MAN AND WIFE
TOWARDS evening, the Dane was brought to the cottage.
A feeling of pride which forbade any display of curiosity, strengthened
perhaps by an irresistible horror of Vimpany, kept Iris in her room.
Nothing but the sound of footsteps, outside, told her when the
suffering man was taken to his bed-chamber on the same floor. She was,
afterwards informed by Fanny that the doctor turned down the lamp in
the corridor, before the patient was helped to ascend the stairs, as a
means of preventing the mistress of the house from plainly seeing the
stranger's face, and recognising the living likeness of her husband.
The hours advanced--the bustle of domestic life sank into
silence--everybody but Iris rested quietly in bed.
Through the wakeful night the sense of her situation oppressed her
sinking spirits. Mysteries that vaguely threatened danger made their
presence felt, and took their dark way through her thoughts. The
cottage, in which the first happy days of her marriage had been passed,
might ere long be the scene of some evil deed, provoking the lifelong
separation of her husband and herself! Were these the exaggerated fears
of a woman in a state of hysterical suspicion? It was enough for Iris
to remember that Lord Harry and Mr. Vimpany had been alike incapable of
telling her the truth. The first had tried to deceive her; the second
had done his best to frighten her. Why? If there was really nothing to
be afraid of--why? The hours of the early morning came; and still she
listened in vain for the sound of my lord's footstep on the stairs;
still she failed to hear the cautious opening of his dressing-room
door. Leaving her chair, Iris rested on the bed. As time advanced,
exhaustion mastered her; she slept.
Awakening at a late hour, she rang for Fanny Mere. The master had just
returned. He had missed the latest night-train to Passy; and, rather
than waste money on hiring a carriage at that hour, he had accepted the
offer of a bed at the house of his friends. He was then below stairs,
hoping to see Lady Harry at breakfast.
His wife joined him.
Not even at the time of the honeymoon had the Irish lord been a more
irresistibly agreeable man than he was on that memorable morning. His
apologies for having failed to return at the right time were little
masterpieces of grace and gaiety. The next best thing to having been
present, at the theatrical performance of the previous night, was to
hear his satirical summary of the story of the play, contrasting
delightfully with his critical approval of the fine art of the actors.
The time had been when Iris would have resented such merciless trifling
with serious interests as this. In these earlier and better days, she
would have reminded him affectionately of her claim to be received into
his confidence--she would have tried all that tact and gentleness and
patience could do to win his confession of the ascendency exercised
over him by his vile friend--and she would have used the utmost
influence of her love and her resolution to disunite the fatal
fellowship which was leading him to his ruin.
But Iris Henley was Lady Harry now.
She was sinking--as Mrs. Vimpany had feared, as Mountjoy had
foreseen--lower and lower on the descent to her husband's level. With a
false appearance of interest in what he was saying she waited for her
chance of matching him with his own weapons of audacious deceit. He
ignorantly offered her the opportunity--setting the same snare to catch
his wife, which she herself had it in contemplation to use for
entrapping her husband into a confession of the truth.
"Ah, well--I have said more than enough of my last night's amusement,"
he confessed. "It's your turn now, my dear. Have you had a look at the
poor fellow whom the doctor is going to cure?" he asked abruptly; eager
to discover whether she had noticed the likeness between Oxbye and
himself.
Her eyes rested on him attentively. "I have not yet seen the person you
allude to," she answered. "Is Mr. Vimpany hopeful of his recovery?"
He took out his case, and busied himself in choosing a cigar. In the
course of his adventurous life, he had gained some knowledge of the
effect of his own impetuous temper on others, and of difficulties which
he had experienced when circumstances rendered it necessary to keep his
face in a state of discipline.
"Oh, there's no reason for anxiety!" he said, with an over-acted
interest in examining his cigar. "Mr. Oxbye is in good hands."
"People do sometimes sink under an illness," she quietly remarked.
Without making any reply he took out his matchbox. His hand trembled a
little; he failed at the first attempt to strike a light.
"And doctors sometimes make mistakes," Iris went on.
He was still silent. At the second attempt, he succeeded with the
match, and lit his cigar.
"Suppose Mr. Vimpany made a mistake," she persisted. "In the case of
this stranger, it might lead to deplorable results."
Lord Harry lost his temper, and with it his colour.
"What the devil do you mean?" he cried.
"I might ask, in my turn," she said, "what have I done to provoke an
outbreak of temper? I only made a remark."
At that critical moment, Fanny Mere entered the room with a telegram in
her hand.
"For you, my lady."
Iris opened the telegram. The message was signed by Mrs. Vimpany, and
was expressed in these words: "You may feel it your duty to go to your
father. He is dangerously ill."
Lord Harry saw a sudden change in his wife's face that roused his
guilty suspicions. "Is it anything about me?" he asked.
Iris handed the telegram to him in silence. Having looked at it, he
desired to hear what her wishes were.
"The telegram expresses my wishes," she said. "Have you any objection
to my leaving you?"
"None whatever," he answered eagerly. "Go, by all means."
If it had still been possible for her to hesitate, that reply would
have put an end to all further doubt. She turned away to leave the
room. He followed her to the door.
"I hope you don't think there is any want of sympathy on my part," he
said. "You are quite right to go to your father. That was all I meant."
He was agitated, honestly agitated, while he spoke. Iris saw it, and
felt it gratefully. She was on the point of making a last appeal to his
confidence, when he opened the door for her. "Don't let me detain you,"
he said. His voice faltered; he suddenly turned aside before she could
look at him.
Fanny was waiting in the hall, eager to see the telegram. She read it
twice and reflected for a moment. "How often do things fit themselves
to one's wishes in this convenient way?" she asked herself. "It's
lucky," she privately decided--"almost too lucky. Let me pack up your
things," she continued, addressing her mistress, "while I have some
time to myself. Mr. Oxbye is asleep."
As the day wore on, the noble influences in the nature of Iris, failing
fast, yet still at rare intervals struggling to assert themselves,
inspired her with the resolution to make a last attempt to give her
husband an opportunity of trusting her. He was not in his room, not in
any other part of the house, not in the garden. The hours passed--she
was left to eat her dinner in solitude. For the second time, he was
avoiding her. For the second time, he distrusted the influence of his
wife. With a heavy heart she prepared for her departure by the
night-mail.
The duties of the new nurse kept her in the cottage. Filled with alarm
for the faithful creature whom she was leaving--to what fate, who could
say?--Iris kissed her at parting.
Fanny's faint blue eyes filled with tears. She dashed them away, and
held her mistress for an instant in her arms. "I know whom you are
thinking of," she whispered. "He is not here to bid you good-bye. Let
me see what I can find in his room." Iris had already looked round the
room, in the vain hope of finding a letter. Fanny rushed up the stairs,
determined on a last search--and ran down again with a folded morsel of
flimsy foreign notepaper in her hand. "My ugly eyes are quicker than
yours," she said. "The air must have come in at the window and blown it
off the table." Iris eagerly read the letter:
"I dare not deny that you will be better away from us, but only for a
while. Forgive me, dearest; I cannot find the courage to say good-bye."
Those few words spoke for him--and no more.
Briefly on her side, but not unkindly, his wife answered him:
"You have spared me a bitter moment. May I hope to find the man whom I
have trusted and honoured, when I come back? Good-bye."
When were they to meet again? And how?