A Pair of Clogs - Amy Walton (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

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