Chapter 8

"'I hope there'll be deep window-places,' sighed the luxurious Fatima, 'with print patchwork cushions, like those at the farm. And I hope some of them will face west, for the sunsets.'

"'Above all'--and it was the final and most impressive charge I received--'whatever else is wanting, let us have two tall trees for a swing.'

"Laden with responsibility, but otherwise light-hearted enough, I set out with my parents by the early coach, which was to put us down about mid-day in the little town by the river.

"I liked travelling with my father. What a father he was! But, indeed, he was an object of such special devotion to me, and his character exercised so strong an influence over my young days, that I think, my dear Ida, that I must take the old woman's privilege of discursiveness, and tell you something about him.

"I remember that he was a somewhat mysterious personage in our young eyes. We knew little of his early life, and what we did know only enhanced the romantic mystery which we imagined to hang round it. We knew that he had seen many foreign lands, and in those days much travelling was rare. This accounted for the fact that, absent and somewhat unpractical as he was at home, he was invaluable on a journey, making arrangements, and managing officials with the precision of old habit. Where he had learnt his peculiar courtesy and helpfulness with those under his charge was less obvious. My mother said he had been accustomed to 'good society' in his youth, though we lived quietly enough now. We knew that, as a lad, he had been at sea, and sailors are supposed to be a handy and gentle-mannered race with the weak and dependent. Where else he had been, and what he had done, we did not exactly know; but I think we vaguely believed him to have been concerned in not a few battles by land and sea; to be deep in secrets of state, and to have lived on terms of intimacy with several kings and queens. His appearance was sufficiently striking to favour our dreams on his behalf. He had a tall, ungainly figure, made more ungainly by his odd, absent ways; but withal he was an unmistakable gentleman. I have heard it said of him that he was a man from whom no errors in taste could be feared, and with whom no liberties could ever be taken. He had thick hair of that yellow over which age seems to have no power, and a rugged face, wonderfully lighted up by eyes of rare germander blue. His hair sometimes seemed to me typical of his mind and tastes, which Time never robbed of their enthusiasm.

"With age and knowledge the foolish fancies I wove about my father melted away, but the peculiar affection I felt for him, over and above my natural love as a daughter, only increased as I grew up. Our tastes were harmonious, and we always understood each other; whereas Fatima was apt to be awed by his stateliness, puzzled by his jokes, and at times provoked by his eccentricities. Then I was never very robust in my youth; and the refined and considerate politeness which he made a point of displaying in his own family were peculiarly grateful to me. That good manners (like charity) should begin at home, was a pet principle with him, and one which he often insisted upon to us.

"'If you will take my advice, young people,' he would say, 'you will be careful never to let your sisters find other young gentlemen more ready and courteous, nor your brothers find other young ladies more gentle and obliging than those at home.'

"My father certainly practised what he preached, and it would not have been easy to find a more kind and helpful travelling companion than the one with whom my mother and I set forth that early morning in search of our new abode.

"I was just becoming too much tired to care to look any longer out of the window, when the coach rumbled over the pebbly street into the courtyard of the 'Saracen's Head.'

"I had never stayed at an inn before. What a palace of delights it seemed to me! It is true that the meals were neither better nor better cooked than those at home, and that the little room devoted to my use was far from being as dainty as that which Fatima and I habitually shared; but the keen zest of novelty pervaded everything, and the faded chintz and wavy looking-glass of No. 25 are pleasant memories still. Moreover, it had one real advantage over my own bedroom. High up, at the back of the house, it looked out and down upon the river. How the water glittered and sparkled! The sun was reflected from its ripples as if countless hosts of tiny naiads each held a mirror to catch his rays. My home had been inland, and at some distance from a river, and the sight of water was new and charming to me. I could see people strolling along the banks; and then a boat carrying sails of a rich warm brown came into view and passed slowly under my eye, with a stately grace and a fair wind. I was watching her with keen interest, when I was summoned to dinner.

"Here, again, novelty exercised its charm. At home I think I may say that the nursery party without exception regarded dinner in the light of a troublesome necessity of existence. We were apt to grudge the length and formalities of the meal; to want to go out, or not to want to come in; or possibly the dining-room had been in use as a kite manufactory, or a juvenile artist's studio, or a doll's dressmaker's establishment, and we objected to make way for the roast meat and pudding. But on this occasion I took an interest in the dignities of the dinner-table, and examined the plates and dishes, and admired the old-fashioned forks and spoons, and puzzled over the entwined initials on their handles.

"After dinner we went out into the town, and looked through several 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--