Towards evening, the Dane was brought to the cottage.
A feeling of pride which forbade any display of curiosity, strengthened
perhaps by an irresistible horror of Vimpany, kept Iris in her room.
Nothing but the sound of footsteps, outside, told her when the
suffering man was taken to his bed-chamber on the same floor. She was,
afterwards informed by Fanny that the doctor turned down the lamp in
the corridor, before the patient was helped to ascend the stairs, as a
means of preventing the mistress of the house from plainly seeing the
stranger's face, and recognising the living likeness of her husband.
The hours advanced--the bustle of domestic life sank into
silence--everybody but Iris rested quietly in bed.
Through the wakeful night the sense of her situation oppressed her
sinking spirits. Mysteries that vaguely threatened danger made their
presence felt, and took their dark way through her thoughts. The
cottage, in which the first happy days of her marriage had been passed,
might ere long be the scene of some evil deed, provoking the lifelong
separation of her husband and herself! Were these the exaggerated fears
of a woman in a state of hysterical suspicion? It was enough for Iris
to remember that Lord Harry and Mr. Vimpany had been alike incapable of
telling her the truth. The first had tried to deceive her; the second
had done his best to frighten her. Why? If there was really nothing to
be afraid of--why? The hours of the early morning came; and still she
listened in vain for the sound of my lord's footstep on the stairs;
still she failed to hear the cautious opening of his dressing-room
door. Leaving her chair, Iris rested on the bed. As time advanced,
exhaustion mastered her; she slept.
Awakening at a late hour, she rang for Fanny Mere. The master had just
returned. He had missed the latest night-train to Passy; and, rather
than waste money on hiring a carriage at that hour, he had accepted the
offer of a bed at the house of his friends. He was then below stairs,
hoping to see Lady Harry at breakfast.
His wife joined him.
Not even at the time of the honeymoon had the Irish lord been a more
irresistibly agreeable man than he was on that memorable morning. His
apologies for having failed to return at the right time were little
masterpieces of grace and gaiety. The next best thing to having been
present, at the theatrical performance of the previous night, was to
hear his satirical summary of the story of the play, contrasting
delightfully with his critical approval of the fine art of the actors.
The time had been when Iris would have resented such merciless trifling
with serious interests as this. In these earlier and better days, she
would have reminded him affectionately of her claim to be received into
his confidence--she would have tried all that tact and gentleness and
patience could do to win his confession of the ascendency exercised
over him by his vile friend--and she would have used the utmost
influence of her love and her resolution to disunite the fatal
fellowship which was leading him to his ruin.