Blind Love

"So you did. And what of that?"

Dennis stood to his guns.

"Anybody who is acquainted with Mr. Arthur," he persisted, "knows that

(with all sorts of good qualities) the young gentleman is headstrong

and rash. If a friend told him he was in danger on the farm, that would

be enough of itself to make him stop where he is, and brave it out.

Whereas you, sir, are known to be cautious and careful, and farseeing

and discreet." He might have added: And cowardly and obstinate, and

narrow-minded and inflated by stupid self-esteem. But respect for his

employer had blindfolded the clerk's observation for many a long year

past. If one man may be born with the heart of a lion, another man may

be born with the mind of a mule. Dennis's master was one of the other

men.

"Very well put," Sir Giles answered indulgently. "Time will show, if

such an entirely unimportant person as my nephew Arthur is likely to be

assassinated. That allusion to one of the members of my family is a

mere equivocation, designed to throw me off my guard. Rank, money,

social influence, unswerving principles, mark ME out as a public

character. Go to the police-office, and let the best man who happens to

be off duty come here directly."

Good Dennis Howmore approached the door very unwillingly. It was

opened, from the outer side, before he had reached that end of the

room. One of the bank porters announced a visitor.

"Miss Henley wishes to know, sir, if you can see her."

Sir Giles looked agreeably surprised. He rose with alacrity to receive

the lady.

III

When Iris Henley dies there will, in all probability, be friends left

who remember her and talk of her--and there may be strangers present at

the time (women for the most part), whose curiosity will put questions

relating to her personal appearance. No replies will reward them with

trustworthy information. Miss Henley's chief claim to admiration lay in

a remarkable mobility of expression, which reflected every change of

feeling peculiar to the nature of a sweet and sensitive woman. For this

reason, probably, no descriptions of her will agree with each other. No

existing likenesses will represent her. The one portrait that was

painted of Iris is only recognisable by partial friends of the artist.

In and out of London, photographic likenesses were taken of her. They

have the honour of resembling the portraits of Shakespeare in this

respect--compared with one another, it is not possible to discover that

they present the same person. As for the evidence offered by the loving

memory of her friends, it is sure to be contradictory in the last

degree. She had a charming face, a commonplace face, an intelligent

face--a poor complexion, a delicate complexion, no complexion at

all--eyes that were expressive of a hot temper, of a bright intellect,

of a firm character, of an affectionate disposition, of a truthful

nature, of hysterical sensibility, of inveterate obstinacy--a figure

too short; no, just the right height; no, neither one thing nor the

other; elegant, if you like--dress shabby: oh, surely not; dress quiet

and simple; no, something more than that; ostentatiously quiet,

theatrically simple, worn with the object of looking unlike other

people. In one last word, was this mass of contradictions generally

popular, in the time when it was a living creature? Yes--among the men.

No--not invariably. The man of all others who ought to have been

fondest of her was the man who behaved cruelly to Iris--her own father.

And, when the poor creature married (if she did marry), how many of you

attended the wedding? Not one of us! And when she died, how many of you

were sorry for her? All of us! What? no difference of opinion in that

one particular? On the contrary, perfect concord, thank God.