Chapter 11

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_.

THE END.