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Blind Love

by Wilkie Collins · English · Gutenberg #7890 · 738,835 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Blind Love

Author: Wilkie Collins

Contributor: Walter Besant


        
Release date: April 1, 2005 [eBook #7890]
                Most recently updated: December 30, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7890

Credits: Produced by James Rusk.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLIND LOVE ***




Produced by James Rusk.  HTML version by Al Haines.








Blind Love


by

Wilkie Collins (completed by Walter Besant)




CONTENTS


PREFACE

FIRST PERIOD

       I  THE SOUR FRENCH WINE
      II  THE MAN SHE REFUSED
     III  THE REGISTERED PACKET
      IV  THE GAME: MOUNTJOY LOSES
       V  THE GAME: MOUNTJOY PLAYS A NEW CARD
      VI  THE GAME: MOUNTJOY WINS
     VII  DOCTORING THE DOCTOR
    VIII  HER FATHER'S MESSAGE
      IX  MR. VIMPANY ON INTOXICATION
       X  THE MOCKERY OF DECEIT
      XI  MRS. VIMPANY'S FAREWELL
     XII  LORD HARRY's DEFENCE

THE SECOND PERIOD

    XIII  IRIS AT HOME
     XIV  THE LADY'S MAID
      XV  MR. HENLEY'S TEMPER
     XVI  THE DOCTOR IN FULL DRESS
    XVII  ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH
   XVIII  PROFESSIONAL ASSISTANCE
     XIX  MR. HENLEY AT HOME
      XX  FIRST SUSPICIONS OF IRIS
     XXI  THE PARTING SCENE
    XXII  THE FATAL WORDS

THE THIRD PERIOD

   XXIII  NEWS OF IRIS
    XXIV  LORD HARRY'S HONEYMOON
     XXV  THE DOCTOR IN DIFFICULTIES
    XXVI  LONDON AND PARIS
   XXVII  THE BRIDE AT HOME
  XXVIII  THE MAID AND THE KEYHOLE
    XXIX  THE CONQUEST OF MR. VIMPANY
     XXX  SAXON AND CELT
    XXXI  THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS
   XXXII  GOOD-BYE TO IRIS
  XXXIII  THE DECREE OF FATE
   XXXIV  MY LORD'S MIND
    XXXV  MY LADY'S MIND
   XXXVI  THE DOCTOR MEANS MISCHIEF
  XXXVII  THE FIRST QUARREL
 XXXVIII  ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS
   XXXIX  THE MYSTERY OF THE HOSPITAL
      XL  DIRE NECESSITY
     XLI  THE MAN IS FOUND.
    XLII  THE METTLESOME MAID
   XLIII  FICTION: ATTEMPTED BY MY LORD
    XLIV  FICTION: IMPROVED BY THE DOCTOR
     XLV  FACT: RELATED BY FANNY
    XLVI  MAN AND WIFE
   XLVII  THE PATIENT AND MY LORD
  XLVIII  "THE MISTRESS AND THE MAID"
    XLIX  THE NURSE IS SENT AWAY
       L  IN THE ALCOVE
      LI  WHAT NEXT?
     LII  THE DEAD MAN'S PHOTOGRAPH
    LIII  THE WIFE'S RETURN
     LIV  ANOTHER STEP
      LV  THE ADVENTURES OF A FAITHFUL MAID
     LVI  FANNY'S NARRATIVE
    LVII  AT LOUVAIN
   LVIII  OF COURSE THEY WILL PAY
     LIX  THE CONSEQUENCES OF AN ADVERTISEMENT
      LX  ON THE EVE OF A CHANGE
     LXI  THE LAST DISCOVERY
    LXII  THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS
   LXIII  A REFUGE
    LXIV  THE INVINCIBLES




PREFACE

IN the month of August 1889, and in the middle of the seaside holiday,
a message came to me from Wilkie Collins, then, though we hoped
otherwise, on his death-bed.

It was conveyed to me by Mr. A. P. Watt. He told me that his son had
just come from Wilkie Collins: that they had been speaking of his
novel, "Blind Love," then running in the _Illustrated London News_:
that the novel was, unfortunately, unfinished: that he himself could
not possibly finish it: and that he would be very glad, if I would
finish it if I could find the time. And that if I could undertake this
work he would send me his notes of the remainder. Wilkie Collins added
these words: "If he has the time I think he will do it: we are both old
hands at this work, and understand it, and he knows that I would do the
same for him if he were in my place."

Under the circumstances of the case, it was impossible to decline this
request. I wrote to say that time should be made, and the notes were
forwarded to me at Robin Hood's Bay. I began by reading carefully and
twice over, so as to get a grip of the story and the novelist's
intention, the part that had already appeared, and the proofs so far as
the author had gone. I then turned to the notes. I found that these
were not merely notes such as I expected--simple indications of the
plot and the development of events, but an actual detailed scenario, in
which every incident, however trivial, was carefully laid down: there
were also fragments of dialogue inserted at those places where dialogue
was wanted to emphasise the situation and make it real. I was much
struck with the writer's perception of the vast importance of dialogue
in making the reader seize the scene. Description requires attention:
dialogue rivets attention.

It is not an easy task, nor is it pleasant, to carry on another man's
work: but the possession of this scenario lightened the work
enormously. I have been careful to adhere faithfully and exactly to the
plot, scene by scene, down to the smallest detail as it was laid down
by the author in this book. I have altered nothing. I have preserved
and incorporated every fragment of dialogue. I have used the very
language wherever that was written so carefully as to show that it was
meant to be used. I think that there is only one trivial detail where I
had to choose because it was not clear from the notes what the author
had intended. The plot of the novel, every scene, every situation, from
beginning to end, is the work of Wilkie Collins. The actual writing is
entirely his up to a certain point: from that point to the end it is
partly his, but mainly mine. Where his writing ends and mine begins, I
need not point out. The practised critic will, no doubt, at once lay
his finger on the spot.

I have therefore carried out the author's wishes to the best of my
ability. I would that he were living still, if only to regret that he
had not been allowed to finish his last work with his own hand!

WALTER BESANT.



BLIND LOVE


THE PROLOGUE

I

SOON after sunrise, on a cloudy morning in the year 1881, a special
messenger disturbed the repose of Dennis Howmore, at his place of
residence in the pleasant Irish town of Ardoon.

Well acquainted apparently with the way upstairs, the man thumped on a
bed-room door, and shouted his message through it: "The master wants
you, and mind you don't keep him waiting."

The person sending this peremptory message was Sir Giles Mountjoy of
Ardoon, knight and banker. The person receiving the message was Sir
Giles's head clerk. As a matter of course, Dennis Howmore dressed
himself at full speed, and hastened to his employer's private house on
the outskirts of the town.

He found Sir Giles in an irritable and anxious state of mind. A letter
lay open on the banker's bed, his night-cap was crumpled crookedly on
his head, he was in too great a hurry to remember the claims of
politeness, when the clerk said "Good morning."

"Dennis, I have got something for you to do. It must be kept a secret,
and it allows of no delay."

"Is it anything connected with business, sir?"

The banker lost his temper. "How can you be such an infernal fool as to
suppose that anything connected with business could happen at this time
in the morning? Do you know the first milestone on the road to Garvan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Go to the milestone, and take care that nobody sees you
when you get there. Look at the back of the stone. If you discover an
Object which appears to have been left in that situation on the ground,
bring it to me; and don't forget that the most impatient man in all
Ireland is waiting for you."

Not a word of explanation followed these extraordinary instructions.

The head clerk set forth on his errand, with his mind dwelling on the
national tendencies to conspiracy and assassination. His employer was
not a popular person. Sir Giles had paid rent when he owed it; and,
worse still, was disposed to remember in a friendly spirit what England
had done for Ireland, in the course of the last fifty years. If
anything appeared to justify distrust of the mysterious Object of which
he was in search, Dennis resolved to be vigilantly on the look-out for
a gun-barrel, whenever he passed a hedge on his return journey to the
town.

Arrived at the milestone, he discovered on the ground behind it one
Object only--a fragment of a broken tea-cup.

Naturally enough, Dennis hesitated. It seemed to be impossible that the
earnest and careful instructions which he had received could relate to
such a trifle as this. At the same time, he was acting under orders
which were as positive as tone, manner, and language could make them.
Passive obedience appeared to be the one safe course to take--at the
risk of a reception, irritating to any man's self-respect, when he
returned to his employer with a broken teacup in his hand.

The event entirely failed to justify his misgivings. There could be no
doubt that Sir Giles attached serious importance to the contemptible
discovery made at the milestone. After having examined and re-examined
the fragment, he announced his intention of sending the clerk on a
second errand--still without troubling himself to explain what his
incomprehensible instructions meant.

"If I am not mistaken," he began, "the Reading Rooms, in our town, open
as early as nine. Very well. Go to the Rooms this morning, on the
stroke of the clock." He stopped, and consulted the letter which lay
open on his bed. "Ask the librarian," he continued, "for the third
volume of Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.' Open the
book at pages seventy-eight and seventy-nine. If you find a piece of
paper between those two leaves, take possession of it when nobody is
looking at you, and bring it to me. That's all, Dennis. And bear in
mind that I shall not recover the use of my patience till I see you
again."

On ordinary occasions, the head clerk was not a man accustomed to
insist on what was due to his dignity. At the same time he was a
sensible human being, conscious of the consideration to which his
responsible place in the office entitled him. Sir Giles's irritating
reserve, not even excused by a word of apology, reached the limits of
his endurance. He respectfully protested.

"I regret to find, sir," he said, "that I have lost my place in my
employer's estimation. The man to whom you confide the superintendence
of your clerks and the transaction of your business has, I venture to
think, some claim (under the present circumstances) to be trusted."

The banker was now offended on his side.

"I readily admit your claim," he answered, "when you are sitting at
your desk in my office. But, even in these days of strikes,
co-operations, and bank holidays, an employer has one privilege
left--he has not ceased to be a Man, and he has not forfeited a man's
right to keep his own secrets. I fail to see anything in my conduct
which has given you just reason to complain."

Dennis, rebuked, made his bow in silence, and withdrew.

Did these acts of humility mean that he submitted? They meant exactly
the contrary. He had made up his mind that Sir Giles Mountjoy's motives
should, sooner or later, cease to be mysteries to Sir Giles Mountjoy's
clerk.


II

CAREFULLY following his instructions, he consulted the third volume of
Gibbon's great History, and found, between the seventy-eighth and
seventy-ninth pages, something remarkable this time.

It was a sheet of delicately-made paper, pierced with a number of
little holes, infinitely varied in size, and cut with the smoothest
precision. Having secured this curious object, while the librarian's
back was turned, Dennis Howmore reflected.

A page of paper, unintelligibly perforated for some purpose unknown,
was in itself a suspicious thing. And what did suspicion suggest to the
inquiring mind in South-Western Ireland, before the suppression of the
Land League? Unquestionably---Police!

On the way back to his employer, the banker's clerk paid a visit to an
old friend--a journalist by profession, and a man of varied learning
and experience as well. Invited to inspect the remarkable morsel of
paper, and to discover the object with which the perforations had been
made, the authority consulted proved to be worthy of the trust reposed
in him. Dennis left the newspaper office an enlightened man--with
information at the disposal of Sir Giles, and with a sense of relief
which expressed itself irreverently in these words: "Now I have got
him!"

The bewildered banker looked backwards and forwards from the paper to
the clerk, and from the clerk to the paper. "I don't understand it," he
said. "Do you?"

Still preserving the appearance of humility, Dennis asked leave to
venture on a guess. The perforated paper looked, as he thought, like a
Puzzle. "If we wait for a day or two," he suggested, "the Key to it may
possibly reach us."

On the next day, nothing happened. On the day after, a second letter
made another audacious demand on the fast failing patience of Sir Giles
Mountjoy.

Even the envelope proved to be a Puzzle on this occasion; the postmark
was "Ardoon." In other words, the writer had used the postman as a
messenger, while he or his accomplice was actually in the town, posting
the letter within half-a-minute's walk of the bank! The contents
presented an impenetrable mystery, the writing looked worthy of a
madman. Sentences appeared in the wildest state of confusion, and words
were so mutilated as to be unintelligible. This time the force of
circumstances was more than Sir Giles could resist. He took the clerk
into his confidence at last.

"Let us begin at the beginning," he said. "There is the letter you saw
on my bed, when I first sent for you. I found it waiting on my table
when I woke; and I don't know who put it there. Read it."

Dennis read as follows:

"Sir Giles Mountjoy,--I have a disclosure to make, in which one of the
members of your family is seriously interested. Before I can venture to
explain myself, I must be assured that I can trust to your good faith.
As a test of this, I require you to fulfil the two conditions that
follow--and to do it without the slightest loss of time. I dare not
trust you yet with my address, or my signature. Any act of
carelessness, on my part, might end fatally for the true friend who
writes these lines. If you neglect this warning, you will regret it to
the end of your life."

To the conditions on which the letter insisted there is no need to
allude. They had been complied with when the discoveries were made at
the back of the milestone, and between the pages of Gibson's history.
Sir Giles had already arrived at the conclusion that a conspiracy was
in progress to assassinate him, and perhaps to rob the bank. The wiser
head clerk pointed to the perforated paper and the incomprehensible
writing received that morning. "If we can find out what these mean," he
said, "you may be better able, sir, to form a correct opinion."

"And who is to do that?" the banker asked.

"I can but try, sir," was the modest reply, "if you see no objection to
my making the attempt."

Sir Giles approved of the proposed experiment, silently and
satirically, by a bend of his head.

Too discreet a man to make a suspiciously ready use of the information
which he had privately obtained, Dennis took care that his first
attempt should not be successful. After modestly asking permission to
try again, he ventured on the second occasion to arrive at a happy
discovery. Lifting the perforated paper, he placed it delicately over
the page which contained the unintelligible writing. Words and
sentences now appeared (through the holes in the paper) in their right
spelling and arrangement, and addressed Sir Giles in these terms:

"I beg to thank you, sir, for complying with my conditions. You have
satisfied me of your good faith. At the same time, it is possible that
you may hesitate to trust a man who is not yet able to admit you to his
confidence. The perilous position in which I stand obliges me to ask
for two or three days more of delay, before I can safely make an
appointment with you. Pray be patient--and on no account apply for
advice or protection to the police."

"Those last words," Sir Giles declared, "are conclusive! The sooner I
am under the care of the law the better. Take my card to the
police-office."

"May I say a word first, sir?"

"Do you mean that you don't agree with me?"

"I mean that."

"You were always an obstinate man Dennis; and it grows on you as you
get older. Never mind! Let's have it out. Who do _you_ say is the
person pointed at in these rascally letters?"

The head clerk took up the first letter of the two and pointed to the
opening sentence: "Sir Giles Mountjoy, I have a disclosure to make in
which one of the members of your family is seriously interested."
Dennis emphatically repeated the words: "one of the members of your
family." His employer regarded him with a broad stare of astonishment.

"One of the members of my family?" Sir Giles repeated, on his side.
"Why, man alive, what are you thinking of? I'm an old bachelor, and I
haven't got a family."

"There is your brother, sir."

"My brother is in France--out of the way of the wretches who are
threatening me. I wish I was with him!"

"There are your brother's two sons, Sir Giles."

"Well? And what is there to be afraid of? My nephew, Hugh, is in
London--and, mind! not on a political errand. I hope, before long, to
hear that he is going to be married--if the strangest and nicest girl
in England will have him. What's wrong now?"

Dennis explained. "I only wished to say, sir, that I was thinking of
your other nephew."

Sir Giles laughed. "Arthur in danger!" he exclaimed. "As harmless a
young man as ever lived. The worst one can say of him is that he is
throwing away his money--farming in Kerry."

"Excuse me, Sir Giles; there's not much chance of his throwing away his
money, where he is now. Nobody will venture to take his money. I met
with one of Mr. Arthur's neighbours at the market yesterday. Your
nephew is boycotted."

"So much the better," the obstinate banker declared. "He will be cured
of his craze for farming; and he will come back to the place I am
keeping for him in the office."

"God grant it!" the clerk said fervently.

For the moment, Sir Giles was staggered. "Have you heard something that
you haven't told me yet?" he asked.

"No, sir. I am only bearing in mind something which--with all
respect--I think you have forgotten. The last tenant on that bit of
land in Kerry refused to pay his rent. Mr. Arthur has taken what they
call an evicted farm. It's my firm belief," said the head clerk, rising
and speaking earnestly, "that the person who has addressed those
letters to you knows Mr. Arthur, and knows he is in danger--and is
trying to save your nephew (by means of your influence), at the risk of
his own life."

Sir Giles shook his head. "I call that a far-fetched interpretation,
Dennis. If what you say is true, why didn't the writer of those
anonymous letters address himself to Arthur, instead of to me?"

"I gave it as my opinion just now, sir, that the writer of the letter
knew Mr. Arthur."

"So you did. And what of that?"

Dennis stood to his guns.

"Anybody who is acquainted with Mr. Arthur," he persisted, "knows that
(with all sorts of good qualities) the young gentleman is headstrong
and rash. If a friend told him he was in danger on the farm, that would
be enough of itself to make him stop where he is, and brave it out.
Whereas you, sir, are known to be cautious and careful, and farseeing
and discreet." He might have added: And cowardly and obstinate, and
narrow-minded and inflated by stupid self-esteem. But respect for his
employer had blindfolded the clerk's observation for many a long year
past. If one man may be born with the heart of a lion, another man may
be born with the mind of a mule. Dennis's master was one of the other
men.

"Very well put," Sir Giles answered indulgently. "Time will show, if
such an entirely unimportant person as my nephew Arthur is likely to be
assassinated. That allusion to one of the members of my family is a
mere equivocation, designed to throw me off my guard. Rank, money,
social influence, unswerving principles, mark ME out as a public
character. Go to the police-office, and let the best man who happens to
be off duty come here directly."

Good Dennis Howmore approached the door very unwillingly. It was
opened, from the outer side, before he had reached that end of the
room. One of the bank porters announced a visitor.

"Miss Henley wishes to know, sir, if you can see her."

Sir Giles looked agreeably surprised. He rose with alacrity to receive
the lady.


III

WHEN Iris Henley dies there will, in all probability, be friends left
who remember her and talk of her--and there may be strangers present at
the time (women for the most part), whose curiosity will put questions
relating to her personal appearance. No replies will reward them with
trustworthy information. Miss Henley's chief claim to admiration lay in
a remarkable mobility of expression, which reflected every change of
feeling peculiar to the nature of a sweet and sensitive woman. For this
reason, probably, no descriptions of her will agree with each other. No
existing likenesses will represent her. The one portrait that was
painted of Iris is only recognisable by partial friends of the artist.
In and out of London, photographic likenesses were taken of her. They
have the honour of resembling the portraits of Shakespeare in this
respect--compared with one another, it is not possible to discover that
they present the same person. As for the evidence offered by the loving
memory of her friends, it is sure to be contradictory in the last
degree. She had a charming face, a commonplace face, an intelligent
face--a poor complexion, a delicate complexion, no complexion at
all--eyes that were expressive of a hot temper, of a bright intellect,
of a firm character, of an affectionate disposition, of a truthful
nature, of hysterical sensibility, of inveterate obstinacy--a figure
too short; no, just the right height; no, neither one thing nor the
other; elegant, if you like--dress shabby: oh, surely not; dress quiet
and simple; no, something more than that; ostentatiously quiet,
theatrically simple, worn with the object of looking unlike other
people. In one last word, was this mass of contradictions generally
popular, in the time when it was a living creature? Yes--among the men.
No--not invariably. The man of all others who ought to have been
fondest of her was the man who behaved cruelly to Iris--her own father.
And, when the poor creature married (if she did marry), how many of you
attended the wedding? Not one of us! And when she died, how many of you
were sorry for her? All of us! What? no difference of opinion in that
one particular? On the contrary, perfect concord, thank God.

Let the years roll back, and let Iris speak for herself, at the
memorable time when she was in the prime of her life, and when a stormy
career was before her.


IV

BEING Miss Henley's godfather, Sir Giles was a privileged person. He
laid his hairy hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on either cheek.
After that prefatory act of endearment, he made his inquiries. What
extraordinary combination of events had led Iris to leave London, and
had brought her to visit him in his banking-house at Ardoon?

"I wanted to get away from home," she answered; "and having nobody to
go to but my godfather, I thought I should like to see You."

"Alone!" cried Sir Giles.

"No--with my maid to keep me company."

"Only your maid, Iris? Surely you have acquaintances among young ladies
like yourself?"

"Acquaintances--yes. No friends."

"Does your father approve of what you have done?"

"Will you grant me a favour, godpapa?"

"Yes--if I can."

"Don't insist on my answering your last question."

The faint colour that had risen in her face, when she entered the room,
left it. At the same time, the expression of her mouth altered. The
lips closed firmly; revealing that strongest of all resolutions which
is founded on a keen sense of wrong. She looked older than her age:
what she might be ten years hence, she was now. Sir Giles understood
her. He got up, and took a turn in the room. An old habit, of which he
had cured himself with infinite difficulty when he was made a Knight,
showed itself again. He put his hands in his pockets.

"You and your father have had another quarrel," he said, stopping
opposite Iris.

"I don't deny it," she replied.

"Who is to blame?"

She smiled bitterly. "The woman is always to blame."

"Did your father tell you that?"

"My father reminded me that I was twenty-one years old, last
birthday--and told me that I could do as I liked. I understood him, and
I left the house."

"You will go back again, I suppose?"

"I don't know."

Sir Giles began pacing the room once more. His rugged face, telling its
story of disaster and struggle in early life, showed signs of
disappointment and distress.

"Hugh promised to write to me," he said, "and he has not written. I
know what that means; I know what you have done to offend your father.
My nephew has asked you to marry him for the second time. And for the
second time you have refused."

Her face softened; its better and younger aspect revived. "Yes," she
said, sadly and submissively; "I have refused him again."

Sir Giles lost his temper. "What the devil is your objection to Hugh?"
he burst out.

"My father said the same thing to me," she replied, "almost in the same
words. I made him angry when I tried to give my reason. I don't want to
make you angry, too."

He took no notice of this. "Isn't Hugh a good fellow?" he went on.
"Isn't he affectionate? and kindhearted? and honourable?--aye, and a
handsome man too, if you come to that."

"Hugh is all that you say. I like him; I admire him; I owe to his
kindness some of the happiest days of my sad life, and I am
grateful--oh, with all my heart, I am grateful to Hugh!"

"If that's true, Iris----"

"Every word of it is true."

"I say, if that's true--there's no excuse for you. I hate perversity in
a young woman! Why don't you marry him?"

"Try to feel for me," she said gently; "I can't love him."

Her tone said more to the banker than her words had expressed. The
secret sorrow of her life, which was known to her father, was known
also to Sir Giles.

"Now we have come to it at last!" he said. "You can't love my nephew
Hugh. And you won't tell me the reason why, because your sweet temper
shrinks from making me angry. Shall I mention the reason for you, my
dear? I can do it in two words--Lord Harry."

She made no reply; she showed no sign of feeling at what he had just
said. Her head sank a little; her hands clasped themselves on her lap;
the obstinate resignation which can submit to anything hardened her
face, stiffened her figure--and that was all.

The banker was determined not to spare her.

"It's easy to see," he resumed, "that you have not got over your
infatuation for that vagabond yet. Go where he may, into the vilest
places and among the lowest people, he carries your heart along with
him. I wonder you are not ashamed of such an attachment as that."

He had stung her at last. She roused herself, and answered him.

"Harry has led a wild life," she said; "he has committed serious
faults, and he may live to do worse than he has done yet. To what
degradation, bad company, and a bad bringing-up may yet lead him, I
leave his enemies to foresee. But I tell you this, he has redeeming
qualities which you, and people like you, are not good Christians
enough to discover. He has friends who can still appreciate him--your
nephew, Arthur Mountjoy, is one of them. Oh, I know it by Arthur's
letters to me! Blame Lord Harry as you may, I tell you he has the
capacity for repentance in him, and one day--when it is too late, I
dare say--he will show it. I can never be his wife. We are parted,
never in all likelihood to meet again. Well, he is the only man whom I
have ever loved; and he is the only man whom I ever shall love. If you
think this state of mind proves that I am as bad as he is, I won't
contradict you. Do we any of us know how bad we are----? Have you heard
of Harry lately?"

The sudden transition, from an earnest and devoted defence of the man,
to an easy and familiar inquiry about him, startled Sir Giles.

For the moment, he had nothing to say; Iris had made him think. She had
shown a capacity for mastering her strongest feelings, at the moment
when they threatened to overcome her, which is very rarely found in a
young woman. How to manage her was a problem for patient resolution to
solve. The banker's obstinacy, rather than his conviction, had
encouraged him to hold to the hope of Hugh's marriage, even after his
nephew had been refused for the second time. His headstrong goddaughter
had come to visit him of her own accord. She had not forgotten the days
of her childhood, when he had some influence over her--when she had
found him kinder to her than her father had ever been. Sir Giles saw
that he had taken the wrong tone with Iris. His anger had not alarmed
her; his opinion had not influenced her. In Hugh's interests, he
determined to try what consideration and indulgence would do towards
cultivating the growth of her regard for him. Finding that she had left
her maid and her luggage at the hotel, he hospitably insisted on their
removal to his own house.

"While you are in Ardoon, Iris, you are my guest," he said.

She pleased him by readily accepting the invitation--and then annoyed
him by asking again if he had heard anything of Lord Harry.

He answered shortly and sharply: "I have heard nothing. What is _your_
last news of him?"

"News," she said, "which I sincerely hope is not true. An Irish paper
has been sent to me, which reports that he has joined the secret
society--nothing better than a society of assassins, I am afraid--which
is known by the name of the Invincibles."

As she mentioned that formidable brotherhood, Dennis Howmore returned
from the police-office. He announced that a Sergeant was then waiting
to receive instructions from Sir Giles.


V

IRIS rose to go. Her godfather courteously stopped her.

"Wait here," he said, "until I have spoken to the Sergeant, and I will
escort you to my house. My clerk will do what is necessary at the
hotel. You don't look quite satisfied. Is the arrangement that I have
proposed not agreeable to you?"

Iris assured him that she gratefully acceded to the arrangement. At the
same time, she confessed to having been a little startled, on
discovering that he was in consultation with the police. "I remember
that we are in Ireland," she explained, "and I am foolish enough to
fear that you may be in some danger. May I hope that it is only a
trifle?"

Only a trifle! Among ether deficient sensibilities in the strange
nature of Iris, Sir Giles had observed an imperfect appreciation of the
dignity of his social position. Here was a new proof of it! The
temptation to inspire sentiments of alarm--not unmingled with
admiration--in the mind of his insensible goddaughter, by exhibiting
himself as a public character threatened by a conspiracy, was more than
the banker's vanity could resist. Before he left the room, he
instructed Dennis to tell Miss Henley what had happened, and to let her
judge for herself whether he had been needlessly alarmed by, what she
was pleased to call, "a mere trifle."

Dennis Howmore must have been more than mortal, if he could have
related his narrative of events without being influenced by his own
point of view. On the first occasion when he mentioned Arthur
Mountjoy's name, Iris showed a sudden interest in his strange story
which took him by surprise.

"You know Mr. Arthur?" he said.

"Knew him!" Iris repeated. "He was my playfellow when we were both
children. He is as dear to me as if he was my brother. Tell me at
once--is he really in danger?"

Dennis honestly repeated what he had already said, on that subject, to
his master. Miss Henley, entirely agreeing with him, was eager to warn
Arthur of his position. There was no telegraphic communication with the
village which was near his farm. She could only write to him, and she
did write to him, by that day's post--having reasons of her own for
anxiety, which forbade her to show her letter to Dennis. Well aware of
the devoted friendship which united Lord Harry and Arthur Mountjoy--and
bearing in mind the newspaper report of the Irish lord's rash
association with the Invincibles--her fears now identified the noble
vagabond as the writer of the anonymous letters, which had so seriously
excited her godfather's doubts of his own safety.

When Sir Giles returned, and took her with him to his house, he spoke
of his consultation with the Sergeant in terms which increased her
dread of what might happen in the future. She was a dull and silent
guest, during the interval that elapsed before it would be possible to
receive Arthur's reply. The day arrived--and the post brought no relief
to her anxieties. The next day passed without a letter. On the morning
of the fourth day, Sir Giles rose later than usual. His correspondence
was sent to him from the office, at breakfast-time. After opening one
of the letters, he dispatched a messenger in hot haste to the police.

"Look at that," he said, handing the letter to Iris. "Does the assassin
take me for a fool?"

She read the lines that follow:

"Unforeseen events force me, Sir Giles, to run a serious risk. I must
speak to you, and it must not be by daylight. My one hope of safety is
in darkness. Meet me at the first milestone, on the road to Garvan,
when the moon sets at ten o'clock to-night. No need to mention your
name. The password is: _Fidelity."_

"Do you mean to go?" Iris asked.

"Do I mean to be murdered!" Sir Giles broke out. "My dear child, do
pray try to think before you speak. The Sergeant will represent me, of
course."

"And take the man prisoner?" Iris added.

"Certainly!"

With that startling reply, the banker hurried away to receive the
police in another room. Iris dropped into the nearest chair. The turn
that the affair had now taken filled her with unutterable dismay.

Sir Giles came back, after no very long absence, composed and smiling.
The course of proceeding had been settled to his complete satisfaction.

Dressed in private clothes, the Sergeant was to go to the milestone at
the appointed time, representing the banker in the darkness, and giving
the password. He was to be followed by two of his men who would wait in
concealment, within hearing of his whistle, if their services were
required. "I want to see the ruffian when he is safely handcuffed," Sir
Giles explained; "and I have arranged to wait for the police, to-night,
at my office."

There was but one desperate way that Iris could now discern of saving
the man who had confided in her godfather's honour, and whose trust had
already been betrayed. Never had she loved the outlawed Irish lord--the
man whom she was forbidden, and rightly forbidden, to marry--as she
loved him at that moment. Let the risk be what it might, this resolute
woman had determined that the Sergeant should not be the only person
who arrived at the milestone, and gave the password. There was one
devoted friend to Lord Harry, whom she could always trust--and that
friend was herself.

Sir Giles withdrew, to look after his business at the bank. She waited
until the clock had struck the servants' dinner hour, and then ascended
the stairs to her godfather's dressing-room. Opening his wardrobe, she
discovered in one part of it a large Spanish cloak, and, in another
part, a high-crowned felt hat which he wore on his country excursions.
In the dark, here was disguise enough for her purpose.

As she left the dressing-room, a measure of precaution occurred to her,
which she put in action at once. Telling her maid that she had some
purchases to make in the town, she went out, and asked her way to
Garvan of the first respectable stranger whom she met in the street.
Her object was to walk as far as the first milestone, in daylight, so
as to be sure of finding it again by night. She had made herself
familiar with the different objects on the road, when she returned to
the banker's house.

As the time for the arrest drew nearer, Sir Giles became too restless
to wait patiently at home. He went away to the police-office, eager to
hear if any new counter-conspiracy had occurred to the authorities.

It was dark soon after eight o'clock, at that time of the year. At nine
the servants assembled at the supper-table. They were all downstairs
together, talking, and waiting for their meal.

Feeling the necessity of arriving at the place of meeting, in time to
keep out of the Sergeant's way, Iris assumed her disguise as the clock
struck nine. She left the house without a living creature to notice
her, indoors or out. Clouds were gathering over the sky. The waning
moon was only to be seen at intervals, as she set forth on her way to
the milestone.


VI

THE wind rose a little, and the rifts in the clouds began to grow
broader as Iris gained the high road.

For a while, the glimmer of the misty moonlight lit the way before her.
As well as she could guess, she had passed over more than half of the
distance between the town and the milestone before the sky darkened
again. Objects by the wayside grew shadowy and dim. A few drops of rain
began to fall. The milestone, as she knew--thanks to the discovery of
it made by daylight--was on the right-hand side of the road. But the
dull-grey colour of the stone was not easy to see in the dark.

A doubt troubled her whether she might not have passed the milestone.
She stopped and looked at the sky.

The threatening of rain had passed away: signs showed themselves which
seemed to promise another break in the clouds. She waited. Low and
faint, the sinking moonlight looked its last at the dull earth. In
front of her, there was nothing to be seen but the road. She looked
back--and discovered the milestone.

A rough stone wall protected the land on either side of the road.
Nearly behind the milestone there was a gap in this fence, partially
closed by a hurdle. A half-ruined culvert, arching a ditch that had run
dry, formed a bridge leading from the road to the field. Had the field
been already chosen as a place of concealment by the police? Nothing
was to be seen but a footpath, and the dusky line of a plantation
beyond it. As she made these discoveries, the rain began to fall again;
the clouds gathered once more; the moonlight vanished.

At the same moment an obstacle presented itself to her mind, which Iris
had thus far failed to foresee.

Lord Harry might approach the milestone by three different ways: that
is to say--by the road from the town, or by the road from the open
country, or by way of the field and the culvert. How could she so place
herself as to be sure of warning him, before he fell into the hands of
the police? To watch the three means of approach in the obscurity of
the night, and at one and the same time, was impossible.

A man in this position, guided by reason, would in all probability have
wasted precious time in trying to arrive at the right decision. A
woman, aided by love, conquered the difficulty that confronted her in a
moment.

Iris decided on returning to the milestone, and on waiting there to be
discovered and taken prisoner by the police. Supposing Lord Harry to be
punctual to his appointment, he would hear voices and movements, as a
necessary consequence of the arrest, in time to make his escape.
Supposing him on the other hand to be late, the police would be on the
way back to the town with their prisoner: he would find no one at the
milestone, and would leave it again in safety.

She was on the point of turning, to get back to the road, when
something on the dark surface of the field, which looked like a darker
shadow, became dimly visible. In another moment it seemed to be a
shadow that moved. She ran towards it. It looked like a man as she drew
nearer. The man stopped.

"The password," he said, in tones cautiously lowered.

"Fidelity," she answered in a whisper.

It was too dark for a recognition of his features; but Iris knew him by
his tall stature--knew him by the accent in which he had asked for the
password. Erroneously judging of her, on his side, as a man, he drew
back again. Sir Giles Mountjoy was above the middle height; the
stranger in a cloak, who had whispered to him, was below it. "You are
not the person I expected to meet," he said. "Who are you?"

Her faithful heart was longing to tell him the truth. The temptation to
reveal herself, and to make the sweet confession of her happiness at
having saved him, would have overpowered her discretion, but for a
sound that was audible on the road behind them. In the deep silence of
the time and place mistake was impossible. It was the sound of
footsteps.

There was just time to whisper to him: "Sir Giles has betrayed you.
Save yourself."

"Thank you, whoever you are!"

With that reply, he suddenly and swiftly disappeared. Iris remembered
the culvert, and turned towards it. There was a hiding-place under the
arch, if she could only get down into the dry ditch in time. She was
feeling her way to the slope of it with her feet, when a heavy hand
seized her by the arm; and a resolute voice said: "You are my
prisoner."

She was led back into the road. The man who had got her blew a whistle.
Two other men joined him.

"Show a light," he said; "and let's see who the fellow is."

The shade was slipped aside from a lantern: the light fell full on the
prisoner's face. Amazement petrified the two attendant policemen. The
pious Catholic Sergeant burst into speech: "Holy Mary! it's a woman!"

Did the secret societies of Ireland enrol women? Was this a modern
Judith, expressing herself by anonymous letters, and bent on
assassinating a financial Holofernes who kept a bank? What account had
she to give of herself? How came she to be alone in a desolate field on
a rainy night? Instead of answering these questions, the inscrutable
stranger preferred a bold and brief request. "Take me to Sir
Giles"--was all she said to the police.

The Sergeant had the handcuffs ready. After looking at the prisoner's
delicate wrists by the lantern-light, he put his fetters back in his
pocket. "A lady--and no doubt about it," he said to one of his
assistants.

The two men waited, with a mischievous interest in seeing what he would
do next. The list of their pious officer's virtues included a
constitutional partiality for women, which exhibited the merciful side
of justice when a criminal wore a petticoat. "We will take you to Sir
Giles, Miss," he said--and offered his arm, instead of offering his
handcuffs. Iris understood him, and took his arm.


She was silent--unaccountably silent as the men thought--on the way to
the town. They heard her sigh: and, once, the sigh sounded more like a
sob; little did they suspect what was in that silent woman's mind at
the time.

The one object which had absorbed the attention of Iris had been the
saving of Lord Harry. This accomplished, the free exercise of her
memory had now reminded her of Arthur Mountjoy.

It was impossible to doubt that the object of the proposed meeting at
the milestone had been to take measures for the preservation of the
young man's life. A coward is always more or less cruel. The
proceedings (equally treacherous and merciless) by which Sir Giles had
provided for his own safety, had delayed--perhaps actually
prevented--the execution of Lord Harry's humane design. It was
possible, horribly possible, that a prompt employment of time might
have been necessary to the rescue of Arthur from impending death by
murder. In the agitation that overpowered her, Iris actually hurried
the police on their return to the town.

Sir Giles had arranged to wait for news in his private room at the
office--and there he was, with Dennis Howmore in attendance to receive
visitors.

The Sergeant went into the banker's room alone, to make his report. He
left the door ajar; Iris could hear what passed.

"Have you got your prisoner?" Sir Giles began.

"Yes, your honour."

"Is the wretch securely handcuffed?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, it isn't a man."

"Nonsense, Sergeant; it can't be a boy."

The Sergeant confessed that it was not a boy. "It's a woman," he said.

"What!!!"

"A woman," the patient officer repeated--"and a young one. She asked
for You."

"Bring her in."

Iris was not the sort of person who waits to be brought in. She walked
in, of her own accord.


VII

"GOOD Heavens!" cried Sir Giles. "Iris! With my cloak on!! With my hat
in her hand!!! Sergeant, there has been some dreadful mistake. This is
my god-daughter--Miss Henley."

"We found her at the milestone, your honour. The young lady and nobody
else."

Sir Giles appealed helplessly to his god-daughter. "What does this
mean?" Instead of answering, she looked at the Sergeant. The Sergeant,
conscious of responsibility, stood his ground and looked at Sir Giles.
His face confessed that the Irish sense of humour was tickled: but he
showed no intention of leaving the room. Sir Giles saw that Iris would
enter into no explanation in the man's presence. "You needn't wait any
longer," he said.

"What am I to do, if you please, with the prisoner?" the Sergeant
inquired.

Sir Giles waived that unnecessary question away with his hand. He was
trebly responsible--as knight, banker, and magistrate into the bargain.
"I will be answerable," he replied, "for producing Miss Henley, if
called upon. Good night."

The Sergeant's sense of duty was satisfied. He made the military
salute. His gallantry added homage to the young lady under the form of
a bow. Then, and then only, he walked with dignity out of the room.

"Now," Sir Giles resumed, "I presume I may expect to receive an
explanation. What does this impropriety mean? What were you doing at
the milestone?"

"I was saving the person who made the appointment with you," Iris said;
"the poor fellow had no ill-will towards you--who had risked everything
to save your nephew's life. Oh, sir, you committed a terrible mistake
when you refused to trust that man!"

Sir Giles had anticipated the appearance of fear, and the reality of
humble apologies. She had answered him indignantly, with a heightened
colour, and with tears in her eyes. His sense of his own social
importance was wounded to the quick. "Who is the man you are speaking
of?" he asked loftily. "And what is your excuse for having gone to the
milestone to save him--hidden under my cloak, disguised in my hat?"

"Don't waste precious time in asking questions!" was the desperate
reply. "Undo the harm that you have done already. Your help--oh, I mean
what I say!--may yet preserve Arthur's life. Go to the farm, and save
him."

Sir Giles's anger assumed a new form, it indulged in an elaborate
mockery of respect. He took his watch from his pocket, and consulted it
satirically. "Must I make an excuse?" he asked with a clumsy assumption
of humility.

"No! you must go."

"Permit me to inform you, Miss Henley, that the last train started more
than two hours since."

"What does that matter? You are rich enough to hire a train."

Sir Giles, the actor, could endure it no longer; he dropped the mask,
and revealed Sir Giles, the man. His clerk was summoned by a peremptory
ring of the bell. "Attend Miss Henley to the house," he said. "You may
come to your senses after a night's rest," he continued, turning
sternly to Iris. "I will receive your excuses in the morning."


In the morning, the breakfast was ready as usual at nine o'clock. Sir
Giles found himself alone at the table.

He sent an order to one of the women-servants to knock at Miss Henley's
door. There was a long delay. The housekeeper presented herself in a
state of alarm; she had gone upstairs to make the necessary
investigation in her own person. Miss Henley was not in her room; the
maid was not in her room; the beds had not been slept in; the heavy
luggage was labelled--"To be called for from the hotel." And there was
an end of the evidence which the absent Iris had left behind her.

Inquiries were made at the hotel. The young lady had called there, with
her maid, early on that morning. They had their travelling-bags with
them; and Miss Henley had left directions that the luggage was to be
placed under care of the landlord until her return. To what destination
she had betaken herself nobody knew.

Sir Giles was too angry to remember what she had said to him on the
previous night, or he might have guessed at the motive which had led to
her departure. "Her father has done with her already," he said; "and I
have done with her now." The servants received orders not to admit Miss
Henley, if her audacity contemplated a return to her godfather's house.


VIII

ON the afternoon of the same day, Iris arrived at the village situated
in the near neighbourhood of Arthur Mountjoy's farm.

The infection of political excitement (otherwise the hatred of England)
had spread even to this remote place. On the steps of his little
chapel, the priest, a peasant himself, was haranguing his brethren of
the soil. An Irishman who paid his landlord was a traitor to his
country; an Irishman who asserted his free birthright in the land that
he walked on was an enlightened patriot. Such was the new law which the
reverend gentleman expounded to his attentive audience. If his brethren
there would like him to tell them how they might apply the law, this
exemplary Christian would point to the faithless Irishman, Arthur
Mountjoy. "Buy not of him, sell not to him; avoid him if he approaches
you; starve him out of the place. I might say more, boys--you know what
I mean."

To hear the latter part of this effort of oratory, without uttering a
word of protest, was a trial of endurance under which Iris trembled.
The secondary effect of the priest's address was to root the conviction
of Arthur's danger with tenfold tenacity in her mind. After what she
had just heard, even the slightest delay in securing his safety might
be productive of deplorable results. She astonished a barefooted boy,
on the outskirts of the crowd, by a gift of sixpence, and asked her way
to the farm. The little Irishman ran on before her, eager to show the
generous lady how useful he could be. In less than half an hour, Iris
and her maid were at the door of the farm-house. No such civilised
inventions appeared as a knocker or a bell. The boy used his knuckles
instead--and ran away when he heard the lock of the door turned on the
inner side. He was afraid to be seen speaking to any living creature
who inhabited the "evicted farm."

A decent old woman appeared, and inquired suspiciously "what the ladies
wanted." The accent in which she spoke was unmistakably English. When
Iris asked for Mr. Arthur Mountjoy the reply was: "Not at home." The
housekeeper inhospitably attempted to close the door. "Wait one
moment," Iris said. "Years have changed you; but there is something in
your face which is not quite strange to me. Are you Mrs. Lewson?"

The woman admitted that this was her name. "But how is it that you are
a stranger to me?" she asked distrustfully.

"If you have been long in Mr. Mountjoy's service," Iris replied, "you
may perhaps have heard him speak of Miss Henley?"

Mrs. Lewson's face brightened in an instant; she threw the door wide
open with a glad cry of recognition.

"Come in, Miss, come in! Who would have thought of seeing you in this
horrible place? Yes; I was the nurse who looked after you all
three--when you and Mr. Arthur and Mr. Hugh were playfellows together."
Her eyes rested longingly on her favourite of bygone days. The
sensitive sympathies of Iris interpreted that look. She prettily
touched her cheek, inviting the nurse to kiss her. At this act of
kindness the poor old woman broke down; she apologised quaintly for her
tears: "Think, Miss, how _I_ must remember that happy time--when _you_
have not forgotten it."

Shown into the parlour, the first object which the visitor noticed was
the letter that she had written to Arthur lying unopened on the table.

"Then he is really out of the house?" she said with a feeling of
relief.

He had been away from the farm for a week or more. Had he received a
warning from some other quarter? and had he wisely sought refuge in
flight? The amazement in the housekeeper's face, when she heard these
questions, pleaded for a word of explanation. Iris acknowledged without
reserve the motives which had suggested her journey, and asked eagerly
if she had been mistaken in assuming that Arthur was in danger of
assassination.

Mrs. Lewson shook her head. Beyond all doubt the young master was in
danger. But Miss Iris ought to have known his nature better than to
suppose that he would beat a retreat, if all the land-leaguers in
Ireland threatened him together. No! It was his bold way to laugh at
danger. He had left his farm to visit a friend in the next county; and
it was shrewdly guessed that a young lady who was staying in the house
was the attraction which had kept him so long away. "Anyhow, he means
to come back to-morrow," Mrs. Lewson said. "I wish he would think
better of it, and make his escape to England while he has the chance.
If the savages in these parts must shoot somebody, I'm here--an old
woman that can't last much longer. Let them shoot me."

Iris asked if Arthur's safety was assured in the next county, and in
the house of his friend.

"I can't say, Miss; I have never been to the house. He is in danger if
he persists in coming back to the farm. There are chances of shooting
him all along his road home. Oh, yes; he knows it, poor dear, as well
as I do. But, there!--men like him are such perverse creatures. He
takes his rides just as usual. No; he won't listen to an old woman like
me; and, as for friends to advise him, the only one of them that has
darkened our doors is a scamp who had better have kept away. You may
have heard tell of him. The old Earl, his wicked father, used to be
called by a bad name. And the wild young lord is his father's true
son."

"Not Lord Harry?" Iris exclaimed.

The outbreak of agitation in her tone and manner was silently noticed
by her maid. The housekeeper did not attempt to conceal the impression
that had been produced upon her. "I hope you don't know such a vagabond
as that?" she said very seriously. "Perhaps you are thinking of his
brother--the eldest son--a respectable man, as I have been told?"

Miss Henley passed over these questions without notice. Urged by the
interest in her lover, which was now more than ever an interest beyond
her control, she said: "Is Lord Harry in danger, on account of his
friend?"

"He has nothing to fear from the wretches who infest our part of the
country," Mrs. Lewson replied. "Report says he's one of themselves. The
police--there's what his young lordship has to be afraid of, if all's
true that is said about him. Anyhow, when he paid his visit to my
master, he came secretly like a thief in the night. And I heard Mr.
Arthur, while they were together here in the parlour, loud in blaming
him for something that he had done. No more, Miss, of Lord Harry! I
have something particular to say to you. Suppose I promise to make you
comfortable--will you please wait here till to-morrow, and see Mr.
Arthur and speak to him? If there's a person living who can persuade
him to take better care of himself, I do believe it will be you."

Iris readily consented to wait for Arthur Mountjoy's return. Left
together, while Mrs. Lewson was attending to her domestic duties, the
mistress noticed an appearance of pre-occupation in the maid's face.

"Are you beginning to wish, Rhoda," she said, "that I had not brought
you to this strange place, among these wild people?"

The maid was a quiet amiable girl, evidently in delicate health. She
smiled faintly. "I was thinking, Miss, of another nobleman besides the
one Mrs. Lewson mentioned just now, who seems to have led a reckless
life. It was printed in a newspaper that I read before we left London."

"Was his name mentioned?" Iris asked.

"No, Miss; I suppose they were afraid of giving offence. He tried so
many strange ways of getting a living--it was almost like reading a
story-book."

The suppression of the name suggested a suspicion from which Iris
recoiled. Was it possible that her maid could be ignorantly alluding to
Lord Harry?

"Do you remember this hero's adventures?" she said.

"I can try, Miss, if you wish to hear about him."

The newspaper narrative appeared to have produced a vivid impression on
Rhoda's mind. Making allowance for natural hesitations and mistakes,
and difficulties in expressing herself correctly, she repeated with a
singularly clear recollection the substance of what she had read.


IX

THE principal characters in the story were an old Irish nobleman, who
was called the Earl, and the youngest of his two sons, mysteriously
distinguished as "the wild lord."

It was said of the Earl that he had not been a good father; he had
cruelly neglected both his sons. The younger one, badly treated at
school, and left to himself in the holidays, began his adventurous
career by running away. He got employment (under an assumed name) as a
ship's boy. At the outset, he did well; learning his work, and being
liked by the Captain and the crew. But the chief mate was a brutal man,
and the young runaway's quick temper resented the disgraceful
infliction of blows. He made up his mind to try his luck on shore, and
attached himself to a company of strolling players. Being a handsome
lad, with a good figure and a fine clear voice, he did very well for a
while on the country stage. Hard times came; salaries were reduced; the
adventurer wearied of the society of actors and actresses. His next
change of life presented him in North Britain as a journalist, employed
on a Scotch newspaper. An unfortunate love affair was the means of
depriving him of this new occupation. He was recognised, soon
afterwards, serving as assistant steward in one of the passenger
steamers voyaging between Liverpool and New York. Arrived in this last
city, he obtained notoriety, of no very respectable kind, as a "medium"
claiming powers of supernatural communication with the world of
spirits. When the imposture was ultimately discovered, he had gained
money by his unworthy appeal to the meanly prosaic superstition of
modern times. A long interval had then elapsed, and nothing had been
heard of him, when a starving man was discovered by a traveller, lost
on a Western prairie. The ill-fated Irish lord had associated himself
with an Indian tribe--had committed some offence against their
laws--and had been deliberately deserted and left to die. On his
recovery, he wrote to his elder brother (who had inherited the title
and estates on the death of the old Earl) to say that he was ashamed of
the life that he had led, and eager to make amendment by accepting any
honest employment that could be offered to him. The traveller who had
saved his life, and whose opinion was to be trusted, declared that the
letter represented a sincerely penitent state of mind. There were good
qualities in the vagabond, which only wanted a little merciful
encouragement to assert themselves. The reply that he received from
England came from the lawyers employed by the new Earl. They had
arranged with their agents in New York to pay to the younger brother a
legacy of a thousand pounds, which represented all that had been left
to him by his father's will. If he wrote again his letters would not be
answered; his brother had done with him. Treated in this inhuman
manner, the wild lord became once more worthy of his name. He tried a
new life as a betting man at races and trotting-matches. Fortune
favoured him at the outset, and he considerably increased his legacy.
With the customary infatuation of men who gain money by risking the
loss of it, he presumed on his good luck. One pecuniary disaster
followed another, and left him literally penniless. He was found again,
in England, exhibiting an open boat in which he and a companion had
made one of those foolhardy voyages across the Atlantic, which have now
happily ceased to interest the public. To a friend who remonstrated
with him, he answered that he reckoned on being lost at sea, and on so
committing a suicide worthy of the desperate life that he had led. The
last accounts of him, after this, were too vague and too contradictory
to be depended on. At one time it was reported that he had returned to
the United States. Not long afterwards unaccountable paragraphs
appeared in newspapers declaring, at one and the same time, that he was
living among bad company in Paris, and that he was hiding disreputably
in an ill famed quarter of the city of Dublin, called "the Liberties."
In any case there was good reason to fear that Irish-American
desperadoes had entangled the wild lord in the network of political
conspiracy.


The maid noticed a change in the mistress which surprised her, when she
had reached the end of the newspaper story. Of Miss Henley's customary
good spirits not a trace remained. "Few people, Rhoda, remember what
they read as well as you do." She said it kindly and sadly--and she
said no more.

There was a reason for this.

Now at one time, and now at another, Iris had heard of Lord Harry's
faults and failings in fragments of family history. The complete record
of his degraded life, presented in an uninterrupted succession of
events, had now forced itself on her attention for the first time. It
naturally shocked her. She felt, as she had never felt before, how
entirely right her father had been in insisting on her resistance to an
attachment which was unworthy of her. So far, but no farther, her
conscience yielded to its own conviction of what was just. But the one
unassailable vital force in this world is the force of love. It may
submit to the hard necessities of life; it may acknowledge the
imperative claims of duty; it may be silent under reproach, and
submissive to privation--but, suffer what it may, it is the
master-passion still; subject to no artificial influences, owning no
supremacy but the law of its own being. Iris was above the reach of
self-reproach, when her memory recalled the daring action which had
saved Lord Harry at the milestone. Her better sense acknowledged Hugh
Mountjoy's superiority over the other man--but her heart, her perverse
heart, remained true to its first choice in spite of her. She made an
impatient excuse and went out alone to recover her composure in the
farm-house garden.

The hours of the evening passed slowly.

There was a pack of cards in the house; the women tried to amuse
themselves, and failed. Anxiety about Arthur preyed on the spirits of
Miss Henley and Mrs. Lewson. Even the maid, who had only seen him
during his last visit to London, said she wished to-morrow had come and
gone. His sweet temper, his handsome face, his lively talk had made
Arthur a favourite everywhere. Mrs. Lewson had left her comfortable
English home to be his housekeeper, when he tried his rash experiment
of farming in Ireland. And, more wonderful still, even wearisome Sir
Giles became an agreeable person in his nephew's company.

Iris set the example of retiring at an early hour to her room.

There was something terrible in the pastoral silence of the place. It
associated itself mysteriously with her fears for Arthur; it suggested
armed treachery on tiptoe, taking its murderous stand in hiding; the
whistling passage of bullets through the air; the piercing cry of a man
mortally wounded, and that man, perhaps----? Iris shrank from her own
horrid thought. A momentary faintness overcame her; she opened the
window. As she put her head out to breathe the cool night-air, a man on
horseback rode up to the house. Was it Arthur? No: the light-coloured
groom's livery that he wore was just visible.

Before he could dismount to knock at the door, a tall man walked up to
him out of the darkness.

"Is that Miles?" the tall man asked.

The groom knew the voice. Iris was even better acquainted with it. She,
too, recognised Lord Harry.


X

THERE was the Irish lord at the very time when Iris was most patiently
resigned never to see him more, never to think of him as her husband
again--reminding her of the first days of their love, and of their
mutual confession of it! Fear of herself kept her behind the curtain;
while interest in Lord Harry detained her at the window in hiding.

"All well at Rathco?" he asked--mentioning the name of the house in
which Arthur was one of the guests.

"Yes, my lord. Mr. Mountjoy leaves us to-morrow."

"Does he mean to return to the farm?"

"Sorry I am to say it; he does mean that."

"Has he fixed any time, Miles, for starting on his journey?"

Miles instituted a search through his pockets, and accompanied it by an
explanation. Yes, indeed, Master Arthur had fixed a time; he had
written a note to say so to Mistress Lewson, the housekeeper; he had
said, "Drop the note at the farm, on your way to the village." And what
might Miles want at the village, in the dark? Medicine, in a hurry, for
one of his master's horses that was sick and sinking. And, speaking of
that, here, thank God, was the note!

Iris, listening and watching alternately, saw to her surprise the note
intended for Mrs. Lewson handed to Lord Harry. "Am I expected," he
asked jocosely, "to read writing without a light?" Miles produced a
small lantern which was strapped to his groom's belt. "There's parts of
the road not over safe in the dark," he said as he raised the shade
which guarded the light. The wild lord coolly opened the letter, and
read the few careless words which it contained. "To Mrs. Lewson:--Dear
old girl, expect me back to-morrow to dinner at three o'clock. Yours,
ARTHUR."

There was a pause.

"Are there any strangers at Rathco?" Lord Harry asked.

"Two new men," Miles replied, "at work in the grounds."

There was another pause. "How can I protect him?" the young lord said,
partly to himself, partly to Miles. He suspected the two new
men---spies probably who knew of Arthur's proposed journey home, and
who had already reported to their employers the hour at which he would
set out.

Miles ventured to say a word: "I hope you won't be angry with me, my
lord"----

"Stuff and nonsense! Was I ever angry with you, when I was rich enough
to keep a servant, and when you were the man?"

The Irish groom answered in a voice that trembled with strong feeling.
"You were the best and kindest master that ever lived on this earth. I
can't see you putting your precious life in peril"----

"My precious life?" Lord Harry repeated lightly. "You're thinking of
Mr. Mountjoy, when you say that. _His_ life is worth saving. As for my
life"---- He ended the sentence by a whistle, as the best way he could
hit on of expressing his contempt for his own existence.

"My lord! my lord!" Miles persisted; "the Invincibles are beginning to
doubt you. If any of them find you hanging about Mr. Mountjoy's farm,
they'll try a shot at you first, and ask afterwards whether it was
right to kill you or not."

To hear this said--and said seriously--after the saving of him at the
milestone, was a trial of her firmness which Iris was unable to resist.
Love got the better of prudence. She drew back the window-curtain. In
another moment, she would have added her persuasion to the servant's
warning, if Lord Harry himself had not accidentally checked her by a
proceeding, on his part, for which she was not prepared.

"Show the light," he said; "I'll write a line to Mr. Mountjoy."

He tore off the blank page from the note to the housekeeper, and wrote
to Arthur, entreating him to change the time of his departure from
Rathco, and to tell no creature in the house, or out of the house, at
what new hour he had arranged to go. "Saddle your horse yourself," the
letter concluded. It was written in a feigned hand, without a
signature.

"Give that to Mr. Mountjoy," Lord Harry said. "If he asks who wrote it,
don't frighten him about me by telling the truth. Lie, Miles! Say you
don't know." He next returned the note for Mrs. Lewson. "If she notices
that it has been opened," he resumed, "and asks who has done it, lie
again. Good-night, Miles--and mind those dangerous places on your road
home."

The groom darkened his lantern; and the wild lord was lost to view,
round the side of the house.

Left by himself, Miles rapped at the door with the handle of his whip.
"A letter from Mr. Arthur," he called out. Mrs. Lewson at once took the
note, and examined it by the light of the candle on the hall-table.
"Somebody has been reading this!" she exclaimed, stepping out to the
groom, and showing him the torn envelope. Miles, promptly obeying his
instructions, declared that he knew nothing about it, and rode away.

Iris descended the stairs, and joined Mrs. Lewson in the hall before
she had closed the door. The housekeeper at once produced Arthur's
letter.

"It's on my mind, Miss," she said, "to write an answer, and say
something to Mr. Arthur which will persuade him to take care of
himself, on his way back to the farm. The difficulty is, how am I to
express it? You would be doing a kind thing if you would give me a word
of advice."

Iris willingly complied. A second note, from the anxious housekeeper,
might help the effect of the few lines which Lord Harry had written.

Arthur's letter informed Iris that he had arranged to return at three
o'clock. Lord Harry's question to the groom, and the man's reply,
instantly recurred to her memory: "Are there any strangers at
Rathco?"--"Two new men at work in the grounds." Arriving at the same
conclusion which had already occurred to Lord Harry, Iris advised the
housekeeper, in writing to Arthur, to entreat him to change the hour,
secretly, at which he left his friend's house on the next day. Warmly
approving of this idea, Mrs. Lewson hurried into the parlour to write
her letter. "Don't go to bed yet, Miss," she said; "I want you to read
it before I send it away the first thing to-morrow morning."

Left alone in the hall, with the door open before her, Iris looked out
on the night, thinking.

The lives of the two men in whom she was interested--in widely
different ways--were now both threatened; and the imminent danger, at
that moment, was the danger of Lord Harry. He was an outlaw whose
character would not bear investigation; but, to give him his due, there
was no risk which he was not ready to confront for Arthur's sake. If he
was still recklessly lingering, on the watch for assassins in the
dangerous neighbourhood of the farm, who but herself possessed the
influence which would prevail on him to leave the place? She had joined
Mrs. Lewson at the door with that conviction in her mind. In another
instant, she was out of the house, and beginning her search in the
dark.

Iris made the round of the building; sometimes feeling her way in
obscure places; sometimes calling to Lord Harry cautiously by his name.
No living creature appeared; no sound of a movement disturbed the
stillness of the night. The discovery of his absence, which she had not
dared to hope for, was the cheering discovery which she had now made.

On her way back to the house, she became conscious of the rashness of
the act into which her own generous impulse had betrayed her.

If she and Lord Harry had met, could she have denied the tender
interest in him which her own conduct would then have revealed? Would
he not have been justified in concluding that she had pardoned the
errors and the vices of his life, and that he might without impropriety
remind her of their engagement, and claim her hand in marriage? She
trembled as she thought of the concessions which he might have wrung
from her. "Never more," she determined, "shall my own folly be
answerable for it, if he and I meet again."

She had returned to Mrs. Lewson, and had read over the letter to
Arthur, when the farm clock, striking the hour, reminded them that it
was time to retire. They slept badly that night.

At six in the morning, one of the two labourers who had remained
faithful to Arthur was sent away on horseback with the housekeeper's
reply, and with orders to wait for an answer. Allowing time for giving
the horse a rest, the man might be expected to return before noon.


IX

IT was a fine sunshiny day; Mrs. Lewson's spirits began to improve. "I
have always held the belief," the worthy old woman confessed, "that
bright weather brings good luck--of course provided the day is not a
Friday. This is Wednesday. Cheer up, Miss."

The messenger returned with good news. Mr. Arthur had been as merry as
usual. He had made fun of another letter of good advice, received
without a signature. "But Mrs. Lewson must have her way," he said. "My
love to the old dear--I'll start two hours later, and be back to dinner
at five."

"Where did Mr. Arthur give you that message?" Iris inquired.

"At the stables, Miss, while I was putting up the horse. The men about
were all on the broad grin when they heard Mr. Arthur's message."

Still in a morbid state of mind, Iris silently regretted that the
message had not been written, instead of being delivered by word of
mouth. Here, again, she (like the wild lord) had been afraid of
listeners.

The hours wore slowly on until it was past four o'clock. Iris could
endure the suspense no longer. "It's a lovely afternoon," she said to
Mrs. Lewson. "Let us take a walk along the road, and meet Arthur." To
this proposal the housekeeper readily agreed.

It was nearly five o'clock when they reached a place at which a by-road
branched off, through a wood, from the highway which they had hitherto
followed. Mrs. Lewson found a seat on a felled tree. "We had better not
go any farther," she said.

Iris asked if there was any reason for this.

There was an excellent reason. A few yards farther on, the high road
had been diverted from the straight line (in the interest of a large
agricultural village), and was then directed again into its former
course. The by-road through the wood served as a short cut, for
horsemen and pedestrians, from one divergent point to the other. It was
next to a certainty that Arthur would return by the short cut. But if
accident or caprice led to his preferring the highway, it was clearly
necessary to wait for him within view of both the roads.

Too restless to submit to a state of passive expectation, Iris proposed
to follow the bridle path through the wood for a little way, and to
return if she failed to see anything of Arthur. "You are tired," she
said kindly to her companion: "pray don't move."

Mrs. Lewson looked needlessly uneasy: "You might lose yourself, Miss.
Mind you keep to the path!"

Iris followed the pleasant windings of the woodland track. In the hope
of meeting Arthur she considerably extended the length of her walk. The
white line of the high road, as it passed the farther end of the wood,
showed itself through the trees. She turned at once to rejoin Mrs.
Lewson.

On her way back she made a discovery. A ruin which she had not
previously noticed showed itself among the trees on her left hand. Her
curiosity was excited; she strayed aside to examine it more closely.
The crumbling walls, as she approached them, looked like the remains of
an ordinary dwelling-house. Age is essential to the picturesque effect
of decay: a modern ruin is an unnatural and depressing object--and here
the horrid thing was.

As she turned to retrace her steps to the road, a man walked out of the
inner space enclosed by all that was left of the dismantled house. A
cry of alarm escaped her. Was she the victim of destiny, or the sport
of chance? There was the wild lord whom she had vowed never to see
again: the master of her heart--perhaps the master of her fate!

Any other man would have been amazed to see her, and would have asked
how it had happened that the English lady presented herself to him in
an Irish wood. This man enjoyed the delight of seeing her, and accepted
it as a blessing that was not to be questioned. "My angel has dropped
from Heaven," he said. "May Heaven be praised!"

He approached her; his arms closed round her. She struggled to free
herself from his embrace. At that moment they both heard the crackle of
breaking underwood among the trees behind them. Lord Harry looked
round. "This is a dangerous place," he whispered; "I'm waiting to see
Arthur pass safely. Submit to be kissed, or I am a dead man." His eyes
told her that he was truly and fearfully in earnest. Her head sank on
his bosom. As he bent down and kissed her, three men approached from
their hiding-place among the trees. They had no doubt been watching
him, under orders from the murderous brotherhood to which they
belonged. Their pistols were ready in their hands--and what discovery
had they made? There was the brother who had been denounced as having
betrayed them, guilty of no worse treason than meeting his sweetheart
in a wood! "We beg your pardon, my lord," they cried, with a thoroughly
Irish enjoyment of their own discomfiture--and burst into a roar of
laughter--and left the lovers together. For the second time, Iris had
saved Lord Harry at a crisis in his life.

"Let me go!" she pleaded faintly, trembling with superstitious fear for
the first time in her experience of herself.

He held her to him as if he would never let her go again. "Oh, my
Sweet, give me a last chance. Help me to be a better man! You have only
to will it, Iris, and to make me worthy of you."

His arms suddenly trembled round her, and dropped. The silence was
broken by a distant sound, like the report of a shot. He looked towards
the farther end of the wood. In a minute more, the thump of a horse's
hoofs at a gallop was audible, where the bridlepath was hidden among
the trees. It came nearer--nearer---the creature burst into view, wild
with fright, and carrying an empty saddle. Lord Harry rushed into the
path and seized the horse as it swerved at the sight of him. There was
a leather pocket attached to the front of the saddle. "Search it!" he
cried to Iris, forcing the terrified animal back on its haunches. She
drew out a silver travelling-flask. One glance at the name engraved on
it told him the terrible truth. His trembling hands lost their hold.
The horse escaped; the words burst from his lips:

"Oh, God, they've killed him!"

THE END OF THE PROLOGUE



THE STORY

FIRST PERIOD


CHAPTER I

THE SOUR FRENCH WINE

WHILE the line to be taken by the new railway between Culm and Everill
was still under discussion, the engineer caused some difference of
opinion among the moneyed men who were the first Directors of the
Company, by asking if they proposed to include among their Stations the
little old town of Honeybuzzard.

For years past, commerce had declined, and population had decreased in
this ancient and curious place. Painters knew it well, and prized its
mediaeval houses as a mine of valuable material for their art. Persons
of cultivated tastes, who were interested in church architecture of the
fourteenth century, sometimes pleased and flattered the Rector by
subscribing to his fund for the restoration of the tower, and the
removal of the accumulated rubbish of hundreds of years from the crypt.
Small speculators, not otherwise in a state of insanity, settled
themselves in the town, and tried the desperate experiment of opening a
shop; spent their little capital, put up the shutters, and disappeared.
The old market-place still showed its list of market-law's, issued by
the Mayor and Corporation in the prosperous bygone times; and every
week there were fewer and fewer people to obey the laws. The great
empty enclosure looked more cheerful, when there was no market held,
and when the boys of the town played in the deserted place. In the last
warehouse left in a state of repair, the crane was generally idle; the
windows were mostly shut up; and a solitary man represented languishing
trade, idling at a half-opened door. The muddy river rose and fell with
the distant tide. At rare intervals a collier discharged its cargo on
the mouldering quay, or an empty barge took in a load of hay. One bold
house advertised, in a dirty window, apartments to let. There was a
lawyer in the town, who had no occasion to keep a clerk; and there was
a doctor who hoped to sell his practice for anything that it would
fetch. The directors of the new railway, after a stormy meeting,
decided on offering (by means of a Station) a last chance of revival to
the dying town. The town had not vitality enough left to be grateful;
the railway stimulant produced no effect. Of all his colleagues in
Great Britain and Ireland, the station-master at Honeybuzzard was the
idlest man--and this, as he said to the unemployed porter, through no
want of energy on his own part.

Late on a rainy autumn afternoon, the slow train left one traveller at
the Station. He got out of a first-class carriage; he carried an
umbrella and a travelling-bag; and he asked his way to the best inn.
The station-master and the porter compared notes. One of them said:
"Evidently a gentleman." The other added: "What can he possibly want
here?"

The stranger twice lost his way in the tortuous old streets of the town
before he reached the inn. On giving his orders, it appeared that he
wanted three things: a private room, something to eat, and, while the
dinner was being cooked, materials for writing a letter.

Answering her daughter's questions downstairs, the landlady described
her guest as a nice-looking man dressed in deep mourning. "Young, my
dear, with beautiful dark brown hair, and a grand beard, and a sweet
sorrowful look. Ah, his eyes would tell anybody that his black clothes
are not a mere sham. Whether married or single, of course I can't say.
But I noticed the name on his travelling-bag. A distinguished name in
my opinion--Hugh Mountjoy. I wonder what he'll order to drink when he
has his dinner? What a mercy it will be if we can get rid of another
bottle of the sour French wine!"

The bell in the private room rang at that moment; and the landlady's
daughter, it is needless to say, took the opportunity of forming her
own opinion of Mr. Hugh Mountjoy.

She returned with a letter in her hand, consumed by a vain longing for
the advantages of gentle birth. "Ah, mother, if I was a young lady of
the higher classes, I know whose wife I should like to be!" Not
particularly interested in sentimental aspirations, the landlady asked
to see Mr. Mountjoy's letter. The messenger who delivered it was to
wait for an answer. It was addressed to: "Miss Henley, care of Clarence
Vimpany, Esquire, Honeybuzzard." Urged by an excited imagination, the
daughter longed to see Miss Henley. The mother was at a loss to
understand why Mr. Mountjoy should have troubled himself to write the
letter at all. "If he knows the young lady who is staying at the
doctor's house," she said, "why doesn't he call on Miss Henley?" She
handed the letter back to her daughter. "There! let the ostler take it;
he's got nothing to do."

"No, mother. The ostler's dirty hands mustn't touch it--I'll take the
letter myself. Perhaps I may see Miss Henley." Such was the impression
which Mr. Hugh Mountjoy had innocently produced on a sensitive young
person, condemned by destiny to the barren sphere of action afforded by
a country inn!

The landlady herself took the dinner upstairs--a first course of mutton
chops and potatoes, cooked to a degree of imperfection only attained in
an English kitchen. The sour French wine was still on the good woman's
mind. "What would you choose to drink, sir?" she asked. Mr. Mountjoy
seemed to feel no interest in what he might have to drink. "We have
some French wine, sir."

"Thank you, ma'am; that will do."

When the bell rang again, and the time came to produce the second
course of cheese and celery, the landlady allowed the waiter to take
her place. Her experience of the farmers who frequented the inn, and
who had in some few cases been induced to taste the wine, warned her to
anticipate an outbreak of just anger from Mr. Mountjoy. He, like the
others, would probably ask what she "meant by poisoning him with such
stuff as that." On the return of the waiter, she put the question: "Did
the gentleman complain of the French wine?"

"He wants to see you about it, ma'am."

The landlady turned pale. The expression of Mr. Mountjoy's indignation
was evidently reserved for the mistress of the house. "Did he swear,"
she asked, "when he tasted it?"

"Lord bless you, ma'am, no! Drank it out of a tumbler, and--if you will
believe me--actually seemed to like it."

The landlady recovered her colour. Gratitude to Providence for having
sent a customer to the inn, who could drink sour wine without
discovering it, was the uppermost feeling in her ample bosom as she
entered the private room. Mr. Mountjoy justified her anticipations. He
was simple enough--with his tumbler before him, and the wine as it were
under his nose--to begin with an apology.

"I am sorry to trouble you, ma'am. May I ask where you got this wine?"

"The wine, sir, was one of my late husband's bad debts. It was all he
could get from a Frenchman who owed him money."

"It's worth money, ma'am."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes, indeed. This is some of the finest and purest claret that I have
tasted for many a long day past."

An alarming suspicion disturbed the serenity of the landlady's mind.
Was his extraordinary opinion of the wine sincere? Or was it Mr.
Mountjoy's wicked design to entrap her into praising her claret and
then to imply that she was a cheat by declaring what he really thought
of it? She took refuge in a cautious reply:

"You are the first gentleman, sir, who has not found fault with it."

"In that case, perhaps you would like to get rid of the wine?" Mr.
Mountjoy suggested.

The landlady was still cautious. "Who will buy it of me, sir?"

"I will. How much do you charge for it by the bottle?"

It was, by this time, clear that he was not mischievous--only a little
crazy. The worldly-wise hostess took advantage of that circumstance to
double the price. Without hesitation, she said: "Five shillings a
bottle, sir."

Often, too often, the irony of circumstances brings together, on this
earthly scene, the opposite types of vice and virtue. A lying landlady
and a guest incapable of deceit were looking at each other across a
narrow table; equally unconscious of the immeasurable moral gulf that
lay between them, Influenced by honourable feeling, innocent Hugh
Mountjoy lashed the landlady's greed for money to the full-gallop of
human cupidity.

"I don't think you are aware of the value of your wine," he said. "I
have claret in my cellar which is not so good as this, and which costs
more than you have asked. It is only fair to offer you seven-and-sixpence
a bottle."

When an eccentric traveller is asked to pay a price, and deliberately
raises that price against himself, where is the sensible
woman--especially if she happens to be a widow conducting an
unprofitable business--who would hesitate to improve the opportunity?
The greedy landlady raised her terms.

"On reflection, sir, I think I ought to have ten shillings a bottle, if
you please."

"The wine may be worth it," Mountjoy answered quietly; "but it is more
than I can afford to pay. No, ma'am; I will leave you to find some
lover of good claret with a longer purse than mine."

It was in this man's character, when he said No, to mean No. Mr.
Mountjoy's hostess perceived that her crazy customer was not to be
trifled with. She lowered her terms again with the headlong hurry of
terror. "You shall have it, Sir, at your own price," said this entirely
shameless and perfectly respectable woman.

The bargain having been closed under these circumstances, the
landlady's daughter knocked at the door. "I took your letter myself,
sir," she said modestly; "and here is the answer." (She had seen Miss
Henley, and did not think much of her.) Mountjoy offered the expression
of his thanks, in words never to be forgotten by a sensitive young
person, and opened his letter. It was short enough to be read in a
moment; but it was evidently a favourable reply. He took his hat in a
hurry, and asked to be shown the way to Mr. Vimpany's house.



CHAPTER II

THE MAN SHE REFUSED

MOUNTJOY had decided on travelling to Honeybuzzard, as soon as he heard
that Miss Henley was staying with strangers in that town. Having had no
earlier opportunity of preparing her to see him, he had considerately
written to her from the inn, in preference to presenting himself
unexpectedly at the doctor's house. How would she receive the devoted
friend, whose proposal of marriage she had refused for the second time,
when they had last met in London?

The doctor's place of residence, situated in a solitary by-street,
commanded a view, not perhaps encouraging to a gentleman who followed
the medical profession: it was a view of the churchyard. The door was
opened by a woman-servant, who looked suspiciously at the stranger.
Without waiting to be questioned, she said her master was out. Mountjoy
mentioned his name, and asked for Miss Henley.

The servant's manner altered at once for the better; she showed him
into a small drawing-room, scantily and cheaply furnished. Some
poorly-framed prints on the walls (a little out of place perhaps in a
doctor's house) represented portraits of famous actresses, who had been
queens of the stage in the early part of the present century. The few
books, too, collected on a little shelf above the chimney-piece, were
in every case specimens of dramatic literature. "Who reads these
plays?" Mountjoy asked himself. "And how did Iris find her way into
this house?"

While he was thinking of her, Miss Henley entered the room.

Her face was pale and careworn; tears dimmed her eyes when Mountjoy
advanced to meet her. In his presence, the horror of his brother's
death by assassination shook Iris as it had not shaken her yet.
Impulsively, she drew his head down to her, with the fond familiarity
of a sister, and kissed his forehead. "Oh, Hugh, I know how you and
Arthur loved each other! No words of mine can say how I feel for you."

"No words are wanted, my dear," he answered tenderly. "Your sympathy
speaks for itself."

He led her to the sofa and seated himself by her side. "Your father has
shown me what you have written to him," he resumed; "your letter from
Dublin and your second letter from this place. I know what you have so
nobly risked and suffered in poor Arthur's interests. It will be some
consolation to me if I can make a return--a very poor return, Iris--for
all that Arthur's brother owes to the truest friend that ever man had.
No," he continued, gently interrupting the expression of her gratitude.
"Your father has not sent me here--but he knows that I have left London
for the express purpose of seeing you, and he knows why. You have
written to him dutifully and affectionately; you have pleaded for
pardon and reconciliation, when he is to blame. Shall I venture to tell
you how he answered me, when I asked if he had no faith left in his own
child? 'Hugh,' he said, 'you are wasting words on a man whose mind is
made up. I will trust my daughter when that Irish lord is laid in his
grave--not before.' That is a reflection on you, Iris, which I cannot
permit, even when your father casts it. He is hard, he is unforgiving;
but he must, and shall, be conquered yet. I mean to make him do you
justice; I have come here with that purpose, and that purpose only, in
view. May I speak to you of Lord Harry?"

"How can you doubt it!"

"My dear, this is a delicate subject for me to enter on."

"And a shameful subject for me!" Iris broke out bitterly. "Hugh! you
are an angel, by comparison with that man--how debased I must be to
love him--how unworthy of your good opinion! Ask me anything you like;
have no mercy on me. Oh," she cried, with reckless contempt for
herself, "why don't you beat me? I deserve it!"

Mountjoy was well enough acquainted with the natures of women to pass
over that passionate outbreak, instead of fanning the flame in her by
reasoning and remonstrance.

"Your father will not listen to the expression of feeling," he
continued; "but it is possible to rouse his sense of justice by the
expression of facts. Help me to speak to him more plainly of Lord Harry
than you could speak in your letters. I want to know what has happened,
from the time when events at Ardoon brought you and the young lord
together again, to the time when you left him in Ireland after my
brother's death. If I seem to expect too much of you, Iris, pray
remember that I am speaking with a true regard for your interests."

In those words, he made his generous appeal to her. She proved herself
to be worthy of it.


Stated briefly, the retrospect began with the mysterious anonymous
letters which had been addressed to Sir Giles.

Lord Harry's explanation had been offered to Iris gratefully, but with
some reserve, after she had told him who the stranger at the milestone
really was. "I entreat you to pardon me, if I shrink from entering into
particulars," he had said. "Circumstances, at the time, amply justified
me in the attempt to use the banker's political influence as a means of
securing Arthur's safety. I knew enough of Sir Giles's mean nature to
be careful in trusting him; but I did hope to try what my personal
influence might do. If he had possessed a tenth part of your courage,
Arthur might have been alive, and safe in England, at this moment. I
can't say any more; I daren't say any more; it maddens me when I think
of it!" He abruptly changed the subject, and interested Iris by
speaking of other and later events. His association with the
Invincibles--inexcusably rash and wicked as he himself confessed it to
be--had enabled him to penetrate, and for a time to defeat secretly,
the murderous designs of the brotherhood. His appearances, first at the
farmhouse and afterwards at the ruin in the wood were referable to
changes in the plans of the assassins which had come to his knowledge.
When Iris had met with him he was on the watch, believing that his
friend would take the short way back through the wood, and well aware
that his own life might pay the penalty if he succeeded in warning
Arthur. After the terrible discovery of the murder (committed on the
high road), and the escape of the miscreant who had been guilty of the
crime, the parting of Lord Harry and Miss Henley had been the next
event. She had left him, on her return to England, and had refused to
consent to any of the future meetings between them which he besought
her to grant.


At this stage in the narrative, Mountjoy felt compelled to ask
questions more searching than he had put to Iris yet. It was possible
that she might be trusting her own impressions of Lord Harry, with the
ill-placed confidence of a woman innocently self-deceived.

"Did he submit willingly to your leaving him?" Mountjoy said.

"Not at first," she replied.

"Has he released you from that rash engagement, of some years since,
which pledged you to marry him?"

"No."

"Did he allude to the engagement, on this occasion?"

"He said he held to it as the one hope of his life."

"And what did you say?"

"I implored him not to distress me."

"Did you say nothing more positive than that?"

"I couldn't help thinking, Hugh, of all that he had tried to do to save
Arthur. But I insisted on leaving him--and I have left him."

"Do you remember what he said at parting?"

"He said, 'While I live, I love you.'"

As she repeated the words, there was an involuntary change to
tenderness in her voice which was not lost on Mountjoy.

"I must be sure," he said to her gravely, "of what I tell your father
when I go back to him. Can I declare, with a safe conscience, that you
will never see Lord Harry again?"

"My mind is made up never to see him again." She had answered firmly so
far. Her next words were spoken with hesitation, in tones that
faltered. "But I am sometimes afraid," she said, "that the decision may
not rest with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I would rather not tell you."

"That is a strange answer, Iris."

"I value your good opinion, Hugh, and I am afraid of losing it."

"Nothing has ever altered my opinion of you," he replied, "and nothing
ever will."

She looked at him anxiously, with the closest attention. Little by
little, the expression of doubt in her face disappeared; she knew how
he loved her--she resolved to trust him.

"My friend," she began abruptly, "education has done nothing for me.
Since I left Ireland, I have sunk (I don't know how or why) into a
state of superstitious fear. Yes! I believe in a fatality which is
leading me back to Lord Harry, in spite of myself. Twice already, since
I left home, I have met with him; and each time I have been the means
of saving him--once at the milestone, and once at the ruin in the wood.
If my father still accuses me of being in love with an adventurer, you
can say with perfect truth that I am afraid of him. I _am_ afraid of
the third meeting. I have done my best to escape from that man; and,
step by step, as I think I am getting away, Destiny is taking me back
to him. I may be on my way to him here, hidden in this wretched little
town. Oh, don't despise me! Don't be ashamed of me!"

"My dear, I am interested--deeply interested in you. That there may be
some such influence as Destiny in our poor mortal lives, I dare not
deny. But I don't agree with your conclusion. What Destiny has to do
with you and with me, neither you nor I can pretend to know beforehand.
In the presence of that great mystery, humanity must submit to be
ignorant. Wait, Iris--wait!"

She answered him with the simplicity of a docile child: "I will do
anything you tell me."

Mountjoy was too fond of her to say more of Lord Harry, for that day.
He was careful to lead the talk to a topic which might be trusted to
provoke no agitating thoughts. Finding Iris to all appearance
established in the doctor's house, he was naturally anxious to know
something of the person who must have invited her--the doctor's wife.



CHAPTER III

THE REGISTERED PACKET

MOUNTJOY began by alluding to the second of Miss Henley's letters to
her father, and to a passage in it which mentioned Mrs. Vimpany with
expressions of the sincerest gratitude.

"I should like to know more," he said, "of a lady whose hospitality at
home seems to equal her kindness as a fellow-traveller. Did you first
meet with her on the railway?"

"She travelled by the same train to Dublin, with me and my maid, but
not in the same carriage," Iris answered; "I was so fortunate as to
meet with her on the voyage from Dublin to Holyhead. We had a rough
crossing; and Rhoda suffered so dreadfully from sea-sickness that she
frightened me. The stewardess was attending to ladies who were calling
for her in all directions; I really don't know what misfortune might
not have happened, if Mrs. Vimpany had not come forward in the kindest
manner, and offered help. She knew so wonderfully well what was to be
done, that she astonished me. 'I am the wife of a doctor,' she said;
'and I am only imitating what I have seen my husband do, when his
assistance has been required, at sea, in weather like this.' In her
poor state of health, Rhoda was too much exhausted to go on by the
train, when we got to Holyhead. She is the best of good girls, and I am
fond of her, as you know. If I had been by myself, I daresay I should
have sent for medical help. What do you think dear Mrs. Vimpany offered
to do? 'Your maid is only faint,' she said. 'Give her rest and some
iced wine, and she will be well enough to go on by the slow train.
Don't be frightened about her; I will wait with you.' And she did wait.
Are there many strangers, Hugh, who are as unselfishly good to others
as my chance-acquaintance in the steamboat?"

"Very few, I am afraid."

Mountjoy made that reply with some little embarrassment; conscious of a
doubt of Mrs. Vimpany's disinterested kindness, which seemed to be
unworthy of a just man.

Iris went on.

"Rhoda was sufficiently recovered," she said, "to travel by the next
train, and there seemed to be no reason for feeling any more anxiety.
But, after a time, the fatigue of the journey proved to be too much for
her. The poor girl turned pale--and fainted. Mrs. Vimpany revived her,
but as it turned out, only for a while. She fell into another fainting
fit; and my travelling-companion began to look anxious. There was some
difficulty in restoring Rhoda to her senses. In dread of another
attack, I determined to stop at the next station. It looked such a poor
place, when we got to it, that I hesitated. Mrs. Vimpany persuaded me
to go on. The next station, she said, was _her_ station. 'Stop there,'
she suggested, 'and let my husband look at the girl. I ought not
perhaps to say it, but you will find no better medical man out of
London.' I took the good creature's advice gratefully. What else could
I do?"

"What would you have done," Mountjoy inquired, "if Rhoda had been
strong enough to get to the end of the journey?"

"I should have gone on to London, and taken refuge in a lodging--you
were in town, as I believed, and my father might relent in time. As it
was, I felt my lonely position keenly. To meet with kind people, like
Mr. Vimpany and his wife, was a real blessing to such a friendless
creature as I am--to say nothing of the advantage to Rhoda, who is
getting better every day. I should like you to see Mrs. Vimpany, if she
is at home. She is a little formal and old fashioned in her manner--but
I am sure you will be pleased with her. Ah! you look round the room!
They are poor, miserably poor for persons in their position, these
worthy friends of mine. I have had the greatest difficulty in
persuading them to let me contribute my share towards the household
expenses. They only yielded when I threatened to go to the inn. You are
looking very serious, Hugh. Is it possible that you see some objection
to my staying in this house?"

The drawing-room door was softly opened, at the moment when Iris put
that question. A lady appeared on the threshold. Seeing the stranger,
she turned to Iris.

"I didn't know, dear Miss Henley, that you had a visitor. Pray pardon
my intrusion."

The voice was deep; the articulation was clear; the smile presented a
certain modest dignity which gave it a value of its own. This was a
woman who could make such a commonplace thing as an apology worth
listening to. Iris stopped her as she was about to leave the room. "I
was just wishing for you," she said. "Let me introduce my old friend,
Mr. Mountjoy. Hugh, this is the lady who has been so kind to me--Mrs.
Vimpany."

Hugh's impulse, under the circumstances, was to dispense with the
formality of a bow, and to shake hands. Mrs. Vimpany met this friendly
advance with a suavity of action, not often seen in these days of
movement without ceremony. She was a tall slim woman, of a certain age.
Art had so cleverly improved her complexion that it almost looked like
nature. Her cheeks had lost the plumpness of youth, but her hair
(thanks again perhaps to Art) showed no signs of turning grey. The
expression of her large dark eyes--placed perhaps a little too near her
high aquiline nose--claimed admiration from any person who was so
fortunate as to come within their range of view. Her hands, long,
yellow, and pitiably thin, were used with a grace which checked to some
extent their cruel betrayal of her age. Her dress had seen better days,
but it was worn with an air which forbade it to look actually shabby.
The faded lace that encircled her neck fell in scanty folds over her
bosom. She sank into a chair by Hugh's side. "It was a great pleasure
to me, Mr. Mountjoy, to offer my poor services to Miss Henley; I can't
tell you how happy her presence makes me in our little house." The
compliment was addressed to Iris with every advantage that smiles and
tones could offer. Oddly artificial as it undoubtedly was, Mrs.
Vimpany's manner produced nevertheless an agreeable impression.
Disposed to doubt her at first, Mountjoy found that she was winning her
way to a favourable change in his opinion. She so far interested him,
that he began to wonder what her early life might have been, when she
was young and handsome. He looked again at the portraits of actresses
on the walls, and the plays on the bookshelf--and then (when she was
speaking to Iris) he stole a sly glance at the doctor's wife. Was it
possible that this remarkable woman had once been an actress? He
attempted to put the value of that guess to the test by means of a
complimentary allusion to the prints.

"My memory as a playgoer doesn't extend over many years," he began;
"but I can appreciate the historical interest of your beautiful
prints." Mrs. Vimpany bowed gracefully--and dumbly. Mountjoy tried
again. "One doesn't often see the famous actresses of past days," he
proceeded, "so well represented on the walls of an English house."

This time, he had spoken to better purpose. Mrs. Vimpany answered him
in words.

"I have many pleasant associations with the theatre," she said, "first
formed in the time of my girlhood."

Mountjoy waited to hear something more. Nothing more was said. Perhaps
this reticent lady disliked looking back through a long interval of
years, or perhaps she had her reasons for leaving Mountjoy's guess at
the truth still lost in doubt. In either case, she deliberately dropped
the subject. Iris took it up. Sitting by the only table in the room,
she was in a position which placed her exactly opposite to one of the
prints--the magnificent portrait of Mrs. Siddons as The Tragic Muse.

"I wonder if Mrs. Siddons was really as beautiful as that?" she said,
pointing to the print. "Sir Joshua Reynolds is reported to have
sometimes flattered his sitters."

Mrs. Vimpany's solemn self-possessed eyes suddenly brightened; the name
of the great actress seemed to interest her. On the point, apparently,
of speaking, she dropped the subject of Mrs. Siddons as she had dropped
the subject of the theatre. Mountjoy was left to answer Iris.

"We are none of us old enough," he reminded her, "to decide whether Sir
Joshua's brush has been guilty of flattery or not." He turned to Mrs.
Vimpany, and attempted to look into her life from a new point of view.
"When Miss Henley was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance," he
said, "you were travelling in Ireland. Was it your first visit to that
unhappy country?"

"I have been more than once in Ireland."

Having again deliberately disappointed Mountjoy, she was assisted in
keeping clear of the subject of Ireland by a fortunate interruption. It
was the hour of delivery by the afternoon-post. The servant came in
with a small sealed packet, and a slip of printed paper in her hand.

"It's registered, ma'am," the woman announced. "The postman says you
are to please sign this. And he seems to be in a hurry."

She placed the packet and the slip of paper on the table, near the
inkstand. Having signed the receipt, Mrs. Vimpany took up the packet,
and examined the address. She instantly looked at Iris, and looked away
again. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" saying this she left the
room, without opening the packet.

The moment the door closed on her, Iris started up, and hurried to
Mountjoy.

"Oh, Hugh," she said, "I saw the address on that packet when the
servant put it on the table!"

"My dear, what is there to excite you in the address?"

"Don't speak so loud! She may be listening outside the door."

Not only the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, amazed
Mountjoy. "Your friend, Mrs. Vimpany!" he exclaimed.

"Mrs. Vimpany was afraid to open the packet in our presence," Iris went
on: "you must have seen that. The handwriting is familiar to me; I am
certain of the person who wrote the address."

"Well? And who is the person?"

She whispered in his ear:

"Lord Harry."



CHAPTER IV

THE GAME: MOUNTJOY LOSES

SURPRISE silenced Hugh for the moment. Iris understood the look that he
fixed on her, and answered it. "I am quite sure," she told him, "of
what I say."

Mountjoy's well-balanced mind hesitated at rushing to a conclusion.

"I am sure you are convinced of what you tell me," he said. "But
mistakes do sometimes happen in forming a judgment of handwriting."

In the state of excitement that now possessed her, Iris was easily
irritated; she was angry with Hugh for only supposing that she might
have made a mistake. He had himself, as she reminded him, seen Lord
Harry's handwriting in past days. Was it possible to be mistaken in
those bold thickly-written characters, with some of the letters so
quaintly formed? "Oh, Hugh, I am miserable enough as it is," she broke
out; "don't distract me by disputing what I know! Think of a woman so
kind, so disinterested, so charming--the very opposite of a false
creature--think of Mrs. Vimpany having deceived me!"

There was not the slightest reason, thus far, for placing that
interpretation on what had happened. Mountjoy gently, very gently,
remonstrated.

"My dear, we really don't know yet that Mrs. Vimpany has been acting
under Lord Harry's instructions. Wait a little before you suspect your
fellow-traveller of offering her services for the purpose of deceiving
you."

Iris was angry with him again: "Why did Mrs. Vimpany never tell me she
knew Lord Harry? Isn't that suspicious?"

Mountjoy smiled. "Let me put a question on my side," he said. "Did
_you_ tell Mrs. Vimpany you knew Lord Harry?" Iris made no reply; her
face spoke for her. "Well, then," he urged, "is _your_ silence
suspicious? I am far, mind, from saying that this may not be a very
unpleasant discovery. Only let us be sure first that we are right."

With most of a woman's merits, Miss Henley had many of a woman's
faults. Still holding to her own conclusion, she asked how they could
expect to be sure of anything if they addressed their inquiries to a
person who had already deceived them.

Mountjoy's inexhaustible indulgence still made allowances for her.
"When Mrs. Vimpany comes back," he said, "I will find an opportunity of
mentioning Lord Harry's name. If she tells us that she knows him, there
will be good reason in that one circumstance, as it seems to me, for
continuing to trust her."

"Suppose she shams ignorance," Iris persisted, "and looks as if she had
never heard of his name before?"

"In that case, I shall own that I was wrong, and shall ask you to
forgive me."

The finer and better nature of Iris recovered its influence at these
words. "It is I who ought to beg pardon," she said. "Oh, I wish I could
think before I speak: how insolent and ill-tempered I have been! But
suppose I turn out to be right, Hugh, what will you do then?"

"Then, my dear, it will be my duty to take you and your maid away from
this house, and to tell your father what serious reasons there are"----
He abruptly checked himself. Mrs. Vimpany had returned; she was in
perfect possession of her lofty courtesy, sweetened by the modest
dignity of her smile.

"I have left you, Miss Henley, in such good company," she said, with a
gracious inclination of her head in the direction of Mountjoy, "that I
need hardly repeat my apologies--unless, indeed, I am interrupting a
confidential conversation."

It was possible that Iris might have betrayed herself, when the
doctor's wife had looked at her after examining the address on the
packet. In this case Mrs. Vimpany's allusion to "a confidential
conversation" would have operated as a warning to a person of
experience in the by-ways of deceit. Mountjoy's utmost exertion of
cunning was not capable of protecting him on such conditions as these.
The opportunity of trying his proposed experiment with Lord Harry's
name seemed to have presented itself already. He rashly seized on it.

"You have interrupted nothing that was confidential," he hastened to
assure Mrs. Vimpany. "We have been speaking of a reckless young
gentleman, who is an acquaintance of ours. If what I hear is true, he
has already become public property; his adventures have found their way
into some of the newspapers."

Here, if Mrs. Vimpany had answered Hugh's expectations, she ought to
have asked who the young gentleman was. She merely listened in polite
silence.

With a woman's quickness of perception, Iris saw that Mountjoy had not
only pounced on his opportunity prematurely, but had spoken with a
downright directness of allusion which must at once have put such a
ready-witted person as Mrs. Vimpany on her guard. In trying to prevent
him from pursuing his unfortunate experiment in social diplomacy, Iris
innocently repeated Mountjoy's own mistake. She, too, seized her
opportunity prematurely. That is to say, she was rash enough to change
the subject.

"You were talking just now, Hugh, of our friend's adventures," she
said; "I am afraid you will find yourself involved in an adventure of
no very agreeable kind, if you engage a bed at the inn. I never saw a
more wretched-looking place."

It was one of Mrs. Vimpany's many merits that she seldom neglected an
opportunity of setting her friends at their ease.

"No, no, dear Miss Henley," she hastened to say; "the inn is really a
more clean and comfortable place than you suppose. A hard bed and a
scarcity of furniture are the worst evils which your friend has to
fear. Do you know," she continued, addressing herself to Mountjoy,
"that I was reminded of a friend of mine, when you spoke just now of
the young gentleman whose adventures are in the newspapers. Is it
possible that you referred to the brother of the present Earl of
Norland? A handsome young Irishman--with whom I first became acquainted
many years since. Am I right in supposing that you and Miss Henley know
Lord Harry?" she asked.

What more than this could an unprejudiced mind require? Mrs. Vimpany
had set herself right with a simplicity that defied suspicion. Iris
looked at Mountjoy. He appeared to know when he was beaten. Having
acknowledged that Lord Harry was the young gentleman of whom he and
Miss Henley had been speaking, he rose to take leave.

After what had passed, Iris felt the necessity of speaking privately to
Hugh. The necessary excuse presented itself in the remote situation of
the inn. "You will never find your way back," she said, "through the
labyrinth of crooked streets in this old town. Wait for me a minute,
and I will be your guide."

Mrs. Vimpany protested. "My dear! let the servant show the way."

Iris held gaily to her resolution, and ran away to her room. Mrs.
Vimpany yielded with her best grace. Miss Henley's motive could hardly
have been plainer to her, if Miss Henley had confessed it herself.
"What a charming girl!" the doctor's amiable wife said to Mountjoy,
when they were alone. "If I were a man, Miss Iris is just the young
lady that I should fall in love with." She looked significantly at
Mountjoy. Nothing came of it. She went on: "Miss Henley must have had
many opportunities of being married; but the right man has, I fear, not
yet presented himself." Once more her eloquent eyes consulted Mountjoy,
and once more nothing came of it. Some women are easily discouraged.
Impenetrable Mrs. Vimpany was one of the other women; she had not done
with Mountjoy yet--she invited him to dinner on the next day.

"Our early hour is three o'clock," she said modestly. "Pray join us. I
hope to have the pleasure of introducing my husband."

Mountjoy had his reasons for wishing to see the husband. As he accepted
the invitation, Miss Henley returned to accompany him to the inn.

Iris put the inevitable question to Hugh as soon as they were out of
the doctor's house--"What do you say of Mrs. Vimpany now?"

"I say that she must have been once an actress," Mountjoy answered;
"and that she carries her experience of the stage into private life."

"What do you propose to do next?"

"I propose to wait, and see Mrs. Vimpany's husband to-morrow."

"Why?"

"Mrs. Vimpany, my dear, is too clever for me. If--observe, please, that
I do her the justice of putting it in that way--if she is really Lord
Harry's creature, employed to keep watch on you, and to inform him of
your next place of residence in England, I own that she has completely
deceived me. In that case, it is just possible that the husband is not
such a finished and perfect humbug as the wife. I may be able to see
through him. I can but try."

Iris sighed. "I almost hope you may not succeed," she said.

Mountjoy was puzzled, and made no attempt to conceal it. "I thought you
only wanted to get at the truth," he answered.

"My mind might be easier, perhaps, if I was left in doubt," she
suggested. "A perverse way of thinking has set up my poor opinion
against yours. But I am getting back to my better sense. I believe you
were entirely right when you tried to prevent me from rushing to
conclusions; it is more than likely that I have done Mrs. Vimpany an
injustice. Oh, Hugh, I ought to keep a friend--I who have so few
friends--when I have got one! And there is another feeling in me which
I must not conceal from you. When I remember Lord Harry's noble conduct
in trying to save poor Arthur, I cannot believe him capable of such
hateful deceit as consenting to our separation, and then having me
secretly watched by a spy. What monstrous inconsistency! Can anybody
believe it? Can anybody account for it?"

"I think I can account for it, Iris, if you will let me make the
attempt. You are mistaken to begin with."

"How am I mistaken?"

"You shall see. There is no such creature as a perfectly consistent
human being on the face of the earth--and, strange as it may seem to
you, the human beings themselves are not aware of it. The reason for
this curious state of things is not far to seek. How can people who are
ignorant--as we see every day--of their own characters be capable of
correctly estimating the characters of others? Even the influence of
their religion fails to open their eyes to the truth. In the Prayer
which is the most precious possession of Christendom, their lips repeat
the entreaty that they may not be led into temptation--but their minds
fail to draw the inference. If that pathetic petition means anything,
it means that virtuous men and women are capable of becoming vicious
men and women, if a powerful temptation puts them to the test. Every
Sunday, devout members of the congregation in church--models of
excellence in their own estimation, and in the estimation of their
neighbours--declare that they have done those things which they ought
not to have done, and that there is no health in them. Will you believe
that they are encouraged by their Prayer-books to present this sad
exposure of the frailty of their own admirable characters? How
inconsistent--and yet how entirely true! Lord Harry, as you rightly
say, behaved nobly in trying to save my dear lost brother. He ought, as
you think, and as other people think, to be consistently noble, after
that, in all his thoughts and actions, to the end of his life. Suppose
that temptation does try him--such temptation, Iris, as you innocently
present--why doesn't he offer a superhuman resistance? You might as
well ask, Why is he a mortal man? How inconsistent, how improbable,
that he should have tendencies to evil in him, as well as tendencies to
good! Ah, I see you don't like this. It would be infinitely more
agreeable (wouldn't it?) if Lord Harry was one of the entirely
consistent characters which are sometimes presented in works of
fiction. Our good English readers are charmed with the man, the woman,
or the child, who is introduced to them by the kind novelist as a being
without faults. Do they stop to consider whether this is a true picture
of humanity? It would be a terrible day for the book if they ever did
that. But the book is in no danger. The readers would even fail to
discover the falseness of the picture, if they were presented to
themselves as perfect characters. 'We mustn't say so, but how
wonderfully like us!' There would be the only impression produced. I am
not trying to dishearten you; I want to encourage you to look at
humanity from a wider and truer point of view. Do not be too readily
depressed, if you find your faith shaken in a person whom you have
hitherto believed to be good. That person has been led into temptation.
Wait till time shows you that the evil influence is not everlasting,
and that the good influence will inconsistently renew your faith out of
the very depths of your despair. Humanity, in general, is neither
perfectly good nor perfectly wicked: take it as you find it. Is this a
hard lesson to learn? Well! it's easy to do what other people do, under
similar circumstances. Listen to the unwelcome truth to-day, my dear;
and forget it to-morrow."

They parted at the door of the inn.



CHAPTER V

THE GAME: MOUNTJOY PLAYS A NEW CARD

MR. VIMPANY (of the College of Surgeons) was a burly man, heavily built
from head to foot. His bold round eyes looked straight at his
fellow-creatures with an expression of impudent good humour; his
whiskers were bushy, his hands were big, his lips were thick, his legs
were solid. Add to this a broad sunburnt face, and a grey coat with
wide tails, a waistcoat with a check pattern, and leather
riding-gaiters--and no stranger could have failed to mistake Mr.
Vimpany for a farmer of the old school. He was proud of the false
impression that he created. "Nature built me to be a farmer," he used
to say. "But my poor foolish old mother was a lady by birth, and she
insisted on her son being a professional man. I hadn't brains for the
Law, or money for the Army, or morals for the Church. And here I am a
country doctor--the one representative of slavery left in the
nineteenth century. You may not believe me, but I never see a labourer
at the plough that I don't envy him."

This was the husband of the elegant lady with the elaborate manners.
This was the man who received Mountjoy with a "Glad to see you, sir,"
and a shake of the hand that hurt him.

"Coarse fare," said Mr. Vimpany, carving a big joint of beef; "but I
can't afford anything better. Only a pudding to follow, and a glass of
glorious old sherry. Miss Henley is good enough to excuse it--and my
wife's used to it--and you will put up with it, Mr. Mountjoy, if you
are half as amiable as you look. I'm an old-fashioned man. The pleasure
of a glass of wine with you, sir."

Hugh's first experience of the "glorious old sherry" led him to a
discovery, which proved to be more important than he was disposed to
consider it at the moment. He merely observed, with some amusement,
that Mr. Vimpany smacked his lips in hearty approval of the worst
sherry that his guest had ever tasted. Here, plainly self-betrayed, was
a medical man who was an exception to a general rule in the
profession--here was a doctor ignorant of the difference between good
wine and bad!

Both the ladies were anxious to know how Mountjoy had passed the night
at the inn. He had only time to say that there was nothing to complain
of, when Mr. Vimpany burst into an explosion of laughter.

"Oh, but you must have had something to complain of!" said the big
doctor. "I would bet a hundred, if I could afford it, that the landlady
tried to poison you with her sour French wine."

"Do you speak of the claret at the inn, after having tasted it?"
Mountjoy asked.

"What do you take me for?" cried Mr. Vimpany. "After all I have heard
of that claret, I am not fool enough to try it myself, I can tell you."
Mountjoy received this answer in silence. The doctor's ignorance and
the doctor's prejudice, in the matter of wine, had started a new train
of thought in Hugh's mind, which threatened serious consequences to Mr.
Vimpany himself. There was a pause at the table; nobody spoke. The
doctor saw condemnation of his rudeness expressed in his wife's face.
He made a rough apology to Mountjoy, who was still preoccupied. "No
offence, I hope? It's in the nature of me, sir, to speak my mind. If I
could fawn and flatter, I should have got on better in my profession.
I'm what they call a rough diamond. No, offence, I say?"

"None whatever, Mr. Vimpany."

"That's right! Try another glass of sherry."

Mountjoy took the sherry.

Iris looked at him, lost in surprise. It was unlike Hugh to be
interested in a stranger's opinion of wine. It was unlike him to drink
wine which was evidently not to his taste. And it was especially unlike
his customary courtesy to let himself fall into thought at dinner-time,
when there were other persons at the table. Was he ill? Impossible to
look at him, and not see that he was in perfect health. What did it
mean?

Finding Mountjoy inattentive, Mr. Vimpany addressed himself to Iris.

"I had to ride hard, Miss Henley, to get home in time for dinner. There
are patients, I must tell you, who send for the doctor, and then seem
to think they know more about it than the very man whom they have
called in to cure them. It isn't he who tells them what their illness
is; it's they who tell him. They dispute about the medical treatment
that's best for them, and the one thing they are never tired of doing
is talking about their symptoms. It was an old man's gabble that kept
me late to-day. However, the Squire, as they call him in these parts,
is a patient with a long purse; I am obliged to submit."

"A gentleman of the old school, dear Miss Henley," Mrs. Vimpany
explained. "Immensely rich. Is he better?" she asked, turning to her
husband.

"Better?" cried the outspoken doctor. "Pooh! there's nothing the matter
with him but gluttony. He went to London, and consulted a great man, a
humbug with a handle to his name. The famous physician got rid of him
in no time--sent him abroad to boil himself in foreign baths. He came
home again worse than ever, and consulted poor Me. I found him at
dinner--a perfect feast, I give you my word of honour!--and the old
fool gorging himself till he was black in the face. His wine, I should
have said, was not up to the mark; wanted body and flavour, you know.
Ah, Mr. Mountjoy, this seems to interest you; reminds you of the
landlady's wine--eh? Well, sir, how do you think I treated the Squire?
Emptied his infirm old inside with an emetic--and there he was on his
legs again. Whenever he overeats himself he sends for me; and pays
liberally. I ought to be grateful to him, and I am. Upon my soul, I
believe I should be in the bankruptcy court but for the Squire's
stomach. Look at my wife! She's shocked at me. We ought to keep up
appearances, my dear? Not I! When I am poor, I say I am poor. When I
cure a patient, I make no mystery of it; everybody's welcome to know
how it's done. Don't be down-hearted, Arabella; nature never meant your
husband for a doctor, and there's the long and the short of it. Another
glass of sherry, Mr. Mountjoy?"

All social ceremonies--including the curious English custom which sends
the ladies upstairs, after dinner, and leaves the gentlemen at the
table--found a devoted adherent in Mrs. Vimpany. She rose as if she had
been presiding at a banquet, and led Miss Henley affectionately to the
drawing-room. Iris glanced at Hugh. No; his mind was not at ease yet;
the preoccupied look had not left his face.

Jovial Mr. Vimpany pushed the bottle across the table to his guest, and
held out a handful of big black cigars.

"Now for the juice of the grape," he cried, "and the best cigar in all
England!"

He had just filled his glass, and struck a light for his cigar, when
the servant came in with a note. Some men relieve their sense of
indignation in one way, and some in another. The doctor's form of
relief was an oath. "Talk about slavery!" he shouted. "Find me such a
slave in all Africa as a man in my profession. There isn't an hour of
the day or night that he can call his own. Here's a stupid old woman
with an asthma, who has got another spasmodic attack--and I must leave
my dinner-table and my friend, just as we are enjoying ourselves. I
have half a mind not to go."

The inattentive guest suddenly set himself right in his host's
estimation. Hugh remonstrated with an appearance of interest in the
case, which the doctor interpreted as a compliment to himself: "Oh, Mr.
Vimpany, humanity! humanity!"

"Oh, Mr. Mountjoy, money! money!" the facetious doctor answered. "The
old lady is our Mayor's mother, sir. You don't seem to be quick at
taking a joke. Make your mind easy; I shall pocket my fee."

As soon as he had closed the door, Hugh Mountjoy uttered a devout
ejaculation. "Thank God!" he said--and walked up and down the room,
free to think without interruption at last.

The subject of his meditations was the influence of intoxication in
disclosing the hidden weaknesses and vices of a man's character by
exhibiting them just as they are, released from the restraint which he
exercises over himself when he is sober. That there was a weak side,
and probably a vicious side, in Mr. Vimpany's nature it was hardly
possible to doubt. His blustering good humour, his audacious
self-conceit, the tones of his voice, the expression in his eyes, all
revealed him (to use one expressive word) as a humbug. Let drink subtly
deprive him of his capacity for self-concealment! and the true nature
of his wife's association with Lord Harry might sooner or later show
itself--say, in after-dinner talk, under skilful management. The right
method of entrapping him into a state of intoxication (which might have
presented serious difficulties under other circumstances) was
suggested, partly by his ignorance of the difference between good wine
and bad, and partly by Mountjoy's knowledge of the excellent quality of
the landlady's claret. He had recognised, as soon as he tasted it, that
finest vintage of Bordeaux, which conceals its true strength--to a
gross and ignorant taste--under the exquisite delicacy of its flavour.
Encourage Mr. Vimpany by means of a dinner at the inn, to give his
opinion as a man whose judgment in claret was to be seriously
consulted--and permit him also to discover that Hugh was rich enough to
have been able to buy the wine--and the attainment of the end in view
would be simply a question of time. There was certainly the chance to
be reckoned with, that his thick head might prove to be too strong for
the success of the experiment. Mountjoy determined to try it, and did
try it nevertheless.

Mr. Vimpany returned from his medical errand, thoroughly well satisfied
with himself.

"The Mayor's mother has reason to thank you, sir," he announced. "If
you hadn't hurried me away, the wretched old creature would have been
choked. A regular stand-up fight, by Jupiter, between death and the
doctor!--and the doctor has won! Give me the reward of merit. Pass the
bottle."

He took up the decanter, and looked at it.

"Why, what have you been about?" he asked. "I made up my mind that I
should want the key of the cellar when I came back, and I don't believe
you have drunk a drop in my absence. What does it mean?"

"It means that I am not worthy of your sherry," Mountjoy answered. "The
Spanish wines are too strong for my weak digestion."

Mr. Vimpany burst into one of his explosions of laughter. "You miss the
landlady's vinegar--eh?"

"Yes, I do! Wait a minute, doctor; I have a word to say on my
side--and, like you, I mean what I say. The landlady's vinegar is some
of the finest Chateau Margaux I have ever met with--thrown away on
ignorant people who are quite unworthy of it."

The doctor's natural insolence showed itself. "You have bought this
wonderful wine, of course?" he said satirically.

"That," Mountjoy answered, "is just what I have done."

For once in his life, Mr. Vimpany's self-sufficient readiness of speech
failed him. He stared at his guest in dumb amazement. On this occasion,
Mountjoy improved the opportunity to good purpose. Mr. Vimpany accepted
with the utmost readiness an invitation to dine on the next day at the
inn. But he made a condition. "In case I don't agree with you about
that Chateau--what-you-call-it," he said, "you won't mind my sending
home for a bottle of sherry?"

The next event of the day was a visit to the most interesting monument
of antiquity in the town. In the absence of the doctor, caused by
professional engagements, Miss Henley took Mountjoy to see the old
church--and Mrs. Vimpany accompanied them, as a mark of respect to Miss
Henley's friend.

When there was a chance of being able to speak confidentially, Iris was
eager in praising the doctor's wife. "You can't imagine, Hugh, how
agreeable she has been, and how entirely she has convinced me that I
was wrong, shamefully wrong, in thinking of her as I did. She sees that
you dislike her, and yet she speaks so nicely of you. 'Your clever
friend enjoys your society,' she said; 'pray accompany me when I take
him to see the church.' How unselfish!"

Mountjoy kept his own counsel. The generous impulses which sometimes
led Iris astray were, as he well knew, beyond the reach of
remonstrance. His own opinion of Mrs. Vimpany still pronounced steadily
against her. Prepared for discoveries, on the next day, which might
prove too serious to be trifled with, he now did his best to provide
for future emergencies.

After first satisfying himself that there was nothing in the present
state of the maid's health which need detain her mistress at
Honeybuzzard, he next completed his preparations by returning to the
inn, and writing to Mr. Henley. With strict regard to truth, his letter
presented the daughter's claim on the father under a new point of view.
Whatever the end of it might be, Mr. Henley was requested to
communicate his intentions by telegraph. Will you receive Iris? was the
question submitted. The answer expected was: Yes or No.



CHAPTER VI

THE GAME: MOUNTJOY WINS

MR. HENLEY's telegram arrived at the inn the next morning.

He was willing to receive his daughter, but not unreservedly. The
message was characteristic of the man: "Yes--on trial." Mountjoy was
not shocked, was not even surprised. He knew that the successful
speculations, by means of which Mr. Henley had accumulated his wealth,
had raised against him enemies, who had spread scandalous reports which
had never been completely refuted. The silent secession of friends, in
whose fidelity he trusted, had hardened the man's heart and embittered
his nature. Strangers in distress, who appealed to the rich retired
merchant for help, found in their excellent references to character the
worst form of persuasion that they could have adopted. Paupers without
a rag of reputation left to cover them, were the objects of charity
whom Mr. Henley relieved. When he was asked to justify his conduct, he
said: "I have a sympathy with bad characters---I am one of them
myself."

With the arrival of the dinner hour the doctor appeared, in no very
amiable humour, at the inn.

"Another hard day's work," he said; "I should sink under it, if I
hadn't a prospect of getting rid of my practice here. London--or the
neighbourhood of London--there's the right place for a man like Me.
Well? Where's the wonderful wine? Mind! I'm Tom-Tell-Truth; if I don't
like your French tipple, I shall say so."

The inn possessed no claret glasses; they drank the grand wine in
tumblers as if it had been vin ordinaire.

Mr. Vimpany showed that he was acquainted with the formalities proper
to the ceremony of tasting. He filled his makeshift glass, he held it
up to the light, and looked at the wine severely; he moved the tumbler
to and fro under his nose, and smelt at it again and again; he paused
and reflected; he tasted the claret as cautiously as if he feared it
might be poisoned; he smacked his lips, and emptied his glass at a
draught; lastly, he showed some consideration for his host's anxiety,
and pronounced sentence on the wine.

"Not so good as you think it, sir. But nice light claret; clean and
wholesome. I hope you haven't given too much for it?"

Thus far, Hugh had played a losing game patiently. His reward had come
at last. After what the doctor had just said to him, he saw the winning
card safe in his own hand.

The bad dinner was soon over. No soup, of course; fish, in the state of
preservation usually presented by a decayed country town; steak that
rivalled the toughness of india-rubber; potatoes whose aspect said,
"stranger, don't eat us"; pudding that would have produced a sense of
discouragement, even in the mind of a child; and the famous English
cheese which comes to us, oddly enough, from the United States, and
stings us vindictively when we put it into our mouths. But the wine,
the glorious wine, would have made amends to anybody but Mr. Vimpany
for the woeful deficiencies of the food. Tumbler-full after
tumbler-full of that noble vintage poured down his thirsty and ignorant
throat; and still he persisted in declaring that it was nice light
stuff, and still he unforgivingly bore in mind the badness of the
dinner.

"The feeding here," said this candid man, "is worse if possible than
the feeding at sea, when I served as doctor on board a passenger-steamer.
Shall I tell you how I lost my place? Oh, say so plainly, if
you don't think my little anecdote worth listening to!"

"My dear sir, I am waiting to hear it."

"Very good. No offence, I hope? That's right! Well, sir, the captain of
the ship complained of me to the owners; I wouldn't go round, every
morning, and knock at the ladies' cabin-doors, and ask how they felt
after a sea-sick night. Who doesn't know what they feel, without
knocking at their doors? Let them send for the doctor when they want
him. That was how I understood my duty; and there was the line of
conduct that lost me my place. Pass the wine. Talking of ladies, what
do you think of my wife? Did you ever see such distinguished manners
before? My dear fellow, I have taken a fancy to you. Shake hands. I'll
tell you another little anecdote. Where do you think my wife picked up
her fashionable airs and graces? Ho! ho! On the stage! The highest
branch of the profession, sir--a tragic actress. If you had seen her in
Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Vimpany would have made your flesh creep. Look at
me, and feast your eyes on a man who is above hypocritical objections
to the theatre. Haven't I proved it by marrying an actress? But we
don't mention it here. The savages in this beastly place wouldn't
employ me, if they knew I had married a stage-player. Hullo! The
bottle's empty again. Ha! here's another bottle, full. I love a man who
has always got a full bottle to offer his friend. Shake hands. I say,
Mountjoy, tell me on your sacred word of honour, can you keep a secret?
My wife's secret, sir! Stop! let me look at you again. I thought I saw
you smile. If a man smiles at me, when I am opening my whole heart to
him, by the living jingo, I would knock that man down at his own table!
What? you didn't smile? I apologise. Your hand again; I drink your
health in your own good wine. Where was I? What was I talking about?"

Mountjoy carefully humoured his interesting guest.

"You were about to honour me," he said, "by taking me into your
confidence." Mr. Vimpany stared in tipsy bewilderment. Mountjoy tried
again in plainer language: "You were going to tell me a secret."

This time, the doctor grasped the idea. He looked round cunningly to
the door. "Any eavesdroppers?" he asked. "Hush! Whisper--this is
serious--whisper! What was it I was going to tell you? What was the
secret, old boy?"

Mountjoy answered a little too readily: "I think it related to Mrs.
Vimpany."

Mrs. Vimpany's husband threw himself back in his chair, snatched a
dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, and began to cry.

"Here's a false friend!" the creature whimpered. "Asks me to dinner,
and takes advantage of my dependent situation to insult my wife. The
loveliest of women, the sweetest of women, the innocentest of women.
Oh, my wife! my wife!" He suddenly threw his handkerchief to the other
end of the room, and burst out laughing. "Ho! ho! Mountjoy, what an
infernal fool you must be to take me seriously. I can act, too. Do you
think I care about my wife? She was a fine woman once: she's a bundle
of old rags now. But she has her merits. Hush! I want to know
something. Have you got a lord among your circle of acquaintance?"

Experience made Mountjoy more careful; perhaps a little too careful. He
only said "Yes."

The doctor's dignity asserted itself. "That's a short answer, sir, to a
man in my position. If you want me to believe you, mention your
friend's name."

Here was a chance at last! "His name;" Mountjoy began, "is Lord
Harry--"

Mr. Vimpany lost his dignity in an instant. He struck his heavy fist on
the table, with a blow that made the tumblers jump.

"Coincidence!" he cried. "How wonderful--no; that's not the
word--providential is the word--how providential are coincidences! I
mean, of course, to a rightly constituted mind. Let nobody contradict
me! When I say a rightly constituted mind I speak seriously; and a
young man like you will be all the better for it. Mountjoy! dear
Mountjoy! jolly Mountjoy! my wife's lord is your lord--Lord Harry. No;
none of your nonsense--I won't have any more wine. Yes, I will; it
might hurt your feelings if I didn't drink with you. Pass the bottle.
Ha! That's a nice ring you've got on your finger. Perhaps you think it
valuable? It's nothing, sir; it's dross, it's dirt, compared to my
wife's diamond pin! There's a jewel, if you like! It will be worth a
fortune to us when we sell it. A gift, dear sir! I'm afraid I've been
too familiar with you. Speaking as a born gentleman, I beg to present
my respects, and I call you 'dear sir.' Did I tell you the diamond pin
was a gift? It's nothing of the sort; we are under no obligation; my
wife, my admirable wife, has earned that diamond pin. By registered
post; and what I call a manly letter from Lord Harry. He is deeply
obliged (I give you the sense of it) by what my wife has done for him;
ready money is scarce with my lord; he sends a family jewel, with his
love. Oh, I'm not jealous. He's welcome to love Mrs. Vimpany, in her
old age, if he likes. Did you say that, sir? Did you say that Lord
Harry, or any man, was welcome to love Mrs. Vimpany? I have a great
mind to throw this bottle at your head. No, I won't; it's wasting good
wine! How kind of you to give me good wine. Who are you? I don't like
dining with a stranger. Do you know any friend of mine? Do you know a
man named Mountjoy? Do you know two men named Mountjoy? No: you don't.
One of them is dead: killed by those murdering scoundrels what do you
call them? Eh, what?" The doctor's voice began to falter, his head
dropped; he slumbered suddenly and woke suddenly, and began talking
again suddenly. "Would you like to be made acquainted with Lord Harry?
I'll give you a sketch of his character before I introduce him. Between
ourselves, he's a desperate wretch. Do you know why he employed my
wife, my admirable wife? You will agree with me; he ought to have
looked after his young woman himself. We've got his young woman safe in
our house. A nice girl. Not my style; my medical knowledge certifies
she's cold-blooded. Lord Harry has only to come over here and find her.
Why the devil doesn't he come? What is it keeps him in Ireland? Do you
know? I seem to have forgotten. My own belief is I've got softening of
the brain. What's good for softening of the brain? There isn't a doctor
living who won't tell you the right remedy--wine. Pass the wine. If
this claret is worth a farthing, it's worth a guinea a bottle. I ask
you in confidence; did you ever hear of such a fool as my wife's lord?
His name escapes me. No matter; he stops in Ireland--hunting. Hunting
what? The fox? Nothing so noble; hunting assassins. He's got some
grudge against one of them. Means to kill one of them. A word in your
ear; they'll kill him. Do you ever bet? Five to one, he's a dead man
before the end of the week. When is the end of the week? Tuesday,
Wednesday--no, Saturday--that's the beginning of the week--no, it
isn't--the beginning of the week isn't the Sabbath--Sunday, of
course--we are not Christians, we are Jews--I mean we are Jews, we are
not Christians--I mean--"

The claret got the better of his tongue, at last. He mumbled and
muttered; he sank back in his chair; he chuckled; he hiccupped; he fell
asleep.

All and more than all that Mountjoy feared, he had now discovered. In a
state of sobriety, the doctor was probably one of those men who are
always ready to lie. In a state of intoxication the utterances of his
drunken delirium might unconsciously betray the truth. The reason which
he had given for Lord Harry's continued absence in Ireland, could not
be wisely rejected as unworthy of belief. It was in the reckless nature
of the wild lord to put his own life in peril, in the hope of revenging
Arthur Mountjoy on the wretch who had killed him. Taking this bad news
for granted, was there any need to distress Iris by communicating the
motive which detained Lord Harry in his own country? Surely not!

And, again, was there any immediate advantage to be gained by revealing
the true character of Mrs. Vimpany, as a spy, and, worse still, a spy
who was paid? In her present state of feeling, Iris would, in all
probability, refuse to believe it.

Arriving at these conclusions, Hugh looked at the doctor snoring and
choking in an easy-chair. He had not wasted the time and patience
devoted to the stratagem which had now successfully reached its end.
After what he had just heard--thanks to the claret--he could not
hesitate to accomplish the speedy removal of Iris from Mr. Vimpany's
house; using her father's telegram as the only means of persuasion on
which it was possible to rely. Mountjoy left the inn without ceremony,
and hurried away to Iris in the hope of inducing her to return to
London with him that night.



CHAPTER VII

DOCTORING THE DOCTOR

ASKING for Miss Henley at the doctor's door, Hugh was informed that she
had gone out, with her invalid maid, for a walk. She had left word, if
Mr. Mountjoy called in her absence, to beg that he would kindly wait
for her return.

On his way up to the drawing-room, Mountjoy heard Mrs. Vimpany's
sonorous voice occupied, as he supposed, in reading aloud. The door
being opened for him, he surprised her, striding up and down the room
with a book in her hand; grandly declaiming without anybody to applaud
her. After what Hugh had already heard, he could only conclude that
reminiscences of her theatrical career had tempted the solitary actress
to make a private appearance, for her own pleasure, in one of those
tragic characters to which her husband had alluded. She recovered her
self-possession on Mountjoy's appearance, with the ease of a mistress
of her art. "Pardon me," she said, holding up her book with one hand,
and tapping it indicatively with the other: "Shakespeare carries me out
of myself. A spark of the poet's fire burns in the poet's humble
servant. May I hope that I have made myself understood? You look as if
you had a fellow-feeling for me."

Mountjoy did his best to fill the sympathetic part assigned to him, and
only succeeded in showing what a bad actor he would have been, if he
had gone on the stage. Under the sedative influence thus administered,
Mrs. Vimpany put away her book, and descended at once from the highest
poetry to the lowest prose.

"Let us return to domestic events," she said indulgently. "Have the
people at the inn given you a good dinner?"

"The people did their best," Mountjoy answered cautiously.

"Has my husband returned with you?" Mrs. Vimpany went on.

Mountjoy began to regret that he had not waited for Iris in the street.
He was obliged to acknowledge that the doctor had not returned with
him.

"Where is Mr. Vimpany?"

"At the inn."

"What is he doing there?"

Mountjoy hesitated. Mrs. Vimpany rose again into the regions of tragic
poetry. She stepped up to him, as if he had been Macbeth, and she was
ready to use the daggers. "I understand but too well," she declared in
terrible tones. "My wretched husband's vices are known to me. Mr.
Vimpany is intoxicated."

Hugh tried to make the best of it. "Only asleep," he said. Mrs. Vimpany
looked at him once more. This time, it was Queen Katharine looking at
Cardinal Wolsey. She bowed with lofty courtesy, and opened the door. "I
have occasion," she said, "to go out"----and made an exit.

Five minutes later, Mountjoy (standing at the window, impatiently on
the watch for the return of Iris) saw Mrs. Vimpany in the street. She
entered a chemist's shop, on the opposite side of the way, and came out
again with a bottle in her hand. It was enclosed in the customary
medical wrapping of white paper. Majestically, she passed out of sight.
If Hugh had followed her he would have traced the doctor's wife to the
door of the inn.

The unemployed waiter was on the house-steps, looking about him--with
nothing to see. He made his bow to Mrs. Vimpany, and informed her that
the landlady had gone out.

"You will do as well," was the reply. "Is Mr. Vimpany here?"

The waiter smiled, and led the way through the passage to the foot of
the stairs. "You can hear him, ma'am." It was quite true; Mr. Vimpany's
snoring answered for Mr. Vimpany. His wife ascended the first two or
three stairs, and stopped to speak again to the waiter. She asked what
the two gentlemen had taken to drink with their dinner. They had taken
"the French wine."

"And nothing else?"

The waiter ventured on a little joke. "Nothing else," he said--"and
more than enough of it, too."

"Not more than enough, I suppose, for the good of the house," Mrs.
Vimpany remarked.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am; the claret the two gentlemen drank is not
charged for in the bill."

"What do you mean?"

The waiter explained that Mr. Mountjoy had purchased the whole stock of
the wine. Suspicion, as well as surprise, appeared in Mrs. Vimpany's
face. She had hitherto thought it likely that Miss Henley's
gentleman-like friend might be secretly in love with the young lady.
Her doubts of him, now, took a wider range of distrust. She went on up
the stairs by herself, and banged the door of the private room as the
easiest means of waking the sleeping man. To the utmost noise that she
could make in this way, he was perfectly impenetrable. For a while she
waited, looking at him across the table with unutterable contempt.

There was the man to whom the religion of the land and the law of the
land, acting together in perfect harmony, had fettered her for life!
Some women, in her position, might have wasted time in useless
self-reproach. Mrs. Vimpany reviewed her miserable married life with
the finest mockery of her own misfortune. "Virtue," she said to
herself, "is its own reward."

Glancing with careless curiosity at the disorder of the dinner-table,
she noticed some wine still left in the bottom of her husband's glass.
Had artificial means been used to reduce him to his present condition?
She tasted the claret. No; there was nothing in the flavour of it which
betrayed that he had been drugged. If the waiter was to be believed, he
had only drunk claret--and there he was, in a state of helpless
stupefaction, nevertheless.

She looked again at the dinner-table, and discovered one, among the
many empty bottles, with some wine still left in it. After a moment of
reflection, she took a clean tumbler from the sideboard.

Here was the wine which had been an object of derision to Mr. Vimpany
and his friends. They were gross feeders and drinkers; and it might not
be amiss to put their opinions to the test. She was not searching for
the taste of a drug now; her present experiment proposed to try the
wine on its own merits.

At the time of her triumphs on the country stage--before the date of
her unlucky marriage--rich admirers had entertained the handsome
actress at suppers, which offered every luxury that the most perfect
table could supply. Experience had made her acquainted with the flavour
of the finest claret--and that experience was renewed by the claret
which she was now tasting. It was easy to understand why Mr. Mountjoy
had purchased the wine; and, after a little thinking, his motive for
inviting Mr. Vimpany to dinner seemed to be equally plain. Foiled in
their first attempt at discovery by her own prudence and tact, his
suspicions had set their trap. Her gross husband had been tempted to
drink, and to talk at random (for Mr. Mountjoy's benefit) in a state of
intoxication!

What secrets might the helpless wretch not have betrayed before the
wine had completely stupefied him?

Urged by rage and fear, she shook him furiously. He woke; he glared at
her with bloodshot eyes; he threatened her with his clenched fist.
There was but one way of lifting his purblind stupidity to the light.
She appealed to his experience of himself, on many a former occasion:
"You fool, you have been drinking again--and there's a patient waiting
for you." To that dilemma he was accustomed; the statement of it
partially roused him. Mrs. Vimpany tore off the paper wrapping, and
opened the medicine-bottle which she had brought with her.

He stared at it; he muttered to himself: "Is she going to poison me?"
She seized his head with one hand, and held the open bottle to his
nose. "Your own prescription," she cried, "for yourself and your
hateful friends."

His nose told him what words might have tried vainly to say: he
swallowed the mixture. "If I lose the patient," he muttered oracularly,
"I lose the money." His resolute wife dragged him out of his chair. The
second door in the dining-room led into an empty bed-chamber. With her
help, he got into the room, and dropped on the bed.

Mrs. Vimpany consulted her watch.

On many a former occasion she had learnt what interval of repose was
required, before the sobering influence of the mixture could
successfully assert itself. For the present, she had only to return to
the other room. The waiter presented himself, asking if there was
anything he could do for her. Familiar with the defective side of her
husband's character, he understood what it meant when she pointed to
the bedroom door. "The old story, ma'am," he said, with an air of
respectful sympathy. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

Mrs. Vimpany accepted the tea, and enjoyed it thoughtfully.

She had two objects in view--to be revenged on Mountjoy, and to find a
way of forcing him to leave the town before he could communicate his
discoveries to Iris. How to reach these separate ends, by one and the
same means, was still the problem which she was trying to solve, when
the doctor's coarse voice was audible, calling for somebody to come to
him.

If his head was only clear enough, by this time, to understand the
questions which she meant to put, his answers might suggest the idea of
which she was in search. Rising with alacrity, Mrs. Vimpany returned to
the bed-chamber.

"You miserable creature," she began, "are you sober now?"

"I'm as sober as you are."

"Do you know," she went on, "why Mr. Mountjoy asked you to dine with
him?"

"Because he's my friend."

"He is your worst enemy. Hold your tongue! I'll explain what I mean
directly. Rouse your memory, if you have got a memory left. I want to
know what you and Mr. Mountjoy talked about after dinner."

He stared at her helplessly. She tried to find her way to his
recollection by making suggestive inquiries. It was useless; he only
complained of being thirsty. His wife lost her self-control. She was
too furiously angry with him to be able to remain in the room.
Recovering her composure when she was alone, she sent for soda-water
and brandy. Her one chance of making him useful was to humour his vile
temper; she waited on him herself.

In some degree, the drink cleared his muddled head. Mrs. Vimpany tried
his memory once more. Had he said this? Had he said that? Yes: he
thought it likely. Had he, or had Mr. Mountjoy, mentioned Lord Harry's
name? A glimmer of intelligence showed itself in his stupid eyes.
Yes--and they had quarrelled about it: he rather thought he had thrown
a bottle at Mr. Mountjoy's head. Had they, either of them, said
anything about Miss Henley? Oh, of course! What was it? He was unable
to remember. Had his wife done bothering him, now?

"Not quite," she replied. "Try to understand what I am going to say to
you. If Lord Harry comes to us while Miss Henley is in our house--"

He interrupted her: "That's your business."

"Wait a little. It's my business, if I hear beforehand that his
lordship is coming. But he is quite reckless enough to take us by
surprise. In that case, I want you to make yourself useful. If you
happen to be at home, keep him from seeing Miss Henley until I have
seen her first."

"Why?"

"I want an opportunity, my dear, of telling Miss Henley that I have
been wicked enough to deceive her, before she finds it out for herself.
I may hope she will forgive me, if I confess everything."

The doctor laughed: "What the devil does it matter whether she forgives
you or not?"

"It matters a great deal."

"Why, you talk as if you were fond of her!"

"I am."

The doctor's clouded intelligence was beginning to clear; he made a
smart reply: "Fond of her, and deceiving her--aha!"

"Yes," she said quietly, "that's just what it is. It has grown on me,
little by little; I can't help liking Miss Henley."

"Well," Mr. Vimpany remarked, "you _are_ a fool!" He looked at her
cunningly. "Suppose I do make myself useful, what am I to gain by it?"

"Let us get back," she suggested, "to the gentleman who invited you to
dinner, and made you tipsy for his own purposes."

"I'll break every bone in his skin!"

"Don't talk nonsense! Leave Mr. Mountjoy to me."

"Do _you_ take his part? I can tell you this. If I drank too much of
that poisonous French stuff, Mountjoy set me the example. He was
tipsy--as you call it--shamefully tipsy, I give you my word of honour.
What's the matter now?"

His wife (so impenetrably cool, thus far) had suddenly become excited.
There was not the smallest fragment of truth in what he had just said
of Hugh, and Mrs. Vimpany was not for a moment deceived by it. But the
lie had, accidentally, one merit--it suggested to her the idea which
she had vainly tried to find over her cup of tea. "Suppose I show you
how you may be revenged on Mr. Mountjoy," she said.

"Well?"

"Will you remember what I asked you to do for me, if Lord Harry takes
us by surprise?"

He produced his pocket-diary, and told her to make a memorandum of it.
She wrote as briefly as if she had been writing a telegram: "Keep Lord
Harry from seeing Miss Henley, till I have seen her first."

"Now," she said, taking a chair by the bedside, "you shall know what a
clever wife you have got. Listen to me."



CHAPTER VIII

HER FATHER'S MESSAGE

LOOKING out of the drawing-room window, for the tenth time at least,
Mountjoy at last saw Iris in the street, returning to the house.

She brought the maid with her into the drawing-room, in the gayest of
good spirits, and presented Rhoda to Mountjoy.

"What a blessing a good long walk is, if we only knew it!" she
exclaimed. "Look at my little maid's colour! Who would suppose that she
came here with heavy eyes and pale cheeks? Except that she loses her
way in the town, whenever she goes out alone, we have every reason to
congratulate ourselves on our residence at Honeybuzzard. The doctor is
Rhoda's good genius, and the doctor's wife is her fairy godmother."

Mountjoy's courtesy having offered the customary congratulations, the
maid was permitted to retire; and Iris was free to express her
astonishment at the friendly relations established (by means of the
dinner-table) between the two most dissimilar men on the face of
creation.

"There is something overwhelming," she declared, "in the bare idea of
your having asked him to dine with you--on such a short acquaintance,
and being such a man! I should like to have peeped in, and seen you
entertaining your guest with the luxuries of the hotel larder.
Seriously, Hugh, your social sympathies have taken a range for which I
was not prepared. After the example that you have set me, I feel
ashamed of having doubted whether Mr. Vimpany was worthy of his
charming wife. Don't suppose that I am ungrateful to the doctor! He has
found his way to my regard, after what he has done for Rhoda. I only
fail to understand how he has possessed himself of _your_ sympathies."

So she ran on, enjoying the exercise of her own sense of humour in
innocent ignorance of the serious interests which she was deriding.

Mountjoy tried to stop her, and tried in vain.

"No, no," she persisted as mischievously as ever, "the subject is too
interesting to be dismissed. I am dying to know how you and your guest
got through the dinner. Did he take more wine than was good for him?
And, when he forgot his good manners, did he set it all right again by
saying, 'No offence,' and passing the bottle?"

Hugh could endure it no longer. "Pray control your high spirits for a
moment," he said. "I have news for you from home."

Those words put an end to her outbreak of gaiety, in an instant.

"News from my father?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Is he coming here?"

"No; I have heard from him."

"A letter?"

"A telegram," Mountjoy explained, "in answer to a letter from me. I did
my best to press your claims on him, and I am glad to say I have not
failed."

"Hugh, dear Hugh! have you succeeded in reconciling us?"

Mountjoy produced the telegram. "I asked Mr. Henley," he said, "to let
me know at once whether he would receive you, and to answer plainly Yes
or No. The message might have been more kindly expressed--but, at any
rate, it is a favourable reply."

Iris read the telegram. "Is there another father in the world," she
said sadly, "who would tell his daughter, when she asks to come home,
that he will receive her on trial?"

"Surely, you are not offended with him, Iris?"

She shook her head. "I am like you," she said. "I know him too well to
be offended. He shall find me dutiful, he shall find me patient. I am
afraid I must not expect you to wait for me in Honeybuzzard. Will you
tell my father that I hope to return to him in a week's time?"

"Pardon me, Iris, I see no reason why you should waste a week in this
town. On the contrary, the more eager you show yourself to return to
your father, the more likely you are to recover your place in his
estimation. I had planned to take you home by the next train."

Iris looked at him in astonishment. "Is it possible that you mean what
you say?" she asked.

"My dear, I do most assuredly mean what I say. Why should you hesitate?
What possible reason can there be for staying here any longer?"

"Oh, Hugh, how you disappoint me! What has become of your kind feeling,
your sense of justice, your consideration for others? Poor Mrs.
Vimpany!"

"What has Mrs. Vimpany to do with it?"

Iris was indignant.

"What has Mrs. Vimpany to do with it?" she repeated. "After all that I
owe to that good creature's kindness; after I have promised to
accompany her--she has so few happy days, poor soul!--on excursions to
places of interest in the neighbourhood, do you expect me to leave
her--no! it's worse than that--do you expect me to throw her aside like
an old dress that I have worn out? And this after I have so unjustly,
so ungratefully suspected her in my own thoughts? Shameful! shameful!"

With some difficulty, Mountjoy controlled himself. After what she had
just said, his lips were sealed on the subject of Mrs. Vimpany's true
character. He could only persist in appealing to her duty to her
father.

"You are allowing your quick temper to carry you to strange
extremities," he answered. "If I think it of more importance to hasten
a reconciliation with your father than to encourage you to make
excursions with a lady whom you have only known for a week or two, what
have I done to deserve such an outbreak of anger? Hush! Not a word more
now! Here is the lady herself."

As he spoke, Mrs. Vimpany joined them; returning from her interview
with her husband at the inn. She looked first at Iris, and at once
perceived signs of disturbance in the young lady's face.

Concealing her anxiety under that wonderful stage smile, which affords
a refuge to so many secrets, Mrs. Vimpany said a few words excusing her
absence. Miss Henley answered, without the slightest change in her
friendly manner to the doctor's wife. The signs of disturbance were
evidently attributable to some entirely unimportant cause, from Mrs.
Vimpany's point of view. Mr. Mountjoy's discoveries had not been
communicated yet.

In Hugh's state of mind, there was some irritating influence in the
presence of the mistress of the house, which applied the spur to his
wits. He mischievously proposed submitting to her the question in
dispute between Iris and himself.

"It is a very simple matter," he said to Mrs. Vimpany. "Miss Henley's
father is anxious that she should return to him, after an estrangement
between them which is happily at an end. Do you think she ought to
allow any accidental engagements to prevent her from going home at
once? If she requests your indulgence, under the circumstances, has she
any reason to anticipate a refusal?"

Mrs. Vimpany's expressive eyes looked up, with saintly resignation, at
the dirty ceiling--and asked in dumb show what she had done to deserve
the injury implied by a doubt.

"Mr. Mountjoy," she said sternly, "you insult me by asking the
question."--"Dear Miss Henley," she continued, turning to Iris, _"you_
will do me justice, I am sure. Am I capable of allowing my own feelings
to stand in the way, when your filial duty is concerned? Leave me, my
sweet friend. Go! I entreat you, go home!"

She retired up the stage--no, no; she withdrew to the other end of the
room--and burst into the most becoming of all human tears, theatrical
tears. Impulsive Iris hastened to comfort the personification of
self-sacrifice, the model of all that was most unselfish in female
submission. "For shame! for shame!" she whispered, as she passed
Mountjoy.

Beaten again by Mrs. Vimpany--with no ties of relationship to justify
resistance to Miss Henley; with two women against him, entrenched
behind the privileges of their sex--the one last sacrifice of his own
feelings, in the interests of Iris, that Hugh could make was to control
the impulse which naturally urged him to leave the house. In the
helpless position in which he had now placed himself, he could only
wait to see what course Mrs. Vimpany might think it desirable to take.
Would she request him, in her most politely malicious way, to bring his
visit to an end? No: she looked at him--hesitated--directed a furtive
glance towards the view of the street from the window--smiled
mysteriously--and completed the sacrifice of her own feelings in these
words:

"Dear Miss Henley, let me help you to pack up."

Iris positively refused.

"No," she said, "I don't agree with Mr. Mountjoy. My father leaves it
to me to name the day when we meet. I hold you, my dear, to our
engagement--I don't leave an affectionate friend as I might leave a
stranger."

Even if Mr. Mountjoy communicated his discoveries to Miss Henley, on
the way home, there would be no danger now of her believing him. Mrs.
Vimpany put her powerful arm round the generous Iris, and, with
infinite grace, thanked her by a kiss.

"Your kindness will make my lonely lot in life harder than ever to
bear," she murmured, "when you are gone."

"But we may hope to meet in London," Iris reminded her; "unless Mr.
Vimpany alters his mind about leaving this place."

"My husband will not do that, dear. He is determined to try his luck,
as he says, in London. In the meantime you will give me your address,
won't you? Perhaps you will even promise to write to me?"

Iris instantly gave her promise, and wrote down her address in London.

Mountjoy made no attempt to interfere: it was needless.

If the maid had not fallen ill on the journey, and if Mrs. Vimpany had
followed Miss Henley to London, there would have been little to fear in
the discovery of her address--and there was little to fear now. The
danger to Iris was not in what might happen while she was living under
her father's roof, but in what might happen if she was detained (by
plans for excursions) in Mr. Vimpany's house, until Lord Harry might
join her there.

Rather than permit this to happen, Hugh (in sheer desperation)
meditated charging Mrs. Vimpany, to her face, with being the Irish
lord's spy, and proving the accusation by challenging her to produce
the registered letter and the diamond pin.

While he was still struggling with his own reluctance to inflict this
degrading exposure on a woman, the talk between the two ladies came to
an end. Mrs. Vimpany returned again to the window. On this occasion,
she looked out into the street--with her handkerchief (was it used as a
signal?) exhibited in her hand. Iris, on her side, advanced to
Mountjoy. Easily moved to anger, her nature was incapable of sullen
perseverance in a state of enmity. To see Hugh still patiently
waiting--still risking the chances of insult--devoted to her, and
forgiving her--was at once a reproach that punished Iris, and a mute
appeal that no true woman's heart could resist.

With tears in her eyes she said to him: "There must be no coolness
between you and me. I lost my temper, and spoke shamefully to you. My
dear, I am indeed sorry for it. You are never hard on me--you won't be
hard on me now?"

She offered her hand to him. He had just raised it to his lips--when
the drawing-room door was roughly opened. They both looked round.

The man of all others whom Hugh least desired to see was the man who
now entered the room. The victim of "light claret"--privately directed
to lurk in the street, until he saw a handkerchief fluttering at the
window--had returned to the house; primed with his clever wife's
instructions; ready and eager to be even with Mountjoy for the dinner
at the inn.



CHAPTER IX

MR. VIMPANY ON INTOXICATION

THERE was no unsteadiness in the doctor's walk, and no flush on his
face. He certainly did strut when he entered the room; and he held up
his head with dignity, when he discovered Mountjoy. But he seemed to
preserve his self-control. Was the man sober again already?

His wife approached him with her set smile; the appearance of her lord
and master filled Mrs. Vimpany with perfectly-assumed emotions of
agreeable surprise.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," she said. "You seldom favour us with
your company, my dear, so early in the evening! Are there fewer
patients in want of your advice than usual?"

"You are mistaken, Arabella. I am here in the performance of a painful
duty."

The doctor's language, and the doctor's manner, presented him to Iris
in a character that was new to her. What effect had he produced on Mrs.
Vimpany? That excellent friend to travellers in distress lowered her
eyes to the floor, and modestly preserved silence. Mr. Vimpany
proceeded to the performance of his duty; his painful responsibility
seemed to strike him at first from a medical point of view.

"If there is a poison which undermines the sources of life," he
remarked, "it is alcohol. If there is a vice that degrades humanity, it
is intoxication. Mr. Mountjoy, are you aware that I am looking at you?"

"Impossible not to be aware of that," Hugh answered. "May I ask why you
are looking at me?" It was not easy to listen gravely to Mr. Vimpany's
denunciation of intemperance, after what had taken place at the dinner
of that day. Hugh smiled. The moral majesty of the doctor entered its
protest.

"This is really shameful," he said. "The least you can do is to take it
seriously."

"What is it?" Mountjoy asked. "And why am I to take it seriously?"

Mr. Vimpany's reply was, to say the least of it, indirect. If such an
expression may be permitted, it smelt of the stage. Viewed in
connection with Mrs. Vimpany's persistent assumption of silent
humility, it suggested to Mountjoy a secret understanding, of some
kind, between husband and wife.

"What has become of your conscience, sir?" Mr. Vimpany demanded. "Is
that silent monitor dead within you? After giving me a bad dinner, do
you demand an explanation? Ha! you shall have it."

Having delivered himself to this effect, he added action to words.
Walking grandly to the door, he threw it open, and saluted Mountjoy
with an ironical bow. Iris observed that act of insolence; her colour
rose, her eyes glittered. "Do you see what he has just done?" she said
to Mrs. Vimpany.

The doctor's wife answered softly: "I don't understand it." After a
glance at her husband, she took Iris by the hand: "Dear Miss Henley,
shall we retire to my room?"

Iris drew her hand away. "Not unless Mr. Mountjoy wishes it," she said.

"Certainly not!" Hugh declared. "Pray remain here; your presence will
help me to keep my temper." He stepped up to Mr. Vimpany. "Have you any
particular reason for opening that door?" he asked.

The doctor was a rascal; but, to do him justice, he was no coward.
"Yes," he said, "I have a reason."

"What is it, if you please?"

"Christian forbearance," Mr. Vimpany answered.

"Forbearance towards me?" Mountjoy continued.

The doctor's dignity suddenly deserted him.

"Aha, my boy, you have got it at last!" he cried. "It's pleasant to
understand each other, isn't it? You see, I'm a plain-spoken fellow; I
don't wish to give offence. If there's one thing more than another I
pride myself on, it's my indulgence for human frailty. But, in my
position here, I'm obliged to be careful. Upon my soul, I can't
continue my acquaintance with a man who--oh, come! come! don't look as
if you didn't understand me. The circumstances are against you, sir.
You have treated me infamously."

"Under what circumstances have I treated you infamously?" Hugh asked.

"Under pretence of giving me a dinner," Mr. Vimpany shouted--"the worst
dinner I ever sat down to!"

His wife signed to him to be silent. He took no notice of her. She
insisted on being understood. "Say no more!" she warned him, in a tone
of command.

The brute side of his nature, roused by Mountjoy's contemptuous
composure, was forcing its way outwards; he set his wife at defiance.

"Then don't let him look at me as if he thought I was in a state of
intoxication!" cried the furious doctor. "There's the man, Miss, who
tried to make me tipsy," he went on, actually addressing himself to
Iris. "Thanks to my habits of sobriety, he has been caught in his own
trap. _He's_ intoxicated. Ha, friend Mountjoy, have you got the right
explanation at last? There's the door, sir!"

Mrs. Vimpany felt that this outrage was beyond endurance. If something
was not done to atone for it, Miss Henley would be capable--her face,
at that moment, answered for her--of leaving the house with Mr.
Mountjoy. Mrs. Vimpany seized her husband indignantly by the arm.

"You brute, you have spoilt everything!" she said to him. "Apologise
directly to Mr. Mountjoy. You won't?"

"I won't!"

Experience had taught his wife how to break him to her will. "Do you
remember my diamond pin?" she whispered.

He looked startled. Perhaps he thought she had lost the pin.

"Where is it?" he asked eagerly.

"Gone to London to be valued. Beg Mr. Mountjoy's pardon, or I will put
the money in the bank--and not one shilling of it do you get."

In the meanwhile, Iris had justified Mrs. Vimpany's apprehensions. Her
indignation noticed nothing but the insult offered to Hugh. She was too
seriously agitated to be able to speak to him. Still admirably calm,
his one anxiety was to compose her.

"Don't be afraid," he said; "it is impossible that I can degrade myself
by quarrelling with Mr. Vimpany. I only wait here to know what you
propose to do. You have Mrs. Vimpany to think of."

"I have nobody to think of but You," Iris replied. "But for me, you
would never have been in this house. After the insult that has been
offered to you--oh, Hugh, I feel it too!--let us return to London
together. I have only to tell Rhoda we are going away, and to make my
preparations for travelling. Send for me from the inn, and I will be
ready in time for the next train."

Mrs. Vimpany approached Mountjoy, leading her husband.

"Sorry I have offended you," the doctor said. "Beg your pardon. It's
only a joke. No offence, I hope?"

His servility was less endurable than his insolence. Telling him that
he need say no more, Mountjoy bowed to Mrs. Vimpany, and left the room.
She returned his bow mechanically, in silence. Mr. Vimpany followed
Hugh out--thinking of the diamond pin, and eager to open the house
door, as another act of submission which might satisfy his wife.

Even a clever woman will occasionally make mistakes; especially when
her temper happens to have been roused. Mrs. Vimpany found herself in a
false position, due entirely to her own imprudence.

She had been guilty of three serious errors. In the first place she had
taken it for granted that Mr. Vimpany's restorative mixture would
completely revive the sober state of his brains. In the second place,
she had trusted him with her vengeance on the man who had found his way
to her secrets through her husband's intemperance. In the third place,
she had rashly assumed that the doctor, in carrying out her
instructions for insulting Mountjoy, would keep within the limits which
she had prescribed to him, when she hit on the audacious idea of
attributing his disgraceful conduct to the temptation offered by his
host's example. As a consequence of these acts of imprudence, she had
exposed herself to a misfortune that she honestly dreaded--the loss of
the place which she had carefully maintained in Miss Henley's
estimation. In the contradictory confusion of feelings, so often found
in women, this deceitful and dangerous creature had been
conquered--little by little, as she had herself described it--by that
charm of sweetness and simplicity in Iris, of which her own depraved
nature presented no trace. She now spoke with hesitation, almost with
timidity, in addressing the woman whom she had so cleverly deceived, at
the time when they first met.

"Must I give up all, Miss Henley, that I most value?" she asked.

"I hardly understand you, Mrs. Vimpany."

"I will try to make it plainer. Do you really mean to leave me this
evening?"

"I do."

"May I own that I am grieved to hear it? Your departure will deprive me
of some happy hours, in your company."

"Your husband's conduct leaves me no alternative," Iris replied.

"Pray do not humiliate me by speaking of my husband! I only want to
know if there is a harder trial of my fortitude still to come. Must I
lose the privilege of being your friend?"

"I hope I am not capable of such injustice as that," Iris declared. "It
would be hard indeed to lay the blame of Mr. Vimpany's shameful
behaviour on you. I don't forget that you made him offer an apology.
Some women, married to such a man as that, might have been afraid of
him. No, no; you have been a good friend to me--and I mean to remember
it."

Mrs. Vimpany's gratitude was too sincerely felt to be expressed with
her customary readiness. She only said what the stupidest woman in
existence could have said: "Thank you."

In the silence that followed, the rapid movement of carriage wheels
became audible in the street. The sound stopped at the door of the
doctor's house.



CHAPTER X

THE MOCKERY OF DECEIT

HAD Mountjoy arrived to take Iris away, before her preparations for
travelling were complete? Both the ladies hurried to the window, but
they were too late. The rapid visitor, already hidden from them under
the portico, was knocking smartly at the door. In another minute, a
man's voice in the hall asked for "Miss Henley." The tones--clear,
mellow, and pleasantly varied here and there by the Irish accent--were
not to be mistaken by any one who had already hear them. The man in the
hall was Lord Harry.

In that serious emergency, Mrs. Vimpany recovered her presence of mind.

She made for the door, with the object of speaking to Lord Harry before
he could present himself in the drawing-room. But Iris had heard him
ask for her in the hall; and that one circumstance instantly stripped
of its concealments the character of the woman in whose integrity she
had believed. Her first impression of Mrs. Vimpany--so sincerely
repented, so eagerly atoned for--had been the right impression after
all! Younger, lighter, and quicker than the doctor's wife, Iris reached
the door first, and laid her hand on the lock.

"Wait a minute," she said.

Mrs. Vimpany hesitated. For the first time in her life at a loss what
to say, she could only sign to Iris to stand back. Iris refused to
move. She put her terrible question in the plainest words:

"How does Lord Harry know that I am in this house?"

The wretched woman (listening intently for the sound of a step on the
stairs) refused to submit to a shameful exposure, even now. To her
perverted moral sense, any falsehood was acceptable, as a means of
hiding herself from discovery by Iris. In the very face of detection,
the skilled deceiver kept up the mockery of deceit.

"My dear," she said, "what has come to you? Why won't you let me go to
my room?"

Iris eyed her with a look of scornful surprise. "What next?" she said.
"Are you impudent enough to pretend that I have not found you out,
yet?"

Sheer desperation still sustained Mrs. Vimpany's courage. She played
her assumed character against the contemptuous incredulity of Iris, as
she had sometimes played her theatrical characters against the hissing
and hooting of a brutal audience.

"Miss Henley," she said, "you forget yourself!"

"Do you think I didn't see in your face," Iris rejoined, "that you
heard him, too? Answer my question."

"What question?"

"You have just heard it."

"No!"

"You false woman!"

"Don't forget, Miss Henley, that you are speaking to a lady."

"I am speaking to Lord Harry's spy!"

Their voices rose loud; the excitement on either side had reached its
climax; neither the one nor the other was composed enough to notice the
sound of the carriage-wheels, leaving the house again. In the
meanwhile, nobody came to the drawing-room door. Mrs. Vimpany was too
well acquainted with the hot-headed Irish lord not to conclude that he
would have made himself heard, and would have found his way to Iris,
but for some obstacle, below stairs, for which he was not prepared. The
doctor's wife did justice to the doctor at last. Another person had, in
all probability, heard Lord Harry's voice--and that person might have
been her husband.

Was it possible that he remembered the service which she had asked of
him; and, even if he had succeeded in calling it to mind, was his
discretion to be trusted? As those questions occurred to her, the
desire to obtain some positive information was more than she was able
to resist. Mrs. Vimpany attempted to leave the drawing-room for the
second time.

But the same motive had already urged Miss Henley to action. Again, the
younger woman outstripped the older. Iris descended the stairs,
resolved to discover the cause of the sudden suspension of events in
the lower part of the house.



CHAPTER XI

MRS. VIMPANY'S FAREWELL

THE doctor's wife followed Miss Henley out of the room, as far as the
landing--and waited there.

She had her reasons for placing this restraint on herself. The position
of the landing concealed her from the view of a person in the hall. If
she only listened for the sound of voices she might safely discover
whether Lord Harry was, or was not, still in the house. In the first
event, it would be easy to interrupt his interview with Iris, before
the talk could lead to disclosures which Mrs. Vimpany had every reason
to dread. In the second event, there would be no need to show herself.

Meanwhile, Iris opened the dining-room door and looked in.

Nobody was there. The one other room on the ground floor, situated at
the back of the building, was the doctor's consulting-room. She knocked
at the door. Mr. Vimpany's voice answered: "Come in." There he was
alone, drinking brandy and water, and smoking his big black cigar.

"Where is Lord Harry?" she said.

"In Ireland, I suppose," Mr. Vimpany answered quietly.

Iris wasted no time in making useless inquiries. She closed the door
again, and left him. He, too, was undoubtedly in the conspiracy to keep
her deceived. How had it been done? Where was the wild lord, at that
moment?

Whilst she was pursuing these reflections in the hall, Rhoda came up
from the servants' tea-table in the kitchen. Her mistress gave her the
necessary instructions for packing, and promised to help her before
long. Mrs. Vimpany's audacious resolution to dispute the evidence of
her own senses, still dwelt on Miss Henley's mind. Too angry to think
of the embarrassment which an interview with Lord Harry would produce,
after they had said their farewell words in Ireland, she was determined
to prevent the doctor's wife from speaking to him first, and claiming
him as an accomplice in her impudent denial of the truth. If he had
been, by any chance, deluded into leaving the house, he would sooner or
later discover the trick that had been played on him, and would
certainly return. Iris took a chair in the hall.

         * * * * * * *

It is due to the doctor to relate that he had indeed justified his
wife's confidence in him.

The diamond pin, undergoing valuation in London, still represented a
present terror in his mind. The money, the money--he was the most
attentive husband in England when he thought of the money! At the time
when Lord Harry's carriage stopped at his house-door, he was in the
dining-room, taking a bottle of brandy from the cellaret in the
sideboard. Looking instantly out of the window, he discovered who the
visitor was, and decided on consulting his instructions in the
pocket-diary. The attempt was rendered useless, as soon as he had
opened the book, by the unlucky activity of the servant in answering
the door. Her master stopped her in the hall. He was pleasantly
conscious of the recovery of his cunning. But his memory (far from
active under the most favourable circumstances) was slower than ever at
helping him now. On the spur of the moment he could only call to mind
that he had been ordered to prevent a meeting between Lord Harry and
Iris. "Show the gentleman into my consulting-room," he said.

Lord Harry found the doctor enthroned on his professional chair,
surprised and delighted to see his distinguished friend. The impetuous
Irishman at once asked for Miss Henley.

"Gone," Mr. Vimpany answered

"Gone--where?" the wild lord wanted to know next.

"To London."

"By herself?"

"No; with Mr. Hugh Mountjoy."

Lord Harry seized the doctor by the shoulders, and shook him: "You
don't mean to tell me Mountjoy is going to marry her?"

Mr. Vimpany feared nothing but the loss of money. The weaker and the
older man of the two, he nevertheless followed the young lord's
example, and shook him with right good-will. "Let's see how you like it
in your turn," he said. "As for Mountjoy, I don't know whether he is
married or single--and don't care."

"The devil take your obstinacy! When did they start?"

"The devil take your questions! They started not long since."

"Might I catch them at the station?"

"Yes; if you go at once."

So the desperate doctor carried out his wife's instructions--without
remembering the conditions which had accompanied them.

The way to the station took Lord Harry past the inn. He saw Hugh
Mountjoy through the open house door paying his bill at the bar. In an
instant the carriage was stopped, and the two men (never on friendly
terms) were formally bowing to each other.

"I was told I should find you," Lord Harry said, "with Miss Henley, at
the station."

"Who gave you your information?"

"Vimpany--the doctor."

"He ought to know that the train isn't due at the station for an hour
yet."

"Has the blackguard deceived me? One word more, Mr. Mountjoy. Is Miss
Henley at the inn?"

"No."

"Are you going with her to London?"

"I must leave Miss Henley to answer that."

"Where is she, sir?"

"There is an end to everything, my lord, in the world we live in. You
have reached the end of my readiness to answer questions." The
Englishman and the Irishman looked at each other: the Anglo-Saxon was
impenetrably cool; the Celt was flushed and angry. They might have been
on the brink of a quarrel, but for Lord Harry's native quickness of
perception, and his exercise of it at that moment. When he had called
at Mr. Vimpany's house, and had asked for Iris, the doctor had got rid
of him by means of a lie. After this discovery, at what conclusion
could he arrive? The doctor was certainly keeping Iris out of his way.
Reasoning in this rapid manner, Lord Harry let one offence pass, in his
headlong eagerness to resent another. He instantly left Mountjoy. Again
the carriage rattled back along the street; but it was stopped before
it reached Mr. Vimpany's door.

Lord Harry knew the people whom he had to deal with, and took measures
to approach the house silently, on foot. The coachman received orders
to look out for a signal, which should tell him when he was wanted
again.

Mr. Vimpany's ears, vigilantly on the watch for suspicious events,
detected no sound of carriage wheels and no noisy use of the knocker.
Still on his guard, however, a ring at the house-bell disturbed him in
his consulting-room. Peeping into the hall, he saw Iris opening the
door, and stole back to his room. "The devil take her!" he said,
alluding to Miss Henley, and thinking of the enviable proprietor of the
diamond pin.

At the unexpected appearance of Iris, Lord Harry forgot every
consideration which ought to have been present to his mind, at that
critical moment.

He advanced to her with both hands held out in cordial greeting. She
signed to him contemptuously to stand back--and spoke in tones
cautiously lowered, after a glance at the door of the consulting-room.

"My only reason for consenting to see you," she said, "is to protect
myself from further deception. Your disgraceful conduct is known to me.
Go now," she continued, pointing to the stairs, "and consult with your
spy, as soon as you like." The Irish lord listened--guiltily conscious
of having deserved what she had said to him--without attempting to
utter a word in excuse.

Still posted at the head of the stairs, the doctor's wife heard Iris
speaking; but the tone was not loud enough to make the words
intelligible at that distance; neither was any other voice audible in
reply. Vaguely suspicions of some act of domestic treachery, Mrs.
Vimpany began to descend the stairs. At the turning which gave her a
view of the hall, she stopped; thunderstruck by the discovery of Lord
Harry and Miss Henley, together.

The presence of a third person seemed, in some degree, to relieve Lord
Harry. He ran upstairs to salute Mrs. Vimpany, and was met again by a
cold reception and a hostile look.

Strongly and strangely contrasted, the two confronted each other on the
stairs. The faded woman, wan and ghastly under cruel stress of mental
suffering, stood face to face with a fine, tall, lithe man, in the
prime of his health and strength. Here were the bright blue eyes, the
winning smile, and the natural grace of movement, which find their own
way to favour in the estimation of the gentler sex. This irreclaimable
wanderer among the perilous by-ways of the earth--christened "Irish
blackguard," among respectable members of society, when they spoke of
him behind his back--attracted attention, even among the men. Looking
at his daring, finely-formed face, they noticed (as an exception to a
general rule, in these days) the total suppression, by the razor, of
whiskers, moustache, and beard. Strangers wondered whether Lord Harry
was an actor or a Roman Catholic priest. Among chance acquaintances,
those few favourites of Nature who are possessed of active brains,
guessed that his life of adventure might well have rendered disguise
necessary to his safety, in more than one part of the world. Sometimes
they boldly put the question to him. The hot temper of an Irishman, in
moments of excitement, is not infrequently a sweet temper in moments of
calm. What they called Lord Harry's good-nature owned readily that he
had been indebted, on certain occasions, to the protection of a false
beard, And perhaps a colouring of his face and hair to match. The same
easy disposition now asserted itself, under the merciless enmity of
Mrs. Vimpany's eyes. "If I have done anything to offend you," he said,
with an air of puzzled humility, "I'm sure I am sorry for it. Don't be
angry, Arabella, with an old friend. Why won't you shake hands?"

"I have kept your secret, and done your dirty work," Mrs. Vimpany
replied. "And what is my reward? Miss Henley can tell you how your
Irish blundering has ruined me in a lady's estimation. Shake hands,
indeed! You will never shake hands with Me again as long as you live!"

She said those words without looking at him; her eyes were resting on
Iris now. From the moment when she had seen the two together, she knew
that it was all over; further denial in the face of plain proofs would
be useless indeed! Submission was the one alternative left.

"Miss Henley," she said, "if you can feel pity for another woman's
sorrow and shame, let me have a last word with you--out of this man's
hearing."

There was nothing artificial in her tones or her looks; no acting could
have imitated the sad sincerity with which she spoke. Touched by that
change, Iris accompanied her as she ascended the stairs. After a little
hesitation, Lord Harry followed them. Mrs. Vimpany turned on him when
they reached the drawing-room landing. "Must I shut the door in your
face?" she asked.

He was as pleasantly patient as ever:

"You needn't take the trouble to do that, my dear; I'll only ask your
leave to sit down and wait on the stairs. When you have done with Miss
Henley, just call me in. And, by the way, don't be alarmed in case of a
little noise--say a heavy man tumbling downstairs. If the blackguard
it's your misfortune to be married to happens to show himself, I shall
be under the necessity of kicking him. That's all."

Mrs. Vimpany closed the door. She spoke to Iris respectfully, as she
might have addressed a stranger occupying a higher rank in life than
herself.

"There is an end, madam, to one short acquaintance; and, as we both
know, an end to it for ever. When we first met--let me tell the truth
at last!--I felt a malicious pleasure in deceiving you. After that
time, I was surprised to find that you grew on my liking, Can you
understand the wickedness that tried to resist you? It was useless;
your good influence has been too strong for me. Strange, isn't it? I
have lived a life of deceit, among bad people. What could you expect of
me, after that? I heaped lies on lies--I would have denied that the sun
was in the heavens--rather than find myself degraded in your opinion.
Well! that is all over--useless, quite useless now. Pray don't mistake
me. I am not attempting to excuse myself; a confession was due to you;
the confession is made. It is too late to hope that you will forgive
me. If you will permit it, I have only one favour to ask. Forget me."

She turned away with a last hopeless look, who said as plainly as if in
words: "I am not worth a reply."

Generous Iris insisted on speaking to her.

"I believe you are truly sorry for what you have done," she said; "I
can never forget that--I can never forget You." She held out her
pitying hand. Mrs. Vimpany was too bitterly conscious of the past to
touch it. Even a spy is not beneath the universal reach of the
heartache. There were tears in the miserable woman's eyes when she had
looked her last at Iris Henley.



CHAPTER XII

LORD HARRY's DEFENCE

AFTER a short interval, the drawing-room door was opened again. Waiting
on the threshold, the Irish lord asked if he might come in.

Iris replied coldly. "This is not my house," she said; "I must leave
you to decide for yourself."

Lord Harry crossed the room to speak to her and stopped. There was no
sign of relenting towards him in that dearly-loved face. "I wonder
whether it would be a relief to you," he suggested with piteous
humility, "if I went away?"

If she had been true to herself, she would have said, Yes. Where is the
woman to be found, in her place, with a heart hard enough to have set
her that example? She pointed to a chair. He felt her indulgence
gratefully. Following the impulse of the moment, he attempted to excuse
his conduct.

"There is only one thing I can say for myself," he confessed, "I didn't
begin by deceiving you. While you had your eye on me, Iris, I was an
honourable man."

This extraordinary defence reduced her to silence. Was there another
man in the world who would have pleaded for pardon in that way? "I'm
afraid I have not made myself understood," he said. "May I try again?"

"If you please."

The vagabond nobleman made a resolute effort to explain himself
intelligibly, this time:

"See now! We said good-bye, over there, in the poor old island. Well,
indeed I meant it, when I owned that I was unworthy of you. _I_ didn't
contradict you, when you said you could never be my wife, after such a
life as I have led. And, do remember, I submitted to your returning to
England, without presuming to make a complaint. Ah, my sweet girl, it
was easy to submit, while I could look at you, and hear the sound of
your voice, and beg for that last kiss--and get it. Reverend gentlemen
talk about the fall of Adam. What was that to the fall of Harry, when
he was back in his own little cottage, without the hope of ever seeing
you again? To the best of my recollection, the serpent that tempted Eve
was up a tree. I found the serpent that tempted Me, sitting waiting in
my own armchair, and bent on nothing worse than borrowing a trifle of
money. Need I say who she was? I don't doubt that you think her a
wicked woman."

Never ready in speaking of acts of kindness, on her own part, Iris
answered with some little reserve: "I have learnt to think better of
Mrs. Vimpany than you suppose."

Lord Harry began to look like a happy man, for the first time since he
had entered the room.

"I ought to have known it!" he burst out. "Yours is the well-balanced
mind, dear, that tempers justice with mercy. Mother Vimpany has had a
hard life of it. Just change places with her for a minute or so--and
you'll understand what she has had to go through. Find yourself, for
instance, in Ireland, without the means to take you back to England.
Add to that, a husband who sends you away to make money for him at the
theatre, and a manager (not an Irishman, thank God!) who refuses to
engage you--after your acting has filled his dirty pockets in past
days--because your beauty has faded with time. Doesn't your bright
imagination see it all now? My old friend Arabella, ready and anxious
to serve me--and a sinking at this poor fellow's heart when he knew, if
he once lost the trace of you, he might lose it for ever--there's the
situation, as they call it on the stage. I wish I could say for myself
what I may say for Mrs. Vimpany. It's such a pleasure to a clever woman
to engage in a little deceit--we can't blame her, can we?"

Iris protested gently against a code of morality which included the
right of deceit among the privileges of the sex. Lord Harry slipped
through her fingers with the admirable Irish readiness; he agreed with
Miss Henley that he was entirely wrong.

"And don't spare me while you're about it," he suggested. "Lay all the
blame of that shameful stratagem on my shoulders. It was a despicable
thing to do. When I had you watched, I acted in a manner--I won't say
unworthy of a gentleman; have I been a gentleman since I first ran away
from home? Why, it's even been said my way of speaking is no longer the
way of a gentleman; and small wonder, too, after the company I've kept.
Ah, well! 

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