Blind Love

"You have repented and changed your mind, Vimpany?" said Lord Harry.

"I repented?" the doctor repeated, with a laugh. "You think me capable

of that, do you?"

"The man is growing stronger and better every day. You are going to

make him recover, after all. I was afraid"--he corrected himself--"I

thought"--the word was the truer--"that you were going to poison him."

"You thought I was going--we were going, my lord--to commit a stupid

and a useless crime. And, with our clever nurse present, all the time

watching with the suspicions of a cat, and noting every change in the

symptoms? No--I confess his case has puzzled me because I did not

anticipate this favourable change. Well--it is all for the best. Fanny

sees him grow stronger every day--whatever happens she can testify to

the care with which the man has been treated. So far she thought she

would have us in her power, and we have her."

"You are mighty clever, Vimpany; but sometimes you are too clever for

me, and, perhaps, too clever for yourself."

"Let me make myself clearer"--conscious of the nurse's suspicions, he

leaned forward and whispered: "Fanny must go. Now is the time. The man

is recovering. The man must go: the next patient will be your lordship

himself. Now do you understand?"

"Partly."

"Enough. If I am to act it is sufficient for you to understand step by

step. Our suspicious nurse is to go. That is the next step. Leave me to

act."

Lord Harry walked away. He left the thing to the doctor. It hardly

seemed to concern him. A dying man; a conspiracy; a fraud:--yet the

guilty knowledge of all this gave him small uneasiness. He carried with

him his wife's last note: "May I hope to find on my return the man whom

I have trusted and honoured?" His conscience, callous as regards the

doctor's scheme, filled him with remorse whenever--which was fifty

times a day--he took this little rag of a note from his pocket-book and

read it again. Yes: she would always find the man, on her return--the

man whom she had trusted and honoured--the latter clause he passed

over--it would be, of course the same man: whether she would still be

able to trust and honour him--that question he did not put to himself.

After all, the doctor was acting--not he, himself.

And he remembered Hugh Mountjoy. Iris would be with him--the man whose

affection was only brought out in the stronger light by his respect,

his devotion, and his delicacy. She would be in his society: she would

understand the true meaning of this respect and delicacy: she would

appreciate the depth of his devotion: she would contrast Hugh, the man

she might have married, with himself, the man she did marry.