Story 3—Chapter 2.
Paradise Court.
“No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest comer.”—Lowell.
Paradise Court, where Mrs Fotheringham lived, was not very far from a small country town. Far enough, however, and sufficiently surrounded by its own garden and meadows, to prevent any vulgar sounds of toil and traffic from penetrating to it.
Mrs Fotheringham disliked the sight of poverty and dirt as much as the noise of hurry and bustle. “All she wanted,” she said, “was peace and quietness,” and she seldom stirred beyond the gates which opened to the high-road from her own grounds. Here, in the fine summer days, she was contented to take her exercise, to admire her flowers, to consult and scold her gardener, and to poke viciously at the weeds with her walking-stick. She was quite an old lady, a widow for many years, and lived alone, except for the society of a green parrot and a companion. The parrot might more justly have been called the “companion” than the lady who filled that post, for it was an old and valued friend, and in perfect sympathy with its mistress; the companion, on the contrary, was changed very often, and seldom stayed with her more than six months. “And yet,” Mrs Fotheringham was used to observe, “there was really so little she required!” There were only four indispensable things, and for the rest she was not difficult to please. On these points, however, she must be satisfied: The lady must have sound views on Church and State; she must have seen good society; she must read aloud well; and she must understand how to make chicken curry, in case the cook was changed. Strange to say, however, the ladies were constantly found wanting in one or other of these matters. There was always a wrong flavour somewhere, either in the curry, or the church opinions, or the reading aloud, and perhaps this result was partly caused by the close observation of Mrs Fotheringham and the parrot, who seemed to lie in wait for all shortcomings with cold and critical glances. The bird was accustomed often to sit on its mistress’s shoulder in which position it would trifle lovingly with the border of her cap and croon softly and coaxingly into her ear. At these times there was an air of most complete and confidential understanding between the two, which did not include the outside world, and there was something weird about it which might well affect the nerves of the lady on trial.
At any rate, though few other things changed much at Paradise Court, the companions were always coming and going, and shortly before Iris’s visit a new one had arrived. Her name was Miss Munnion.
Iris reached Paradise Court at five o’clock in the afternoon, after a long and dusty journey. The old sober grey house looked very peaceful and quiet, but all round trees and shrubs and flowers waved their little green hands and seemed to dance rejoicing in their new spring dresses. For it was May time, and the weather, which had hitherto been cold and wet, had suddenly changed, sunshine streamed over the country, and the air was as warm as summer. Everything smelt so sweet, and looked so luxuriant and gay, that Iris felt quite confused and giddy as she stood waiting for the door to be opened; her winter frock and jacket seemed hot and stuffy, and the scent of the great lilac bushes and syringas and hawthorns wrapped her heavily round in a sort of dream.
But the door opened and the dream vanished at the appearance of a stiff-looking maid-servant, who scanned the small dusty figure and the shabby box on the top of the cab with equal indifference. “Mrs Fotheringham was walking in the garden,” she said. “Would Miss Graham join her there, or would she prefer to go to her room?”
In a nervous flurry of shyness Iris replied that she would go to Mrs Fotheringham in the garden, though it was far from what she really wished, and the maid immediately led the way thither. There was no Mrs Fotheringham visible for some time, but presently, turning under a low archway, they entered a small walled garden, and then Iris saw her. She was inspecting her tulips, and was followed by Miss Munnion, and at a little further distance by the gardener. Over her cap she wore a comfortable white woollen hood, and in her hand she carried a stumpy blue umbrella; every now and then she stopped, and pointed out some special favourite with this, or shook it scornfully at something inferior, and in these criticisms Miss Munnion agreed with nods and shakes of the head. A fourth member of the party was the parrot, who, in his brilliant attire of emerald green, touched with glimpses of rose colour, matched the finest tulip there. Taking his pleasure after his own manner, he waddled along the turf border, turning in his crooked toes, and screwing his head sideways at intervals to look at the sky. Sometimes he stopped to tweak some tender stalk with his hooked beak, and sometimes he took a sudden and vicious little run at a sparrow or some other bird at a distance; when it flew away he flapped his wings and gave an exulting squawk.
Mrs Fotheringham came to a stand-still as Iris advanced, planted the blue umbrella firmly on the ground, and surveyed her gravely from top to toe. The old lady, with her high-bridged nose, was certainly a little like the parrot in the face, and though her eye had not the changing brilliancy of the bird’s, it was quite its equal in the unblinking fixity of its gaze.
“Well, child,” she said, when Iris was close to her, “you must have your frocks lengthened. You look positively gawky. Shake hands with Miss Munnion. Ah, mind the parrot! Moore!” raising her voice to call to the gardener, “is it possible I see that odious pink and white stripe amongst the tulips again?—you know I hate it. The most mawkish, foolish thing! It offends the eye. See that it is rooted up without delay. Miss Munnion, we will now go indoors, and you’ll perhaps be kind enough to show this young lady her room, and tell her when we dine and so forth. I forget your name,” (turning sharply to Iris). “Something tiresome and fantastical, I know. Ah! Iris. Well, Iris, when you want to know anything, or do anything, or go anywhere, you are to ask Miss Munnion. Never come to me with questions, or ask me ‘why.’ Miss Munnion doesn’t mind being asked ‘why.’ You are here, you know, with a distinct understanding that you are not to be troublesome, and that you are to amuse yourself. As long as you do that, I daresay we shall get on very well, and I don’t care how long you stay; but I’m not used to children, and, of course, if I find you in the way I shall send you home at once. I think that’s all I have to say. Oh, there’s one thing more. If you ever drive out with me I wish you to remember that I dislike talking in a carriage. I tell you all this because it’s always better to put things on a right footing from the first.”
They had reached the house by this time, and as Iris followed Miss Munnion meekly and silently upstairs she made up her mind on two points: She would never drive with her godmother unless she were absolutely obliged, and she would very seldom ask Miss Munnion “why,” or apply to her in any way. For she seemed a most uninteresting person; her features had a frozen, pinched-up look, and her eyes had no sort of brightness in them. It was impossible to imagine that she ever laughed; but at least, thought Iris, she might try and look cheerful. When she was left alone she looked round her room with mingled awe and satisfaction; everything was so bright and fresh and comfortable, and there were actually easy-chairs! From the window she could see far-stretching peaceful green fields, where the grass was getting tall and thick. Cowslips would grow there, without doubt. The only sounds were the twittering evening song of the birds, the cooing of the pigeons in the stable-yard, and far off a distant cry of someone calling home the cows to be milked. How Iris loved it all! How different it was to Albert Street! If you looked out of the window from the bare little room she shared with Susie and Dottie you saw nothing green at all, only a row of staring ugly yellow houses—the most pleasant noise you could hope for was the rattle of a cart or the grinding of an organ. Just at this very minute she went on to remember it was tea-time in Albert Street. Dinner for father and mother at one end of the table, and tea for the children at the other. There was the big yellow jug full of tea, ready mixed with milk and sugar, which Iris always poured out for herself and her brothers and sisters. The only difference this evening would be, that mother would pour it out instead, and cut the thick bread and butter for the hungry boys. She saw it all, and as she saw it she shook her head. “Certainly,” she said to herself, “it is a bad thing to be poor.”
Dinner was at six o’clock, because it did not suit Mrs Fotheringham’s digestion to dine later; it was a solemn and delicately prepared little meal, served by a maid who stepped about silently, never clattering the dishes, and this absence of noise was in itself a strange thing to Iris, for she was used to associate food with much rattle of knives and forks and clash of crockery. There were many nice things to eat and pretty things to look at, but it was rather awful, too, to sit in almost perfect silence and listen to the remarks of Mrs Fotheringham and Miss Munnion. Opposite to Iris there was a long low window, through which she could see part of the lawn and a path leading to the kitchen-garden. She sat gazing vacantly out upon this, when suddenly she saw something very interesting.
This was a man, who came rushing along the path in the most frantic hurry, beating and dashing about him with his hat, and shaking his head incessantly. He was either pursued by some unseen and terrible enemy, or else he was crazy. Whichever it was, it was so exciting to Iris that she craned her neck to follow his movements as far as she could, and presently, moved by his increasing agitation, she exclaimed aloud:
“What can be the matter with him?”
Her godmother’s keen eye followed her glance to where the unfortunate man was still dodging about as though to escape something, and striking madly out into the air. She smiled contemptuously.
“It’s that idiotic Moore,” she said. “He irritates the bees, and I don’t wonder. I’m sure he irritates me.”
“He’ll be stung,” exclaimed Iris, getting up from her chair eagerly; “he’ll certainly be stung!”
“Yes,” said Miss Munnion, laying down her knife and fork, and looking mildly round at Moore’s struggles, “I’m really afraid he will.”
“Very likely,” remarked Mrs Fotheringham composedly; “he often is. I’ve always noticed,” she continued, with a pointed glance at her companion, “that bees, as well as birds and beasts, are quite aware when anyone’s frightened of them. Moore’s a complete coward, and they know it. They never touch me.”
The parrot and Mrs Fotheringham had already discovered that Miss Munnion was nervous. She was afraid of all animals, but specially of parrots.
“Once,” continued the old lady, “you show fear to man, woman, or child, you are their bond-slave for ever. And it’s the same with the lower animals.”
Miss Munnion said that she had often observed it, and that it was very true.
The following morning Iris woke up to remember that her holiday had really begun, and that there was a whole long day before her with no duties in it—nothing but idle hours and sunshine. It was the strangest thing in the world at first, and quite difficult to believe, that as long as she appeared at meal-times, no one would ask, “Where is Iris?” No one would say, “Fetch this,” or “Go there,” or “Do this.” Her time was her own at Paradise Court, and she was left to fill it up just as she pleased. And she spent most of it in the garden and fields, for fortunately the fine weather continued, and it was hardly necessary to be indoors at all.
How beautiful it all was! Every morning something new had budded or blossomed, and was ready to greet her with its fresh bright face; for the spring had till lately been so cold and wet that the flowers could not bloom at the right time, and now, called out by the mild soft air, they all came crowding eagerly together, looking over each other’s shoulders, as it were, and almost tripping each other up in their haste. So Iris found kingcups, primroses, and cowslips all in blossom together in different parts of the fields, and the garden was suddenly bright with all sorts of flowers which had seldom seen the sunshine in each other’s company before. And there were other interesting things too, for the birds were all busy just now about their domestic concerns, and she discovered more than one nest built so confidingly, that they were low enough for her to peep into them and meet the bright glance of the mother bird.
“If I could only show them to Max and Clement,” she said to herself as she stole away on tiptoe, holding her breath. Then there were the bees, Moore’s deadly enemies, which lived in a long row of hives under the kitchen-garden wall; they were quite friendly to Iris, and allowed her to watch their comings and goings without any show of anger. She had friends, too, in the pigeons, which soon learnt to come fluttering round her to be fed, and in the three sleek brown and white cows which she saw milked every evening.
In the midst of so much that was pleasant and delightful Iris sometimes felt almost beside herself with enjoyment. She was driven to jump and sing, and even to whistle in order to relieve her feelings, for there was no one to whom she could express them. There were, indeed, moments when she hardly restrained herself from rushing indoors to share some new-found delight with her godmother and Miss Munnion. It was almost impossible to keep it all to herself. One of these occasions was when, for the first time, she gathered her lap full of soft, faintly smelling cowslips. She sat and looked at them in lonely rapture.
Oh for Susie and Dottie to help her to make them up into balls! Then she remembered that she really had been very tired of Susie and Dottie; it was odd she should want them directly she got away from them.
Day followed day, each hour of them full of sunshine, and beauty, and leisure; but there was just one little drawback at Paradise Court, which Iris began to feel more and more strongly—there was no one to talk to. A hundred times a day she wanted someone to share her pleasure or amusement—to laugh with her, or wonder with her, or to search with her for fresh treasures. It seemed to take the edge off everything if she must enjoy it alone; and this desire for sympathy at last grew so strong that it caused her to be guilty of the grave indiscretion I shall now relate. A friend had once given Mrs Fotheringham a couple of half-wild white ducks of a peculiar kind, and these had so multiplied and increased in the quiet retreat of Paradise Court that they now threatened to become too numerous. Orders had accordingly been given that their eggs were to be taken wherever they were found, and as they were of a delicate flavour Mrs Fotheringham had them cooked for her private use. The poor ducks, therefore, were perpetually thwarted in their endeavours to bring up a family; but one of them continued its efforts in such an undaunted manner that Iris watched the struggle going on between it and Moore with the keenest interest. Nest after nest this duck made, laid its eggs, and settled itself comfortably, only to be disturbed with shouts and cries, and ruthlessly hustled off. Overcome for the moment, but “constant still in mind,” it waddled composedly away, sought a more retired position, and made further arrangements. The same thing happened all over again! Poor duck! Iris felt very sorry for it, and would willingly have helped it to hide itself from Moore if she could; but it was impossible to convey this sympathy to its mind, and in the end it conducted its own affairs with great sagacity, and completely baffled the enemy. For one morning as she passed the bee-hives, her attention was caught by some soft white object under one of them, almost concealed by the straw hackle which came low down on each side of it. She stopped; could it be her friend the duck? It really was; it sat there on its nest in a heavenly calm of perfect security, safe at last, and its round dark eye gazed serenely forth upon all the world, including Moore. It had nothing further to fear from him.
The duck had won, and Iris felt so glad that she longed to shake hands with it, and make it understand how clever she thought it. She was, indeed, so pleased that it was absolutely necessary to tell someone about it, and after she had smiled and nodded at the duck a great many times, to which it made no sort of response, she turned and ran quickly indoors. Now she lived so much alone at Paradise Court that she was ignorant that this very hour was sacred to Mrs Fotheringham’s nap; it was most important that she should not be disturbed, and no one would lightly have done so who knew how much depended on it. If she did not get her nap she did not relish her dinner; and if she did not relish her dinner she was cross; and if she was cross the whole household was uncomfortable, for she could by no means suffer other people to be at rest if she were uneasy.
On this particular afternoon she was well on the way to get a very comfortable doze. The day was warm; the room was carefully darkened Miss Munnion sat holding her book close to a crack in the Venetian blind, reaching aloud in a subdued and murmurous voice. Whether Mrs Fotheringham slept or not she had to go on for an hour. The old lady, drowsy with the unusual heat, was just on the edge of slumber, but still partly conscious; sometimes she lost a whole page of the book at a time, then she heard a little of it, and then Miss Munnion turned into a bee and buzzed in the window. Just at this critical moment Iris banged open the door and burst into the silent room.
“Oh!” she cried in her shrill childish voice, “what do you think the duck has done?”
It was so dark after the bright sunlight out of doors that at first she did not see her godmother at all, but only Miss Munnion, who dropped her book in her lap and stared at her with a helpless and frightened face.
Mrs Fotheringham started nervously; she grasped the arms of her chair and exclaimed half awake in an agitated voice:
“What’s the matter? Who’s there? Who’s done what?”
“It’s the duck,” stammered Iris in a more subdued manner.
“Is the chimney on fire?” continued Mrs Fotheringham. “I insist on knowing what’s the matter. Miss Munnion, where are you? Why don’t you find out what’s the matter?”
“It’s something about a duck,” said Miss Munnion slowly, “but I really—don’t—quite—”
By this time Mrs Fotheringham was fully awake, and had recovered from her confusion.
“You never do, quite,” she said sharply. Then to Iris:
“Child, come here and explain why you rush into the room in this abominable manner.”
Poor Iris advanced. She wished she could say that something was on fire, or that something more important had happened than the duck sitting under the bee-hive. It seemed nothing at all now, not the least amusing, and certainly not a sufficient reason for disturbing her godmother’s nap.
“I didn’t know you were asleep,” she began.
“Keep to the point,” said Mrs Fotheringham; “what did you do it for?”
Iris told her story very lamely, and conscious of an unsympathetic audience. The very parrot ruffled up his feathers and turned his glistening eye upon his mistress when it was over, as though he shrugged his shoulders and said:
“Here’s a poor affair!”
“Do you mean to tell me, you stupid and vexing child,” said Mrs Fotheringham, “that you woke me up merely to relate this nonsense?”
Iris had nothing to say, but she thought it unkind of Miss Munnion to murmur in the background:
“Most thoughtless!”
“If anything of this nature occurs again,” said Mrs Fotheringham severely, “I shall send you home at once. Other failings I can excuse, but selfish thoughtlessness is a thing I abhor. There, go away. No, Miss Munnion, you needn’t read any more, I shall not be able to sleep now. My nerves are quite shaken.”
Iris wandered disconsolately out into the garden. Everything looked as bright and gay as ever, but she felt sad. It was hard to be disgraced and scolded as though she had done something wrong, when she had only made a mistake. “I really did think they would like to hear about the duck,” she said to herself; “and how could I know she was asleep?” How they would have liked it at home! How often mother was waked up suddenly by the noise of the children, or the boys rushing in to ask her something! Her patient face came before Iris now, full of the gentleness and love which were always there as a matter of course, because she was “mother.” There was something wanting at Paradise Court—something that not all its radiant flowers, and pleasant luxurious rooms, and daintily prepared meals could supply.
“After all,” said Iris, “it doesn’t seem to make people kinder to have so many nice things as my godmother.”
She came to this conclusion with a sigh, and then, hearing the stable clock strike five, remembered that it was post time. Perhaps there would be a letter from home. At any rate she would run down to the lodge and meet the postman. It was such a cheering thought that she felt almost happy again, and ran along whistling and swinging her straw-hat in her hand. The drive was long and very winding, so that she did not at first perceive that there was someone in front of her who seemed to be bound on the same errand; when she did so, however, she had no difficulty in recognising the figure, which had a lop-sided movement like a bird with one wing. It was Miss Munnion. She was evidently in great haste, and walking, or rather running faster than Iris had ever seen her—so fast, indeed, that she was soon hidden in a sudden turn of the road, and was next visible coming back with the letters in her hand. Walking slowly now, she was reading an open one, and stopped now and then to study it more attentively. Iris ran up to her with the eager question, “Is there one for me?” on her lips; but when she saw Miss Munnion’s face she checked herself. For the frozen little countenance had thawed, the features worked and twisted about strangely, and the dull eyes were full of tears.
“What’s the matter?” said Iris bluntly. Miss Munnion looked up; she was completely altered in voice and manner; her hands trembled, her little lace head-dress was crooked; she was evidently deeply troubled.
“It’s my sister Diana,” she said—“my only sister. She is dangerously ill. She’s been asking for me.”
“Where is she?” asked Iris.
“Oh, that’s the worst of it!” cried Miss Munnion. “It’s all the way to Sunderland, right up in the north. Oh, what shall I do?”
“Of course you must go to her,” said Iris, with the confidence of youth.
“But,” said poor Miss Munnion, looking at the child without a spark of hope in her eyes, but a great longing for help and advice, “there’s Mrs Fotheringham. She’ll disapprove, she so dislikes being worried. When I came she told me she hoped I had no relations to unsettle me. And I haven’t. I haven’t a soul in the world that cares for me except Diana. And she was always so strong. How could I tell she would fall ill?”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t be gone long,” suggested Iris, “and I could read to godmother.”
“I’m so afraid,” said Miss Munnion, wiping her eyes meekly, “that Mrs Fotheringham will dismiss me if I go, and I can’t afford to lose the situation—I really can’t. And it’s such an expensive journey to Sunderland. And yet, there’s Diana; she comes before everything, and it cuts me to the heart to think of her asking for me.”
Iris stood looking at her gravely. She felt very sorry, but also a little contemptuous. Of course Diana ought to come before everything, and yet Miss Munnion did not seem able to make up her mind to go to her.
“Well,” she said, “you can’t go to Sunderland and stay here too.”
“Very true,” murmured Miss Munnion. She did not mean anything by these words, but they were so habitual that she could not help using them.
“Then you’d better come straight to my godmother and tell her,” said Iris, “if you mean to go.”
“Oh, of course I mean to go,” said Miss Munnion reproachfully. “How could I forsake Diana when she wants me?”
“Well, then, there’s no use in thinking of anything else,” said Iris.
It was an evident relief to Miss Munnion to be taken in hand firmly even by a child. Years of dependence on the whims and fancies of others had deprived her of what little decision and power of judgment she had possessed. She could hardly call her mind her own, so how could she make it up on any point?
Yet all through her troubled and dreary life one feeling had remained alive and warm—affection for her sister Diana. “Many waters cannot quench love,” and its flame still burned bright and clear in Miss Munnion’s heart.
“Although she really is very silly,” thought Iris, as they turned back together towards the house, “there’s something I like about her after all. She’s much nicer than my godmother.”
She hurried Miss Munnion along as fast as she could, almost as though it were Susie or Dottie she had in charge; and indeed the poor lady was so nervous at the prospect of Mrs Fotheringham that she was as helpless as a child. She stumbled along, falling over her gown at every step, dropping her letters, or her spectacles, or her pocket handkerchief, and uttering broken sentences about her sister Diana. Iris picked up these things again and again, and at last carried them herself, and so brought Miss Munnion triumphantly, but in a breathless condition, to the door of the house.
“Now,” she said, “you’d better take the letters in to my godmother and tell her all about it at once. I’ll wait here till you come back.”
She had not to wait long, for Miss Munnion reappeared in less than five minutes shaking her head mournfully.
“It’s just as I thought it would be,” she said. “Mrs Fotheringham thinks it’s very unreasonable of me to want to go to Diana.”
“Did you tell her she was ill?” asked Iris.
“Yes, and she said she supposed there were doctors in Sunderland who would do her more good than I should. She doesn’t seem to be able to understand why I should want to go. She says it’s fussy.”
“Did you tell her that I would read to her while you are gone?” asked Iris.
“No, my dear, I couldn’t get that in; she’s so very impetuous. And besides, the first thing she said was:—
“‘Of course you’ll understand, Miss Munnion, that if you feel obliged to go to Sunderland our connection is at an end.’ So I shall lose the situation after all,” ended Miss Munnion with a sigh.
Iris stood in silent thought for a moment.
“Did she look very angry?” she said at length.
“Well, yes,” said Miss Munnion. “I must say she seemed completely upset. I think she was vexed to start with, because, you know, she didn’t get her nap.”
“You stop here a minute,” said Iris suddenly, and ran into the house. She pushed open the door of Mrs Fotheringham’s sitting-room gently and peeped in. Her godmother was sitting very upright in her high-backed chair, a frown on her brow, and the parrot on her shoulder. She looked so alarming that Iris felt almost inclined to run away again, but the old lady turned her head suddenly and saw her.
“Well,” she said, with an air of sarcastic resignation, “what do you want? Any more ducks under bee-hives, or have you got a sick sister too?”
“Please, godmother,” said Iris, with a great effort, “I want you to let me read to you while Miss Munnion is away.”
“Oh!” said Mrs Fotheringham.
She stared silently at Iris for a moment, then resumed.
“I’ve no doubt it would be an immense pleasure to listen to you if you read like most children of your age. Anything more?”
Iris became scarlet under her godmother’s fixed gaze, for both she and the parrot seemed to be chuckling silently at her confusion. But she thought of Diana, and of poor Miss Munnion waiting outside, and managed to gasp out:
“Please let Miss Munnion come back.”
“She hasn’t gone yet that I know of,” replied Mrs Fotheringham, without removing her eyes from the child.
“But she must,” continued Iris, “because of Diana.”
“Well, I must say, you are a most extraordinary child,” said the old lady, after another pause, “with your ducks and your Dianas! What is it to you, I should like to know, whether Miss Munnion goes or stays? It doesn’t interfere with your comfort, I suppose.”
Iris could not answer this question, but she stuck to her point, and said in a low voice:
“I should like her to see her sister and come back.”
Mrs Fotheringham looked more and more puzzled, and her frown grew deeper. Iris felt that there was not a gleam of hope for Miss Munnion and Diana; but when at last the words came she found she was mistaken, for they were as follows:
“You may go and tell Miss Munnion,” said the old lady, “that the sooner she starts on this wild-goose chase the better, and that I will spare her for one week, but if she wants to stop away longer she needn’t come back at all. And this is on the condition that neither you nor she are to mention her sister Diana to me ever again, whether she is ill, or well, or anything about her. As to your reading to me, I’ve no doubt you either mumble or squeak, and I couldn’t bear it, so pray don’t imagine you’ll be the least use while she’s away, or let her imagine it.”
She waved her mittened hand fretfully, and Iris, thankful to be released, flew with her good news to the trembling Miss Munnion.
Early the next morning, almost unnoticed by the household, and carrying her own little black bag, she started on her two-miles walk to the station. Iris went with her as far as the lodge gates.
“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand, “and I hope you’ll find your sister Diana better.” She felt inclined to add, “Take care of your purse, and don’t lose your ticket,” as though she were parting from a child; but Miss Munnion suddenly leaned forward, and gave her a hard little nervous kiss. It felt more like a knock from something wooden than a kiss, and Iris was so startled that she received it in perfect silence. Before she had recovered herself the small figure, more lop-sided than ever now, because it was weighed down by the bag, had stumbled through the gates, and was on its way down the road. Iris watched till it was out of sight, and then went slowly back to the house.