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

it's like a page out of a printed book. And so you has run away, and you belong to the circus, I guess. Why, you are in your circus dresses."

"See my bow and arrow," said Diana. "I is the gweat Diana; I is the gweatest huntwess in all the world."

"To be sure; to be sure!" said the man.

"And I am Orion," said the boy, seeing that Diana's words were having a good effect. "You can watch me up in the sky on starful nights. I am a great giant, and this is my girdle, and this is my sword."

"I never heard anything so like a fairy tale afore," said the man. "Are you sure you are human, you two little mites?"

Diana took no notice of this.

"I want to get into the garding," she said. "I want to lie down in the garding; I want Iris; I want mother. Man, do you know that my mother has gone away to the angels? She is playing a gold harp and singing ever so loud; and once we had a little mouse, and it was called Rub-a-Dub, and it's deaded. We gived it a public funeral."

"Oh, do let us have some milk, and don't mind her!" said Orion.

The man jumped down off the cart, and, turning a tap in the great big can, poured out a glass of foaming milk. He gave it to Orion, who drank it all off at the first draught. He then filled out a second[240] measure, which he gave to Diana. She took it, raised it to her lips, took one or two sips, and then gave it to Orion.

"There's something sick inside of me," she said. "I don't know what's the matter; I isn't well."

"She had a bad fall last night at the circus," said Orion. "She fell from one of the rings. I s'pect something's cracked inside her head."

"I s'pect something's c'acked inside my head," echoed Diana, looking up piteously. "I want to go to the garding; I want to lie down."

"Well, look here," said the man; "this is more than I can understand. You had best, both of you, go back to the circus, and let the people who has the charge of you see what's the matter."

"No!" screamed Orion; "never! never!"

He suddenly put wings to his little feet, and began to fly down the road, away from the milkman.

Diana stood quite still.

"Aren't he silly little boy?" she said. "But he mustn't go back to circus, milkman; it would kill him. I isn't able to wide to-day, 'cos I's c'acked inside my head; and he mustn't wide without me, 'cos it would kill him. Couldn't we go to your house, milkman, and rest there for a bit?"

"Well, to be sure; I never thought of that," said the man. "So you shall, and welcome. Jump up beside me on the cart, missy."

"I can't, 'cos my head's c'acked," said Diana.

"Then I'll lift you up. Here, you sit there and lean against the big milk can. Now, we'll set Peggy going, and she will soon overtake little master."

Diana laughed gleefully.

"Do you know, you's an awfu' nice man?" she said.[241]

"I am glad you think so, missy."

The man took the reins and Peggy started forward. They soon overtook little Orion, who was lifted also into the milk cart. Then the milkman turned swiftly round and carried the children back to a small house on the outskirts of the town. When he got there he called out in a lusty voice:

"Hi, Bessie! are you within?"

A woman with a smiling face came to the door.

"Now, what in the world is the matter with you, Jonathan?" she answered.

"Only this, wife. I met the queerest little pair in all the world on the road. Can't you take them in and give them rest for a bit? I believe the little miss is hurt awful."

"I's c'acked inside my head, but it don't matter," said Diana.

The woman stared from the children to the man; then something in Diana's face went straight to her heart.

"Why, you poor little mite," she said, "come along this minute. Why, Jonathan, don't you know her? Course it's the little missy that we both saw in the circus last night. Didn't I see her when she fell from the ring? Oh, poor little dear! poor little love!"

[242]

CHAPTER XXIII. FORTUNE.

Uncle William took the children straight up to London. They spent the night at a great big hotel, and in the morning he went alone to have a long consultation with one of the best detectives in New Scotland Yard. When he returned after this interview, Iris came to meet him with a wise look on her face.

"I know what to do," she exclaimed.

"Well, then, my dear, it's more than I do," replied Uncle William.

"It's the only thing," repeated Iris. "Let's go straight home."

"Home? Do you mean to the Rectory? Why, we have just come from there."

"I don't mean the Rectory. I mean our real home," answered Iris. "Let's get back at once to Delaney Manor."

"I don't see much use in that," answered Uncle William.

"It's all a feel I have inside of me," replied Iris. "Often and often I get that feel, and whenever I obey it things come right. I have a feel now that I shall be nearer to Diana and to Orion in the old garden than anywhere else. I always try to obey my feel. Perhaps it's silly, but I can't help it. Do you ever get that sort of feel inside of you, Uncle William?"[243]

"If I did," replied Uncle William, "your Aunt Jane would say that I was the silliest old man she had ever come across."

"But you aren't, you know. You are a right good sort," answered Apollo, in a patronizing tone.

"I am glad you think so, my boy," replied Uncle William. "Well, now," he added, "I always did hate London, and in the middle of summer it seems to me that it is wanting in air. I once heard a countryman say that he believed people only breathed turn about in London, and it really seems something like that this morning. The place is so close and so used-up that there is not a breath anywhere; so, Iris, if you have got that feel, and if you will promise not to tell your Aunt Jane that that is your reason for returning to the Manor, why, we may just as well do so—only, I suppose, the place is all shut up."

"Fortune, at any rate, is there," replied Iris; "and if anybody can help us to find Diana and Orion, it's Fortune; for she had them, you know, Uncle William, from the moment the angel brought them down from heaven. She had to do for them and nurse them, and tend them from that moment until Aunt Jane took them away. Oh, yes!" continued Iris; "if there is a person who will help us to find them, it's Fortune."

"She partakes of the strange names which seem to run in your family," answered Uncle William. "But there, it is as good an idea as any other, and we shall at least each of us have our proper number of breaths at Delaney Manor. That certainly is in favor of the scheme."

Accordingly, that very afternoon, Uncle William, Iris, and Apollo took the train into Devonshire. They arrived at the Manor in the evening. Nobody[244] expected them, and the place looked, to Uncle William, at least, very dull and desolate. But when Iris saw the quaint old gateway, and when Apollo felt his feet once again upon the well-known avenue, the sadness of heart which had oppressed both children seemed to lift itself as if it had wings and fly right away.

"Let's go to the garden this very instant," exclaimed Iris, looking at her brother.

They clasped each other's hands and, flying along the well-remembered haunts, soon reached their favorite garden.

"Oh, Apollo! I live; I breathe again," said Iris, panting as she spoke. "Oh, I am happy once more!"

"Let us see if anything has been injured while we were away," said Apollo. "Oh, I wonder if anybody has watered our pretty gardens. I planted a lot of mignonette the day before I went away. I wonder if it has come up."

The children wandered about the garden. The dead-house was now empty; the four little gardens looked sadly the worse for want of watering and general looking after. The cemetery, however, looked much as usual; so also did the greenswards of grass, the roses, the different summer flowers; and finally Iris and Apollo visited the little summer-house, and seated themselves on their own chairs.

"The garden has not run away," said Apollo. "That's a comfort. I'm real glad of that."

"It's exactly like the garden of Eden," said Iris, panting as she spoke. "I don't think anybody," she continued, "could be naughty in this garden."

Apollo kicked his legs in a somewhat impatient manner.[245]

"I feel dreadfully hungry, Iris," he said. "Suppose we go to the house now and have some supper."

"Who is that coming down the walk?" said Iris.

It was dusk by this time, and in the little summer-house all was dark; but Iris, as she spoke, sprang to her feet, and the next moment found herself clasped in Fortune's motherly arms.

"My darling!" said the woman. "Why, it drives me near mad to see you again. And now, what in the world is up with the two of you, and where are the others? There's an elderly gentleman—a clergyman—in the house, and he said I was to look for you here, and that you were going to spend the night. What does it mean, Iris? Oh, my dear! I can't see your face, for it is too dark; but you are very light. Why, you are no weight at all, my honey."

"I expect I'm rather worn out," replied Iris, in her old-fashioned tone. "You know, Fortune, when mother went away she told me to be a mother to the others, and—oh, Fortune, Fortune! I have failed, I have failed."

Iris' little arms were clasped tightly round her old nurse's neck; her face was hidden against her bosom; her heavy sobs came thick and fast.

"Why, my poor dear, you are exactly like a feather," said Fortune; "it aint to be expected that a young thing like you could be a mother. But what's gone wrong, dearie? what's gone wrong?"

"They are lost. That's what has gone wrong," said Iris. "Orion and Diana are lost, Fortune."

"Sakes alive, child! stand up and speak proper," said Fortune. "Your little brother and sister lost! Impossible; you are joking me, Iris, and that aint[246] fair, seeing I was with you since you drew the breath of life."

"Do you think I could joke upon such a subject?" said Iris. "You say I am like a feather—that is because I have all wasted away from—from fretting, from—from misery. Yes, Fortune, they are lost, and I wish I were dead. I feel it here so dreadfully." The child pressed both her hands against her heart. "I have not been a mother," she continued. "Oh, Fortune! what is to be done?"

"You jest sit down on my lap and stop talking nonsense," said Fortune. "Why, you are trembling like an aspen. You jest rest yourself a bit alongside o' me. Now then, Master Apollo, tell me the whole truth, from beginning to end. The two children lost? Now, I don't believe it, and that's a fact."

"You'll have to believe it, Fortune," said Apollo, "for it's true. They went out one day about a month ago—we think they must have gone to some woods not far from that horrid Rectory, but nobody seems to know for certain—and they just never came back. We missed them at tea-time, and we began to look for 'em, and we went on looking from that minute until now, and we have never found either of 'em. That's about all. They are both quite lost. What I think," continued the little boy, speaking in a wise tone, "is that Diana must have met the great Diana of long ago, and gone right away with her, and perhaps Orion has been turned into one of the stars that he's called after. I don't really know what else to think," continued Apollo.

"Fudge!" said Fortune. "Don't you waste your time talking any more such arrant nonsense. Now, the two of you are as cold and shivery as can be, and[247] I doubt not, as hungry also. Come straight away to the house. This thing has got to be inquired into."

"Oh, Fortune! can you do anything?" asked Iris.

"Can I do anything?" said Fortune. "I have got to find