morning, valiant, but exhausted from the terrors of the night, to
breakfast, his host invariably asks him how he slept. When we came
down, we found Kate and the Irishman alone together in the
breakfast-room. Now it certainly was in keeping with our adventure
when he stepped forward, and, bowing profoundly, asked how we had
passed the night; but, in spite of the gravity of his face, there was
a twinkle in the big brown eyes which showed us that we were being
made fun of; and I felt slightly indignant with our friend, who had
faithfully promised not to betray us to Miss Lucy, and might, I
thought, have saved us from the ridicule of the Irishman. The rest of
the company began to assemble, however, and to our relief the subject
was dropped. But though the Irishman kept our secret, we had every
reason to suspect that he did not forget it; he looked terribly
roguish through breakfast, and was only kept in order by Kate's severe
glances.
"'Always breathe through the nose,' he suddenly began. 'It moderates
the severity of the air, is less trying to the lungs, and prevents
snoring.'
"'Very true,' said the major, who was sensible, and liked instructive
observations.
"'It may be laid down as an axiom,' continued the Irishman, gravely,
'that the man who snores is sure to disturb somebody; and also that
the man who doesn't snore till he dies, is not likely to live to be a
snoring ghost when he is dead.'
"Kate looked daggers. The major laughed, and said, 'Let me give you
some beef.' When he didn't understand a remark he always laughed, and
generally turned the conversation to eatables, in which he was pretty
safe; for food is common ground, and a slight laugh answers most
remarks, unless at a serious meeting or a visit of condolence. A
little later the Irishman asked: 'What's the origin of the expression
to stir up with a long pole?' which turned the conversation to wild
beasts. But he presently inquired: 'What's the meaning of putting a
thing up the spout?'
"'Pawning it,' said the major, promptly.
"'People pawn their family jewels sometimes,' said Pat. 'Did you ever
hear of anybody pawning the family ghosts?' he asked, suddenly turning
to me. I gave a distressed 'No,' and he continued in a whisper, 'You
never saw a ghost up the spout?'
"But, before I could answer, he caught Kate's eye, and, making a
penitent face, became silent.
"We were in the drawing-room after breakfast, when the Irishman passed
the window outside, whistling 'Kathleen Mavourneen.' We were sitting
at Kate's feet, and she got up, and whispering, 'He's got something to
show you, but he wouldn't let me tell,' went out into the garden, we
following her.
"There we found the Irishman, with a long pole, which he was waving
triumphantly in the air. He bowed as we approached.
"'This, young ladies,' he said, 'is the original long pole spoken of
at the breakfast-table. With this I am about to stir up and bring
forth for your inspection the living and identical ghost whose snoring
disturbed your repose last night.'
"The little Irishman's jokes reassured me. I guessed that he had
found some clue to our mysterious noise; but with Fatima it was
otherwise. She had been too deeply frightened to recover so easily.
She clung tremblingly to me, as I was following him, and whispered
'I'd rather not.'
"On her behalf I summoned courage to remonstrate.
"'If you please, sir,' I said, 'Fatima would rather not; and, if you
please, don't tease us any more.'
"The young lady added her entreaties, but they were not needed. The
good-natured little gentleman no sooner saw Fatima's real distress
than he lowered his pole, and sank upon his knees on the grass, with a
face of genuine penitence.
"'I _am_ so sorry I've been tormenting you so!' he exclaimed. 'I
forgot you were really frightened, and you see I knew it wasn't a
ghost.'
"'I heard it,' murmured Fatima resolutely, with her eyes half shut.
"'So did I,' said the Irishman, gaily; 'I've heard it dozens of times.
It's the owls.'
"We both exclaimed.
"'Ah!' he said, comically, 'I see you don't believe me! That's what
comes of telling so many small fibs. But it's true, I assure you. (And
the brown eyes did look particularly truthful.) Barn-door owls do make
a noise that is very like the snoring of an old man. And there are
some young ones who live in the spout at the corner of the wall of
your room. They're snoring and scrambling in and out of that spout all
night.'
"It was quite true, Ida, as we found, when Fatima was at last
persuaded to visit the corner where the rooms had been pulled down,
and where, decorated with ivy, the old spout formed a home for the
snoring owls. By the aid of the long pole he brought out a young one
to our view--a shy, soft, lovely, shadow-tinted creature, ghostly
enough to behold, who felt like an impalpable mass of fluff, utterly
refused to be kissed, and went savagely blinking back into his spout
at the earliest possible opportunity. His snoring alarmed us no more."
"And the noise really was that?" said Ida.
"It really was, my dear."
"It's a splendid story," said Ida; "you see, I didn't go to sleep
_this_ time. And what became of everybody, please? Did the red-haired
young lady marry the Irishman?"
"Very soon afterwards, my dear," said Mrs. Overtheway. "We kept up
our friendship, too, in after life; and I have many times amused their
children with the story of the Snoring Ghost."
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, and
escorted by Nurse in a short walk for the good of her health. It was
not very amusing, but the air was fresh and the change pleasant,
although the street did not prove quite that happy region it had
looked from the nursery windows. Moreover, however strong one may
fancy one has become indoors, the convalescent's first efforts out of
doors are apt to be as feeble as those of a white moth that has just
crept from the shelter of its cocoon, giddy with daylight, and
trembling in the open air. By-and-by this feeling passed away, and one
afternoon Ida was allowed to go by herself into the garden, "just for
a run."
The expression was metaphorical, for she was far from being able to
run; but she crept quietly up and down the walks, and gathered some
polyanthuses, putting them to her face with that pleasure which the
touch of fresh flowers gives to an invalid. Then she saw that the
hedge was budding, and that the gap through which she had scrambled
was filled up. Ida thought of the expedition and smiled. It had
certainly 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 was
sent for by her uncle. She had not been downstairs in the evenings
since her illness. These interviews with the reserved old gentleman
were always formal, uncomfortable affairs, from which Ida escaped with
a sense of relief, and that evening--being weak with illness and
disappointed by Mrs. Overtheway's absence--her nervousness almost
amounted to terror.
Nurse did her best in the way of encouragement. It was true that Ida's
uncle 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 best
frock, and eat almonds and raisins in the dining-room, as if she were
the lady of the house?
"Though I am sorry for the child," Nurse confided to the butler when
she had left Ida with her uncle, "for his looks are enough to frighten
a 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 a
cheerful face."
But before the kind-hearted old man-servant could find a plausible
pretext for intruding into the dining-room, and giving an encouraging
smile from behind his master's chair, Ida was in the nursery once
more.
She had honestly endeavoured to be good. She had made her curtsey at
the door without a falter--weak as she was. She had taken her place at
the head of the table with all dignity, and had accepted the almonds
and raisins with sufficiently audible thanks. She had replied prettily
enough to her uncle's inquiries after her health; and, anxious to keep
up the conversation, had told him that the hedge was budding.
"_What's_ the matter with the hedge?" he had asked rather sharply; and
when Ida repeated her bit of spring news, he had not seemed to be
interested. 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 was
apt to scrutinize Ida in a way that seemed to scatter all her presence
of mind. This night of all nights she found his eyes upon her oftener
than usual. Whenever she looked up he was watching her, and her
discomfort increased accordingly. At last he broke the silence
abruptly by saying:
"You were very sorry, child, were you not, when the news came of your
father'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, almost
reprovingly. "You did not know him, it is true; but you must remember
hearing that your poor father had been drowned at sea?"
Ida's only reply was such a passionate outburst of weeping that her
uncle rang the bell in helpless dismay, and was thankful when the old
butler lifted the child tenderly in his arms and carried her back to
Nurse. The old gentleman's feelings were more kindly than his looks,
and he was really as much concerned as puzzled by the effect of his
remarks. When the butler returned with the report that Ida was going
quietly to bed, he sent her his "love" (the word seemed to struggle
with some difficulty from behind his neck-cloth), and all the
remaining 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 I
am very sorry, and please put the almonds and raisins into my box. I
will make a dolls feast with them, if ever I make dolls' feasts
again."
With which the weary little maid turned upon her pillow, and at last
forgot her troubles in sleep.
The next morning Brown delivered a similar message from the old
gentleman. He had gone away by an early train on business, but had
left Ida his love.
"It's very kind of him," said Ida, again. But she went sadly on with
some paper she was cutting into shapes. She was in low spirits this
morning.
Comfort was at hand, however. In the course of the day there came a
message from Mrs. Overtheway, asking Nurse to allow Ida to go to tea
with her that evening. And Nurse consented.
Ida could hardly believe her senses when she found herself by the
little old lady's own fireside. How dainty her room was! How full the
bookshelves were! How many pictures hung upon the walls!
Above a little table, on which were innumerable pretty things, hung
two pictures. One of these was a portrait of a man who, from his
apparent age, might have been the old lady's son, but that he was not
at all like her. He might have been good-looking, though, Ida thought,
and he had a kind, intelligent face, full of energy and
understanding, and that is better still. Close under his portrait hung
a little sketch. It was of a road running by a river. Opposite to the
river was a house and some trees. It was a pretty sketch, Ida thought,
and the road looked interesting, as some roads do in pictures--making
one wish to get into the frame and walk down them to see whither they
lead. Below the sketch were some curious-looking characters written in
ink, and of these Ida could make nothing.
Tea was soon ready. It was spread out on a little table by itself. The
white cloth seemed to Ida the whitest she had ever seen, the silver
and glass glittered, the china was covered with a rosebud pattern, and
a 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 of
the very best--even the waiting-maid was pretty, and had something of
the old lady's smile.
When she had finished her duties by taking away the things, and
putting the tea-table into a corner, the two friends drew up to the
fire.
"You look better for tea, my child," said the little old lady. "Do you
eat enough at home?"
"As much as I can," said Ida, "but I am more hungry when somebody
else has tea with me. There very seldom was anybody till you came
though. Only once or twice Lady Cheetham's housekeeper has been to
tea. She is Nurse's father's first cousin, and 'quite the lady,' Nurse
says. So she won't let her have tea in the kitchen, so both she and
Nurse have tea in the nursery, and we have lots of tea-cakes and jam,
and Nurse keeps saying, 'Help yourself, Miss Ida! Make yourself at
home, Mrs. Savory!' And, you know, at other times, she's always
telling me not to be all night over my tea. So I generally eat a good
deal then, and I often laugh, for Nurse and Mrs. Savory are so funny
together. But Mrs. Savory's very kind, and last time she came she
brought me a pincushion, and the time before she gave me a Spa mug and
two apples."
Mrs. Overtheway laughed, too, at Ida's rambling account, and the two
were 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 that
meant, "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 the
furniture which perhaps there were. Ida's eyes followed her, and then
she remembered the picture, and said:
"Oh! would you please tell me what the writing means under that pretty
little sketch?"
The little old lady smiled rather sadly, and looked at the sketch in
silence for a few moments. Then she said:
"It is Russian, my dear. Their letters are different from ours. The
words 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, and
twisting some of the rings upon her little hand, and Ida felt ashamed
of having asked.
"I beg your pardon," she said, imploringly. "I was very rude, dear
Mrs. 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 into
day-dreams when I look at it. It brings back the memories of a great
deal of pleasure and a great deal of pain. But it is one advantage of
being old, little Ida, that Time softens the painful remembrances, and
leaves us the happy ones, which grow clearer every day."
"Is it about yourself?" Ida asked, timidly. She had not quite
understood the little old lady's speech; indeed, she did not
understand many things that Mrs. Overtheway said, but they were very
satisfactory companions for all that.
"Yes, it is about myself. And since there is a dear child who cares
about old Mrs. Overtheway, and her prosy stories, and all that befell
her long ago," said the little old lady, smiling affectionately at
Ida, "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 story
is as much for myself as you. I tell myself bits of it every evening
after tea, more so now than I used to do. I look far back, and I
endeavour to look far forward. I try to picture a greater happiness,
and companionship more perfect than any I have known; and when I shall
be able to realize them, I shall have found a better Home than Reka
Dom."
Ida crept to the little old lady's feet, and softly stroked the
slipper that rested on the fender. Then, while the March wind howled
beyond the curtains, she made herself a cosy corner by the fire, and
composed herself to hear the story.
"I remember," said Mrs. Overtheway. "I remember Reka Dom. It was our
new home.
"Circumstances had made it necessary that we should change our
residence, 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 and
small shops, silent, sunny, and rather dull--on the banks of a river.
"My health at this time was far from robust; but there is compensation
even for being delicate in that spring-time of youth, when the want of
physical strength is most irksome. If evening parties are forbidden,
and long walks impossible, the fragile member of the family is, on the
other hand, the first to be considered in the matter of small
comforts, or when there is an opportunity for 'change of air.' I
experienced this on the occasion when our new home was chosen. It had
been announced to us that our father and mother were going away for
one night, and that we were to be very good in the absence of those
authorized keepers of the peace. We had not failed ourselves to
enlarge this information by the discovery that they were going to the
little 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 told
that I was to go with them. I had been unusually drooping, and it was
supposed that the expedition would revive me. My own joy was
unbounded, and that of my brothers and sisters was hardly less. They
were generously glad for my sake, and they were glad, also, that one
of the nursery conclave should be on the spot when the great choice
was made. We had a shrewd suspicion that in the selection of a house
our elders would be mainly influenced by questions of healthy
situation, due drainage, good water supply, moderate rent, and so
forth; to the neglect of more important considerations, such as odd
corners for hide-and-seek, deep window-seats, plenty of cupboards, and
a garden adapted to the construction of bowers rather than to the
cultivation of vegetables. I do not think my hopes of influencing the
parental decision were great; but still we all felt that it was well
that I should be there, and my importance swelled with every piece of
advice 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 more
grown-up in his views than the rest, and considering the question from
an elderly point of view. 'But if you don't take it out one way, you
have it another,' he continued. A manly-sounding sentence, which
impressed us all. 'Don't think about smartness, Mary,' he went on,
with a grand air of renouncing vanities; 'fine entrance, you know, and
front door. But a good back yard, if possible, and some empty
outhouses for carpenters' shops; and if you could meet with a place
with a few old boxes and barrels lying about, for rafts on the river
and so forth, it would be a good thing.'
"'I want a tidy box for a new baby-house, _dreadfully_,' added a
sister.
"'I hope there'll be deep window-places,' sighed the luxurious Fatima,
'with print patchwork cushions, like those at the farm. And I hope
some of them will face west, for the sunsets.'
"'Above all'--and it was the final and most impressive charge I
received--'whatever else is wanting, let us have two tall trees for a
swing.'
"Laden with responsibility, but otherwise light-hearted enough, I set
out with my parents by the early coach, which was to put us down about
mid-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 character
exercised so strong an influence over my young days, that I think, my
dear Ida, that I must take the old woman's privilege of
discursiveness, and tell you something about him.
"I remember that he was a somewhat mysterious personage in our young
eyes. We knew little of his early life, and what we did know only
enhanced the romantic mystery which we imagined to hang round it. We
knew that he had seen many foreign lands, and in those days much
travelling was rare. This accounted for the fact that, absent and
somewhat unpractical as he was at home, he was invaluable on a
journey, making arrangements, and managing officials with the
precision of old habit. Where he had learnt his peculiar courtesy and
helpfulness with those under his charge was less obvious. My mother
said he had been accustomed to 'good society' in his youth, though we
lived 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 with
the 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 have
been concerned in not a few battles by land and sea; to be deep in
secrets of state, and to have lived on terms of intimacy with several
kings and queens. His appearance was sufficiently striking to favour
our dreams on his behalf. He had a tall, ungainly figure, made more
ungainly by his odd, absent ways; but withal he was an unmistakable
gentleman. I have heard it said of him that he was a man from whom no
errors in taste could be feared, and with whom no liberties could ever
be taken. He had thick hair of that yellow over which age seems to
have no power, and a rugged face, wonderfully lighted up by eyes of
rare germander blue. His hair sometimes seemed to me typical of his
mind and tastes, which Time never robbed of their enthusiasm.
"With age and knowledge the foolish fancies I wove about my father
melted away, but the peculiar affection I felt for him, over and above
my natural love as a daughter, only increased as I grew up. Our tastes
were harmonious, and we always understood each other; whereas Fatima
was apt to be awed by his stateliness, puzzled by his jokes, and at
times provoked by his eccentricities. Then I was never very robust in
my youth; and the refined and considerate politeness which he made a
point of displaying in his own family were peculiarly grateful to me.
That good manners (like charity) should begin at home, was a pet
principle with him, and one which he often insisted upon to us.
"'If you will take my advice, young people,' he would say, 'you will
be careful never to let your sisters find other young gentlemen more
ready and courteous, nor your brothers find other young ladies more
gentle and obliging than those at home.'
"My father certainly practised what he preached, and it would not have
been easy to find a more kind and helpful travelling companion than
the one with whom my mother and I set forth that early morning in
search of our new abode.
"I was just becoming too much tired to care to look any longer out of
the window, when the coach rumbled over the pebbly street into the
courtyard of the 'Saracen's Head.'
"I had never stayed at an inn before. What a palace of delights it
seemed to me! It is true that the meals were neither better nor better
cooked than those at home, and that the little room devoted to my use
was far from being as dainty as that which Fatima and I habitually
shared; but the keen zest of novelty pervaded everything, and the
faded chintz and wavy looking-glass of No. 25 are pleasant memories
still. Moreover, it had one real advantage over my own bedroom. High
up, 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 its
ripples as if countless hosts of tiny naiads each held a mirror to
catch his rays. My home had been inland, and at some distance from a
river, and the sight of water was new and charming to me. I could see
people strolling along the banks; and then a boat carrying sails of a
rich warm brown came into view and passed slowly under my eye, with a
stately 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 say
that the nursery party without exception regarded dinner in the light
of a troublesome necessity of existence. We were apt to grudge the
length and formalities of the meal; to want to go out, or not to want
to come in; or possibly the dining-room had been in use as a kite
manufactory, or a juvenile artist's studio, or a doll's dressmaker's
establishment, and we objected to make way for the roast meat and
pudding. But on this occasion I took an interest in the dignities of
the dinner-table, and examined the plates and dishes, and admired the
old-fashioned forks and spoons, and puzzled over the entwined initials
on their handles.