Chapter 10

"Very true," murmured Miss Munnion. She did not mean anything by these words, but they were so habitual that she could not help using them.

"Then you'd better come straight to my godmother and tell her," said Iris, "if you _mean_ to go."

"Oh, of course I mean to go," said Miss Munnion reproachfully. "How could I forsake Diana when she wants me?"

"Well, then, there's no use in thinking of anything else," said Iris.

It was an evident relief to Miss Munnion to be taken in hand firmly even by a child. Years of dependence on the whims and fancies of others had deprived her of what little decision and power of judgment she had possessed. She could hardly call her mind her own, so how could she make it up on any point?

Yet all through her troubled and dreary life one feeling had remained alive and warm--affection for her sister Diana. "Many waters cannot quench love," and its flame still burned bright and clear in Miss Munnion's heart.

"Although she really is very silly," thought Iris, as they turned back together towards the house, "there's something I like about her after all. She's much nicer than my godmother."

She hurried Miss Munnion along as fast as she could, almost as though it were Susie or Dottie she had in charge; and indeed the poor lady was so nervous at the prospect of Mrs Fotheringham that she was as helpless as a child. She stumbled along, falling over her gown at every step, dropping her letters, or her spectacles, or her pocket handkerchief, and uttering broken sentences about her sister Diana. Iris picked up these things again and again, and at last carried them herself, and so brought Miss Munnion triumphantly, but in a breathless condition, to the door of the house.

"Now," she said, "you'd better take the letters in to my godmother and tell her all about it at once. I'll wait here till you come back."

She had not to wait long, for Miss Munnion reappeared in less than five minutes shaking her head mournfully.

"It's just as I thought it would be," she said. "Mrs Fotheringham thinks it's very unreasonable of me to want to go to Diana."

"Did you tell her she was ill?" asked Iris.

"Yes, and she said she supposed there were doctors in Sunderland who would do her more good than I should. She doesn't seem to be able to understand why I should want to go. She says it's fussy."

"Did you tell her that I would read to her while you are gone?" asked Iris.

"No, my dear, I couldn't get that in; she's so very impetuous. And besides, the first thing she said was:--

"`Of course you'll understand, Miss Munnion, that if you feel obliged to go to Sunderland our connection is at an end.' So I shall lose the situation after all," ended Miss Munnion with a sigh.

Iris stood in silent thought for a moment.

"Did she look _very_ angry?" she said at length.

"Well, yes," said Miss Munnion. "I must say she seemed completely upset. I think she was vexed to start with, because, you know, she didn't get her nap."

"You stop here a minute," said Iris suddenly, and ran into the house. She pushed open the door of Mrs Fotheringham's sitting-room gently and peeped in. Her godmother was sitting very upright in her high-backed chair, a frown on her brow, and the parrot on her shoulder. She looked so alarming that Iris felt almost inclined to run away again, but the old lady turned her head suddenly and saw her.

"Well," she said, with an air of sarcastic resignation, "what do _you_ want? Any more ducks under bee-hives, or have _you_ got a sick sister too?"

"Please, godmother," said Iris, with a great effort, "I want you to let me read to you while Miss Munnion is away."

"Oh!" said Mrs Fotheringham.

She stared silently at Iris for a moment, then resumed.

"I've no doubt it would be an immense pleasure to listen to you if you read like most children of your age. Anything more?"

Iris became scarlet under her godmother's fixed gaze, for both she and the parrot seemed to be chuckling silently at her confusion. But she thought of Diana, and of poor Miss Munnion waiting outside, and managed to gasp out:

"Please let Miss Munnion come back."

"She hasn't gone yet that I know of," replied Mrs Fotheringham, without removing her eyes from the child.

"But she _must_," continued Iris, "because of Diana."

"Well, I must say, you are a most extraordinary child," said the old lady, after another pause, "with your ducks and your Dianas! What is it to you, I should like to know, whether Miss Munnion goes or stays? It doesn't interfere with _your_ comfort, I suppose."

Iris could not answer this question, but she stuck to her point, and said in a low voice:

"I should like her to see her sister and come back."

Mrs Fotheringham looked more and more puzzled, and her frown grew deeper. Iris felt that there was not a gleam of hope for Miss Munnion and Diana; but when at last the words came she found she was mistaken, for they were as follows:

"You may go and tell Miss Munnion," said the old lady, "that the sooner she starts on this wild-goose chase the better, and that I will spare her for one week, but if she wants to stop away longer she needn't come back at all. And this is on the condition that neither you nor she are to mention her sister Diana to me ever again, whether she is ill, or well, or anything about her. As to your reading to me, I've no doubt you either mumble or squeak, and I couldn't bear it, so pray don't imagine you'll be the least use while she's away, or let her imagine it."

She waved her mittened hand fretfully, and Iris, thankful to be released, flew with her good news to the trembling Miss Munnion.

Early the next morning, almost unnoticed by the household, and carrying her own little black bag, she started on her two-miles walk to the station. Iris went with her as far as the lodge gates.

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand, "and I hope you'll find your sister Diana better." She felt inclined to add, "Take care of your purse, and don't lose your ticket," as though she were parting from a child; but Miss Munnion suddenly leaned forward, and gave her a hard little nervous kiss. It felt more like a knock from something wooden than a kiss, and Iris was so startled that she received it in perfect silence. Before she had recovered herself the small figure, more lop-sided than ever now, because it was weighed down by the bag, had stumbled through the gates, and was on its way down the road. Iris watched till it was out of sight, and then went slowly back to the house.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 3.

THE LOST CHANCE.

"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.