Story 3—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.

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 à Kempis.

The End.