“The wealth of a man is the number of things which he loves and blesses, which he is loved and blessed by.”—Carlyle.
Albert Street is in a respectable neighbourhood on the outskirts of London—not quite in London, and certainly not in the country, though only a little while ago there were fields and lanes where rows of houses now stand. There are, indeed, bits of hedgerow still left where the hawthorn tries to blossom in the spring, and dingy patches and corners of field where flowers used to grow; but these have nearly all disappeared, and instead of them heaps of rubbish, old kettles, empty sardine-boxes, and broken crockery are scattered about. Only the dandelions are lowly enough to live contentedly amongst such vulgar surroundings, and still show their beaming yellow faces wherever they have a chance. It was difficult in Albert Street to feel that spring and summer meant anything else than heat and dust and discomfort. It was more bearable in the winter, Iris Graham thought; but when the warm bright weather came it was strange to remember that somewhere it was pleasant and beautiful—that there were flowers blooming, and birds singing from morning till night, and broad green fields and deep woods full of cool shadows. Iris dreamt of it all at night sometimes, and when she waked there was the cry of the milkman instead of the birds’ songs, and the cup of withered dandelions she had picked yesterday instead of banks of primroses and meadows full of cowslips. But in the daytime she did not dream, for she had no time; every bit of it was quite filled up with what she had to do—her lessons, her clothes to mend, her two little sisters to take out or amuse indoors, endless matters to attend to for the two boys who were at a day-school and came home in the evening, errands for mother, and other duties too numerous to mention. From the time she got up in the morning till she went to bed there was always something to be done, for she was the eldest, and everyone in the house seemed to expect something from her. There were five children and only one maid-servant to do all the work, so no one in Number 29 Albert Street had any idle moments on their hands. The small house was always full of noise and hurry and bustle—a baby crying or a boy rushing up and down stairs, the street-door slamming, or “Iris!” shouted in shrill impatient voices. It was hard to be for ever called upon to do something for someone else, to have no time of your very own, to be everyone’s servant—to be only thirteen years old, and yet to have so very few holidays. Iris had come to feel this more and more strongly lately, to long for ease and pleasure and idleness, and to leave off serving other people. These moods increased every day. She was tired of being busy, tired of the hurry and worry of Albert Street, she was tired of doing things for others; she should like to go quite away into the country a long way off and do just as she pleased all day. And because she kept these discontented fancies quite to herself they grew very strong, and at last took hold of her mind altogether. She began to feel that there never was such a hard-worked injured person as Iris Graham, or such a dull, unamusing life as hers. Even the sound of her little sisters’ voices as they said the verses they were learning about “the busy bee” provoked her beyond endurance. “I hate bees and I hate being busy!” she said to herself.
One warm morning in May she sat, with these thoughts in her mind and a basket of work by her side, in a little room at the back of the house called the “Boys’ Room.” Her mother was lying down upstairs with a bad nervous headache, and Iris had succeeded with great difficulty in keeping the house quiet for the last hour. The only other person in the room was her brother Max, mumbling over his lessons for the next day half aloud, and presently he threw his book across the table to her.
“Just hear me this,” he said.
Iris propped the book up against her basket and went on darning.
“Go on,” she said.
“Now came still evening on,” began Max, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his fingers drumming on the table, “and twilight grey had in her sober livery all things clad—all things clad—oh, bother! What’s the next?”
Iris prompted him, and he halted lamely through his task with many a sigh and groan.
“Why couldn’t Milton make his things rhyme?” he said impatiently as his sister returned the book. “I never knew such rotten stuff to learn as Paradise Lost.”
“You don’t half know it,” said Iris. “Oh, mustn’t it have been nice to be Adam and Eve!”