A Flat Iron for a Farthing | Page 2

MORNING,
AND SAID, "AND HOW IS MISS ELIZA'S LITTLE BEAU?"
"BLESS ME, THERE'S THAT DOG!"
"MR. BUCKLE, I BELIEVE?"
SHE ROLLED ABRUPTLY OVER ON HER SEAT AND
SCRAMBLED OFF BACKWARDS
POLLY AND REGIE IN THE "PULPIT" AND THE "PEW"
"ALL TOGETHER, IF YOU PLEASE!"
IT WAS ONLY A QUIET DINNER PARTY, AND MISS CHISLETT
HAD BROUGHT OUT HER NEEDLEWORK
* * * * *

A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING
CHAPTER I
MOTHERLESS
When the children clamour for a story, my wife says to me, "Tell them
how you bought a flat iron for a farthing." Which I very gladly do; for
three reasons. In the first place, it is about myself, and so I take an
interest in it. Secondly, it is about some one very dear to me, as will
appear hereafter. Thirdly, it is the only original story in my somewhat
limited collection, and I am naturally rather proud of the favour with
which it is invariably received. I think it was the foolish fancy of my
dear wife and children combined that this most veracious history
should be committed to paper. It was either because--being so unused
to authorship--I had no notion of composition, and was troubled by a
tyro tendency to stray from my subject; or because the part played by
the flat iron, though important, was small; or because I and my affairs
were most chiefly interesting to myself as writer, and my family as
readers; or from a combination of all these reasons together, that my
tale outgrew its first title and we had to add a second, and call it "Some
Passages in the Life of an only Son."
Yes, I was an only son. I was an only child also, speaking as the world
speaks, and not as Wordsworth's "simple child" spoke. But let me
rather use the "little maid's" reckoning, and say that I have, rather than
that I had, a sister. "Her grave is green, it may be seen." She peeped
into the world, and we called her Alice; then she went away again and
took my mother with her. It was my first great, bitter grief.
I remember well the day when I was led with much mysterious
solemnity to see my new sister. She was then a week old.
"You must be quiet, sir," said Mrs. Bundle, a new member of our
establishment, "and not on no account make no noise to disturb your
dear, pretty mamma."
Repressed by this accumulation of negatives, as well as by the size and

dignity of Mrs. Bundle's outward woman, I went a-tiptoe under her
large shadow to see my new acquisition.
Very young children are not always pretty, but my sister was beautiful
beyond the wont of babies. It is an old simile, but she was like a
beautiful painting of a cherub. Her little face wore an expression
seldom seen except on a few faces of those who have but lately come
into this world, or those who are about to go from it. The hair that just
gilded the pink head I was allowed to kiss was one shade paler than that
which made a great aureole on the pillow about the pale face of my
"dear, pretty" mother.
Years afterwards--in Belgium--I bought an old mediæval painting of a
Madonna. That Madonna had a stiffness, a deadly pallor, a thinness of
face incompatible with strict beauty. But on the thin lips there was a
smile for which no word is lovely enough; and in the eyes was a pure
and far-seeing look, hardly to be imagined except by one who painted
(like Fra Angelico) upon his knees. The background (like that of many
religious paintings of the date) was gilt. With such a look and such a
smile my mother's face shone out of the mass of her golden hair the day
she died. For this I bought the picture; for this I keep it still.
But to go back.
I liked Mrs. Bundle. I had taken to her from the evening when she
arrived in a red shawl, with several bandboxes. My affection for her
was established next day, when she washed my face before dinner. My
own nurse was bony, her hands were all knuckles, and she washed my
face as she scrubbed the nursery floor on Saturdays. Mrs. Bundle's
plump palms were like pincushions, and she washed my face as if it
had been a baby's.
On the evening of the day when I first saw Sister Alice, I took tea in the
housekeeper's room. My nurse was out for the evening, but Mrs.
Cadman from the village was of the party, and neither cakes nor
conversation flagged. Mrs. Cadman had hollow eyes, and (on occasion)
a hollow voice, which was very impressive. She wore curl-papers
continually,