Blind Love

One morning Iris was idly turning over the papers in her desk. There

were old letters, old photographs, all kinds of trifling treasures that

reminded her of the past--a woman keeps everything; the little

mementoes of her childhood, her first governess, her first school, her

school friendships--everything. As Iris turned over these things her

mind wandered back to the old days. She became again a young

girl--innocent, fancy free; she grew up--she was a woman innocent

still. Then her mind jumped at one leap to the present, and she saw

herself as she was--innocent no longer, degraded and guilty, the vile

accomplice of a vile conspiracy.

Then, as one who has been wearing coloured glasses puts them off and

sees things in their own true colours, she saw how she had been pulled

down by a blind infatuation to the level of the man who had held her in

his fascination; she saw him as he was--reckless, unstable, careless of

name and honour. Then for the first time she realised the depths into

which she was plunged and the life which she was henceforth doomed to

lead. The blind love fell from her--it was dead at last; but it left

her bound to the man by a chain which nothing could break; she was in

her right senses; she saw things as they were; but the knowledge came

too late.

Her husband made no attempt to bridge over the estrangement which had

thus grown up between them: it became wider every day; he lived apart

and alone; he sat in his own room, smoking more cigars, drinking more

brandy-and-water than was good for him; sometimes he paced the gravel

walks in the garden; in the evening, after dinner, he went out and

walked about the empty streets of the quiet city. Once or twice he

ventured into a cafe, sitting in a corner, his hat drawn over his eyes;

but that was dangerous. For the most part he kept in the streets, and

he spoke to no one.

Meantime the autumn had given place to winter, which began in wet and

dreary fashion. Day and night the rain fell, making the gravel walks

too wet and the streets impossible. Then Lord Harry sat in his room and

smoked all day long. And still the melancholy of the one increased, and

the boredom of the other.

He spoke at last. It was after breakfast.

"Iris," he said, "how long is this to continue?"

"This--what?"

"This life--this miserable solitude and silence."

"Till we die," she replied. "What else do you expect? You have sold our

freedom, and we must pay the price."