"For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear,
And the meanest thing most precious and dear,
When the magic of love is present--
Love that lends a sweetness and grace
To the humblest spot and the plainest face,
That turns Wilderness Row to Paradise Place,
And Garlick Hill to Mount Pleasant."--_Hood_.
Iris had no longer any completely idle days, for she soon found that her
godmother expected her in some measure to fill Miss Munnion's place; she
must be ready at Mrs Fotheringham's beck and call, to read to her,
drive with her, and walk with her in the garden. They were none of them
difficult duties, and could not in any sense be called hard work. A day
at Paradise Court was in this respect still a very different matter from
a day in Albert Street; yet sometimes Iris felt a heavy weariness
hanging upon her, which was a new way of being tired--quite a different
sort of fatigue to anything she had known before, but quite as
uncomfortable. Most of all she hated the drives. To sit opposite her
godmother in perfect silence in a close stuffy carriage, and be driven
along the dusty roads for exactly an hour at exactly the same pace. Not
a word spoken, unless Mrs Fotheringham wished the blinds pulled up or
down, or a message given to the coachman. Iris longed feverishly
sometimes to jump out and run up a hill, or to climb over the gates into
the fields they passed on the way. There were such lots of lovely
things to gather just now. Dog roses and yellow honeysuckle in the
hedges, poppies and tall white daisies in the fields, and waving
feathery grasses. But at all these she could only look and long out of
the carriage window. She often thought at these times of poor Miss
Munnion, and wondered how her sister Diana was, and whether she had been
very glad to see her, and most of all she wondered how Miss Munnion
_could_ have been so anxious to keep the situation; she must be so very
tired of sitting opposite Mrs Fotheringham and looking out of the
carriage window.
These reflections were of course kept to herself, and indeed
conversation of any kind was forbidden during the drives, but Iris was
so used to talking that it was impossible to her to keep silence at
other times. By degrees she lost her awe of her godmother, and
chattered away to her about that which interested herself--her brothers
and sisters, their sayings and doings, and their life at home.
Sometimes she found Mrs Fotheringham's keen dark eyes fixed
inquisitively upon her, as though they were studying some curious
animal, and sometimes her funniest stories about Dottie or Susie were
cut short by a sharp, "That will do, child. Run away."
But this did not discourage her, and she became so used to her
godmother's manner that it ceased to alarm her, and once she even
contradicted her as bluntly as though she had been Max or Clement. Even
this had no bad effect, however, for shortly afterwards Mrs
Fotheringham remarked:
"It's a positive relief not to have Miss Munnion here agreeing with
everything I say. It's as fidgeting as a dog that's always wagging its
tail."
But though she got on better than she could have expected with her
godmother, and though Paradise Court was as beautiful and pleasant as
ever, Iris's thoughts were now constantly at Albert Street. Albert
Street, which was no doubt still ugly and disagreeable, hot, and
glaring, and stuffy, and where even the summer sky looked quite
different. Nevertheless there were some very delightful things there,
seen from a distance. When anything amused Iris, Max's freckled face
immediately came before her, with its sympathetic grin of enjoyment;
when she was sad she felt Susie's and Dottie's soft little clinging
fingers in her own; when she was dull she heard Clement's squeaky voice
just ready to burst into a giggle at one of Max's stupid jokes. "It's a
long time since I laughed till I ached," she said to herself. The
peaceful repose of Paradise Court, the silence, which was only broken by
a shriek from the parrot, and the murmurous coo of the pigeons outside,
was indeed almost too complete. It would be nice to hear the hasty
tramp of feet up and down stairs again, or someone shouting "Iris!" from
the top of the house. Even the sound of Clement's one song, "The Ten
Little Niggers," which he performed perpetually and always out of tune,
would be pleasant to the ear. It had often made her cross in Albert
Street, but now the thought of it was more attractive than the sweetest
notes of the nightingales which sung every evening in the garden at
Paradise Court.
One afternoon Iris was walking with her godmother in the little walled
garden where she had found her on the first evening of her arrival. The
tulips were over now, and Mrs Fotheringham's attention was turned to a
certain border which Moore had been planting out under her direction; he
had suffered a good deal during the process, for, being a slow thinker,
he took some time to understand his mistress's meaning, which now and
then escaped him entirely. Often, however, he was afraid to ask her to
repeat an order, because it made her so angry, and in consequence his
mistakes were many and frequent, which made her more angry still. This
very day she had discovered that he had actually sown the sweet peas in
the wrong place.
"The man's a perfect fool!" she exclaimed in great wrath; "after all the
minute directions I gave him about this border. He gets stupider and
stupider every day. One would think he had a thousand things to employ
his mind, if he's got a mind, instead of these few simple facts."
"Perhaps," said Iris, "he's been thinking about his baby. It's been
awfully ill. Bronchitis it's had."
"His baby!" said Mrs Fotheringham, glaring round at her; "what do _you_
know about his baby?"
"Oh," replied Iris cheerfully, "I know all about it. It's teething, you
know, and then it caught cold, and then it turned to bronchitis. It's
been ill a fortnight, but now it's taken a turn."
"Has it, indeed?" said Mrs Fotheringham sarcastically.
"You see," said Iris, "I know all about bronchitis, because Dottie had
it so badly a year ago. We had to keep her in one room for ever so
long. It was Roche's embrocation that did her more good than anything.
I told Moore that, and he got some. When Dottie got better the doctor
said we ought to take her to the seaside, but that was out of the
question, mother said."
"Why?" asked Mrs Fotheringham.
"Because it would have cost so much," answered Iris.
She thought it was rather dull of her godmother not to have known that
without asking, but as she seemed interested in Moore's baby she went on
to supply her with a few more facts about his family.
"Moore has seven children," she said; "the eldest is just Max's age, ten
years old. _His_ name is Joseph. Then there's another boy, _his_ name
is Stephen. Then there's a girl, _her_ name is--"
"Stop!" said Mrs Fotheringham sharply.
Iris looked up startled, in the act of checking off the members of
Moore's family on her fingers. There was an expression of decided
displeasure on Mrs Fotheringham's face.
"May I ask," she said, "how and where you have gathered these details
about Moore's affairs?"
Iris hung her head. She had done something wrong again.
"It was after he told me his baby was ill," she said; "_I_ told _him_
about Dottie being ill, and how many brothers and sisters I had, and
their names and ages, and then he told me about his children."
"And what possible interest could that be to you?" asked Mrs
Fotheringham. "You appear to have very strange tastes. Pray, remember
for the future that I object to your talking in this familiar way to
Moore, or to any of the servants. Also, that there is _nothing_ I
detest so much as hearing about people's sick sisters, and sick babies,
and so on. Everyone near me appears to have a sick relative just now,
and to neglect their work in consequence."
So Moore's baby was a forbidden subject now as well as Miss Munnion's
sister, Diana. It was a new thing to Iris to keep silence about what
was passing in her mind, and a hundred times in the day she was on the
very edge of some indiscreet remark. She managed to check herself
before it came out, but it was really very difficult and tiresome.
"At any rate," she said to herself, "there's _nothing_ we mus'n't talk
about at home; and though we do all talk at once and make a great noise,
it's much better than not talking at all."
Nevertheless the conversation had made some impression on Mrs
Fotheringham, for the next day, after studying Iris in silence for some
time, she said suddenly:
"Were you sorry not to go to the seaside after Lottie was ill?"
"Lottie?" said Iris; "oh, you mean Dottie. Her real name is Dorothy,
you know, only she's so small, and round, and pudgy, Max says she's like
a full stop. So she's always called Dottie."
"You've not answered my question," said Mrs Fotheringham.
"Why, of course we were all dreadfully sorry," answered Iris. "We did
go once, but I'm the only one who remembers what it was like, because
the others were too small."
"Did you like it?"
"I _loved_ it," said Iris fervently, "The bathing, and the nice swishy
noise the waves made on the beach, and the smell of the sea, and the
rocks, and the sea-weed, and shrimps, and the tiny little crabs. It was
lovely."
"It's a pity you can't often go," remarked Mrs Fotheringham.
"Yes," said Iris with a sigh, "it is. But, you see, the lodgings are so
dear, and there's such a lot of us."
"Ah!" said Mrs Fotheringham, "it's a bad thing to be poor."
Iris looked up quickly. Those were the very words she had said to
herself when she first arrived at Paradise Court. It seemed almost that
her godmother must have overheard them, and yet that was quite
impossible. A bad thing to be poor! Somehow Iris felt now that there
might be worse things than want of money. It flashed across her, as she
looked at Mrs Fotheringham, that she should not like to be a rich old
lady with only a green parrot to love her.
"How would you like to have plenty of money?" asked Mrs Fotheringham.
"It would be very nice," said Iris, resting her chin on her hand, and
proceeding to consider the subject. "I could buy presents for them all
at home: lop-eared rabbits for Max, and a raven for Clement, and wax
dolls for Susie and Dottie--they've only got rag ones."
"Humph!" was her godmother's only reply; "now you may run out into the
garden."
Always glad to be released from Mrs Fotheringham's presence, and her
shaded room, Iris took her straw-hat and ran out into the sunshine. As
she went she turned over in her mind all the things she would buy and do
if she were rich. This was not at all a new employment, for she and her
brothers often did it at home, though they always differed widely as to
the best way of spending the imaginary fortune. "I would buy mother a
light green satin dress and pearls," she thought, "and give father a
whole lot of books all bound in scarlet and gold, and--"
"If you please, miss, might you happen to have seen Muster Moore just
lately?"
Iris looked round and saw a stout young woman with a checked shawl over
her head; she was very red in the face, and panted as though she were
quite out of breath.
"They told me in the house I should find him hereabouts," she went on;
"but I've run all over the place and I can't catch sight of him, and I
do want him most pertickler."
"He isn't here, I know," said Iris. "He's gone over to Dinham in the
donkey-cart to fetch parcels from the station."
"Oh, dear!" said the young woman, wiping her hot face with her apron,
"how orkerd things always do happen! There's the baby took ever so much
worse. She can't hardly fetch her breath, poor lamb! And I want some
more stuff to rub her chest with. I durs'n't leave her to go so far as
Dinham myself for it."
"Can't you send one of the boys?" said Iris, much interested and full of
sympathy.
"Bless you, missie, they're all at school. I've no one only the three
little uns at home. Well, I must go back. There's a neighbour holding
of her now."
"Stop a minute," said Iris, as the woman turned sadly away, "_I'll_ go
and fetch it. I know the way to Dinham."
She felt quite excited, and eager for the adventure.
"Thank you kindly, miss, but I couldn't trouble you, not to go all that
way."
"It's only two miles across the fields," said Iris. "Moore told me so;
and I know exactly what to ask for--a bottle of Roche's embrocation--
I've often got it before."
Mrs Moore took a bottle from under her shawl and looked at it.
"I _did_ bring the bottle with me," she said hesitatingly, "so as there
shouldn't be no mistake."
"All right," said Iris, taking it from her and nodding cheerfully; "I
won't be long, I can run very fast."
"You _might_ happen to meet Moore comin' back, and then he could go and
get it," continued Mrs Moore in an undecided tone.
But Iris did not wait for any further suggestions, she only nodded again
and ran down the garden towards the gate which led into the fields.
What a delightfully free feeling it was! She ran along the narrow
pathway between the tall grass growing on each side, and heard her
skirts brush against it as she passed with a nice whispering noise. The
cool wind blew in her face and rustled in the trees, and made the red
sorrel and daisies and cow-parsley bend and wave at her pleasantly.
"_Now_ I know how a bird feels when it gets out of a cage," she said to
herself, and she was so happy that she sang a little tune. Added to her
pleasure there was a great sense of adventure and even peril about the
journey, for, though she did not confess to herself that she was
disobeying her godmother, she yet knew that to rush over the fields to
Dinham in this way to fetch medicine for Moore's baby was the last thing
she would approve.
Without stopping to consider this, however, or to gather any of the
tempting things growing so near her hand, she ran on, swinging the empty
bottle in the air; on, on, through three long fields, and then she
checked her speed, for in the distance she could see the chimneys of
Dinham, and she knew she could not be far off.
She had often been there with her godmother, but that was by the road,
shut up in a close carriage--now she would arrive on foot, alone, with
her garden hat on, no gloves, and her hair quite rough. It was a very
different matter; the chemist might perhaps think she was some little
wild girl and refuse to give her the medicine. She looked at the label
on the bottle to see his name: Jabez Wrench, High Street, Dinham. She
had been to his shop with Mrs Fotheringham, and she remembered Mr
Wrench. He was a white-faced man with red hair, and he smiled a great
deal. "I shall say I come from Paradise Court," said Iris to herself,
"and then he'll know it's all right."
It was not difficult to find the way when she left the fields, for the
road led straight into the High Street of Dinham, where the chemist's
shop was. Iris entered it rather shyly, for her first excitement was a
good deal sobered; there was Mr Wrench behind the counter with his red
head bent over a pestle and mortar; he hardly looked up as Iris
presented the bottle. "Who's it for?" he asked shortly, without ceasing
his occupation.
"It's for Mrs Moore's baby," said Iris; and added after a pause, "I
come from Paradise Court."
It was wonderful to see how Mr Wrench's voice and manner altered at
once. He looked up, bowed, and puckered his white face into the smile
which Iris remembered.
"I beg pardon," he murmured, "I did not for the moment recognise--Shall
we have the pleasure of sending the medicine?"
But this Iris hastily refused, and in a few moments she left the shop in
triumph with a bottle of Roche's embrocation neatly done up in white
paper and sealing-wax. Whether, however, she was too much uplifted in
spirit to see where she was going, or whether the place looked different
now to when seen out of a carriage window, she did a very foolish thing,
for instead of turning to the left, as she should have done, she turned
to the right, and walked on some distance without noticing her mistake.
But when at length she arrived at a little grey church, she stopped in
dismay: "I know," she said to herself, "that I didn't pass a church; I
must be going the wrong way." To her horror there now sounded from the
church clock the hour of five. How late it was! There would hardly be
time to get home and change her frock before her godmother missed her.
How angry she would be! What dreadful things she would say, and how
terrible she would look! If only it were possible to get back in time!
She was just turning hastily to retrace her steps, when towards her,
trotting briskly along with head erect, came a donkey drawing a small
cart, and in the cart was a man standing up to drive. Iris stopped and
waved her parcel in the air eagerly to attract his attention, for the
man was Moore returning from the station, and the donkey was Mrs
Fotheringham's donkey, David.
Moore pulled up after a good deal of effort, for David did not wish to
stop, and Iris rapidly and excitedly poured forth her story. She mixed
up the baby, the medicine, the lateness of the hour, and how she turned
the wrong way, in a manner which might have puzzled the quickest brain;
but Moore did not show any surprise. That would come later when he had
arranged his ideas a little; at present his face was perfectly stolid as
he said:
"You'd best git up and ride home, missie. David'll take you back
quicker nor you can walk, now his head's this way."
Iris looked longingly at the cart. She really was a little tired now,
and very much afraid of her godmother's anger, and besides, the drive
itself would be most delightful. She would not have hesitated a moment,
but she remembered Mrs Fotheringham's injunction about talking to Moore
and the servants.
"But I needn't say _much_ to him," she concluded, and the next minute
she had taken the rough brown hand Moore held out to her, and clambered
over the side of the cart. David, who had laid back one long furry ear
as though listening to the conversation, now pricked it forward again
and started off. Seated on the rough plank, which shook and rattled
with every movement of the cart, Iris felt in the best possible spirits.
This was indeed a pleasant way of travelling, and how wonderfully
superior to the stuffy comfort of Mrs Fotheringham's well-cushioned
brougham! The Dinham road was full of new beauties seen in this manner;
the evening breeze was soft and cool, and from some of the fields came
the sweet smell of hay as they passed. There was plenty of variety,
too, in the bumps and jolts of the springless cart, Moore's way of
driving was new and attractive, and David's paces had at least the merit
of unexpectedness. Sometimes, after trotting gallantly along for some
minutes with uplifted crest, he brought himself up to a sudden and
determined walk; then Moore would hurl himself forward in the cart with
an energetic stamp, and growl out a number of strange and injurious
remarks, of which Iris only heard the first three:
"_You_ David! What are you up to? _Git_ along with you!" The rest
died away in a hoarse murmur as David quickened his movements. Iris
enjoyed it all thoroughly, and sat holding on with both hands to the
plank in the midst of the parcels, with a wide grin of pleasure on her
face. The Dinham road was very quiet, and there were few people about;
but as they approached Paradise Court an open carriage with a pair of
fine chestnut horses drove rapidly by, and David, as was his custom on
such occasions, drew up and stood quite still while it passed, in spite
of Moore's utmost exertions.
"Who was that lady in the carriage?" asked Iris, for she saw Moore touch
his cap. "I think I've seen her before."
"Very like, missie," answered Moore; "that was Lady Dacre from the
Towers yonder."
He turned into the stable-yard, helped Iris carefully down, and said
slowly, as though he were continuing a previous speech:
"And I take it main kind of yer, missie, to have fetched the stuff for
the little un."
To her relief Iris found that it was only half-past five, and that her
godmother had not missed her from the house. The great adventure seemed
likely to remain undiscovered, and she went to bed feeling glad she had
fetched the medicine, though a little ashamed of keeping it a secret.
She had no fear, however, that her disobedience would have any
uncomfortable results; though in this she was mistaken, as is often the
case when we judge of things too hastily. For the very next afternoon,
while she was reading aloud to Mrs Fotheringham, the door opened and
the maid-servant announced a visitor--Lady Dacre.
The name struck a chill to Iris's very heart. She retired modestly to a
corner of the room and bent her face over her book. Had Lady Dacre
recognised her yesterday? Would she say anything about it if she had?
Could anything be more unlucky? She sat and trembled as she turned
these things over in her mind, and listened anxiously to the
conversation, but at present it did not approach any dangerous subject.
The ladies were discussing the weather, the want of rain, the new vicar,
Lady Dacre's rheumatism, and the unreasonable behaviour of Miss Munnion.
So far all was safe. How would it do to slip out of the room while
they were so busily engaged? Iris got up and moved cautiously towards
the door, but, unfortunately, she was so occupied in trying to tread
very softly that she forgot the book in her hand, and it slid to the
floor with a loud thump. The conversation stopped, and Lady Dacre
turned her good-natured face in the direction of the noise. She was a
nice-looking pink-faced old lady, with silver hair, and a cozy black
satin bonnet.
"So you have your little god-daughter with you still?" she said to Mrs
Fotheringham. "Ah, I recollect we met yesterday in the Dinham Road."
Iris looked beseechingly at her, but she only nodded and smiled
comfortably.
"In the Dinham Road!" repeated Mrs Fotheringham, "what were you doing
in the Dinham Road alone, Iris?"
"Oh, she wasn't alone," said Lady Dacre kindly, "she had a gallant steed
and a charioteer to take care of her. She was coming along in very fine
style. I remember thinking, as I saw her, what a capital thing it was
to be twelve years old."
She laughed, and got up as she spoke to go away, perfectly unconscious
of poor Iris's despair.
As her guest left the room Mrs Fotheringham's darkest frown gathered on
her forehead.
"_Did_ you meet Lady Dacre yesterday?" she asked, and then added coldly,
"Perhaps it was one of Moore's daughters she mistook for you."
For a brief moment the possibility of taking advantage of this idea
darted through Iris's mind, but she let it go, and answered faintly:
"I _did_ meet her."
"Where were you, and with whom?"
When her godmother spoke so very distinctly Iris knew how angry she was,
and it was dreadfully difficult to answer at first. Presently, however,
gathering courage she lifted her head and said almost defiantly:
"In the donkey-cart with Moore."
"Did you drive to Dinham with him?"
"No."
"How did you get there?"
"I ran across the fields."
"And with what purpose beside that of disobeying me?"
"To fetch--" Iris stopped; she was approaching the fatal forbidden
subject.
"To fetch what?"
"Medicine."
"Don't tell me untruths," said Mrs Fotheringham still more icily; "what
could you want medicine for?"
"I'm telling the truth," said Iris indignantly; "it was for--"
"Well, well, well," said Mrs Fotheringham impatiently, "for--"
"Moore's baby," finished Iris, almost in a whisper.
"Now," exclaimed Mrs Fotheringham, falling back in her chair, "may
Heaven grant me patience!" She remained leaning back in a flattened
state for so long that Iris wondered if she were ill or going to faint;
but just as she determined to call the maid her godmother raised herself
into her usual erect position and beckoned.
"Come here," she said, "I've something to tell you. Sit down."
Iris sat down, feeling rather frightened, but yet as though the worst
were over; at any rate she had nothing more to confess.
"I invited you here," began Mrs Fotheringham, speaking very slowly and
impressively, "with a certain object in view, and that was that I might
judge whether it would be possible to offer to adopt you altogether.
Had I done so it would have been an untold advantage to you in many
ways, and a great relief to your parents, for your future would have
been provided for. You have plainly shown me, however, that it would be
impossible to have you here. You have shown selfish disregard for my
comfort, disobedience, and low vulgar tastes. This last escapade has
decided me. Your chance is over."
"What chance?" asked Iris, who had not altogether grasped her meaning.
"Your chance of living here at Paradise Court, and of being rich,
instead of going back to Albert Street, where you will always be
miserably poor, and have to work for your living."
"Oh, but anyhow," said Iris, now quite roused, "I couldn't possibly do
that. I mean, I couldn't _live_ here even if you liked me."
"Why not?"
"Why, of _course_ I couldn't. How could I possibly leave father and
mother and the others? _They_ wouldn't like it either."
"You like Albert Street better than this, I suppose," said Mrs
Fotheringham coldly.
"Oh, _dear_, yes--much. As long as the others are there."
"You won't like it best always," said Mrs Fotheringham. "There will
come a time when you'll remember that you've missed a chance. Why, you
foolish child," she continued, speaking more earnestly and with a tone
of half pity, "you don't know what money can do. It can do everything.
If you are cold it can warm you, if you are dull it can amuse you, if
you are hungry it can feed you, if you are insignificant it can make you
a power in the world. It can bring people to your feet, and make them
serve you."
"But not love you," said Iris quickly.
"Pooh!" said Mrs Fotheringham.
She hardly spoke again for the rest of the evening, but remained deep in
thought, from which Iris did not dare to rouse her by any question. The
next day had been arranged for her return home, and when everything was
ready, and the carriage waiting at the door to take her to the station,
she went to say farewell to her godmother and Paradise Court. She found
her sitting in the verandah, with the parrot on a stand close by, and
there was such a lonely look about her that for a moment Iris felt
sorry.
"Good-bye, godmother," she said gently.
"Ah, you're going," said Mrs Fotheringham, holding out a hard white
hand; then looking at her sharply:
"Are you glad to go?"
"I've enjoyed myself _very_ much," said Iris politely.
"But you like Albert Street better?"
"Well, you see, the others are all there." She could not help smiling a
little as she thought how the "others" would all be at the station to
meet her, and how they would laugh, and talk, and wave things, and kiss
her, and how much she would have to tell them.
"I'll give you a proverb to take back with you," said Mrs Fotheringham
after a moment's pause. "Try and remember it. `When Poverty comes in
at the door, Love flies out of the window.' There never was a truer
word spoken."
She leant back in her chair. The interview was ended. Iris's visit to
Paradise Court was over.
But not the memory of it, that dwelt freshly in her mind for years; and
when Susie and Dottie demanded again and again to be told how the duck
sat under the bee-hive, or how Iris had driven from Dinham in the
donkey-cart, the whole place came before her like a brightly painted
picture. And in the picture were two things which it pleased her most
to look at and remember--Miss Munnion's face when she had kissed her at
the gate, and Moore's when he thanked her for fetching the "stuff for
the little un,"--these always stood out clearly, even when the
background of Paradise Court became dim and indistinct. Neither were
her godmother's parting words and her proverb forgotten. Sometimes in
after years, when Iris came to know what poverty really means, and when
difficulties and troubles rose in Albert Street which a little more
money would have relieved, she thought of them mournfully. Poverty had
indeed come in at the door, and it might have been in her power to keep
it out. She could not do that now, she had missed her "chance," as Mrs
Fotheringham had said; but there still remained one other thing--Love
should not fly out of the window. And he never did. Many hands, some
of them small and weak, held him fast in 29 Albert Street, and he was
always to be found there, though he might hide himself for a time.
"After all," said Iris to herself, "there are flowers here as well as in
Paradise Court!"
And so there were. There is a crop that flourishes sometimes better in
the hard soil of poverty and labour than where beauty, culture, art, and
all that wealth can produce spread their soft influences. These are the
flowers called patience, unselfishness, simplicity, love. They grow
best, not where life is most pleasant to the senses, but where cold
winds often blow roughly and outward things are ugly and poor.
"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing more courageous, nothing higher,
nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller nor better in
heaven and earth."--_Thomas a Kempis_.