Blind Love

Of course Mrs. Vimpany was quite right. Iris had gone back to her

husband. She arrived, in fact, at the cottage in the evening just

before dark--in the falling day, when some people are more than

commonly sensitive to sights and sounds, and when the eyes are more apt

than at other times to be deceived by strange appearances. Iris walked

into the garden, finding no one there. She opened the door with her own

key and let herself in. The house struck her as strangely empty and

silent. She opened the dining-room door: no one was there. Like all

French dining-rooms, it was used for no other purpose than for eating,

and furnished with little more than the barest necessaries. She closed

the door and opened that of the salon: that also was empty. She called

her husband: there was no answer. She called the name of the cook:

there was no answer. It was fortunate that she did not open the door of

the spare room, for there lay the body of the dead man. She went

upstairs to her husband's room. That too was empty. But there was

something lying on the table--a photograph. She took it up. Her face

became white suddenly and swiftly. She shrieked aloud, then drooped the

picture and fell fainting to the ground. For the photograph was nothing

less than that of her husband, dead in his white graveclothes, his

hands composed, his eyes closed, his cheek waxen.

The cry fell upon the ears of Lord Harry, who was in the garden below.

He rushed into the house and lifted his wife upon the bed. The

photograph showed him plainly what had happened.

She came to her senses again, but seeing her husband alive before her,

and remembering what she had seen, she shrieked again, and fell into

another swoon.

"What is to be done now?" asked the husband. "What shall I tell her?

How shall I make her understand? What can I do for her?"

As for help, there was none: the nurse was gone on some errand; the

doctor was arranging for the funeral of Oxbye under the name of Lord

Harry Norland; the cottage was empty.

Such a fainting fit does not last for ever. Iris came round, and sat

up, looking wildly around.

"What is it?" she cried. "What does it mean?"

"It means, my love, that you have returned to your husband." He laid an

arm round her, and kissed her again and again.

"You are my Harry!--living!--my own Harry?"

"Your own Harry, my darling. What else should I be?"