Blind Love

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.