THE FIRST QUARREL
EARLY in the morning of the next day, Lord Harry received the doctor's
telegram. Iris not having risen at the time, he sent for Fanny Mere,
and ordered her to get the spare room ready for a guest. The maid's
busy suspicion tempted her to put a venturesome question. She asked if
the person expected was a lady or a gentleman.
"What business is it of yours who the visitor is?" her master asked
sharply. Always easy and good-humoured with his inferiors in general,
Lord Harry had taken a dislike to his wife's maid, from the moment when
he had first seen her. His Irish feeling for beauty and brightness was
especially offended by the unhealthy pallor of the woman's complexion,
and the sullen self-suppression of her manner. All that his native
ingenuity had been able to do was to make her a means of paying a
compliment to his wife. "Your maid has one merit in my eyes," he said;
"she is a living proof of the sweetness of your temper."
Iris joined her husband at the breakfast-table with an appearance of
disturbance in her face, seldom seen, during the dull days of her life
at Passy. "I hear of somebody coming to stay with us," she said. "Not
Mr. Vimpany again, I hope and trust?"
Lord Harry was careful to give his customary morning kiss, before he
replied. "Why shouldn't my faithful old friend come and see me again?"
he asked, with his winning smile.
"Pray don't speak of that hateful man," she answered, "as your faithful
old friend! He is nothing of the kind. What did you tell me when he
took leave of us after his last visit, and I owned I was glad that he
had gone? You said: 'Faith, my dear, I'm as glad as you are.'"
Her good-natured husband laughed at this little picture of himself.
"Ah, my darling, how many more times am I to make the same confession
to my pretty priest? Try to remember, without more telling, that it's
one of my misfortunes to be a man of many tempers. There are times when
I get tired to death of Mr. Vimpany; and there are times when the
cheery old devil exercises fascinations over me. I declare you're
spoiling the eyebrows that I admire by letting them twist themselves
into a frown! After the trouble I have taken to clear your mind of
prejudice against an unfortunate man, it's disheartening to find you so
hard on the poor fellow's faults and so blind to his virtues."
The time had been when this remonstrance might have influenced his
wife's opinion. She passed it over without notice now.
"Does he come here by your invitation?" she asked.
"How else should he come here, my dear?"
She looked at her husband with doubt too plainly visible in her eyes.
"I wonder what your motive is for sending for him," she said.
He was just lifting his teacup to his lips--he put it down again when
he heard those words.
"Are you ill this morning?" he asked.
"No."
"Have I said anything that has offended you?"
"Certainly not."
"Then I must tell you this, Iris; I don't approve of what you have just
said. It sounds, to my mind, unpleasantly like suspicion of me and
suspicion of my friend. I see your face confessing it, my lady, at this
moment."
"You are half right, Harry, and no more. What you see in my face is
suspicion of your friend."
"Founded on what, if you please?"
"Founded on what I have seen of him, and on what I know of him. When
you tried to alter my opinion of Mr. Vimpany some time since, I did my
best to make my view your view. I deceived myself, for your sake; I put
the best construction on what he said and did, when he was staying
here. It was well meant, but it was of no use. In a thousand different
ways, while he was doing his best to win my favour, his true self was
telling tales of him under the fair surface. Mr. Vimpany is a bad man.
He is the very worst friend you could have about you at any time--and
especially at a time when your patience is tried by needy
circumstances."
"One word, Iris. The more eloquent you are, the more I admire you.
Only, don't mention my needy circumstances again."
She passed over the interruption as she had already passed over the
remonstrance, without taking notice of it.
"Dearest, you are always good to me," she continued gently. "Am I wrong
in thinking that love gives me some little influence over you still?
Women are vain--are they not?--and I am no better than the rest of
them. Flatter your wife's vanity, Harry, by attaching some importance
to her opinion. Is there time enough, yet, to telegraph to Mr. Vimpany?
Quite out of the question, is it? Well, then, if he must come here,
do--pray, pray do consider Me. Don't let him stay in the house! I'll
find a good excuse, and take a bedroom for him in the neighbourhood.
Anywhere else, so long as he is not here. He turns me cold when I think
of him, sleeping under the same roof with ourselves. Not with us! oh,
Harry, not with us!"
Her eyes eagerly searched her husband's face; she looked there for
indulgence, she looked for conviction. No! he was still admiring her.
"On my word of honour," he burst out, "you fascinate me. What an
imagination you have got! One of these days, Iris, I shall be prouder
of you than ever; I shall find you a famous literary character. I don't
mean writing a novel; women who can't even hem a handkerchief can write
a novel. It's poetry I'm thinking of. Irish melodies by Lady Harry that
beat Tom Moore. What a gift! And there are fortunes made, as I have
heard, by people who spoil fair white paper to some purpose. I wish I
was one of them."
"Have you no more to say to me?" she asked.
"What more should there be? You wouldn't have me take you seriously, in
what you have just said of Vimpany?"
"Why not?"
"Oh, come, come, my darling! Just consider. With a bedroom empty and
waiting, upstairs, is my old Vimpany to be sent to quarters for the
night among strangers? I wouldn't speak harshly to you, Iris, for the
whole world; and I don't deny that the convivial doctor may be
sometimes a little too fond of his drop of grog. You will tell me,
maybe, that he hasn't got on nicely with his wife; and I grant it.
There are not many people who set such a pretty example of matrimony as
we do. Poor humanity--there's all that's to be said about it. But when
you tell me that Vimpany is a bad man, and the worst friend I could
possibly have, and so forth--what better can I do than set it down to
your imagination? I've a pretty fancy, myself; and I think I see my
angel inventing poetical characters, up among congenial clouds. What's
the matter? Surely, you haven't done breakfast yet?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to leave me?"
"I am going to my room."
"You're in a mighty hurry to get away. I never meant to vex you, Iris.
Ah, well, if you must leave the table, I'll have the honour of opening
the door for you, at any rate. I wonder what you're going to do?"
"To cultivate my imagination," she answered, with the first outbreak of
bitterness that had escaped her yet.
His face hardened. "There seems to be something like bearing malice in
this," he said. "Are you treating me, for the first time, to an
exhibition of enmity? What am I to call it, if it's not that?"
"Call it disappointment," she suggested quietly, and left him.
Lord Harry went back to his breakfast. His jealousy was up in arms
again. "She's comparing me with her absent friend," he said to himself,
"and wishing she had married the amiable Mountjoy instead of me."
So the first quarrel ended--and Mr. Vimpany had been the cause of it.