Blind Love

And the house was wretched without her; and he hated the sight of the

doctor--desperate and reckless.

He resolved to write to Iris: he sat down and poured out his heart, but

not his conscience, to her.

"As for our separation," he said, "I, and only I, am to blame. It is my

own abominable conduct that has caused it. Give me your pardon, dearest

Iris. If I have made it impossible for you to live with me, it is also

impossible for me to live without you. So am I punished. The house is

dull and lonely; the hours crawl, I know not how to kill the time; my

life is a misery and a burden because you are not with me. Yet I have

no right to complain; I ought to rejoice in thinking that you are happy

in being relieved of my presence. My dear, I do not ask you to come at

present"--he remembered, indeed, that her arrival at this juncture

might be seriously awkward--"I cannot ask you to come back yet, but let

me have a little hope--let me feel that in the sweetness of your nature

you will believe in my repentance, and let me look forward to a speedy

reunion in the future."

When he had written this letter, which he would have done better to

keep in his own hands for awhile, he directed it in a feigned hand to

Lady Harry Norland, care of Hugh Mountjoy, at the latter's London

hotel. Mountjoy would not know Iris's correspondent, and would

certainly forward the letter. He calculated--with the knowledge of her

affectionate and impulsive nature--that Iris would meet him half-way,

and would return whenever he should be able to call her back. He did

not calculate, as will be seen, on the step which she actually took.

The letter despatched, he came back to the cottage happier--he would

get his wife again. He looked in at the sick-room. The patient was

sitting up, chatting pleasantly; it was the best day he had known; the

doctor was sitting in a chair placed beside the bed, and the nurse

stood quiet, self-composed, but none the less watchful and suspicious.

"You are going on so well, my man," Doctor Vimpany was saying, "That we

shall have you out and about again in a day or two. Not quite yet,

though--not quite yet," he pulled out his stethoscope and made an

examination with an immense show of professional interest. "My

treatment has succeeded, you see"--he made a note or two in his

pocket-book--"has succeeded," he repeated. "They will have to

acknowledge that."