Considering how few strangers come to the place, it would have been
natural for them to tell us all about the one they asked us to meet;
and as they had known both him and us, as tenants of Reka Dom, it was
doubly natural that they should speak of him to us, and of us to him.
But he told me that we were just the people present of whom he had not
heard a word. He seems both fond of them and to appreciate their
little oddities. He told me he remembers, as a boy, that they never
would call him Ivan, which is as much his name as any by which a man
was ever baptized. They thought it might give him a tendency to
affectation to bear so singular a name in England. They always called
him John, and keep up the discipline still. When he arrived yesterday
they expressed themselves highly satisfied with the general
improvement in him, and he said he could hardly help laughing as Miss
Martha added, 'And you seem to have quite shaken off that little habit
of affectation which--you'll excuse me, dear John--you had as a boy.'
He says that, to the best of his belief, his only approach to
affectation consisted in his being rather absent and ungainly, and in
a strong aversion from Mr. Brooke.'
"'Did the old gentleman wear that frightful shade in his time?' I
asked.
"'Not always,' he says, 'but he looked worse without it. He told me a
good deal about him that I had never heard. He remembered hearing it
spoken of as a boy. It appears that the brother was very wild and
extravagant in his youth; drank, too, I fancy, and gave his poor
sisters a world of trouble, after breaking the heart of the widowed
mother who had spoiled him. When she died the sisters lived together,
and never faltered in their efforts to save him--never shut their
doors against him when he would return--and paid his debts over and
over again. He spent all his own fortune, and most of theirs, besides
being the means of breaking off comfortable marriages for both. Mr.
Smith thinks that a long illness checked his career, and eventually he
reformed.'
"'I hope he was grateful to his poor sisters,' I said.
"'One naturally thinks that he must have been so, but Smith's remark
was very just. He said, "I fancy he was both penitent and grateful as
far as he was able, but I believe he had been too long accustomed to
their unqualified self-sacrifice to feel it very sensitively!" And I
believe he is right. Such men not seldom reform in conduct if they
live long enough, but few eyes that have been blinded by years of
selfishness are opened to see clearly in this world.'
"'It ought to make one very tender with the good ladies' little
weaknesses,' I said, self-reproachfully; and I walked home in a more
peaceful state of mind. I forgave poor Miss Martha; also I was
secretly satisfied that my father had found the merchant's
conversation attractive. It seemed to give me some excuse for my
breach of Miss Peckham's golden rule. Moreover, little troubles and
offences which seemed mountains at Bellevue Cottage were apt to
dwindle into very surmountable molehills with my larger-minded
parents. I was comparatively at ease again. My father had evidently
seen nothing unusual in my conduct, so I hoped that it had not been
conspicuous. Possibly I might never meet Mr. Smith any more. I rather
hoped not. Life is long, and the world wide, and it is sometimes
possible to lose sight of people with whom one has disagreeable
associations. And then it was a wholesome lesson for the future.
"'And what was the old gentleman like?' was Fatima's first question,
when I came upstairs. I had just been talking of Mr. Brooke, and no
other old gentleman occurred to my memory at that moment.
"'What old gentleman?' I asked dreamily.
"'Miss Martha's old gentleman, the merchant--wasn't he there, after
all?'
"I blushed at my stupidity, and at a certain feeling of guiltiness in
connection with the person alluded to.
"'Oh, yes, he was there,' I answered; 'but he is not an old
gentleman.'
"'What is he, then?' Fatima asked, curiously.
"It is undoubtedly a luxury to be the bearer of a piece of startling
intelligence, and it is well not to spoil the enjoyment of it by over
haste. I finished unsnapping my necklace, and said, very
deliberately--
"'He is one of the little Russians.'
"Fatima's wit jumped more quickly than mine had done. It was she who
added--
"'Then he is Ivan.'
* * * * *
"My hopes in reference to Mr. Smith were disappointed. I had not seen
the last of him. My mother was at this time from home, and I was
housekeeper in her absence. It was on the morning following the
Bellevue tea-party that my father said to me--
"'Mr. Smith is coming up to refer to a book of mine to-day, my dear;
and I asked him to stay to dinner. I suppose it will be convenient?'
"I said, 'Certainly, sir.'
"I could plead no domestic inconvenience; but I thought that Mr.
Smith might have gone quietly back to London by the early coach, and
spared me the agitation which the prospect of seeing him again
undoubtedly excited. He came, however. It was the first visit, but by
no means the last; and he lingered in the town, greatly to my father's
satisfaction (who had taken a strong fancy for him), but not,
apparently, to that of the Misses Brooke.
"As I afterwards found the clue to the somewhat strange conduct of our
old friends at this time, I may as well briefly state how it was.
"When the merchant first announced to them his proposed business visit
to the town, and his intention of calling on them, the good ladies (in
their affection for me, and having a high opinion of him) planned a
kindly little romance of which he and I were to be the hero and
heroine, and which was to end in our happy marriage. With this view
they arranged for our meeting at the tea-party, and avoided all
mention of each to the other, that we might meet in the (so to speak)
incidental way characteristic of real love stories. With that
suspiciousness of people in general, and of young people in
particular, which haunted Miss Martha, she attributed my ready
acceptance of the invitation to my having heard of Mr. Smith's
arrival, and to the unusual attraction of an eligible gentleman at the
tea-party. Little did she guess the benevolent plans which on my part
I had formed for her, and which the merchant's youthful appearance had
dashed to the ground.
"It is sometimes the case, my dear Ida, that people who make these
kind plans for their friends, become dissatisfied with the success of
their arrangements if they themselves cease to be the good genii of
the plot. If, that is, matters seem likely to fall out as they wish,
but without their assistance. It was so with the Misses Brooke, and
especially with Miss Martha. Fully aware of the end which she in her
own mind proposed to our acquaintance, my long conversation with the
merchant struck her as an indelicate readiness to accept attentions
which had matrimony in her perspective, and which she had designed to
be the gradual result of sundry well-chaperoned and studiously
incidental interviews at the Cottage. And when, so far from thankfully
accepting these incidental meetings, the merchant took upon himself to
become an almost daily visitor at our house, and delayed his return to
London far beyond the time proposed for his departure, the good lady's
view underwent a decided change. It was 'a pity' that a young man like
John Smith should neglect his business. It was also 'a pity' that dear
Mary's mother was not at home. And when I took occasion casually to
allude to the fact that Mr. Smith's visits were paid to my father, and
(with the exception of an occasional meal) were passed in the study
amongst German pamphlets, my statement was met by kind, incredulous
smiles, and supplemented with general and somewhat irritating
observations on the proper line of conduct for young ladies at certain
crises of life. Nothing could be kinder than Miss Martha's intentions,
and her advice might have been a still greater kindness if she would
have spoken straight-forwardly, and believed what I said. As it was, I
left off going to Bellevue Cottage, and ardently wished that the
merchant would go back to his merchandise, and leave our quiet little
town to its own dull peace.
"Sometimes I thought of the full-grown man whose intelligent face, and
the faintly foreign accent of whose voice were now familiar in our
home--the busy merchant, the polite and agreeable gentleman. And then
I thought of the Ivan I seemed to have known so much better so long
ago! The pale boy wandering by the water--reading in the swing--dead
by that other river--buried beneath the lilies. Oh! why had he lived
to come back in this new form to trouble me?
"One day he came to my father as usual, and I took the opportunity to
call on my old friends. I felt ashamed of having neglected them, and
as I knew that Mr. Smith was at our house, I could not be suspected of
having hoped to meet him at theirs. But I called at an unfortunate
moment. Miss Martha had just made up her mind that in the absence of
my mother, and the absentness of my father, it was the duty of old
friends like herself to give me a little friendly counsel. As she took
a great deal of credit for being 'quite candid, my dear,' and quietly,
but persistently refused to give me credit for the same virtue, I was
too much irritated to appreciate the kindness which led her to
undertake the task of interference in so delicate a matter; and found
her remarks far from palatable. In the midst of them the merchant was
announced.
"If I could have looked innocent it would have done me no good. As it
was, I believe I looked very guilty. After sitting for a few minutes
longer I got up to go, when to my horror the merchant rose also. The
old ladies made no effort to detain him, but Miss Martha's face spoke
volumes as we left the house. Half mad with vexation, I could hardly
help asking him why he was stupid enough to come away just at the
moment I had chosen for leaving; but he forestalled the inquiry by a
voluntary explanation. He wished to speak to me. He had something to
say.
"When he had said it, and had asked me to marry him, my cup was full.
I refused him with a vehemence which must have surprised him, modest
as he was, and rushed wildly home.
"For the next few days I led a life of anything but comfort. First as
to Ivan. My impetuous refusal did not satisfy him, and he wrote me a
letter over which I shed bitter tears of indescribable feeling.
"Then as to my father. The whole affair took him by surprise. He was
astonished, and very much put out, especially as my mother was away.
So far from its having been, as with the Misses Brooke, the first
thing to occur to him, he repeatedly and emphatically declared that it
was the very last thing he should have expected. He could neither
imagine what had made the merchant think of proposing to me, nor what
had made me so ready to refuse him. Then they were in the very middle
of a crabbed pamphlet, in which Ivan's superior knowledge of German
had been invaluable. It was most inconvenient.
"'Why didn't I like poor Ivan?'
"Ah, my child, did I not like him!
"'Then why was I so cross to him?'
"Indeed, Ida, I think the old ladies' 'ways' were chiefly to blame for
this. Their well-meant but disastrous ways of making you feel that you
were doing wrong, or in the wrong, over matters the most
straight-forward and natural. But I was safe under the wing of my
mother, before I saw Ivan again; and--many as were the years he and I
were permitted to spend together--I think I may truthfully say that I
was never cross to him any more.
"'What did he say in that letter that made me cry?'
"He asked to be allowed to make himself better known to me, before I
sent him quite away. And this developed an ingenious notion in my
father's brain, that no better opportunity could, from every point of
view, be found for this, than that I should be allowed to sit with
them in the study whilst he and Ivan went on with the German pamphlet.
"The next call I paid at Bellevue Cottage was to announce my
engagement, and I had some doubt of the reception my news might meet
with. But I had no kinder or more loving congratulations than those of
the two sisters. Small allusion was made to bygones. But when Miss
Martha murmured in my ear--
"'You'll forgive my little fussiness and over-anxiety, dear Mary. One
would be glad to guard one's young friends from some of the
difficulties and disappointments one has known oneself--' I thought of
the past life of the sisters, and returned her kiss with tenderness.
Doubtless she had feared that the merchant might be trifling with my
feelings, and that a thousand other ills might happen when the little
love affair was no longer under her careful management. But all ending
well, was well; and not even the Bellevue cats were more petted by the
old ladies than we two were in our brief and sunny betrothal.
"Sunny, although for the most part it was winter time. When we would
sit by the fireside in the privileged idleness of lovers, sometimes at
home, sometimes in the Cottage parlour; and Ivan would tell of the
Russian Reka Dom, and of all the winter beauties and pleasures of that
other river which was for months a frozen highway, with gay sleighs
flying, jingling over the snow roads, and peasants wrapped in
sheepskin crossing from the country to market in the town. How dogs
and children rolled together in snow so dry from intense cold that it
hardly wet them more than sand. And how the river closed, and when it
opened, with all the local traditions connected with these events; and
of the stratagems resorted to to keep Jack Frost out of the houses,
and of the stores laid up against the siege of the Winter King.
"But through the most interesting of his narratives Fatima's hands
were never idle. She seemed to have concentrated all her love for me
into those beautiful taper fingers, which laboured ceaselessly in
exquisite needlework on my wedding clothes.
"And when the lilies of the valley were next in blossom, Ivan and I
were married.
"The blue-stoned ring was cut down to fit my finger, and was, by my
desire, my betrothal ring, and I gave Ivan another instead of it.
Inside his was engraven the inscription we had cut upon his tombstone
at Reka Dom,--
"'TO IVAN.'"
It was a long story, and Nurse had been waiting some little time in
the old lady's kitchen when it came to an end.
"And is Ivan--?" Ida hesitatingly began.
"Dead. Many years since, my child," said the little old lady; "you
need not be afraid to speak of him, my dear. All that is past. We used
to hope that we should neither of us long outlive the other, but God
willed it otherwise. It was very bitter at first, but it is different
now. The days and hours that once seemed to widen our separation are
now fast bringing us together again."
"Was he about papa's age when he died?" Ida gently asked.
"He was older than your father can have been, my love, I think. He was
a more than middle-aged man. He died of fever. It was in London, but
in his delirium he fancied that the river was running by the windows,
and when I bathed his head he believed that the cooling drops were
from the waters of his old home.'
"Didn't he know you?" Ida asked, with sudden sympathy.
"He knew the touch of my hands always, my dear. It was my greatest
comfort. That, and the short time of perfect reason before he sank to
rest. We had been married thirty years, and I had worn my silver
wedding-ring with even more pride than the golden one. There have been
lilies on the grave of the true Ivan for half that time, and will be,
perhaps, for yet a little while, till I also am laid beneath them.
"So ends the story, my dear," the little old lady added, after a
pause.
"I should like to know what became of the old landlord, please," Ida
said.
"If you will ask an old woman like me the further history of the
people she knew in her youth," said Mrs. Overtheway, smiling, "you
must expect to hear of deaths. Of course he is dead many a long year
since. We became very intimate with him whilst we were his tenants,
and, I believe, cheered the close of his life. He and my father were
fast friends, but it was to my mother that he became especially
devoted. He said she was an exception to her sex, which from his point
of view was a high compliment. He had unbounded confidence in her
judgment, and under her influence, eventually modified many of his
peculiar habits. She persuaded him to allot a very moderate sum to
housekeeping expenses, and to indulge in the economical luxury of a
trustworthy servant. He consented to take into use a good suit of
clothes which he possessed, and in these the old man was wont at last
to accompany us to church, and to eat his Sunday dinner with us
afterwards. I do not think he was an illiberal man at heart, but he
had been very poor in his youth--('So poor, ma'am,' he said one day
to my mother, 'that I could not live with honour and decency in the
estate of a gentleman. I did not live. I starved--and bought
books,')--and he seemed unable to shake off the pinching necessity of
years. A wealthy uncle who had refused to help him whilst he lived,
bequeathed all his money to him when he died. But when late in life
the nephew became rich, habits of parsimony were a second nature, and
seemed to have grown chronic and exaggerated under the novel anxieties
of wealth. He still 'starved--and bought books.' During the last years
of his life he consulted my mother (and, I fancy, other people also)
on the merits of various public charities in the place and elsewhere;
so that we were not astonished after his death to learn from his will
that he had divided a large part of his fortune amongst charitable
institutions. With the exception of a few trifling legacies to
friends, the rest of his money was divided in equal and moderate
bequests to relatives. He left some valuable books to my father, and
the bulk of his library to the city where he was born."
"Was your mother with him when he died?" Ida asked.
"She was, my dear. But, sadly enough, only at the very last. We were
at the seaside when he was seized by his last illness, and no one told
us, for indeed it is probable that few people knew. At last a letter
from the servant announced that he was dying, and had been most
anxious to see my mother, and she hastened home. The servant seemed
relieved by her arrival, for the old gentleman was not altogether an
easy patient to nurse. He laughed at the doctor, she said, and
wouldn't touch a drop of his medicine, but otherwise was as patient as
a sick gentleman could be, and sat reading his Bible all the day long.
It was on the bed when my mother found him, but his eyes were dimming
fast. He held out his hands to my mother, and as she bent over him
said something of which she could only catch three words--'the true
riches.' He never spoke again."
"Poor man?" said Ida: "I think he was very nice. What became of his
cat?"
"Dead--dead--dead!" said the little old lady; "Ida, my child, I will
answer no more questions."
"One more, please," said Ida! "where is that dear, dear Fatima?"
"No, my child, no! Nothing more about her. Dear, dear Fatima, indeed!
And yet I will just tell you that she married, and that her husband
(older even than I am, and very deaf) is living still. He and I are
very fond of each other, though, having been a handsome man he is
sensitive about his personal appearance, and will not use a trumpet,
which I consider weak. But we get on very well. He smells my flowers,
and smiles and nods to me, and says something in a voice so low that I
can't hear it; and I stick a posy in his buttonhole, and smile and nod
to him, and say something in a voice so loud that _he_ can't hear it;
and so we go on. One day in each year we always spend together, and go
to church. The first of November."
"That is--?" said Ida.
"The Feast of All Saints, my child."
"Won't you tell me any more?" Ida asked.
"No, my dear. Not now, at any rate. Remember I am old, and have
outlived almost all of those I loved in my youth. It is right and
natural that death should be sad in your eyes, my child, and I will
not make a tragedy of the story of Reka Dom.
* * * * *
"Then your real name," said Ida, as she gave the old lady a farewell
kiss, "is--"
"Mary Smith, my dear," said Mrs. Overtheway.
* * * * *
Next morning the little old lady went to church as usual, and Ida was
at the window when she returned. When the child had seen her old
friend into the house she still kept her place, for the postman was
coming down the street, and it was amusing to watch him from door to
door, and to see how large a bundle of letters he delivered at each.
At Mrs. Overtheway's he delivered one, a big one, and an odd curiosity
about this letter took possession of Ida. She wished she knew what it
was about, and from whom it came, though, on the face of it, it was
not likely she would be much the wiser if she did. She was still at
the window when the door of the opposite house was opened, and the
little old lady came hurriedly out. She had only her cap upon her
head, and she held an open letter in her hand; _the_ letter, it was
evident. When she reached the little green gate she seemed to
recollect herself, and, putting her hand to her head, went back into
the house. Ida waited anxiously to see if she would come out again,
and presently she appeared, this time in her bonnet, but still with
the letter in her hand. She crossed the street, and seemed to be
coming to the house. Then the bell rang, and in she came. Ida's
curiosity became intense, and was not lessened by the fact that the
little old lady did not come to her, but stayed below talking with
some one. The old gentleman had not returned, so it must be Nurse.
At last the conversation came to an end, and Mrs. Overtheway came
upstairs.
She kissed Ida very tenderly, and inquired after her health; but
though she seemed more affectionate than usual, Ida felt persuaded
that something was the matter. She drew a chair to the fire, and the
old lady sat down, saying--
"May I stay a little with you, my dear?"
"Oh, thank you?" said Ida, and put a footstool for the old lady's
feet.
Mrs. Overtheway stroked her head tenderly for some time in silence,
and then said, in a gentle voice--
"I have something to tell you, my dear."
"Another story?" Ida asked. "Oh, thank you, if it is another story."
The old lady was silent, but at last she said, as if to herself--
"Perhaps best so," and added: "yes, my love, I will tell you a story."
Ida thanked her warmly, and another pause ensued.
"I hardly know where to begin, or what to tell you of this story,"
said the little old lady at last, seeming to falter for the first time
in her Scharazad-like powers of narration.
"Let it be about a Home, please; if you can," said Ida.
"A home!" said the old lady, and strangely enough, she seemed more
agitated than when she had spoken of Reka Dom--"It should have begun
with a broken home, but it shall not. It should end with a united
home, God willing. A home! I must begin with a far-away one, a strange
one, on the summit of high cliffs, the home of fearless, powerful
creatures, white-winged like angels."
"It's a fairy tale," said Ida.
"No, my child, it is true."
"It sounds like a fairy tale," Ida said.
"It shall be a tale of that description, if you like," said the old
lady, after a pause, "but, as I said, the main incidents are true."
"And the white-winged creatures?" Ida asked. "Were they fairies?"
"No, my love; birds. But if to see snowy albatrosses with their huge
white wings wheeling in circles about a vessel sailing in mid ocean be
anything like what I have read of and heard described, fairyland could
hardly show anything more beautiful and impressive."
"Do they fly near ships, then?" Ida asked.
"Yes, my child. I remember my husband describing them to me as he had
once seen them in southern seas. He said that when he saw them,
great, white, and majestic, holding no intercourse with anyone on
board the ship, and yet spreading their wings above her day and night
for hundreds of miles over the ocean, with folded feet, the huge white
pinions, except for an occasional flap, outstretched in steady sail,
never resting, and seemingly never weary, they looked like guardian
angels keeping watch over the crew."
"I wonder if they are sorry for the ships that go down?" said Ida,
thoughtfully.
Mrs. Overtheway took her hand.
"Do you think it unkind in me to talk of ships, my love?" she asked.