having heard of Mr. Smith'sarrival, and to the unusual attraction of an eligible gentleman at thetea-party. Little did she guess the benevolent plans which on my partI had formed for her, and which the merchant's youthful appearance haddashed to the ground.
"It is sometimes the case, my dear Ida, that people who make thesekind plans for their friends, become dissatisfied with the success oftheir arrangements if they themselves cease to be the good genii ofthe plot. If, that is, matters seem likely to fall out as they wish,but without their assistance. It was so with the Misses Brooke, andespecially with Miss Martha. Fully aware of the end which she in herown mind proposed to our acquaintance, my long conversation with themerchant struck her as an indelicate readiness to accept attentionswhich had matrimony in her perspective, and which she had designed tobe the gradual result of sundry well-chaperoned and studiouslyincidental interviews at the Cottage. And when, so far from thankfullyaccepting these incidental meetings, the merchant took upon himself tobecome an almost daily visitor at our house, and delayed his return toLondon far beyond the time proposed for his departure, the good lady'sview underwent a decided change. It was 'a pity' that a young man likeJohn Smith should neglect his business. It was also 'a pity' that dearMary's mother was not at home. And when I took occasion casually toallude to the fact that Mr. Smith's visits were paid to my father, and(with the exception of an occasional meal) were passed in the studyamongst German pamphlets, my statement was met by kind, increduloussmiles, and supplemented with general and somewhat irritatingobservations on the proper line of conduct for young ladies at certaincrises of life. Nothing could be kinder than Miss Martha's intentions,and her advice might have been a still greater kindness if she wouldhave spoken straight-forwardly, and believed what I said. As it was, Ileft off going to Bellevue Cottage, and ardently wished that themerchant would go back to his merchandise, and leave our quiet littletown to its own dull peace.
"Sometimes I thought of the full-grown man whose intelligent face, andthe faintly foreign accent of whose voice were now familiar in ourhome--the busy merchant, the polite and agreeable gentleman. And thenI thought of the Ivan I seemed to have known so much better so longago! The pale boy wandering by the water--reading in the swing--deadby that other river--buried beneath the lilies. Oh! why had he livedto come back in this new form to trouble me?
"One day he came to my father as usual, and I took the opportunity tocall on my old friends. I felt ashamed of having neglected them, andas I knew that Mr. Smith was at our house, I could not be suspected ofhaving hoped to meet him at theirs. But I called at an unfortunatemoment. Miss Martha had just made up her mind that in the absence ofmy mother, and the absentness of my father, it was the duty of oldfriends like herself to give me a little friendly counsel. As she tooka great deal of credit for being 'quite candid, my dear,' and quietly,but persistently refused to give me credit for the same virtue, I wastoo much irritated to appreciate the kindness which led her toundertake the task of interference in so delicate a matter; and foundher remarks far from palatable. In the midst of them the merchant wasannounced.
"If I could have looked innocent it would have done me no good. As itwas, I believe I looked very guilty. After sitting for a few minuteslonger I got up to go, when to my horror the merchant rose also. Theold ladies made no effort to detain him, but Miss Martha's face spokevolumes as we left the house. Half mad with vexation, I could hardlyhelp asking him why he was stupid enough to come away just at themoment I had chosen for leaving; but he forestalled the inquiry by avoluntary explanation. He wished to speak to me. He had something tosay.
"When he had said it, and had asked me to marry him, my cup was full.I refused him with a vehemence which must have surprised him, modestas he was, and rushed wildly home.
"For the next few days I led a life of anything but comfort. First asto Ivan. My impetuous refusal did not satisfy him, and he wrote me aletter over which I shed bitter tears of indescribable feeling.
"Then as to my father. The whole affair took him by surprise. He wasastonished, and very much put out, especially as my mother was away.So far from its having been, as with the Misses Brooke, the firstthing to occur to him, he repeatedly and emphatically declared that itwas the very last thing h
e should have expected. He could neitherimagine what had made the merchant think of proposing to me, nor whathad made me so ready to refuse him. Then they were in the very middleof a crabbed pamphlet, in which Ivan's superior knowledge of Germanhad been invaluable. It was most inconvenient.
"'Why didn't I like poor Ivan?'
"Ah, my child, did I not like him!
"'Then why was I so cross to him?'
"Indeed, Ida, I think the old ladies' 'ways' were chiefly to blame forthis. Their well-meant but disastrous ways of making you feel that youwere doing wrong, or in the wrong, over matters the moststraight-forward and natural. But I was safe under the wing of mymother, before I saw Ivan again; and--many as were the years he and Iwere permitted to spend together--I think I may truthfully say that Iwas never cross to him any more.
"'What did he say in that letter that made me cry?'
"He asked to be allowed to make himself better known to me, before Isent him quite away. And this developed an ingenious notion in myfather's brain, that no better opportunity could, from every point ofview, be found for this, than that I should be allowed to sit withthem in the study whilst he and Ivan went on with the German pamphlet.
"The next call I paid at Bellevue Cottage was to announce myengagement, and I had some doubt of the reception my news might meetwith. But I had no kinder or more loving congratulations than those ofthe two sisters. Small allusion was made to bygones. But when MissMartha murmured in my ear--
"'You'll forgive my little fussiness and over-anxiety, dear Mary. Onewould be glad to guard one's young friends from some of thedifficulties and disappointments one has known oneself--' I thought ofthe past life of the sisters, and returned her kiss with tenderness.Doubtless she had feared that the merchant might be trifling with myfeelings, and that a thousand other ills might happen when the littlelove affair was no longer under her careful management. But all endingwell, was well; and not even the Bellevue cats were more petted by theold ladies than we two were in our brief and sunny betrothal.
"Sunny, although for the most part it was winter time. When we wouldsit by the fireside in the privileged idleness of lovers, sometimes athome, sometimes in the Cottage parlour; and Ivan would tell of theRussian Reka Dom, and of all the winter beauties and pleasures of thatother river which was for months a frozen highway, with gay sleighsflying, jingling over the snow roads, and peasants wrapped insheepskin crossing from the country to market in the town. How dogsand children rolled together in snow so dry from intense cold that ithardly wet them more than sand. And how the river closed, and when itopened, with all the local traditions connected with these events; andof the stratagems resorted to to keep Jack Frost out of the houses,and of the stores laid up against the siege of the Winter King.
"But through the most interesting of his narratives Fatima's handswere never idle. She seemed to have concentrated all her love for meinto those beautiful taper fingers, which laboured ceaselessly inexquisite needlework on my wedding clothes.
"And when the lilies of the valley were next in blossom, Ivan and Iwere married.
"The blue-stoned ring was cut down to fit my finger, and was, by mydesire, my betrothal ring, and I gave Ivan another instead of it.Inside his was engraven the inscription we had cut upon his tombstoneat Reka Dom,--
"'TO IVAN.'"
It was a long story, and Nurse had been waiting some little time inthe old lady's kitchen when it came to an end.
"And is Ivan--?" Ida hesitatingly began.
"Dead. Many years since, my child," said the little old lady; "youneed not be afraid to speak of him, my dear. All that is past. We usedto hope that we should neither of us long outlive the other, but Godwilled it otherwise. It was very bitter at first, but it is differentnow. The days and hours that once seemed to widen our separation arenow fast bringing us together again."
"Was he about papa's age when he died?" Ida gently asked.
"He was older than your father can have been, my love, I think. He wasa more than middle-aged man. He died of fever. It was in London, butin his delirium he fancied that the river was running by the windows,and when I bathed his head he believed that the cooling drops werefrom the waters of his old home.'
"Didn't he know you?" Ida asked, with sudden sympathy.
"He knew the touch of my hands always, my dear. It was my greatestcomfort. That, and the short time of perfect reason before he sank torest. We had been married thirty years, and I had worn my silverwedding-ring with even more pride than the golden one. There have beenlilies on the grave of the true Ivan for half that time, and will be,perhaps, for yet a little while, till I also am laid beneath them.
"So ends the story, my dear," the little old lady added, after apause.
"I should like to know what became of the old landlord, please," Idasaid.
"If you will ask an old woman like me the further history of thepeople she knew in her youth," said Mrs. Overtheway, smiling, "youmust expect to hear of deaths. Of course he is dead many a long yearsince. We became very intimate with him whilst we were his tenants,and, I believe, cheered the close of his life. He and my father werefast friends, but it was to my mother that he became especiallydevoted. He said she was an exception to her sex, which from his pointof view was a high compliment. He had unbounded confidence in herjudgment, and under her influence, eventually modified many of hispeculiar habits. She persuaded him to allot a very moderate sum tohousekeeping expenses, and to indulge in the economical luxury of atrustworthy servant. He consented to take into use a good suit ofclothes which he possessed, and in these the old man was wont at lastto accompany us to church, and to eat his Sunday dinner with usafterwards. I do not think he was an illiberal man at heart, but hehad been very poor in his youth--('So poor, ma'am,' he said one dayto my mother, 'that I could not live with honour and decency in theestate of a gentleman. I did not live. I starved--and boughtbooks,')--and he seemed unable to shake off the pinching necessity ofyears. A wealthy uncle who had refused to help him whilst he lived,bequeathed all his money to him when he died. But when late in lifethe nephew became rich, habits of parsimony were a second nature, andseemed to have grown chronic and exaggerated under the novel anxietiesof wealth. He still 'starved--and bought books.' During the last yearsof his life he consulted my mother (and, I fancy, other people also)on the merits of various public charities in the place and elsewhere;so that we were not astonished after his death to learn from his willthat he had divided a large part of his fortune amongst charitableinstitutions. With the exception of a few trifling legacies tofriends, the rest of his money was divided in equal and moderatebequests to relatives. He left some valuable books to my father, andthe bulk of his library to the city where he was born."
"Was your mother with him when he died?" Ida asked.
"She was, my dear. But, sadly enough, only at the very last. We wereat the seaside when he was seized by his last illness, and no one toldus, for indeed it is probable that few people knew. At last a letterfrom the servant announced that he was dying, and had been mostanxious to see my mother, and she hastened home. The servant seemedrelieved by her arrival, for the old gentleman was not altogether aneasy patient to nurse. He laughed at the doctor, she said, andwouldn't touch a drop of his medicine, but otherwise was as patient asa sick gentleman could be, and sat reading his Bible all the day long.It was on the bed when my mother found him, but his eyes were dimmingfast. He held out his hands to my mother, and as she bent over himsaid something of which she could only catch three words--'the trueriches.' He never spoke again."
"Poor man?" said Ida: "I think he was very nice. What became of hiscat?"
"Dead--dead--dead!" said the little old lady; "Ida, my child, I willanswer no more questions."
"One more, please," said Ida! "where is that dear, dear Fatima?"
"No, my child, no! Nothing more about her. Dear, dear Fatima, indeed!And yet I will just tell you that she married, and that her husband(older even than I am, and very deaf) is living still. He and I arevery fond of each ot
her, though, having been a handsome man he issensitive about his personal appearance, and will not use a trumpet,which I consider weak. But we get on very well. He smells my flowers,and smiles and nods to me, and says something in a voice so low that Ican't hear it; and I stick a posy in his buttonhole, and smile and nodto him, and say something in a voice so loud that _he_ can't hear it;and so we go on. One day in each year we always spend together, and goto church. The first of November."
"That is--?" said Ida.
"The Feast of All Saints, my child."
"Won't you tell me any more?" Ida asked.
"No, my dear. Not now, at any rate. Remember I am old, and haveoutlived almost all of those I loved in my youth. It is right andnatural that death should be sad in your eyes, my child, and I willnot make a tragedy of the story of Reka Dom.
* * * * *
"Then your real name," said Ida, as she gave the old lady a farewellkiss, "is--"
"Mary Smith, my dear," said Mrs. Overtheway.
* * * * *
Next morning the little old lady went to church as usual, and Ida wasat the window when she returned. When the child had seen her oldfriend into the house she still kept her place, for the postman wascoming down the street, and it was amusing to watch him from door todoor, and to see how large a bundle of letters he delivered at each.At Mrs. Overtheway's he delivered one, a big one, and an odd curiosityabout this letter took possession of Ida. She wished she knew what itwas about, and from whom it came, though, on the face of it, it wasnot likely she would be much the wiser if she did. She was still atthe window when the door of the opposite house was opened, and thelittle old lady came hurriedly out. She had only her cap upon herhead, and she held an open letter in her hand; _the_ letter, it wasevident. When she reached the little green gate she seemed torecollect herself, and, putting her hand to her head, went back intothe house. Ida waited anxiously to see if she would come out again,and presently she appeared, this time in her bonnet, but still withthe letter in her hand. She crossed the street, and seemed to becoming to the house. Then the bell rang, and in she came. Ida'scuriosity became intense, and was not lessened by the fact that thelittle old lady did not come to her, but stayed below talking withsome one. The old gentleman had not returned, so it must be Nurse.
At last the conversation came to an end, and Mrs. Overtheway cameupstairs.
She kissed Ida very tenderly, and inquired after her health; butthough she seemed more affectionate than usual, Ida felt persuadedthat something was the matter. She drew a chair to the fire, and theold lady sat down, saying--
"May I stay a little with you, my dear?"
"Oh, thank you?" said Ida, and put a footstool for the old lady'sfeet.
Mrs. Overtheway stroked her head tenderly for some time in silence,and then said, in a gentle voice--
"I have something to tell you, my dear."
"Another story?" Ida asked. "Oh, thank you, if it is another story."
The old lady was silent, but at last she said, as if to herself--
"Perhaps best so," and added: "yes, my love, I will tell you a story."
Ida thanked her warmly, and another pause ensued.
"I hardly know where to begin, or what to tell you of this story,"said the little old lady at last, seeming to falter for the first timein her Scharazad-like powers of narration.
"Let it be about a Home, please; if you can," said Ida.
"A home!" said the old lady, and strangely enough, she seemed moreagitated than when she had spoken of Reka Dom--"It should have begunwith a broken home, but it shall not. It should end with a unitedhome, God willing. A home! I must begin with a far-away one, a strangeone, on the summit of high cliffs, the home of fearless, powerfulcreatures, white-winged like angels."
"It's a fairy tale," said Ida.
"No, my child, it is true."
"It sounds like a fairy tale," Ida said.
"It shall be a tale of that description, if you like," said the oldlady, after a pause, "but, as I said, the main incidents are true."
"And the white-winged creatures?" Ida asked. "Were they fairies?"
"No, my love; birds. But if to see snowy albatrosses with their hugewhite wings wheeling in circles about a vessel sailing in mid ocean beanything like what I have read of and heard described, fairyland couldhardly show anything more beautiful and impressive."
"Do they fly near ships, then?" Ida asked.
"Yes, my child. I remember my husband describing them to me as he hadonce seen them in southern seas. He said that when he saw them,great, white, and majestic, holding no intercourse with anyone onboard the ship, and yet spreading their wings above her day and nightfor hundreds of miles over the ocean, with folded feet, the huge whitepinions, except for an occasional flap, outstretched in steady sail,never resting, and seemingly never weary, they looked like guardianangels keeping watch over the crew."
"I wonder if they are sorry for the ships that go down?" said Ida,thoughtfully.
Mrs. Overtheway took her hand.
"Do you think it unkind in me to talk of ships, my love?" she asked.
"No, no, no!" Ida exclaimed, "I don't mind _your_ talking about it. Iwish I could talk to the birds that saw papa's ship go down, if therewere any, and ask them how it was, and if he minded it much, and if heremembered me. I used to wish I had been with him, and one night Idreamed about it; but when the water touched me, I was frightened, andscreamed, and woke; and then I was glad I hadn't been there, forperhaps he wouldn't have loved me so much if he had seen that I wasn'tbrave."
The little old lady kissed her tenderly.
"And now the story, please," said Ida, after a pause.
And Mrs. Overtheway began the following story:
Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances Page 4