A Pair of Clogs, Amy Walton [the little red hen read aloud .TXT] 📗

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