showed me,' or 'Dear James hopes that his young friends keep up their
practising. He considers music such a resource,' etc., etc.
"I believe they did hold conversations with him in which he probably
assented to their propositions, and they persuaded themselves that he
was very good company. And, indeed, he may have been all that they
believed; I can only say that to me dear James's remarks never
exceeded, 'Good-day, Miss. How are your excellent parents?' or some
similar civility. I really was afraid of him. There is something
appalling in a hoarse voice coming from under a green shade, and
connected with eyes you cannot meet, and features that are always
hidden. Beyond that shade we never saw to the day of his death.
"This occurred about four years after we first knew them. I well
remember the visit of condolence on which I accompanied my mother, the
bitter grief of the sisters, and the slow dropping of Miss Mary's
tears on to her black dress. Wonderful indeed is love! The most
talented and charming companion in the world could not have filled to
them the place of the helpless, uninteresting invalid who had passed
away.
"The Misses Brooke caused a commotion in the gossiping world of our
little town by going to the funeral. It was not the custom for ladies
to go to funerals, and, as a general rule, the timid sisters would not
have ventured to act against public opinion; but on this occasion they
were resolute. To hear the voice of authority meet them with the very
words wherewith Divine lips had comforted those other sisters, would
comfort them, as nothing else could. I remember how from a window we
watched the funeral with childish awe and curiosity--the thrill with
which we heard a maid announce 'the coffin,' and caught sight of the
flapping pall, and tried to realize that old Mr. Brooke was
underneath. Then close behind it came the two figures we knew so well,
veiled, black, and bent, and clinging together in the agony of that
struggle between faith and loss which every loving soul is some time
called on to endure. As we leant out of the open window, crying
bitterly in sympathy with them, and with the gloomy excitement of the
occasion, they raised themselves a little and walked more steadily.
The Rector's clear voice was cutting the air with the pathos of an
unusual sympathy.
'I am the Resurrection and the Life--saith the Lord.'
"I understood then, and have never wondered since, how it was that the
Misses Brooke braved the gossip of the neighbourhood, and followed
their brother's body to the grave.
"These good people were, as I have said, our chief friends; but Reka
Dom itself afforded us ample amusement. The six children who had lived
there before us were a source of unfailing interest. The old woman of
the house remained about the place for a short time in the capacity of
charwoman, and she suffered many inquiries on our part as to the
names, ages, and peculiarities of our predecessors. As she had
'charred' for them, she was able to satisfy our curiosity to a
considerable extent, and then great was the pleasure of retailing to
our mother, as she sat knitting in the twilight, the anecdotes we had
collected of 'the little Russians.'
"'The Little Russians' certainly did much to cement our attachment to
Reka Dom. Their history was the history of our home. It was the
romance of the walks we played in, the swing we sat in, the gardens we
tended every day. To play at being the little Russians superseded all
other games. To 'pretend' that the little Russians were with us, and
to give dolls' entertainments in their honour, supplanted all former
fancies. Their gardens, by-the-by, were not allotted to their
successors without some difficulty, and the final decision involved a
disappointment to me. It seemed as if there could not be two opinions
as to the propriety of my having the letter M. But on further
consideration it appeared that as the remaining letters did not fit
the names of my brothers and sisters, some other way of distributing
them must be found. My mother at last decided that the letters of the
six beds were to be written on six separate bits of paper, and put in
a bag, and that one was to be drawn by each in turn. I still hoped
that I might draw the letter M, but it was not to be. That large and
sunny bed fell to my youngest brother, and I drew the letter I. Now
not only was the bed little more than a fourth of the size of that
which I had looked on as my own, but being very much in the shade, it
was not favourable to flowers. Then the four divisions of the letter M
afforded some scope for those effective arrangements which haunt one's
spring dreams for the coming summer; but what could be done with a
narrow 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 when
transplanted to some place they do not like, so immovably flourishing
in a home that suits them!)
"What I did was to make the best of my fate. After trying to reduce
the lilies of the valley to one neat group, and to cultivate gayer
flowers in the rest of the bed, and after signally failing in both
attempts, I begged a bit of spare ground in the big garden for my
roses and carnations, and gave up my share of the Russian plat to the
luxuriant lilies.
"It had belonged to the eldest boy. One of those born in Russia, and
with the outlandish names of which the charwoman spoke. His name was
Ivan. 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 was
Oliver, and of digging up the middle of the O, and effecting a round
bed of unrivalled brilliancy, with a white rose for the centre-piece
and crown. Once in the year, however, I had my revenge. In spring my
lilies of the valley were the finest to be seen. We had a custom that
all through the flower season a bouquet was laid by my mother's plate
before she came down to breakfast, and very proud we were when they
came from our own gardens. There were no horticultural wonders in
these nosegays, but in my short season of triumph, the size and
fragrance of my flowers never failed to excite admiration; and many
grown-up people besides my mother were grateful for bouquets from my
narrow bed. Credit in the matter I deserved none, for Ivan's lilies
took care of themselves.
"Having learnt the names of the little Russians, we had no difficulty
in discovering to which of them the respective letter beds had
belonged; and one of our amusements was that each should endeavour to
carry out what (so far as we could learn) had been the habits and
customs of the little Russian to whose garden he had succeeded. Then
we had a whole class of partisan games which gave us wonderful
entertainment. Sometimes we pretended to be Scottish chieftains, or
feudal barons of England, or chiefs of savage tribes. Our gardens
were always the lands we had inherited or conquered, and we called
ourselves by the names of the little Russians. When we were Highland
chiefs, I remember, we put Mac indiscriminately before all the names;
in some cases with a comical, and in others with a very satisfactory
effect. As chief of the MacIvans I felt justly proud of my title, but
a brother who represented the MacElizabeths was less fortunate. In the
sham battles our pet animals (we each had one) did duty for retainers,
much to their bewilderment. The dogs, indeed, would caper about, and
bark round the opposing parties in a way that was at least
inspiriting; but my Sandy Tom brandished his tail and took flying
leaps upon no principle whatever; and as to Fatima's tortoise, it
never budged from the beginning of the conflict to the end. Once,
indeed, by strewing dandelion heads in the direction of the enemy's
ground she induced him to advance, and at the cry of 'Forward,
MacPeters!' he put forth a lazy leg, and with elephantine dignity led
the attack, on the way to his favourite food. But (in spite of the
fable) his slow pace was against him, and in the ensuing _melee_ he
was left far behind.
"I could not learn much about Ivan, but of what I did discover some
things were easy enough for me to follow. He was fond of boating, a
taste 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, and
I heartily approved his choice in this respect.
"In helping to unpack my father's library, I had discovered a copy of
Walton and Cotton's 'Angler,' similar in every respect, but its good
condition, to the one that had charmed me at the inn. Sometimes the
precious volume was lent to me, and with it in my lap, and my arms
round the ropes of the swing, I passed many a happy hour. What fancies
I wove after studying those quaint, suggestive old prints! As sweet as
that 'contexture of woodbines, sweet-briar, and myrtle' in which the
anglers sat and sipped orange punch at Tottenham. The characters of
_Piscater_, _Venater_, and _Auceps_, and the style of their
conversations by the wayside, I found by no means unlike those of the
Pilgrim's Progress. The life-like descriptions of nature (none the
less attractive at my age from being quaintly mixed with fable and
symbolism, and pointed with pious morals) went straight to my heart;
and though I skipped many of the fish chapters, I re-read many of the
others, and 'The Complete Angler' did not a little to feed my strong
natural love for out-door life and country pleasures, to confirm my
habit of early rising, and to strengthen my attachment to the
neighbourhood of a river.
"But my father's library furnished another volume for my garden
studies. From him I inherited some of that taste which finds a magic
attraction in dictionaries and grammars; and I only wish that I had
properly mastered about half the languages in which it was the delight
of my girlhood to dabble. As yet, however, I only looked at the
'grammar corner' with ambitious eyes, till one day there came upon me
the desire to learn Russian. I asked my father for a Russian grammar,
and he pointed out the only one that he possessed. My father seldom
refused to lend us his books, and made no inquiries as to why we
wanted them; but he was intensely strict about their proper treatment,
so that we early learnt to turn over leaves from the top, to avoid
dogs' ears, and generally to treat books properly and put them away
punctually. 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 French
edition, interleaved for notes. The notes were my father's, and in
English, which was of some assistance, and I set myself resolutely to
learn the alphabet. But my progress was slow, and at last I got my
father to write _Reka Dom_ for me in Russian character, as I had
determined to master these few letters first and then proceed. I soon
became familiar with them, and was not a little proud of the
achievement. I made a large copy to fasten upon the nursery wall; I
wrote it in all my books; and Fatima, who could not be induced to
attack the fat grammar with me, became equally absorbed on her part in
the effort to reduce the inscription to cross-stitch for the benefit
of her sampler.
"I borrowed the fat grammar again, and, in spite of my father's
warnings that it was too difficult for me as yet, I hoped soon to be
proficient in the language of the little Russians. But warnings from
one's elders are apt to come true, and after a few vain efforts I left
the tough old volume in its corner and took to easier pastimes.
"I had always an inventive turn, and was, as a rule, the
director-in-chief of our amusements. I know I was often very tiresome
and tyrannical in the ensuing arrangements, and can only hope the
trouble I took on these occasions on behalf of my brothers and
sisters, served in their eyes to balance my defects. I remember one
device of mine that proved particularly troublesome.
"When sham battles had ended in real quarrels, and following in the
footsteps of the little Russians was becoming irksome--(especially to
Fatima, whose predecessor--Peter--had been of a military turn, and had
begun fortifications near the kitchen garden which she was incompetent
to carry out) a new idea struck me. I announced that letters properly
written and addressed to the little Russians, 'Reka Dom, Russia,' and
posted in the old rhubarb-pot by the tool-house, would be duly
answered. The replies to be found in a week's time at the same office.
"The announcement was received with delight, and no doubt was ever
expressed as to the genuineness of the answers which I regularly
supplied, written, by the by, in excellent English, but with Reka Dom
neatly effected in Russian characters on the note-paper. In the first
place, I allowed no awkward inquiries into the machinery of my little
plots for the benefit of the rest; and in the second, we had all, I
think, a sort of half-and-half belief, a wilful credulity in reference
to our many fancies (such as fairies and the like), of which it is
impossible to give the exact measure. But when, the six weekly letters
having become rather burdensome, I left off writing answers from Ivan
to myself, the others began to inquire why Ivan never wrote now. As
usual, I refused to give any explanations, and after inventing several
for themselves which answered for awhile, they adopted by general
consent an idea put forth by little Phillis. The child was sitting one
day 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 an
air 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 fully
persuaded of it. No chair was set for him at the dolls' feasts, and I
gained a sort of melancholy distinction as being without a partner
now. 'You know Mary has no little Russian, since Ivan is dead.'
"When our visible pets died, we buried them with much pomp, to the
sound of a drum and a tin trumpet, in a piece of ground by the
cabbage-bed; but in the present instance that ceremony was impossible.
We resolved, however, to erect a gravestone to the memory of our fancy
friend in his own garden. I had seen letters cut on stone, and was
confident that with a chisel and hammer nothing could be easier. These
the nursery tool-box furnished. I wrote out an elaborate inscription
headed by Reka Dom in Russian characters, and we got a stone and set
to work. The task, however, was harder than we had supposed. My long
composition was discarded, and we resolved to be content with this
simple sentence, _To the memory of Ivan_. But 'brevity is the soul of
wit,' and the TO took so long to cut, that we threw out three more
words, and the epitaph finally stood thus:
TO IVAN.
"In a rude fashion this was accomplished; and with crape on our arms
and 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 emancipation
from nursery authority and childish frocks, Fatima and I found
ourselves grown-up young ladies, free to fashion our costume to our
own tastes, and far from Reka Dom. Yes, we had changed our home again.
The River House was ours no longer. Childhood also had slipped from
our grasp, but slowly as the years had seemed to pass, they had not
sufficed to accomplish every project we had made in them. Not one of
those long summers by the river had seen that gorgeous display of
flowers in our garden which in all good faith and energy we planned
with every spring. I had not learnt Russian. Years had gone by since I
first took up the fat grammar, but I had acquired little since that
time beyond the familiar characters of the well-beloved name, Reka
Dom.
"The country town that circumstances had now made our home possessed
at least one attraction for us. It was here that our old friends the
Misses Brooke had settled when their brother's death broke up the
quiet little household. I was very fond of the good ladies; not less
so now than I had been as a child, when their home-made buns and faded
albums 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 little
weakness, however, in their otherwise estimable characters had at
times disturbed the even course of our friendship. I hardly know what
to call it. It was not want of candour. More truthful women do not
exist than they were, and I believe they never wilfully deceived
anyone. I can only describe it as a habit of indulging in small plots
and suspicions; a want of trust in other people, partly traceable,
perhaps, to a lack of due confidence in themselves, but which was very
provoking 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 of
feeling doubted. If this peculiarity had been troublesome in the early
stages of our acquaintance, it was doubly so when we met again, after
the lapse of some years. For one thing, the dear ladies were older,
and fidgety, foolish little weaknesses of this kind sometimes increase
with years. Then I was older also, and if they had doubted their own
powers of entertainment when I was a child, they would still less
believe that I could enjoy their society now that I was a 'young
lady.' Whereas the truth was, that though my taste for buns and my
reverence for smooth pencil drawings in impossible perspective had
certainly diminished, my real enjoyment of a quiet evening with my old
friends was greater than before. I liked to take my sewing to their
undisturbed fireside, and not a few pieces of work which had flagged
under constant interruptions at home were rapidly finished as I
chatted with them. I liked to draw out the acquirements which they
would not believe that they possessed. I enjoyed rubbing my modern and
desultory reading against their old-fashioned but solid knowledge. I
admired their high and delicate principles, and respected their almost
fatiguing modesty. At an age when religious questions move and often
seriously trouble girls' minds, I drew comfort from their piety, which
(although as quiet and modest as all their other virtues) had been for
years, under my eyes, the ruling principle of all they did, the only
subject on which they had the courage to speak with decision, the
crown of their affections and pleasures, and the sufficient
consolation of their sorrow. In addition to all this, when I went to
them, I knew that my visit gave pleasure.
"It seemed hard that they could not always repose a similar confidence
in me. And yet so it was. The consistent affection of years had failed
to convince them that 'a young, pretty, lively girl' (as they were
pleased to call me) could find pleasure in the society of 'two dull
old women.' So they were apt to suspect either a second motive for my
visit, or affectation in my appearance of enjoyment. At times I was
chafed almost beyond my powers of endurance by these fancies; and on
one occasion my vexation broke all bounds of respect.
"'You think me uncandid, ma'am,' I cried; 'and what are you? If you
were to hear that I had spoken of you, elsewhere, as two dull old
women, 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 most
other 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 cried
together.
"I think the protracted worry of this misunderstanding (which had been
a long one) had made me almost hysterical. I clearly remember the
feeling of lying with my face against the horsehair sofa in the little
dining-room, feebly repeating, 'You shouldn't, you know. You
shouldn't!' amid my tears, my hair being softly stroked the while by
the two sisters, who comforted me, and blamed themselves with a depth
of self-abasement that almost made me laugh. It had hardly seemed
possible that their customary humility could go lower. The affair was
wound up with a good deal of kissing, and tea, and there were no more
suspicions for a long time.
* * * * *
"There had been peace, as I said, for long. But as, at the best of
times, the Misses Brooke never gave us an invitation without going
through the form of apologizing for the probable dulness of the
entertainment, I was not surprised one morning to find myself invited
to tea at Belle Vue Cottage for the following evening, on the strict
condition that I should refuse the invitation if I felt disinclined to
go. I had met the good ladies as we came out of church. There was
Morning Prayer on Wednesdays and Fridays at one church in the town,
and if the two little straw bonnets of the Misses Brooke had not been
seen bending side by side at every service, the rest of the scanty
congregation would have been as much astonished as if every one in the
town who had time and opportunity for public worship had availed
themselves 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, Mary
dear?' added Miss Mary. 'You know our rooms are small, or we should be
so glad to see Fatima. But we have a few friends coming, and she will
understand.'
"'Only a few,' Miss Martha said, hastily. 'Don't make her think
there's anything worth coming for, Mary. And mind, Mary dear, if you
don'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 bear
it!'
"'Well, my dear, you know it's true. And if you should have an
invitation to the Lodge between now and to-morrow night, mind you
throw 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 fortify
me before I come, ma'am. And if the Lightfoots should ask me between
now and then, I'll think about throwing over my oldest friends to
oblige you!'
"'You're very clever, my dear,' sighed Miss Martha, 'and it's easy to
laugh at a stupid old woman like me.'
"Now this was rather unfair, for I had only taken to banter on these
occasions because a serious treatment of the subject had failed. I
made my peace, however, by grave and affectionate assurances that I
wished to come, and would like to come; and by adding a solemn promise
that if I felt averse from it when the time came, I would stay at
home.
"I was vexed to find symptoms of the old misunderstanding arising. The
good ladies were evidently in a fidgety humour to-day, and going home
full of it, I poured out my vexation to Fatima.
"Fatima's composure was not so easily ruffled as mine. She was apt to
sit in easy, graceful attitudes, looking very idle, but getting
through a wonderful amount of exquisite needlework, and listening to
my passing grievances without being much disturbed herself.
"'I don't think I would worry myself,' she said, as she rapidly sorted
the greens for a leaf in her embroidery. 'My idea is, that you will
find the party more lively than usual. I have often noticed that when
the old ladies are particularly full of apologies, something or
somebody is expected.'
"'I didn't want anything or anybody,' I said, dolefully; 'but I wish
they wouldn't take fancies, and I wish they wouldn't put one through
such cross-examinations about nothing. As to the party, who could
there be, but the old set?'
"'Nobody, I suppose. There'll be the Wilkinsons, of course;' and
Fatima marked the fact with an emphatic stitch. 'And Mr. Ward, I
suppose, 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.'