Blind Love

"Surely you might have guessed it, without being told," Iris reminded

him. "Mrs. Lewson's faithful heart loves poor Arthur's memory--and

Arthur's grave is not far from your cottage."

"Don't speak of him!"

It was said loudly, peremptorily, passionately. He looked at her with

angry astonishment in his face. "You loved him too!" he said. "Can you

speak of him quietly? The noblest, truest, sweetest man that ever the

Heavens looked on, foully assassinated. And the wretch who murdered him

still living, free--oh, what is God's providence about?--is there no

retribution that will follow him? no just hand that will revenge

Arthur's death?"

As those fierce words escaped him, he was no longer the easy, gentle,

joyous creature whom Iris had known and loved. The furious passions of

the Celtic race glittered savagely in his eyes, and changed to a grey

horrid pallor the healthy colour that was natural to his face. "Oh, my

temper, my temper!" he cried, as Iris shrank from him. "She hates me

now, and no wonder." He staggered away from her, and burst into a

convulsive fit of crying, dreadful to hear. Compassion, divine

compassion, mastered the earthlier emotion of terror in the great heart

of the woman who loved him. She followed him, and laid her hand

caressingly on his shoulder. "I don't hate you, my dear," she said. "I

am sorry for Arthur--and, oh, so sorry for You!" He caught her in his

arms. His gratitude, his repentance, his silent farewell were all

expressed in a last kiss. It was a moment, never to be forgotten to the

end of their lives. Before she could speak, before she could think, he

had left her.

She called him back, through the open door. He never returned; he never

even replied. She ran to the window, and threw it up--and was just in

time to see him signal to the carriage and leap into it. Her horror of

the fatal purpose that was but too plainly rooted in him--her

conviction that he was on the track of the assassin, self devoted to

exact the terrible penalty of blood for blood--emboldened her to insist

on being heard. "Come back," she cried. "I must, I will, speak with

you."

He waved his hand to her with a gesture of despair. "Start your

horses," he shouted to the coachman. Alarmed by his voice and his look,

the man asked where he should drive to. Lord Harry pointed furiously to

the onward road. "Drive," he answered, "to the Devil!"