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 s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 G.o.dmother 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 gra.s.s 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 b.u.t.ter 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 a.s.sociate 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 G.o.dmother'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 G.o.dmother 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 b.a.l.l.s! 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 amus.e.m.e.nt--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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.dmother 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 G.o.dmother'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: