A Little Mother to the Others, L. T. Meade [readict .txt] 📗

Mr. Delaney."

"If you think it right."

"I do. It is the only thing to do. He ought to come home immediately. That little girl ought to have her father with her."

"Then your opinion is that Iris is very ill?"

"She is on her way to be very ill. At the same time, if her mind is relieved, she will be well in a week. Under existing circumstances, however, there seems but small chance of that. You ought to communicate with the father, and if I were you I would let the child do something herself—even if that something is useless—to try to recover her lost brother and sister."

"What do you mean? It really is impossible for the child to go over the country looking for Orion[198] and Diana. Oh, what trouble I brought upon myself when I undertook the care of my brother's family!"

"I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Dolman, but I must give you my true opinion. Please act on my suggestion; I am sure you will not regret it. Communicate with the father in the quickest way possible, urge him to return to London without fail, and give little Iris something to do which will occupy and satisfy her mind. In the meantime I will order her a tonic, but medicines are not what she needs. She requires mind rest, and nothing else will make her well."

Mrs. Dolman left Dr. Kent's house, feeling very uncomfortable. She took Iris home, was wonderfully gentle to her during the walk, and sent her up to the schoolroom with a message to Miss Ramsay to say that she was not to do any more lessons that morning. Having got rid of Iris, she went immediately to have an interview with her husband in his study.

"Well, William," she said, "I own myself beaten."

"My dear Jane—beaten? In what way?"

"Here's a pretty mess," continued Mrs. Dolman; "Orion and Diana cannot be found, and Dr. Kent says that Iris is going to be very ill."

"Iris going to be ill?" repeated Mr. Dolman. "Has she caught anything taking. If so, Jane, it would be our duty to separate the children immediately."

"Oh, nonsense, William! Where would she take a catching complaint in a wholesome, well-sanitated rectory like this? Have you never heard of nerve troubles?"

Mr. Dolman opened his sleepy eyes and stared full at his wife.

"My dear," he said, "I often thought that you had[199] never heard of them. So you really believe in them at last?"

"I am forced to when that pretty child is dying from the effects of them."

Mrs. Dolman then repeated to her husband all that Dr. Kent had said.

"I cannot stand the responsibility any longer," she said. "I will send a cablegram to David this very day. What will he think of me? Of course he will never forgive me. In the meantime, William, have you anything to propose about little Iris?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Dolman. "There may not be much in my suggestion; but the fact is, I feel dreadfully restless, sitting here day after day, doing nothing."

"William, what do you mean?" answered his wife. "Sitting here day after day, doing nothing! Have you not your parish to attend to?"

"Oh, I don't mean that—you attend to the parish, my love."

"Thank you, William, for acknowledging that fact at last."

"I frankly acknowledge it. Then, too, we have no sick poor in the parish, and everything is really in a prosperous condition; but the fact is, I hate sitting down to my comfortable meals, and lying down at night on my comfortable bed, not knowing in what part of the world dear, spirited little Diana may be. I don't think half so much about the boy as little Diana."

"You are like all the rest of your sex, William; you are taken by a child because it happens to be a girl and has a pair of black eyes. For my part, I never could bear little Diana."[200]

"Please don't say that now."

"Oh, it is not that I am not sorry for her; of course, I am dreadfully sorry, and I acknowledge—I do acknowledge—that I have been more or less to blame. But now, please, come to the point—you always were such a man for going round and round a subject."

"Well, then," said Mr. Dolman, "this is it. The doctor wishes Iris to be roused. Let me take both her and Apollo, and let us begin to look for the lost children."

"And do you suppose," answered Mrs. Dolman, with a laugh, "that you will be more likely to find the children than the clever detectives who are on their track?"

"We can go to London and take a detective with us. Iris will at once feel happier if she is doing something. The fact is this: I am certain the inaction is killing her."

"It is an extraordinary plan," said Mrs. Dolman; "but after all, if it is the only way to keep Iris alive, I suppose we must consider it. But, William, I am the suitable one to take Iris and Apollo about. Indeed, why should Apollo go at all? He at least is in perfect health."

"The person to consider is Iris," said Mr. Dolman. "She will confide in Apollo when she will not confide in anyone else; and I think, Jane," he added, looking very strong and determined, "that she would rather go with me than with you." Mrs. Dolman flushed. "You know, Jane," continued her husband, "you have been a little hard on these children."

"Perhaps so," answered Mrs. Dolman, "and when I have tried to do my duty, too. But, of course,[201] Evangeline's children were likely to be unmanageable; they had such extraordinary training when they were babies. However, as matters stand, I have not a word to say."

"Then, my dear, we will consider the thing arranged. We can easily get John Burroughs to lend us one of his curates for Sunday, and you will do all the rest. Now, shall I see Iris and submit the plan to her?"

"An extraordinary plan it is," answered Mrs. Dolman; "but perhaps you are right, William. At any rate, I have proved myself so completely in the wrong that I am willing on this occasion to be guided by you."

She rose from her seat, left the room, and went up to the schoolroom.

"Iris," she said to the little girl, "I want you and Apollo to come downstairs immediately."

Iris sprang to her feet; she grew white to her lips.

"Have you heard anything?" she asked.

"No, my dear, nothing—nothing whatever; only your uncle wishes to speak to you. Now, come at once, for he is not the sort of man to be kept waiting."

Mrs. Dolman left the room and the children followed her. When they reached the study, Iris went straight up to her uncle.

"What do you want with me, Uncle William?" she asked.

"The fact is this," he answered, scarcely looking at her, and speaking with great eagerness and emphasis for him; "you and I, Iris, have got to do something, and there is not a moment to delay."

A great flood of color filled Iris' cheeks, a new light darted into her eyes.[202]

"Oh, yes, Uncle William," she said, panting as she spoke, "we have been doing nothing too long. It has nearly killed me, Uncle William," she added.

"Then, my dear, we will just be our own detectives—you and I and Apollo. We will start this very afternoon; we will look for the children ourselves. Why, what is the matter, my dear; what is the matter? What are you doing?"

For little Iris had fallen on her knees, had caught her uncle's hand in both of hers, and was pressing it frantically to her lips.

"Oh, Uncle William," she said, "how can I thank you? I promised mother the day she died that I would be a little mother to the others, and I have failed, I have failed dreadfully, and it is killing me, Uncle William. But oh, if I can find them again, and if you will really help me, and if we do start to-day—oh, if this is true, then I am happy again."

"You observe, my dear Jane," said Mr. Dolman, "that my proposal seems to be correct. Now, run off, Iris, and get Simpson to pack some clothes for you and Apollo. We will leave Super-Ashton by the three o'clock train."

[203]

CHAPTER XIX. "A PIGMY I CALL HIM."

The seaside town of Madersley was crowded to excess. It was the height of the summer season, and Holt's circus was doing a roaring trade. There were two exhibitions daily, and every available corner in the great tent was crammed to excess. The spectators said that they came principally to see the little dark-eyed girl ride. For Diana had taken to the life almost as kindly as a young duck takes to the water. She had learned her part quickly, and in a very short time she could ride even the most spirited horse. She was really almost destitute of fear, and was even seen to laugh when she was put upon the back of a buck-jumper, who did his utmost to toss her off. There were always men or women close by to catch her if she did fail to go through any of the rings, the large paper balloons, or the other obstructions put in her way. Her piquant little face, the bold expression of her eyes, her fearless manner, and the unmistakable look of babyhood about her, roused the spectators to a frenzy of admiration.

But though Diana did well and delighted Ben Holt, Orion by no means followed her example. Put to the test, poor little Orion had little of the real giant about him. He was an ordinary little boy, with pretty black eyes and a good-humored, somewhat touching expression of face, but Diana was anything but an ordinary girl.[204]

Orion, having slipped once or twice from the back of Greased Lightning, became terribly afraid of the beast, and always turned white to his little lips when he was going through his exercises. As a rule, Ben Holt always trained the novices himself, and although he was kind to Diana, he soon began to have a thorough contempt for little Orion.

"He's a peaky little chap," he said to his wife. "Why, he aint even worth the twenty shillin's I paid for 'im. Now the little 'un—the gal—there's a fortune in her; but the boy—I have no patience with the boy."

Meanwhile, he began to use rough language and threats to the child, and once or twice he even touched the little fellow with his great whip. On this occasion Orion lost every scrap of nerve he possessed, and fell flat down upon the sanded floor of the arena, shivering and crying painfully. Diana did not happen to be present. When she was by, small child that she was, Uncle Ben never showed at his worst, and Orion, looking round now in vain for his sister, gave himself up for lost.

"Now listen to me, you young villain," said the tyrant; "I'll force you to do what I want. You get on Greased Lightning's back this very minute."

Little Orion struggled painfully to his feet. A good-natured girl, who stood near, tried to say a word in his favor.

"Don't you forget that he's very young, Ben Holt," she said. "It will be all the worse for you if you are too hard on the little kid."

"I'll thank you not to give me any of your sauce, Susan Jenkins," was the angry reply.

Susan Jenkins, a pretty, slight, fair-haired girl, who[205] went by the graceful name of Ariel in the circus programme, did not venture to say anything further, but in her heart she resolved to give Diana a hint of the true state of the case.

Orion was once more lifted on Greased Lightning's back, and the manager cracking his whip, the beautiful horse began to trot round and round the arena. At first the creature went fairly quietly, and Orion managed to keep his seat. His piteous white face, the black shadows under his eyes, his little trembling hands were noticed, however, by Susan. She kept near on purpose and tried to encourage him by smiles and nods. When he passed close to her he heard her hearty voice saying, "Well done, little chap! You jest stick on and you'll be as right as a trivet."

A strangled sob by way of answer rose in Orion's throat. Alas! he knew only too well that he could not stick on. Louder and faster grew the crack of the manager's whip, and faster and fleeter trotted Greased Lightning. It was impossible for Orion to keep his seat; he had nothing to cling to, nothing to hold on to.

"You will have to do all