Blind Love

Mountjoy had decided on travelling to Honeybuzzard, as soon as he heard

that Miss Henley was staying with strangers in that town. Having had no

earlier opportunity of preparing her to see him, he had considerately

written to her from the inn, in preference to presenting himself

unexpectedly at the doctor's house. How would she receive the devoted

friend, whose proposal of marriage she had refused for the second time,

when they had last met in London?

The doctor's place of residence, situated in a solitary by-street,

commanded a view, not perhaps encouraging to a gentleman who followed

the medical profession: it was a view of the churchyard. The door was

opened by a woman-servant, who looked suspiciously at the stranger.

Without waiting to be questioned, she said her master was out. Mountjoy

mentioned his name, and asked for Miss Henley.

The servant's manner altered at once for the better; she showed him

into a small drawing-room, scantily and cheaply furnished. Some

poorly-framed prints on the walls (a little out of place perhaps in a

doctor's house) represented portraits of famous actresses, who had been

queens of the stage in the early part of the present century. The few

books, too, collected on a little shelf above the chimney-piece, were

in every case specimens of dramatic literature. "Who reads these

plays?" Mountjoy asked himself. "And how did Iris find her way into

this house?"

While he was thinking of her, Miss Henley entered the room.

Her face was pale and careworn; tears dimmed her eyes when Mountjoy

advanced to meet her. In his presence, the horror of his brother's

death by assassination shook Iris as it had not shaken her yet.

Impulsively, she drew his head down to her, with the fond familiarity

of a sister, and kissed his forehead. "Oh, Hugh, I know how you and

Arthur loved each other! No words of mine can say how I feel for you."

"No words are wanted, my dear," he answered tenderly. "Your sympathy

speaks for itself."

He led her to the sofa and seated himself by her side. "Your father has

shown me what you have written to him," he resumed; "your letter from

Dublin and your second letter from this place. I know what you have so

nobly risked and suffered in poor Arthur's interests. It will be some

consolation to me if I can make a return--a very poor return, Iris--for

all that Arthur's brother owes to the truest friend that ever man had.

No," he continued, gently interrupting the expression of her gratitude.

"Your father has not sent me here--but he knows that I have left London

for the express purpose of seeing you, and he knows why. You have

written to him dutifully and affectionately; you have pleaded for

pardon and reconciliation, when he is to blame. Shall I venture to tell

you how he answered me, when I asked if he had no faith left in his own

child? 'Hugh,' he said, 'you are wasting words on a man whose mind is

made up. I will trust my daughter when that Irish lord is laid in his

grave--not before.' That is a reflection on you, Iris, which I cannot

permit, even when your father casts it. He is hard, he is unforgiving;

but he must, and shall, be conquered yet. I mean to make him do you

justice; I have come here with that purpose, and that purpose only, in

view. May I speak to you of Lord Harry?"