Blind Love

From motives of economy (Iris wrote) her husband had decided on a

change of residence. They were just established in their new abode,

with the advantages of a saving in rent, a pretty little garden to

cultivate, and purer air to breathe than the air of Paris. There the

letter ended, without the slightest allusion to the forthcoming

newspaper, or to the opinion that had been pronounced on the prospects

of success.

In forwarding this letter, Mrs. Vimpany wrote on the blank page as

follows: "I am sorry to add that some disquieting news of my husband

has reached me. For the present, I will say no more. It is at least

possible that the report may not be worthy of belief."

A few days later the report was confirmed, under circumstances which

had certainly not been foreseen. Mr. Vimpany himself arrived at the

hotel, on a visit to Mountjoy.

Always more or less superior to the amiable weakness of modesty, the

doctor seemed to have risen higher than ever in his own estimation,

since Hugh had last seen him. He strutted; he stared confidently at

persons and things; authority was in his voice when he spoke, and lofty

indulgence distinguished his manner when he listened.

"How are you?" he cried with a grand gaiety, as he entered the room.

"Fine weather, isn't it, for the time of year? You don't look well. I

wonder whether you notice any change in me?

"You seem to be in good spirits," Hugh replied, not very cordially.

"Do I carry my head high?" Mr. Vimpany went on. "When calamity strikes

at a man, don't let him cringe and cry for pity--let him hit back

again! Those are my principles. Look at me. Now do look at me. Here I

am, a cultivated person, a member of an honourable profession, a man of

art and accomplishment--stripped of every blessed thing belonging to me

but the clothes I stand up in. Give me your hand, Mountjoy. It's the

hand, sir, of a bankrupt."

"You don't seem to mind it much," Mountjoy remarked.

"Why should I mind it?" asked the doctor. "There isn't a medical man in

England who has less reason to reproach himself than I have. Have I

wasted money in rash speculations? Not a farthing. Have I been fool

enough to bet at horse races? My worst enemy daren't say it of me. What

have I done then? I have toiled after virtue--that's what I have done.

Oh, there's nothing to laugh at! When a doctor tries to be the medical

friend of humanity; when he only asks leave to cure disease, to soothe

pain, to preserve life--isn't that virtue? And what is my reward? I sit

at home, waiting for my suffering fellow-creatures; and the only

fellow-creatures who come to me are too poor to pay. I have gone my

rounds, calling on the rich patients whom I bought when I bought the

practice. Not one of them wanted me. Men, women, and children, were all

inexcusably healthy--devil take them! Is it wonderful if a man becomes

bankrupt, in such a situation as mine? By Jupiter, I go farther than

that! I say, a man owes it to himself (as a protest against undeserved

neglect) to become a bankrupt. If you will allow me, I'll take a

chair."