IRIS HARLAND.
On the same evening that the newly-appointed officer of the _Pandora_
was congratulating himself on his good luck, and trying to deceive
himself into believing he was in love with the girl he was engaged to
marry, a very different scene was being enacted in a furnished lodging
in one of the smaller streets of Pimlico. The chief actor there was
also a man--young, good-looking, and a gentleman--but with distinct
traces on his countenance of the tempest of passions and vices he had
passed through. He called himself Godfrey Harland. He was a fine,
well-built man, with dark hair, an olive complexion, and a black
moustache. His eyes, which were also dark and piercing, were set too
near his nose for honesty, and had a cunning, distrustful look in
them. His mouth was small, with thin compressed lips that covered a
set of strong white teeth, and his jaw was heavy and determined. As he
sat, pondering over his past and his future, with a cigar between his
lips, and a glass of brandy and water in his hand, he looked evil, and
almost dangerous. Godfrey Harland had had a chequered life. His father
had possessed a large fortune, and given his son, whilst young, the
advantages not only of a liberal education and college training, but
unlimited money to supply himself with all the luxuries, and indulge
in all the dissipations of life. But one day the crash came. Godfrey’s
father lost all his money in that great lottery which has ruined so
many thousands, the Stock Exchange, and his son suffered with him. He
was at once withdrawn from college, his ample allowance was stopped,
and he was told he must go out into the world and support himself. With
some great souls a reverse of fortune proves a stimulus to exertion,
and is the test that brings out their virtues. But weaker natures fail
under it, and Godfrey Harland’s nature was essentially weak. By reason
of his father’s former influence in the city, he was soon installed as
clerk in one of the best-known London firms. Before he had been there
three months, however, a mysterious forgery was committed by some one
in the house, and before the offender could be discovered Godfrey had
fled to America, thereby leaving a dark suspicion on his own name.
In the United States he had tried his hand at everything. He tilled the
ground and lived with the farm hands in the warry on pork and beans.
He joined an old trapper in the Rocky Mountains, where he had many a
rough struggle with the ‘grizzlies,’ and left him for a cattle-herder
on a ranche in Texas, where he earned the _soubriquet_ of ‘Satan’
amongst the drovers, for his dare-devil propensities. He was engaged in
many a night raid on the Indians, and sat in his saddle for three days
before a cattle stampede, and ‘knifed’ or ‘winged’ more than one man
in that wild territory, where shooting a fellow-creature is thought no
more of than felling a buffalo.
In fact, Godfrey Harland had been everything by turns. A guard on the
Grand Trunk--a baggage man to a theatrical company--an able seaman on a
coaster--and last, though not least, a barman at a ‘hell-upon-earth’ in
New York, where he had imbibed his gambling propensities, and whence he
had ventured to return to England under an assumed name--not the first
he had taken--and make a new circle of acquaintances for himself.
‘Curse that “Peppermint!”’ he was saying, when we first see him; ‘if he
had pulled it off at Aintree, I should have been safe. I can’t stand
much more of this. They must come down upon me before long. I wouldn’t
have minded my shaking at the Lincoln, though it was stiff enough. But
I believe they dosed “Peppermint,” and I owe all my debts to a painted
quid. By Jove! I should like to know how much old Roper’s worth. If
he would stand to lend me a “thou.,” I might make my running with
Vansittart’s daughter. I wonder if the old stock-driver meant what he
said the other night? Gad! what a stroke of luck it would be. A home at
the Antipodes--a settled position with all the old worries left behind
me in England, and the chance of an heiress. I mustn’t lose it, if I
stake my very soul upon the die. I shall never get such an opportunity
of retrenching again. Not if I live to the age of Methusaleh. Never!’
And he drained the glass of brandy and water with a feverish
impatience, as though the good fortune he was anticipating lay at the
bottom of it.
At this juncture the door of the room opened, and a woman entered. What
a woman she was. What a graceful, refined, _spirituelle_ creature. Her
slight, lissom figure was the impersonation of elegance. Her hazel eyes
looked out from her pale features like those of a deer, heavy with
unshed tears. Her tender mouth was even now curved in a sad smile,
and her sunny hair, with its rich chesnut shades of light and shadow,
rippled about her shoulders, and curled caressingly around her youthful
face. She was dressed shabbily, and somewhat untidily, for it is hard
to keep always tidy when one is poor, but she looked a gentlewoman
from head to foot--more, she might have been a princess, masquerading
in a beggar’s clothes. And this was Iris Harland, Godfrey Harland’s
wife. What could a man like this want with a wife? He had never
been constant to one thing in this world. Was it likely he would be
constant to a woman? Iris knew to her cost that he was not. But she had
already outlived the pain the knowledge gave her. The numerous shocks
she had sustained since her marriage had rendered her indifferent.
Many an insult she had borne patiently from her husband, and without
resentment, until all her love had died away, and left nothing behind
it but a feeling of contempt and fear.
Why had he married her? Godfrey Harland had often asked himself this
question and been unable to answer it. He was the last man in the
world who should have encumbered himself with a wife. But after his
return from America, he had met this girl living quietly with her
widowed father, and had fallen desperately in love with her purity and
innocence, so different from what he had been accustomed to. And Iris
had believed him to be all that he was not. His varied experiences,
and able mode of relating the wonders of his travels, had fascinated
her girlish heart, and made her accept him as her life-long companion
and friend. But six months of married life had undeceived her. By that
time, reverses had come upon them, and the man’s brutal and selfish
nature had revealed itself. His passion for her had been simply an
infatuation. He had been delighted with his pretty toy at first, but,
like a spoiled child, he spurned it, when it had become familiar to
him. He had wounded her deeply by his indifference; he had frightened
her with his violence and threats, but it was his insults that had
stabbed her to the heart, and killed her respect for him. Had he taken
a horse-whip and struck her (as he was quite capable of doing), she
might still have forgiven him, but an insult to a woman’s honour is
never forgotten, and seldom pardoned. Many women will slave for their
husbands night and day--they will starve themselves to keep the wolf
from the door, and give up home, relations, luxury, everything, for
the man they love. But as soon as a man returns his wife’s affection
by falsely impugning her honour--when he accuses her of the infidelity
of which he alone has been guilty--he has severed the last link that
bound them together, and has only himself to thank, if in the future
her outraged feelings find relief in the very consolation he has
unwarrantably accused her of seeking. Such was the state of things
between Godfrey Harland and his wife. A sullen sense of being in the
wrong on his side, and a great contempt for all he did and said on
hers--and only one wish shared between them in common, that they had
never met!
‘Here is a letter for you,’ said Mrs Harland, as she placed it in his
hand. He opened and read it through in silence, although he could not
conceal the satisfaction it gave him.
‘A man wants to see me on business. I must go out to-night, and at
once. Is there any more brandy in the cupboard, Iris?’ said Godfrey, as
he thrust the letter into his coat pocket.
‘Is it advisable you should drink any more if you are going to transact
business?’ she inquired calmly. She had observed her husband’s
expression on reading the letter, and his ready concealment of it, and
she did not believe it treated of business. But she did not say so.
If her marriage had done nothing else for her, it had taught her to
conceal her thoughts.
‘Confound you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you suppose I should ask for it, if
I didn’t require it? Give it me at once, or else send the girl out for
some more. Pour me out a soda, and put a couple of lemons into it, and
a spoonful of bitters. That will pull me round a bit. I feel quite
confused with trying to see my way out of the mess we are in.’
‘Shall you be back to-night, Godfrey?’
‘Don’t know. It all depends. Perhaps I may be detained late. I’ve got
to see some fellows at the club; but don’t sit up for me any way. And
just put out my dress clothes, will you? I can’t go out this figure,’
and lifting the tankard to his lips, he drained off his ‘pick-me-up’ at
a draught.
His wife left him without another word. Her lips were compressed, and
her eyes darted scorn, but she did not let him see them. She knew he
had lied to her, as he had done for some time past, but if she put him
on his guard, she should never gain an opportunity to learn the truth.
So she laid out his evening suit upon the bed, and placed his white
tie upon the toilet-table, and lighted the candles just as though she
believed he would take all that trouble to meet some man on business
at a city club. And Godfrey Harland fell into the trap. Heated and
confused by the amount of liquor he had imbibed, he forgot all about
the letter he had received, and issued from the bedroom half-an-hour
afterwards in full evening dress, leaving it behind him in the pocket
of his tweed coat. He did not deign to say good-night to his wife, nor
to give her any further information of his proceedings, but turning on
his heel, slammed the front door, and left the house. When Iris was
convinced that he was really gone, she rose from her seat and walked
into the bedroom.
‘I _must_ know what takes him away from home so often,’ she thought.
‘I am sure it is not business, and if there is any other woman in
the case, it is time I asserted myself, and took some action in the
matter. Under any circumstances, he makes my life a hell, but there
is no need for me to bear more insult than I am obliged to.’ She put
her hand into the pocket of the coat which he had thrown upon a chair,
and drew forth the letter. It was addressed in a writing which looked
half mercantile, and half illiterate, and had a great many flourishes
about it. As Iris’s eyes fell on its contents, her pale face grew still
paler with horror. Godfrey had been brutal, unfaithful, and cruel to
her, but she had never thought so badly of him as this--that he could
contemplate kicking her off like an old shoe, and leaving her to starve
in England, whilst he sought his fortunes in a new country.
And yet, what else could that letter mean?
‘DEAR MR HARLAND,--I have been thinking over the conversation we
had a few days since; and I have a proposition to make to you.
You are young, unencumbered, and willing to work. Why not take
the appointment we were speaking of--that of land-agent to my
New Zealand property, and sail with us in the _Pandora_. Under
these circumstances I shall be happy and willing to defray your
expenses to Tabbakooloo, which I should not have offered under
ordinary circumstances. Mrs But Vansittart likes you, and so does
Grace--indeed, we all do, and should be pleased to have such a friend
in our Bush life. Will you come in this evening and speak to me on
the subject, as there is no time to lose. The _Pandora_ (Messrs Stern
& Stales) sails on the 24th. Trusting my proposal will please you,--I
am, yours sincerely,
JOHN VANSITTART.’
‘He means to accept this offer,’ said Iris, with clenched teeth, and
trying hard not to cry. ‘He will go with these fine friends of his
to New Zealand, and I am powerless to stop him. If I tell him I know
it, he will soothe me with promises of remittances that will never
come--and I--Oh, God! what _can_ I do, left here all by myself--without
money or friends, or a home? Oh, if my poor father had only lived I
would have gone back to him to-night and never, _never_ left him more.’
The picture drawn by her imagination of her utter impotence to avert
her fate, here overcame poor Iris’s fortitude, and the tears welled up
to her pathetic hazel eyes, and coursed slowly down her cheeks. But she
did not know that she was sobbing, until a knock at the door made her
cognisant she had been overheard.
‘It’s me, mistress,’ whispered a rough voice; ‘mayn’t I come in?’
‘Oh yes, Maggie. What do you want?’ said Iris, drying her eyes.
‘_Want!_’ echoed the servant, as she made her appearance; ‘why, to know
what’s been vexing you. That’s what I want.’
She was a dirty, slipshod girl, after the fashion of maids-of-all-work
in smoky London, but she had youth and a certain coarse comeliness
about her which might prove attractive to men who looked for nothing
below the surface.
‘Has _he_ been bulleying you agen?’ she asked, with rough sympathy,
as she stood in the doorway and regarded her mistress. ‘It’s a
shame--that’s what I say--and I’d like to pay him out for it. That I
would.’
‘Hush! Maggie; you mustn’t say that!’ remonstrated Iris. ‘Of course,
you know I am not happy, but you have been in your master’s pay for
several years, and you mustn’t bite the hand that feeds you.’
‘I’d never have stayed if it hadn’t been for _you_, mistress--nor if
he had treated you properly neither. And perhaps, after all, I’ve been
wrong to stay,’ said Maggie, with a sob in her throat.
‘_Wrong to stay!_’ repeated Iris in surprise. ‘Why, Maggie! what should
I have done without you?’
‘Ah! but you don’t know,’ cried the servant.
‘I know that you’ve been the best girl to me that ever lived,’ said
Iris, gently. ‘That you have stood my friend through everything--often
my protector--and that I have found my best comfort in you.’
The only answer Maggie made to this speech was conveyed by throwing
herself on her knees at her mistress’s feet, and burying her
disorganised head in her lap.
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she gasped through her tears. ‘I ain’t
deserving of it; and if you knew what a bad girl I am, you’d turn me
out of your house to-morrow.’
‘I don’t think I should, Maggie. If I believed you to be bad (which I
don’t) I should try to return your kindness to me by pointing out a
better mode of life to you. But don’t talk nonsense. I have no fault to
find with you--so you need find none with yourself.’
‘You’re an angel, that’s what you are,’ said Maggie, standing up and
drying her eyes, ‘and I’m a brute, and so is he. But what vexes you
now, my pretty?’
This question brought poor Iris back to a remembrance of her own
troubles.
‘Oh! I can’t tell you, Maggie--at least not yet--for I am not even sure
if I have any right to feel vexed. But my future looks very dark to
me--very dark indeed, and I cannot help fretting to think what may be
in store.’
‘And _he’s_ at the bottom of it, of course,’ observed Maggie, with an
irreverent motion of her thumb towards the sitting-room.
Iris sighed. Was _he_ not at the bottom of all her troubles?
‘Has that letter got anything to do with the matter, mistress?’ asked
Maggie, looking at the paper in her hand.
‘Yes; but don’t ask me any more questions about it, Maggie. If Mr
Harland forces me to act, I promise you shall know all.’
‘You _promise_ that, mistress, on your word of honour?’
‘I do promise, dear Maggie,’ replied Iris, bending forward to kiss the
earnest face raised to hers. But Maggie started as if she had been shot.
‘No! no! you sha’n’t kiss me! I ain’t fit for you to touch. But let me
kiss your hand, dear. There! that can’t hurt you--and I wouldn’t hurt
you (God knows), not to save my own life.’ And with a smothered sob,
and an application of her grimy apron to her eyes, Maggie Greet took
her way down to the lower regions again.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]