scruple to complain of the trouble it cost to maintain intimate
relations with the excellent but touchy old ladies, and of the hot
water about trifles into which one must perpetually fall.
"'I hope I am pretty trustworthy,' she would say, 'and I am sure you
are, Mary. And if we are not, let them drop our acquaintance. But they
treat their friends as we used to treat our flowers at Reka Dom! They
are always taking them up to see how they are going on, and I like to
vegetate in peace.'
"I could not have criticized my dear and respected old friends so
freely; 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 this
tea-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 to
invite me; and as I must see Ward about some registers, I ventured to
ask if he were to be of the party (thinking to save my old legs a walk
to his place). The matter was simple enough, but Miss Martha seemed to
fancy that I wanted to know who was going to be there. I fully
explained my real object, but either she did not hear or she did not
believe me, I suppose, for she gave me a list of the expected
company.'
"'I am sure she would have believed you, sir, if she had realized what
you were saying,' I said. 'I know the sort of thing, but I think that
they are generally so absorbed in their own efforts to do what they
think you want, they have no spare attention for what you say.'
"'A very ingenious bit of special pleading, my dear, but you have not
heard all. I had made my best bow and was just turning away, when
Miss Martha, begging me to excuse her, asked with a good deal of
mystery and agitation if _you_ had commissioned me to find out who was
to be at the party. I said I had not seen you since breakfast, but
that I was quite able to assure her that if you had wished to find out
anything on the subject, you would have gone direct to herself, with
which I repeated my best bow in my best style, and escaped.'
"I was too much hurt to speak, and Fatima took up the conversation
with my father.
"'You will go, sir?' she said.
"'Of course, my dear, if Mary wishes it. Besides, Ward _is_ to be
there. I learnt so much.'
"'You learnt more, sir,' said Fatima, 'and please don't leave us to
die of curiosity. Who is to be there, after all?'
"'The Wilkinsons, and Miss Jones and her sister, and Ward, and an old
friend of Miss Brooke's, a merchant.'
"'But his name, please!' cried Fatima, for my father was retreating to
his study.
"'Smith--John Smith,' he answered laughing, and we were left alone.
"I was very much disposed to be injured and gloomy, but Fatima would
not allow it. She was a very successful comforter. In the first place,
she was thoroughly sympathetic; and in the second, she had a great
dislike to any disturbance of the general peace and harmony, and at
last, her own easy, cheerful view of things became infectious where no
very serious troubles were concerned.
"'People must have their little weaknesses,' she said, 'and I am sure
they 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 the
better they are, the more unworthy the weakness appears. Now, Mary, do
be reasonable! You know at the bottom how true they are, and how fond
of you. Pray allow them a few fidgety fancies, poor old dears. No
doubt we shall be just as fidgety when we are as old. I'm sure I shall
have as many fancies as hairs in my wig, and as to you, considering
how little things weigh on your mind now--'
"Fatima's reasoning was not conclusive, but I think I came at last to
believe that Miss Brooke's distrust was creditable to herself, and
complimentary to me--so it certainly must have been convincing.
"'And now,' she concluded, 'come upstairs and forget it. For I have
got two new ideas on which I want your opinion. The first is a new
stitch, in which I purpose to work some muslin dresses for us both. I
thought of it in bed this morning. The second is a new plan for
braiding your hair, which came into my head whilst father was reading
aloud that speech to us last night. I had just fastened up the last
plait when he laid down the paper.'
"'You absurd Fatima!' I cried. 'How could you! And it was so
interesting!'
"'Don't look shocked,' said Fatima. 'I shall never be a politician. Of
all studies, that of politics seems to me the most disturbing and
uncomfortable. If some angel, or inspired person would tell me which
side was in the right, and whom to believe in, I could be a capital
partisan. As it is, I don't worry myself with it; and last night when
you were looking flushed and excited at the end of the speech, I was
calmly happy--'
"'But, Fatima,' I broke in, 'you don't mean to say--'
"'If it had lasted five minutes longer,' said Fatima, 'I should have
comfortably decided whether ferns or ivy would combine better with the
loops.'
"'But, Fatima! were you really not listening when--'
"'On the whole I decide for ivy,' said Fatima, and danced out of the
room, I following and attempting one more remonstrance in the hall.
"'But, Fatima!--'
"'With perhaps a suspicion of white chrysanthemums,' she added over
the banisters.
"Both the new ideas promised to be successful, and the following
evening my hair was dressed in what Fatima now called the political
plaits. From the first evening of my introduction into society she had
established herself as my lady's maid. She took a generous delight in
dressing me up, and was as clever as she was kind about it. This
evening she seemed to have surpassed herself, as I judged by the
admiring exclamations of our younger sister Phillis--a good little
maid, who stood behind my chair with combs and pins in her hand as
Fatima's aide-de-camp. Finally, the dexterous fingers interwove some
sprays of ivy with the hair, and added white rosebuds for lack of
chrysanthemums.
"'Perfect!' Fatima exclaimed, stepping backwards with gestures of
admiration that were provokingly visible in the glass before which I
sat. 'And to think that it should be wasted on an uninteresting
tea-party! You will not wear your new muslin, of course?'
"'Indeed, I shall,' I answered. 'You know I always make myself smart
for the Cottage.' Which was true, and my reason for it was this. I
had once gone there to a quiet tea-party in a dress that was rather
too smart for the occasion, and which looked doubly gay by contrast
with the sombre costume of the elderly friends whom I met. I was
feeling vexed with myself for an error in taste, when Miss Mary came
up to me, and laying her hands affectionately on me, and smoothing my
ribbons, 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, since
dear James's death; and our friends are chiefly elderly and
sombre-looking also. So it is a great treat to us to look at something
young and pretty, and remember when we were girls, and took pains with
such 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 Mary
added; 'but you might let us know sometimes when you are going to a
grand party, and we will come and look at you.'
"I was touched by the humble little lady's speech, and by the thought
of how little one is apt to realize the fact that faded, fretful,
trouble-worn people in middle life have been young, and remember their
youth.
"Thenceforward I made careful toilettes for the Cottage, and this
night was not an exception to the rule.
"I was dressed early; my father was rather late, and we three girls
had nearly an hour's chat before I had to go.
"We began to discuss the merchant who was to vary the monotony of our
small social circle. Phillis had heard that a strange gentleman had
arrived in the town this afternoon by the London stage. Fatima had an
idea on the subject which she boldly stated. One of the Misses Brooke
was going to be married--to this London merchant. We were just at an
age when a real life romance is very attractive, and the town was not
rich in romances--at least, in our little society. So Fatima's idea
found great favour with us, and, as she described it, seemed really
probable. Here was an old friend, a friend of their youth, and
probably a lover, turned up again, and the sisters were in a natural
state of agitation. (It fully accounted for Miss Martha's suspicious
sensitiveness yesterday, and I felt ashamed of having being
aggrieved.) Doubtless the lovers had not been allowed to marry in
early life because he was poor. They had been parted, but had remained
faithful. He had made a fortune, like Dick Whittington, and now, a
rich London merchant, had come back to take his old love home. Being
an old friend, it was obviously a youthful attachment; and being a
merchant, he must be very rich. This happy combination--universal in
fiction, though not invariable in real life--was all that could be
desired, and received strong confirmation from the fact of his coming
from London; for in those days country girls seldom visited the
metropolis, and we regarded the great city with awe, as the centre of
all that was wealthy and wonderful. It was a charming story, and
though we could not but wish that he had returned before Miss Martha
took to a 'front' and spectacles, yet we pictured a comfortable
domestic future for them; and Fatima was positive that 'worlds' might
be done for the appearance of the future Mrs. Smith by more tasteful
costume, and longed ardently to assume the direction of her toilette.
"'I don't believe that she need wear a front,' she pleaded. 'I daresay
she has plenty of pretty grey hair underneath. Spectacles are
intellectual, if properly worn; which, by the by, they need not be at
meals when your husband is looking at you across the table; and as to
caps--'
"But here my father knocked at the door, and I put on my cloak and
hood, and went with him.
"The Misses Brooke received us affectionately, but I thought with some
excitement, 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 was
picturing my old friend in more cheerful and matronly costume
presiding over the elegant belongings of a stout, well-to-do,
comfortable Mr. John Smith, as I moved about in the little room, and
exchanged mechanical smiles and greetings with the familiar guests. I
had settled the sober couple by their fireside, and was hesitating
between dove-colour and lavender-grey for the wedding silk, when Miss
Martha herself disturbed me before I had decided the important
question. 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 due
to a stranger and a gentleman, and looked once at the object of my
benevolent fancies, and then down again at my mittens. His head was
just 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 saw
that he did not. And--he certainly was not suitable in point of age. I
took one more glance to make sure, and meeting his eyes, turned
hastily, and plunged into conversation with my nearest neighbour, not
noticing at the instant who it was. As I recovered from my momentary
confusion, I became aware that I was talking to the rector's wife, and
had advanced some opinions on the subject of the weather which she was
energetically disputing. I yielded gracefully, and went back to my
thoughts. I hope Miss Martha did not feel as I did the loss of that
suitable, comfortable, middle-aged partner my fancy had provided for
her. It did seem a pity that he had no existence. I thought that
probably marriage was the happiest condition for most people, and felt
inclined to discuss the question with the rector's wife, who had had
about twenty-two years' exemplary experience of that state. Then I
should 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 asked
to sing, and to my astonishment, prepared to accompany himself. Few
English gentlemen (if any) could accompany their own songs on the
pianoforte in my youth, Ida; most of them then had a wise idea that
the pianoforte was an instrument 'only fit for women,' and would have
as soon thought of trying to learn to play upon it as of studying the
spinning-wheel. I do not know that I had ever heard one play except my
father, who had lived much abroad. When Mr. Smith sat down at the
instrument, I withdrew into a corner, where Miss Martha followed me as
if 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 new
then, and it so happened that very few of us had heard it before. It
was 'Home, Sweet Home.' He had a charming voice, with a sweet pathetic
ring about it, and his singing would have redeemed a song of far
smaller merit, and of sentiment less common to all his hearers. As it
was, our sympathies were taken by storm. The rector's wife sobbed
audibly, but, I believe, happily, with an oblique reference to the ten
children she had left at home; and poor Miss Martha, behind me,
touched away tear after tear with her thin finger-tips, and finally
took to her pocket-handkerchief, and thoughts of the dear dead
brother, and the little house and garden, and I know not what earlier
home still. As for me, I thought of Reka Dom.
"We had had many homes, but that was _the_ home _par excellence_--the
beloved of my father, the beloved of us all. And as the clear voice
sang the refrain, which sounded in some of our ears like a tender cry
of recall to past happiness,
'Home--Home--sweet, sweet Home!'
I stroked Miss Martha's knee in silent sympathy, and saw Reka Dom
before my eyes. The river seemed to flow with the melody. I swung to
the tune between the elm-trees, with Walton and Cotton on my lap. What
would Piscator have thought of it, had the milkmaid sung him this
song? I roamed through the three lawns that were better to me than
pleasures and palaces, and stood among the box-edged gardens. Then the
refrain 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, and
inquiries about it.
"'I heard it at a concert in town the other day,' he said, 'and it
struck me as pretty, so I got a copy. It is from an English opera
called "Clari," and seems the only pretty thing in it.'
"'Do you not like it?' Miss Jones asked me; I suppose because I had
not spoken.
"'I think it is lovely,' I said, 'as far as I can judge; but it
carries one away from criticism; I do not think I was thinking of the
music; I was thinking of Home.'
"'Exactly.'
"It was not Miss Jones who said 'Exactly,' but the merchant, who was
standing by her; and he said it, not in that indefinite tone of polite
assent with which people commonly smile answers to each other's
remarks at evening parties, but as if he understood the words from
having thought the thought. We three fell into conversation about the
song--about 'Clari'--about the opera--the theatre--about London; and
then 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 pleasant
company, chiefly from being so alive with intelligence that it was
much 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 of
explanation. It hardly seemed possible to use too few words for him to
seize your meaning by both ends, so to speak; the root your idea
sprang from, and conclusion to which it tended.
"We talked of music--of singing--of the new song, and of the subject
of it--home. And so of home-love, and patriotism, and the characters
of nations in which the feeling seemed to predominate.
"'Like everything else, it depends partly on circumstances, I
suppose,' he said. 'I sometimes envy people who have only one
home--the eldest son of a landed proprietor, for instance. I fancy I
have 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 not
think it has been divided. At least, one of the homes has been so much
dearer than the others.'
"'Do you not think so because it is the latest, and your feelings
about it are freshest?' he asked.
"I laughed. 'A bad guess. It is not my present home. This one was near
a river.'
"'Exactly.'
"This time the 'exactly' did not seem so appropriate as before, and I
explained further.
"'For one thing we were there when I was at an age when attachment to
a place gets most deeply rooted, I think. As a mere child one enjoys
and suffers like a kitten from hour to hour. But when one is just old
enough to form associations and weave dreams, and yet is still a
child--it is then, I fancy, that a home gets almost bound up with
one's life.'
"He simply said 'Yes,' and I went on. Why, I can hardly tell, except
that to talk on any subject beyond mere current chit-chit, and be
understood, was a luxury we did not often taste at the tea-parties of
the 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 we
were, and fell in love with it quite as early. But the foreign name
was 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 talking
till I had given him nearly as full a history of Reka Dom as I have
given to you. For one thing he seemed amazingly interested in the
recital, and drew out many particulars by questions; and then the song
had filled my head with tender memories, and happy little details of
old 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 Martha
tapped me on the shoulder and said rather louder than usual--
"'Dear Mary, there are some engravings here, my love, I should like
you to look at.'
"I felt rather astonished, for I knew every book and picture in the
house as well as I knew my own, but I followed her to a table, when
she added, in a fluttering whisper--
"'You'll excuse my interrupting you, my love, I'm sure; but it was
becoming quite particular.'
"I blushed redder than the crimson silk binding of the 'Keepsake'
before me. I wished I could honestly have misunderstood Miss Martha's
meaning. But I could not. Had I indeed talked too much and too long to
a gentleman and a stranger? (It startled me to reflect how rapidly we
had passed that stage of civil commonplace which was the normal
condition of my intercourse with the gentlemen of the town.) I was
certainly innocent of any intentional transgression of those bounds of
reticence and decorum which are a young lady's best friends, but as to
the length of my conversation with the merchant I felt quite uncertain
and unspeakably alarmed.
"I was indulging a few hasty and dismal reflections when Miss Martha
continued--
"'When I was young, dear Mary, I remember a valuable piece of advice
that was given me by my excellent friend and schoolmistress, Miss
Peckham, "If you are only slightly acquainted with a gentleman, talk
of indifferent matters. If you wish to be friendly but not
conspicuous, talk of _his_ affairs; but only if you mean to be very
intimate, speak of yourself;"' and adding, 'I'm sure you'll forgive
me, 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 necessity
should induce me to speak another syllable to the London merchant.
"Circumstances did not altogether favour my resolution. I scrupulously
avoided so much as a look at Mr. Smith, though in some mysterious way
I became conscious that he and my father were having a long
_tete-a-tete_ conversation in a corner. I devoted myself exclusively
to the rector's wife till supper, and then I carefully chose the
opposite side of the table to that to which the merchant seemed to be
going. But when I was fairly seated, for some reason he gave up his
place to someone else, and when it was impossible for me to change my
seat, he took the one next to it. It was provoking, but I steadily
resisted his attempts to talk, and kept my face as much averted as
possible. Once or twice he helped me to something on the table, but I
barely thanked him, and never lifted my eyes to his face. I could
not, however, avoid seeing the hand that helped me, and idly noticing
a ring that I had remarked before, when he was playing. It was a fine
blue stone, a lapis lazuli, curiously and artistically set. 'Rich
merchants can afford such baubles!' I thought. It was very tasteful,
however, and did not look like English work. There was something
engraven upon it, which did not look like English either. Was it
Greek? I glanced at it with some curiosity, for it reminded me of--but
that was nonsense, a fancy that came because the subject was in my
mind. At this moment the hand and ring were moved close to me and I
looked 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 too
well--it was _Reka Dom_.
"For a moment I sat in blind astonishment. Then the truth suddenly
flashed upon me. The merchant's name was the name of our predecessors
at Reka Dom. True, it was such a common one that I had met more than
one family of Smiths since then without dreaming of any connection
between them and the River House. And yet, of course, it was there
that the Misses Brooke had known him. Before our time. Which could he
be? He was too young to be the father, and there was no John among the
little Russians--unless, yes, it was the English version of one of the
Russian names--and this was Ivan.
"It crowned my misfortunes. What would Miss Martha say if she knew
what had been the subject of our conversation? Would that that
excellent rule which had been the guide of her young ladyhood had
curtailed the conversational propensities of mine! I thought of the
three degrees of intimacy with a shudder. Why had we not been
satisfied with discussing the merits of the song?
"We had gone on to talk of him and his homes, and as if that were not
enough, had proceeded further to me and mine. I got red as I sat
listening to some civil chat from Mr. Ward the curate (eminently in
the most innocent stage of the first degree), and trying to recall
what we had not spoken of in connection with that Home which had been
so beloved of both of us, and that Ivan whose lilies I had tended for
years.
"I grew nearly frantic as I thought that he must think that I had
known who he was, and wildly indignant with the fancy for small
mysteries which had kept Miss Brooke from telling us whom we were
going to meet.
"At last the evening came to an end. I was cloaking myself in the hall
when the merchant came up and offered his help, which I declined. But
he did not go, and stood so that I could not help seeing a distressed
look in his eyes, and the nervous way in which he was turning the blue
ring upon his finger.
"'I have so wanted to speak to you again,' he said. 'I wanted to
say--'
"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 arm
outside; 'a superior, sensible, well informed gentleman, such as you
don't meet with every day.'
"I felt quite unequal to answering the remark, and he went on: