Blind Love

Deeply as she had grieved him, keenly as he felt that his worst fears

for her threatened already to be realised, it was characteristic of

Mountjoy that he still refused to despair of Iris--even with the

husband's influence against him.

The moral deterioration of her, revealed in the false words that she

had spoken, and in the deceptions that she had attempted, would have

justified the saddest misgivings, but for the voluntary confession

which had followed, and the signs which it had shown of the better

nature still struggling to assert itself. How could Hugh hope to

encourage that effort of resistance to the evil influences that were

threatening her--first and foremost, among them, being the arrival of

Vimpany at the cottage? His presence kept her in a state of perpetual

contention, between her own wise instincts which distrusted him, and

her husband's authoritative assertions which recommended him to her

confidence. No greater service could be rendered to Iris than the

removal of this man--but how could it be accomplished, without giving

offence to her husband? Mountjoy's mind was still in search of a means

of overcoming the obstacle thus presented, when he heard the door open.

Had Iris recovered herself? or had Lord Harry and his friend returned?

The person who now entered the room was the strange and silent maid,

Fanny Mere.

"Can I speak to you, sir?"

"Certainly. What is it?"

"Please give me your address."

"For your mistress?"

"Yes."

"Does she wish to write to me?"

"Yes."

Hugh gave the strange creature the address of his hotel in Paris. For a

moment, her eyes rested on him with an expression of steady scrutiny.

She opened the door to go out---stopped--considered--came back again.

"I want to speak for myself," she said. "Do you care to hear what a

servant has to say?"

Mountjoy replied that he was ready to hear what she had to say. She at

once stepped up to him, and addressed him in these words: "I think you are fond of my mistress?"

An ordinary man might have resented the familiar manner in which she

had expressed herself. Mountjoy waited for what was still to come.

Fanny Mere abruptly went on, with a nearer approach to agitation in her

manner than she had shown yet: "My mistress took me into her service; she trusted me when other ladies

would have shown me the door. When she sent for me to see her, my

character was lost; I had nobody to feel for me, nobody to help me. She

is the one friend who held out a hand to me. I hate the men; I don't

care for the women. Except one. Being a servant I mustn't say I love

that one. If I was a lady, I don't know that I should say it. Love is

cant; love is rubbish. Tell me one thing. Is the doctor a friend of

yours?"