Blind Love

It is two years after the murder of Lord Harry Norland, the last event

connected with this history.

Iris, when she accepted Hugh Mountjoy's offer of his Scotch villa, went

there resolved to hide herself from the world. Too many people, she

thought, knew her history, and what she had done. It was not likely

that the Directors of the Insurance Company would all hold their

tongues about a scandal so very unusual. Even if they did not charge

her with complicity, as they could, they would certainly tell the

story--all the more readily since Lord Harry's murder--of the

conspiracy and its success. She could never again, she told herself, be

seen in the world.

She was accompanied by her friend and maid--the woman whose fidelity to

her had been so abundantly proved--and by Mrs. Vimpany, who acted as

housekeeper.

After a decent interval, Hugh Mountjoy joined her. She was now a widow.

She understood very well what he wished to say, and she anticipated

him. She informed him that nothing would ever induce her to become the

wife of any other man after her degradation. Hugh received this

intimation without a remark. He remained in the neighbourhood, however,

calling upon her frequently and offering no word of love. But he became

necessary to her. The frequent visits became daily; the afternoon

visits were paid in the morning: the visitor stayed all day. When the

time came for Iris to yield, and he left the house no more, there

seemed to be no change. But still they continued their retired life,

and now I do not think they will ever change it again.

Their villa was situated on the north shore of the Solway Firth, close

to the outfall of the Annan River, but on the west bank, opposite to

the little town of Annan. At the back was a large garden, the front

looked out upon the stretch of sand at low tide and the water at high

tide. The house was provided with a good library. Iris attended to her

garden, walked on the sands, read, or worked. They were a quiet

household. Husband and wife talked little. They walked about in the

garden, his arm about her waist, or hand in hand. The past, if not

forgotten, was ceasing to trouble them; it seemed a dreadful, terrible

dream. It left its mark in a gentle melancholy which had never belonged

to Iris in the old days.

And then happened the last event which the chronicler of this history

has to relate.

It began in the morning with a letter.

Mrs. Vimpany received it. She knew the handwriting, started, and hid it

quickly in her bosom. As soon as she could get away to her own room she

opened and read it.