"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.