With some difficulty, Mountjoy controlled himself. After what she had
just said, his lips were sealed on the subject of Mrs. Vimpany's true
character. He could only persist in appealing to her duty to her
father.
"You are allowing your quick temper to carry you to strange
extremities," he answered. "If I think it of more importance to hasten
a reconciliation with your father than to encourage you to make
excursions with a lady whom you have only known for a week or two, what
have I done to deserve such an outbreak of anger? Hush! Not a word more
now! Here is the lady herself."
As he spoke, Mrs. Vimpany joined them; returning from her interview
with her husband at the inn. She looked first at Iris, and at once
perceived signs of disturbance in the young lady's face.
Concealing her anxiety under that wonderful stage smile, which affords
a refuge to so many secrets, Mrs. Vimpany said a few words excusing her
absence. Miss Henley answered, without the slightest change in her
friendly manner to the doctor's wife. The signs of disturbance were
evidently attributable to some entirely unimportant cause, from Mrs.
Vimpany's point of view. Mr. Mountjoy's discoveries had not been
communicated yet.
In Hugh's state of mind, there was some irritating influence in the
presence of the mistress of the house, which applied the spur to his
wits. He mischievously proposed submitting to her the question in
dispute between Iris and himself.
"It is a very simple matter," he said to Mrs. Vimpany. "Miss Henley's
father is anxious that she should return to him, after an estrangement
between them which is happily at an end. Do you think she ought to
allow any accidental engagements to prevent her from going home at
once? If she requests your indulgence, under the circumstances, has she
any reason to anticipate a refusal?"
Mrs. Vimpany's expressive eyes looked up, with saintly resignation, at
the dirty ceiling--and asked in dumb show what she had done to deserve
the injury implied by a doubt.
"Mr. Mountjoy," she said sternly, "you insult me by asking the
question."--"Dear Miss Henley," she continued, turning to Iris, "you
will do me justice, I am sure. Am I capable of allowing my own feelings
to stand in the way, when your filial duty is concerned? Leave me, my
sweet friend. Go! I entreat you, go home!"
She retired up the stage--no, no; she withdrew to the other end of the
room--and burst into the most becoming of all human tears, theatrical
tears. Impulsive Iris hastened to comfort the personification of
self-sacrifice, the model of all that was most unselfish in female
submission. "For shame! for shame!" she whispered, as she passed
Mountjoy.