Blind Love

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.