THE SECOND PERIOD
CHAPTER XIII
IRIS AT HOME
A LITTLE more than four months had passed, since the return of Iris to
her father's house.
Among other events which occurred, during the earlier part of that
interval, the course adopted by Hugh Mountjoy, when Miss Henley's
suspicions of the Irish lord were first communicated to him, claims a
foremost place.
It was impossible that the devoted friend of Iris could look at her,
when they met again on their way to the station, without perceiving the
signs of serious agitation. Only waiting until they were alone in the
railway-carriage, she opened her heart unreservedly to the man in whose
clear intellect and true sympathy she could repose implicit trust. He
listened to what she could repeat of Lord Harry's language with but
little appearance of surprise. Iris had only reminded him of one, among
the disclosures which had escaped Mr. Vimpany at the inn. Under the
irresistible influence of good wine, the doctor had revealed the Irish
lord's motive for remaining in his own country, after the assassination
of Arthur Mountjoy. Hugh met the only difficulty in his way, without
shrinking from it. He resolved to clear his mind of its natural
prejudice against the rival who had been preferred to him, before he
assumed the responsibility of guiding Iris by his advice.
When he had in some degree recovered confidence in his own unbiased
judgment, he entered on the question of Lord Harry's purpose in leaving
England.
Without attempting to dispute the conclusion at which Iris had arrived,
he did his best to alleviate her distress. In his opinion, he was
careful to tell her, a discovery of the destination to which Lord Harry
proposed to betake himself, might be achieved. The Irish lord's
allusion to a new adventure, which would occupy him in searching for
diamonds or gold, might indicate a contemplated pursuit of the
assassin, as well as a plausible excuse to satisfy Iris. It was at
least possible that the murderer might have been warned of his danger
if he remained in England, and that he might have contemplated
directing his flight to a distant country, which would not only offer a
safe refuge, but also hold out (in its mineral treasures) a hope of
gain. Assuming that these circumstances had really happened, it was in
Lord Harry's character to make sure of his revenge, by embarking in the
steamship by which the assassin of Arthur Mountjoy was a passenger.
Wild as this guess at the truth undoubtedly was, it had one merit: it
might easily be put to the test.
Hugh had bought the day's newspaper at the station. He proposed to
consult the shipping advertisements relating, in the first place, to
communication with the diamond-mines and the goldfields of South
Africa.
This course of proceeding at once informed him that the first steamer,
bound for that destination, would sail from London in two days' time.
The obvious precaution to take was to have the Dock watched; and
Mountjoy's steady old servant, who knew Lord Harry by sight, was the
man to employ.
Iris naturally inquired what good end could be attained, if the
anticipated discovery actually took place.
To this Mountjoy answered, that the one hope--a faint hope, he must
needs confess--of inducing Lord Harry to reconsider his desperate
purpose, lay in the influence of Iris herself. She must address a
letter to him, announcing that his secret had been betrayed by his own
language and conduct, and declaring that she would never again see him,
or hold any communication with him, if he persisted in his savage
resolution of revenge. Such was the desperate experiment which
Mountjoy's generous and unselfish devotion to Iris now proposed to try.
The servant (duly entrusted with Miss Henley's letter) was placed on
the watch--and the event which had been regarded as little better than
a forlorn hope, proved to be the event that really took place. Lord
Harry was a passenger by the steamship.
Mountjoy's man presented the letter entrusted to him, and asked
respectfully if there was any answer. The wild lord read it--looked (to
use the messenger's own words) like a man cut to the heart--seemed at a
loss what to say or do--and only gave a verbal answer: "I sincerely
thank Miss Henley, and I promise to write when the ship touches at
Madeira." The servant continued to watch him when he went on board the
steamer; saw him cast a look backwards, as if suspecting that he might
have been followed; and then lost sight of him in the cabin. The vessel
sailed after a long interval of delay, but he never reappeared on the
deck.
The ambiguous message sent to her aroused the resentment of Iris; she
thought it cruel. For some weeks perhaps to come, she was condemned to
remain in doubt, and was left to endure the trial of her patience,
without having Mountjoy at hand to encourage and console her. He had
been called away to the south of France by the illness of his father.
But the fortunes of Miss Henley, at this period of her life, had their
brighter side. She found reason to congratulate herself on the
reconciliation which had brought her back to her father. Mr. Henley had
received her, not perhaps with affection, but certainly with kindness.
"If we don't get in each other's way, we shall do very well; I am glad
to see you again." That was all he had said to her, but it meant much
from a soured and selfish man.
Her only domestic anxiety was caused by another failure in the health
of her maid.
The Doctor declared that medical help would be of no avail, while Rhoda
Bennet remained in London. In the country she had been born and bred,
and to the country she must return. Mr. Henley's large landed property,
on the north of London, happened to include a farm in the neighbourhood
of Muswell Hill. Wisely waiting for a favourable opportunity, Iris
alluded to the good qualities which had made Rhoda almost as much her
friend as her servant, and asked leave to remove the invalid to the
healthy air of the farm.
Her anxiety about the recovery of a servant so astonished Mr. Henley,
that he was hurried (as he afterwards declared) into granting his
daughter's request. After this concession, the necessary arrangements
were easily made. The influence of Iris won the goodwill of the farmer
and his wife; Rhoda, as an expert and willing needlewoman, being sure
of a welcome, for her own sake, in a family which included a number of
young children. Miss Henley had only to order her carriage, and to be
within reach of the farm. A week seldom passed without a meeting
between the mistress and the maid.
In the meantime, Mountjoy (absent in France) did not forget to write to
Iris.
His letters offered little hope of a speedy return. The doctors had not
concealed from him that his father's illness would end fatally; but
there were reserves of vital power still left, which might prolong the
struggle. Under these melancholy circumstances, he begged that Iris
would write to him. The oftener she could tell him of the little events
of her life at home, the more kindly she would brighten the days of a
dreary life.
Eager to show, even in a trifling matter, how gratefully she
appreciated Mountjoy's past kindness, Iris related the simple story of
her life at home, in weekly letters addressed to her good friend. After
telling Hugh (among other things) of Rhoda's establishment at the farm,
she had some unexpected results to relate, which had followed the
attempt to provide herself with a new maid.
Two young women had been successively engaged--each recommended, by the
lady whom she had last served, with that utter disregard of moral
obligation which appears to be shamelessly on the increase in the
England of our day. The first of the two maids, described as "rather
excitable," revealed infirmities of temper which suggested a lunatic
asylum as the only fit place for her. The second young woman, detected
in stealing eau-de-cologne, and using it (mixed with water) as an
intoxicating drink, claimed merciful construction of her misconduct, on
the ground that she had been misled by the example of her last
mistress.
At the third attempt to provide herself with a servant, Iris was able
to report the discovery of a responsible person who told the truth--an
unmarried lady of middle age.
In this case, the young woman was described as a servant thoroughly
trained in the performance of her duties, honest, sober, industrious,
of an even temper, and unprovided with a "follower" in the shape of a
sweetheart. Even her name sounded favourably in the ear of a
stranger--it was Fanny Mere. Iris asked how a servant, apparently
possessed of a faultless character, came to be in want of a situation.
At this question the lady sighed, and acknowledged that she had "made a
dreadful discovery," relating to the past life of her maid. It proved
to be the old, the miserably old, story of a broken promise of
marriage, and of the penalty paid as usual by the unhappy woman. "I
will say nothing of my own feelings," the maiden lady explained. "In
justice to the other female servants, it was impossible for me to keep
such a person in my house; and, in justice to you, I must most
unwillingly stand in the way of Fanny Mere's prospects by mentioning my
reason for parting with her."
"If I could see the young woman and speak to her," Iris said, "I should
like to decide the question of engaging her, for myself."
The lady knew the address of her discharged servant, and--with some
appearance of wonder--communicated it. Miss Henley wrote at once,
telling Fanny Mere to come to her on the following day.
When she woke on the next morning, later than usual, an event occurred
which Iris had been impatiently expecting for some time past. She found
a letter waiting on her bedside table, side by side with her cup of
tea. Lord Harry had written to her at last.
Whether he used his pen or his tongue, the Irish lord's conduct was
always more or less in need of an apology. Here were the guilty one's
new excuses, expressed in his customary medley of frank confession and
flowery language:
"I am fearing, my angel, that I have offended you. You have too surely
said to yourself, This miserable Harry might have made me happy by
writing two lines--and what does he do? He sends a message in words
which tell me nothing.
"My sweet girl, the reason why is that I was in two minds when your man
stopped me on my way to the ship.
"Whether it was best for you--I was not thinking of myself--to confess
the plain truth, or to take refuge in affectionate equivocation, was
more than I could decide at the time. When minutes are enough for your
intelligence, my stupidity wants days. Well! I saw it at last. A man
owes the truth to a true woman; and you are a true woman. There you
find a process of reasoning--I have been five days getting hold of it.
"But tell me one thing first. Brutus killed a man; Charlotte Corday
killed a man. One of the two victims was a fine tyrant, and the other a
mean tyrant. Nobody blames those two historical assassins. Why then
blame me for wishing to make a third? Is a mere modern murderer beneath
my vengeance, by comparison with two classical tyrants who did _their_
murders by deputy? The man who killed Arthur Mountjoy is (next to Cain
alone) the most atrocious homicide that ever trod the miry ways of this
earth. There is my reply! I call it a crusher.
"So now my mind is easy. Darling, let me make your mind easy next.
"When I left you at the window of Vimpany's house, I was off to the
other railroad to find the murderer in his hiding-place by the seaside.
He had left it; but I got a trace, and went back to London--to the
Docks. Some villain in Ireland, who knows my purpose, must have turned
traitor. Anyhow, the wretch has escaped me.
"Yes; I searched the ship in every corner. He was not on board. Has he
gone on before me, by an earlier vessel? Or has he directed his flight
to some other part of the world? I shall find out in time. His day of
reckoning will come, and he, too, shall know a violent death! Amen. So
be it. Amen.
"Have I done now? Bear with me, gentle Iris--there is a word more to
come.
"You will wonder why I went on by the steamship--all the way to South
Africa--when I had failed to find the man I wanted, on board. What was
my motive? You, you alone, are always my motive. Lucky men have found
gold, lucky men have found diamonds. Why should I not be one of them?
My sweet, let us suppose two possible things; my own elastic
convictions would call them two likely things, but never mind that.
Say, I come back a reformed character; there is your only objection to
me, at once removed! And take it for granted that I return with a
fortune of my own finding. In that case, what becomes of Mr. Henley's
objection to me? It melts (as Shakespeare says somewhere) into thin
air. Now do take my advice, for once. Show this part of my letter to
your excellent father, with my love. I answer beforehand for the
consequences. Be happy, my Lady Harry--as happy as I am--and look for
my return on an earlier day than you may anticipate. Yours till death,
and after.
"HARRY."
Like the Irish lord, Miss Henley was "in two minds," while she rose,
and dressed herself. There were parts of the letter for which she loved
the writer, and parts of it for which she hated him.
What a prospect was before that reckless man--what misery, what horror,
might not be lying in wait in the dreadful future! If he failed in the
act of vengeance, that violent death of which he had written so
heedlessly might overtake him from another hand. If he succeeded, the
law might discover his crime, and the infamy of expiation on the
scaffold might be his dreadful end. She turned, shuddering, from the
contemplation of those hideous possibilities, and took refuge in the
hope of his safe, his guiltless return. Even if his visions of success,
even if his purposes of reform (how hopeless at his age!) were actually
realised, could she consent to marry the man who had led his life, had
written this letter, had contemplated (and still cherished) his
merciless resolution of revenge? No woman in her senses could let the
bare idea of being his wife enter her mind. Iris opened her
writing-desk, to hide the letter from all eyes but her own. As she
secured it with the key, her heart sank under the return of a terror
remembered but too well Once more, the superstitious belief in a
destiny that was urging Lord Harry and herself nearer and nearer to
each other, even when they seemed to be most widely and most surely
separated, thrilled her under the chilling mystery of its presence. She
dropped helplessly into a chair. Oh, for a friend who could feel for
her, who could strengthen her, whose wise words could restore her to
her better and calmer self! Hugh was far away; and Iris was left to
suffer and to struggle alone.
Heartfelt aspirations for help and sympathy! Oh, irony of
circumstances, how were they answered? The housemaid entered the room,
to announce the arrival of a discharged servant, with a lost character.
"Let the young woman come in," Iris said. Was Fanny Mere the friend
whom she had been longing for? She looked at her troubled face in the
glass--and laughed bitterly.