Blind Love

The stranger twice lost his way in the tortuous old streets of the town

before he reached the inn. On giving his orders, it appeared that he

wanted three things: a private room, something to eat, and, while the

dinner was being cooked, materials for writing a letter.

Answering her daughter's questions downstairs, the landlady described

her guest as a nice-looking man dressed in deep mourning. "Young, my

dear, with beautiful dark brown hair, and a grand beard, and a sweet

sorrowful look. Ah, his eyes would tell anybody that his black clothes

are not a mere sham. Whether married or single, of course I can't say.

But I noticed the name on his travelling-bag. A distinguished name in

my opinion--Hugh Mountjoy. I wonder what he'll order to drink when he

has his dinner? What a mercy it will be if we can get rid of another

bottle of the sour French wine!"

The bell in the private room rang at that moment; and the landlady's

daughter, it is needless to say, took the opportunity of forming her

own opinion of Mr. Hugh Mountjoy.

She returned with a letter in her hand, consumed by a vain longing for

the advantages of gentle birth. "Ah, mother, if I was a young lady of

the higher classes, I know whose wife I should like to be!" Not

particularly interested in sentimental aspirations, the landlady asked

to see Mr. Mountjoy's letter. The messenger who delivered it was to

wait for an answer. It was addressed to: "Miss Henley, care of Clarence

Vimpany, Esquire, Honeybuzzard." Urged by an excited imagination, the

daughter longed to see Miss Henley. The mother was at a loss to

understand why Mr. Mountjoy should have troubled himself to write the

letter at all. "If he knows the young lady who is staying at the

doctor's house," she said, "why doesn't he call on Miss Henley?" She

handed the letter back to her daughter. "There! let the ostler take it;

he's got nothing to do."

"No, mother. The ostler's dirty hands mustn't touch it--I'll take the

letter myself. Perhaps I may see Miss Henley." Such was the impression

which Mr. Hugh Mountjoy had innocently produced on a sensitive young

person, condemned by destiny to the barren sphere of action afforded by

a country inn!

The landlady herself took the dinner upstairs--a first course of mutton

chops and potatoes, cooked to a degree of imperfection only attained in

an English kitchen. The sour French wine was still on the good woman's

mind. "What would you choose to drink, sir?" she asked. Mr. Mountjoy

seemed to feel no interest in what he might have to drink. "We have

some French wine, sir."