houses which were to let. My high hopes and eager interest in the
matter were soon quenched by fatigue; but faithful to my promise, I
examined each house in turn. None of them proved satisfactory to my
parents, and they were even less so to me. They were all new, all
commonplace, and all equally destitute of swing-trees, interesting
corners, deep window-seats, or superannuated boxes. Heat, fatigue, and
disappointment at last so overpowered me that my pale face attracted
notice, and my father brought me back to the inn. He carried me
upstairs 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 my
mother.
"It was a shabby little collection of volumes, that parlour library in
the 'Saracen's Head.' There was an old family Bible, a torn copy of
'Culpepper's 'Herbal,' the Homilies in inexpressibly greasy black
calf, a book of songs, a volume called 'Evelina,' which seemed chiefly
remarkable 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, my
dear Ida; you who live in an age of bright, smart story-books, with
clear type, coloured pictures, and gorgeous outsides. You don't know
what small, mean, inartistic 'cuts' enlivened your grandmother's
nursery library, that is, when the books were illustrated at all. You
have no idea how very little amusement was blended with the
instruction, and how much instruction with the amusement in our
playbooks then, and how few there were of them, and how precious those
few were! You can hardly imagine what a treasure I seemed to have
found in a volume which contained several engravings the size of the
page, besides many small wood-cuts scattered through the letter-press.
I lost sight alike of fatigue and disappointment, as I pored over the
pictures, and read bits here and there.
"And such charming pictures there were! With quaint anglers in
steeple-crowned hats, setting forth to fish, or breakfasting under a
tree (untrammelled by the formalities of a nursery meal), or bringing
their 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 a
doll's house; portraits of fish of all kinds, not easily
distinguishable by the unpractised eye; and nicer wood-cuts still of
country scenes, and country towns, and almost all of these with a
river in them. By the time that my father and mother returned, I had
come to the conclusion that the bank of a river was, of all
situations, the most desirable for one's home, and had built endless
bowers in the air like that in which the anglers are seated in the
picture entitled 'The Farewell;' and had imagined myself in a tall hat
and a stiff-bustled dress cooking fish for my favourite brothers after
the recipes in Walton and Cotton's 'Complete Angler.'
"They came back with disappointment on their faces. They had not got
a house, but my mother had got a headache, and we sat down to tea a
dispirited party.
"It is sometimes fortunate as well as remarkable, how soon everybody
knows everything about everybody else, especially in a small town. As
the tea-things went downstairs, our landlord came up to help us in our
difficulty. Had the gentleman succeeded in obtaining a house? If none
of the new lot suited him, the landlord believed that one or more of
older date were to let near the river. It was not the fashionable
quarter, but there had been well-to-do people and some good
substantial residences there.
"Our hopes rose again, and the idea of an old and substantial
residence in an unfashionable quarter was so much more favourable to
nursery interests than the smart gimcrack houses at which we had been
looking, that I should have been anxious to explore that part of the
town to which he directed us, even if it had not possessed a charm
that was now pre-eminent in my eyes. It was near the river.
"My mother was too much tired to attempt further investigations, but I
had completely recovered from my fatigues, and was allowed to go with
my father on the new search. He and I were very good company, despite
the 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, and
enjoyed ourselves in our respective fashions.
"It was a lovely evening. Hand in hand we turned out of the 'Saracen's
Head' into the shingly street, took the turning which led to the
unfashionable quarter, and strolled on and on, in what Scott calls
'social silence.' I was very happy. It was not only a lovely
evening--it was one of these when the sunlight seems no longer mere
sunlight, but has a kind of magical glow, as if a fairy spell had been
cast over everything; when all houses look interesting--all country
lanes inviting--when each hedge, or ditch, or field seems a place made
to 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, its
shrubbery of lilac, holly, or laurustinus, and its creeper-covered
porch. They looked so compact and cosy, so easy to keep tidy, so snug
and sunny, that one fancied the people who lived in them must be
happy, and wondered who they were.
"'Oh, father!' I exclaimed, 'what delightful houses!'
"'They are very pretty, my dear,' he answered; 'but they are much too
small for us; besides which, they are all occupied.'
"I sighed, and we were passing on, when I held him back with another
exclamation.
"'Oh! _look_ at the carnations!' For in one of the gardens large
clumps of splendid scarlet cloves caught my eye.
"My father humoured me, and we drew near to the laurustinus hedge, and
looked over into the gay little garden. As we looked, we became
conscious of what appeared like a heap or bundle of clothing near one
of the beds, which, on lifting itself up, proved to be a tall slender
lady of middle age, who, with her dress tucked neatly round her, a big
print hood on her head, and a trowel in her hand, was busily
administering such tender little attentions as mothers will lavish on
their children, and garden lovers on their flowers. She was not alone
in the garden, as we soon perceived. A shorter and stouter and younger
lady sat knitting by the side of a gentleman in a garden-chair, who
from some defect in his sight, wore a large green shade, which hid the
greater part of his face. The shade was made of covered pasteboard,
and was large and round, and so very like a lamp shade, that I hardly
ever look at one of those modern round globe lamps, my dear, if it
has 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 the
good lady lifted herself up, she saw us, and seemed startled. My
father raised his hat, and apologized politely. 'My little girl was so
much taken with your carnations, madam,' he said, 'that we made bold
to come near enough to look at them, not knowing that any one was in
the garden.'
"She seemed rather flustered, but pushed back her hood, and made a
stiff little curtsey in answer to my father's bow, and murmured
something about our being welcome.
"'Would you care to have some, my dear?' she added, looking at me. I
gave 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 very
distinctly into his ear, as if he were deaf, whereby we heard her
answer,
"'It's a gentleman and his little daughter, James, admiring our
carnations, 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 my
father had thanked these good people 'properly,' as I considered. As
for myself, I had only been able to blush and stammer out something
that was far from expressing my delight with the lovely nosegay I
received. Then the slender lady went back to her gardening. Her sister
took up the knitting which she had laid down, the old gentleman nodded
his 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 ourselves
on the edge of the river. A log lay conveniently on the bank, and
there we seated ourselves. The tide was out, and the river bed was a
bed of mud except for a narrow stream of water that ran down the
middle. But, ah! how the mud glistened in the evening sunshine which
was reflected on it in prismatic colours. Little figures were dotted
here and there over its surface, and seawards the masts of some
vessels 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 the
tide pools, the dark human figures, the black and white seagulls that
sat like onyx pebbles on the river bed, the stream that spread
seawards like a silver scroll, the swans that came sailing, sailing
down the stream with just such a slow and stately pace as white-winged
ships might have come down the river with the tide, to pass (as the
swans 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 silent
enjoyment. Neither do I know what my father's thoughts were, as he sat
with 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 little
houses as 'hostess,' with a sign-board having a fish painted upon it
hanging outside the door, and a bower of woodbine, sweet-briar,
jessamine, and myrtle commanding a view of the river. The day dream
was broken by my father's voice.
"'Mary, my dear, we must go about our business, or what will your
mother say to us? We must see after these houses. We can't live on the
river'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 and
garden on the other side of the road. On the two gateposts were
printed in black Roman letters two words that I could not
understand--_Reka Dom_.
"'What does it mean?' I asked.
"'Reka Dom?' said my father thoughtfully (and he pronounced it _Rayka
Dome_). 'It is Russian. It means River House. Very curious! I suppose
the people who live here are Russians. It's a nice situation--a lovely
view--_lovely_!' and he had turned round to the river, but I caught
his arm.
"'Father, dear, no one lives here. Look!' and I pointed to a board
beyond the gateway, which stated in plain English that the house was
to let.
* * * * *
"By the time that we returned to my mother, Reka Dom was to all
intents and purposes our home.
"It is true that the house was old, rambling, and out of repair, and
that what we heard of the landlord was not encouraging. He was rich,
we were told, but miserly; and 'a very queer old gentleman,' whose
oddness almost amounted to insanity. He had 'made himself so
unpleasant' 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 this
information, prophesied further that he would 'do nothing to the old
place. 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 father
rubbed his head ruefully, and said:
"'You know, Mary, your mother's chief objection to our latest home
was that the grounds were so much too large for our means of keeping
them 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 we
can 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 my
side this is easily to be accounted for. If all the other houses at
which we had looked had proved the direct reverse of what I (on behalf
of myself and my brothers and sisters) was in search of, Reka Dom in a
remarkable degree answered our requirements. To explore the garden was
like a tour in fairy land. It was oddly laid out. Three grass-plots or
lawns, one behind another, were divided by hedges of honeysuckle and
sweet-briar. The grass was long, the flower-borders were borders of
desolation, where crimson paeonies and some other hardy perennials made
the best of it, but the odour of the honeysuckle was luxuriously sweet
in the evening air. And what a place for bowers! The second lawn had
greater things in store for me. There, between two tall elm trees hung
a swing. With a cry of delight I seated myself, seized the ropes, and
gave a vigorous push. But the impetus was strong, and the ropes were
rotten, and I and the swing came to the ground together. This did not
deter me, however, from exploring the third lawn, where I made a
discovery to which that of the swing was as nothing.
"It was not merely that a small path through the shrubbery led me into
a little enclosed piece of ground devoted to those many-shaped,
box-edged little flower-beds characteristic of 'children's
gardens,'--it was not alone that the beds were shaped like letters,
and that there was indisputably an M among them--but they were six in
number. Just one apiece for myself and my brothers and sisters! And
though families of six children are not so very uncommon as to make it
improbable that my father's predecessor should have had the same
number of young ones as himself, the coincidence appeared to my mind
almost supernatural. It really seemed as if some kind old fairy had
conjured up the whole place for our benefit. And--bless the good
godmother!--to crown all, there were two old tea-chests and a
bottomless barrel in the yard.
"Doubtless many causes influenced my father in _his_ leaning towards
Reka Dom, and he did not confide them to me. But I do truly believe
that first and foremost of the attractions was its name. To a real
hearty lover of languages there is a charm in the sight of a strange
character, new words, a yet unknown tongue, which cannot be explained
to those who do not share the taste. And perhaps next to the mystic
attraction of words whose meaning is yet hidden, is to discover traces
of a foreign language in some unexpected and unlikely place. Russian
is not extensively cultivated; my father's knowledge of it was but
slight, and this quiet little water-side town an unlikely place for an
inscription in that language. It was curious, and then interesting,
and then the quaint simple title of the house took his fancy. Besides
this, though he could not but allow that there was reason in my
mother's views on the subject of large grounds in combination with one
man-of-all-work, he liked plenty of space and shrubbery where he could
wander about--his hands behind his back--without being disturbed; and
for his own part he had undoubtedly felt more pleasure in the
possession of large grounds than annoyance at seeing them neglected.
So the garden tempted him. Finally, there was a room opening upon a
laurel walk, which had at one time been a library. The shelves--old,
common, dirty and broken--were still there, and on the most secure of
them the housekeeper kept her cheese and candles, and an old shawl and
bonnet.
"'The place is made for us!' I exclaimed on my return from discovering
the old barrel and tea-chests. My father was standing in the library
looking out upon the garden, and he did not say No.
"From the old woman we learnt something of the former tenants. She was
a good-natured old soul, with an aggrieved tone of voice, due probably
to the depressing effects of keeping an empty house for a cantankerous
landlord. The former tenant's name was Smith, she said (unmistakably
English this!). But his lady was a _Roosian_, she believed. They had
lived in _Roosia_, and some of the children, having been born there,
were little _Roosians_, and had _Roosian_ names. She could not speak
herself, having no knowledge of the country, but she had heard that
the _Roosians_ were heathens, though Mr. Smith and his family went
regularly to church. They had lived by a river, she believed, and
their old home was called by the same outlandish name they had given
to this. She had heard that it meant a house by the water-side, but
could not say, knowing no language but her own, and having (she was
thankful to say) found it sufficient for all purposes. She knew that
before Mr. Smith's time the house was called Montague Mount, and there
was some sense in that name. Though what the sense was, she did not
offer 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 six
gardens!' he exclaimed. 'The one will condemn the place, I fear, but
we 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, and
passed rather a poor examination as to their condition, and what might
be expected from the landlord. That my father endeavoured to conceal
his personal bias, and that I made no secret of mine. At last my
mother interrupted some elaborately practical details by saying in
her gentle voice--
"'I think choosing a home is something like choosing a companion for
life. It is chiefly important to like it. There must be faults
everywhere. Do you take to the place, my dear?'
"'I like it certainly,' said my father. 'But the question is not what
I like, but what you like.'
"Then I knew it was settled, and breathed freely. For though my father
always consulted my mother's wishes, she generally contrived to choose
what 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 not
exaggerated his oddity. But one of his peculiarities was a most
fortunate one for us. He was a bibliomaniac--a lover and collector of
valuable and curious books. When my father called on him to arrange
about the house, he found him sitting almost in rags, apparently
dining upon some cheese-parings, and surrounded by a library, the
value of which would have fed and clothed him with comfort for an
almost indefinite period. Upon the chair behind him sat a large black
cat with yellow eyes.
"When my father was ushered in, he gazed for a moment in silent
astonishment at the unexpected sight. Books in shelf after shelf up to
the ceiling, and piled in heaps upon the floor. As he stood
speechless, the little old man put down the plate, gathered his ragged
dressing-gown about him, and, followed by the cat, scrambled across
the 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 the
day when I did not love them.'
"He confessed afterwards to my mother that not less than two hours
elapsed before Reka Dom was so much as spoken of. Then his new
acquaintance was as anxious to secure him for a tenant as he had been
to 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 another
thing to put the house right for men who don't know an Elzevir from an
annual in red silk. One fellow came here who would have given me five
pounds more than I wanted for the place; but he put his vile hat upon
my books. Lord! Lord!'
"The old man's strongest effort in my father's favour, however, was
the proposal of a glass of wine. He seemed to have screwed himself up
to 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 my
books. Come and see them, whenever you like.'
"'The bookshelves shall be repaired, sir,' was his final promise in
answer to a hint from my father, who (it being successful, and he
being a very straight-forward man) was ever afterwards ashamed of this
piece of diplomacy. 'And the fire-place must be seen to. Lord! Lord! A
man can live anywhere, but valuable books must be taken care of. Would
you believe it? I have a fire in this room three times a week in bad
weather. And fuel is terribly dear, terribly dear. And that slut in
the kitchen burns as much as if she had the care of the Vatican
Library. She said she couldn't roast the meat without. "Then give me
cold meat!" I said; but she roasts and boils all the same. So last
week I forbade the butcher the house, and we've lived on cheese ever
since, 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 a
family. Lord! Lord! How a man can keep a family and books together, I
can't imagine. However, I suppose children live chiefly on porridge.'
"Which supposition served for long as a household joke against my
brothers, whose appetite for roast meat was not less than that of
other 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 in
which I told the successful result of my embassy to the nursery
conclave. I certainly had not the remotest claim to credit in the
matter, but I received an ovation proportionate to the good news I
brought. I told my story skilfully, and made the six gardens the
crowning point; at which climax my brother and sisters raised a shout
that so far exceeded the average of even nursery noises, that my
mother hurried to the spot, where our little sister Phil flung herself
into 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 soon
be tired of our new fancy, and find 'plenty to complain of' in Reka
Dom as elsewhere. (It is nursery wisdom to chasten juvenile enthusiasm
by such depressing truths.) And undoubtedly both people and places are
apt to disappoint one's expectations on intimate acquaintance; but
there are people and places who keep love always, and such an one was
Reka Dom.
"I hardly know what to tell you of it, Ida. The happy years we spent
there were marked by no wonderful occurrences, and were not enlivened
by any particular gaiety. Beyond our own home our principal treat was
to take tea in the snug little house where we made our first
acquaintances. Those good ladies proved kind friends to us. Their buns
were not to be surpassed, and they had pale albums, and faded
treasures of the preceding generation, which it was our delight to
overhaul. The two sisters lived with their invalid brother, and that
was the household. Their names were Martha and Mary, and they
cherished a touching bit of sentiment in reference to the similarity
between their circumstances and those of the Family of Bethany.
"'I think it reminds us of what we ought to be, my dear,' Miss Mary
said to me one day. 'Only it is I who should have been called Martha,
for Martha is far more spiritually minded.' Humility was the most
prominent virtue in the character of these good ladies, and they
carried it almost to excess.
"I remember, as a child, thinking that even the holy sisters of
Bethany could hardly have been more good than the Misses Brooke, but I
was quite unable to connect any sentiment with the invalid brother. He
spoke little and did less, and yet his sisters continually quoted his
sayings and criticisms, and spoke of his fine taste and judgment; but
of all that he was supposed to say, only a few croaking common-places
ever met our ears.