CHAPTER I

Produced by James Rusk. HTML version by Al Haines.

Blind Love

by

Wilkie Collins (completed by Walter Besant)

CONTENTS

PREFACE

FIRST PERIOD

I THE SOUR FRENCH WINE

II THE MAN SHE REFUSED

III THE REGISTERED PACKET

IV THE GAME: MOUNTJOY LOSES

V THE GAME: MOUNTJOY PLAYS A NEW CARD

VI THE GAME: MOUNTJOY WINS

VII DOCTORING THE DOCTOR

VIII HER FATHER'S MESSAGE

IX MR. VIMPANY ON INTOXICATION

X THE MOCKERY OF DECEIT

XI MRS. VIMPANY'S FAREWELL

XII LORD HARRY's DEFENCE

THE SECOND PERIOD

XIII IRIS AT HOME

XIV THE LADY'S MAID

XV MR. HENLEY'S TEMPER

XVI THE DOCTOR IN FULL DRESS

XVII ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

XVIII PROFESSIONAL ASSISTANCE

XIX MR. HENLEY AT HOME

XX FIRST SUSPICIONS OF IRIS

XXI THE PARTING SCENE

XXII THE FATAL WORDS

THE THIRD PERIOD

XXIII NEWS OF IRIS

XXIV LORD HARRY'S HONEYMOON

XXV THE DOCTOR IN DIFFICULTIES

XXVI LONDON AND PARIS

XXVII THE BRIDE AT HOME

XXVIII THE MAID AND THE KEYHOLE

XXIX THE CONQUEST OF MR. VIMPANY

XXX SAXON AND CELT

XXXI THE SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS

XXXII GOOD-BYE TO IRIS

XXXIII THE DECREE OF FATE

XXXIV MY LORD'S MIND

XXXV MY LADY'S MIND

XXXVI THE DOCTOR MEANS MISCHIEF

XXXVII THE FIRST QUARREL

XXXVIII ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS

XXXIX THE MYSTERY OF THE HOSPITAL

XL DIRE NECESSITY

XLI THE MAN IS FOUND.

XLII THE METTLESOME MAID

XLIII FICTION: ATTEMPTED BY MY LORD

XLIV FICTION: IMPROVED BY THE DOCTOR

XLV FACT: RELATED BY FANNY

XLVI MAN AND WIFE

XLVII THE PATIENT AND MY LORD

XLVIII "THE MISTRESS AND THE MAID"

XLIX THE NURSE IS SENT AWAY

L IN THE ALCOVE

LI WHAT NEXT?

LII THE DEAD MAN'S PHOTOGRAPH

LIII THE WIFE'S RETURN

LIV ANOTHER STEP

LV THE ADVENTURES OF A FAITHFUL MAID

LVI FANNY'S NARRATIVE

LVII AT LOUVAIN

LVIII OF COURSE THEY WILL PAY

LIX THE CONSEQUENCES OF AN ADVERTISEMENT

LX ON THE EVE OF A CHANGE

LXI THE LAST DISCOVERY

LXII THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS

LXIII A REFUGE

LXIV THE INVINCIBLES

PREFACE

IN the month of August 1889, and in the middle of the seaside holiday,

a message came to me from Wilkie Collins, then, though we hoped

otherwise, on his death-bed.

It was conveyed to me by Mr. A. P. Watt. He told me that his son had

just come from Wilkie Collins: that they had been speaking of his

novel, "Blind Love," then running in the _Illustrated London News_:

that the novel was, unfortunately, unfinished: that he himself could

not possibly finish it: and that he would be very glad, if I would

finish it if I could find the time. And that if I could undertake this

work he would send me his notes of the remainder. Wilkie Collins added

these words: "If he has the time I think he will do it: we are both old

hands at this work, and understand it, and he knows that I would do the

same for him if he were in my place."

Under the circumstances of the case, it was impossible to decline this

request. I wrote to say that time should be made, and the notes were

forwarded to me at Robin Hood's Bay. I began by reading carefully and

twice over, so as to get a grip of the story and the novelist's

intention, the part that had already appeared, and the proofs so far as

the author had gone. I then turned to the notes. I found that these

were not merely notes such as I expected--simple indications of the

plot and the development of events, but an actual detailed scenario, in

which every incident, however trivial, was carefully laid down: there

were also fragments of dialogue inserted at those places where dialogue

was wanted to emphasise the situation and make it real. I was much

struck with the writer's perception of the vast importance of dialogue

in making the reader seize the scene. Description requires attention:

dialogue rivets attention.

It is not an easy task, nor is it pleasant, to carry on another man's

work: but the possession of this scenario lightened the work

enormously. I have been careful to adhere faithfully and exactly to the

plot, scene by scene, down to the smallest detail as it was laid down

by the author in this book. I have altered nothing. I have preserved

and incorporated every fragment of dialogue. I have used the very

language wherever that was written so carefully as to show that it was

meant to be used. I think that there is only one trivial detail where I

had to choose because it was not clear from the notes what the author

had intended. The plot of the novel, every scene, every situation, from

beginning to end, is the work of Wilkie Collins. The actual writing is

entirely his up to a certain point: from that point to the end it is

partly his, but mainly mine. Where his writing ends and mine begins, I

need not point out. The practised critic will, no doubt, at once lay

his finger on the spot.

I have therefore carried out the author's wishes to the best of my

ability. I would that he were living still, if only to regret that he

had not been allowed to finish his last work with his own hand!

WALTER BESANT.

BLIND LOVE

THE PROLOGUE

I

SOON after sunrise, on a cloudy morning in the year 1881, a special

messenger disturbed the repose of Dennis Howmore, at his place of

residence in the pleasant Irish town of Ardoon.

Well acquainted apparently with the way upstairs, the man thumped on a

bed-room door, and shouted his message through it: "The master wants

you, and mind you don't keep him waiting."

The person sending this peremptory message was Sir Giles Mountjoy of

Ardoon, knight and banker. The person receiving the message was Sir

Giles's head clerk. As a matter of course, Dennis Howmore dressed

himself at full speed, and hastened to his employer's private house on

the outskirts of the town.

He found Sir Giles in an irritable and anxious state of mind. A letter

lay open on the banker's bed, his night-cap was crumpled crookedly on

his head, he was in too great a hurry to remember the claims of

politeness, when the clerk said "Good morning."

"Dennis, I have got something for you to do. It must be kept a secret,

and it allows of no delay."

"Is it anything connected with business, sir?"

The banker lost his temper. "How can you be such an infernal fool as to

suppose that anything connected with business could happen at this time

in the morning? Do you know the first milestone on the road to Garvan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Go to the milestone, and take care that nobody sees you

when you get there. Look at the back of the stone. If you discover an

Object which appears to have been left in that situation on the ground,

bring it to me; and don't forget that the most impatient man in all

Ireland is waiting for you."

Not a word of explanation followed these extraordinary instructions.

The head clerk set forth on his errand, with his mind dwelling on the

national tendencies to conspiracy and assassination. His employer was

not a popular person. Sir Giles had paid rent when he owed it; and,

worse still, was disposed to remember in a friendly spirit what England

had done for Ireland, in the course of the last fifty years. If

anything appeared to justify distrust of the mysterious Object of which

he was in search, Dennis resolved to be vigilantly on the look-out for

a gun-barrel, whenever he passed a hedge on his return journey to the

town.

Arrived at the milestone, he discovered on the ground behind it one

Object only--a fragment of a broken tea-cup.

Naturally enough, Dennis hesitated. It seemed to be impossible that the

earnest and careful instructions which he had received could relate to

such a trifle as this. At the same time, he was acting under orders

which were as positive as tone, manner, and language could make them.

Passive obedience appeared to be the one safe course to take--at the

risk of a reception, irritating to any man's self-respect, when he

returned to his employer with a broken teacup in his hand.

The event entirely failed to justify his misgivings. There could be no

doubt that Sir Giles attached serious importance to the contemptible

discovery made at the milestone. After having examined and re-examined

the fragment, he announced his intention of sending the clerk on a

second errand--still without troubling himself to explain what his

incomprehensible instructions meant.

"If I am not mistaken," he began, "the Reading Rooms, in our town, open

as early as nine. Very well. Go to the Rooms this morning, on the

stroke of the clock." He stopped, and consulted the letter which lay

open on his bed. "Ask the librarian," he continued, "for the third

volume of Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.' Open the

book at pages seventy-eight and seventy-nine. If you find a piece of

paper between those two leaves, take possession of it when nobody is

looking at you, and bring it to me. That's all, Dennis. And bear in

mind that I shall not recover the use of my patience till I see you

again."

On ordinary occasions, the head clerk was not a man accustomed to

insist on what was due to his dignity. At the same time he was a

sensible human being, conscious of the consideration to which his

responsible place in the office entitled him. Sir Giles's irritating

reserve, not even excused by a word of apology, reached the limits of

his endurance. He respectfully protested.

"I regret to find, sir," he said, "that I have lost my place in my

employer's estimation. The man to whom you confide the superintendence

of your clerks and the transaction of your business has, I venture to

think, some claim (under the present circumstances) to be trusted."

The banker was now offended on his side.

"I readily admit your claim," he answered, "when you are sitting at

your desk in my office. But, even in these days of strikes,

co-operations, and bank holidays, an employer has one privilege

left--he has not ceased to be a Man, and he has not forfeited a man's

right to keep his own secrets. I fail to see anything in my conduct

which has given you just reason to complain."

Dennis, rebuked, made his bow in silence, and withdrew.

Did these acts of humility mean that he submitted? They meant exactly

the contrary. He had made up his mind that Sir Giles Mountjoy's motives

should, sooner or later, cease to be mysteries to Sir Giles Mountjoy's

clerk.

II

CAREFULLY following his instructions, he consulted the third volume of

Gibbon's great History, and found, between the seventy-eighth and

seventy-ninth pages, something remarkable this time.

It was a sheet of delicately-made paper, pierced with a number of

little holes, infinitely varied in size, and cut with the smoothest

precision. Having secured this curious object, while the librarian's

back was turned, Dennis Howmore reflected.

A page of paper, unintelligibly perforated for some purpose unknown,

was in itself a suspicious thing. And what did suspicion suggest to the

inquiring mind in South-Western Ireland, before the suppression of the

Land League? Unquestionably---Police!

On the way back to his employer, the banker's clerk paid a visit to an

old friend--a journalist by profession, and a man of varied learning

and experience as well. Invited to inspect the remarkable morsel of

paper, and to discover the object with which the perforations had been

made, the authority consulted proved to be worthy of the trust reposed

in him. Dennis left the newspaper office an enlightened man--with

information at the disposal of Sir Giles, and with a sense of relief

which expressed itself irreverently in these words: "Now I have got

him!"

The bewildered banker looked backwards and forwards from the paper to

the clerk, and from the clerk to the paper. "I don't understand it," he

said. "Do you?"

Still preserving the appearance of humility, Dennis asked leave to

venture on a guess. The perforated paper looked, as he thought, like a

Puzzle. "If we wait for a day or two," he suggested, "the Key to it may

possibly reach us."

On the next day, nothing happened. On the day after, a second letter

made another audacious demand on the fast failing patience of Sir Giles

Mountjoy.

Even the envelope proved to be a Puzzle on this occasion; the postmark

was "Ardoon." In other words, the writer had used the postman as a

messenger, while he or his accomplice was actually in the town, posting

the letter within half-a-minute's walk of the bank! The contents

presented an impenetrable mystery, the writing looked worthy of a

madman. Sentences appeared in the wildest state of confusion, and words

were so mutilated as to be unintelligible. This time the force of

circumstances was more than Sir Giles could resist. He took the clerk

into his confidence at last.

"Let us begin at the beginning," he said. "There is the letter you saw

on my bed, when I first sent for you. I found it waiting on my table

when I woke; and I don't know who put it there. Read it."

Dennis read as follows:

"Sir Giles Mountjoy,--I have a disclosure to make, in which one of the

members of your family is seriously interested. Before I can venture to

explain myself, I must be assured that I can trust to your good faith.

As a test of this, I require you to fulfil the two conditions that

follow--and to do it without the slightest loss of time. I dare not

trust you yet with my address, or my signature. Any act of

carelessness, on my part, might end fatally for the true friend who

writes these lines. If you neglect this warning, you will regret it to

the end of your life."

To the conditions on which the letter insisted there is no need to

allude. They had been complied with when the discoveries were made at

the back of the milestone, and between the pages of Gibson's history.

Sir Giles had already arrived at the conclusion that a conspiracy was

in progress to assassinate him, and perhaps to rob the bank. The wiser

head clerk pointed to the perforated paper and the incomprehensible

writing received that morning. "If we can find out what these mean," he

said, "you may be better able, sir, to form a correct opinion."

"And who is to do that?" the banker asked.

"I can but try, sir," was the modest reply, "if you see no objection to

my making the attempt."

Sir Giles approved of the proposed experiment, silently and

satirically, by a bend of his head.

Too discreet a man to make a suspiciously ready use of the information

which he had privately obtained, Dennis took care that his first

attempt should not be successful. After modestly asking permission to

try again, he ventured on the second occasion to arrive at a happy

discovery. Lifting the perforated paper, he placed it delicately over

the page which contained the unintelligible writing. Words and

sentences now appeared (through the holes in the paper) in their right

spelling and arrangement, and addressed Sir Giles in these terms:

"I beg to thank you, sir, for complying with my conditions. You have

satisfied me of your good faith. At the same time, it is possible that

you may hesitate to trust a man who is not yet able to admit you to his

confidence. The perilous position in which I stand obliges me to ask

for two or three days more of delay, before I can safely make an

appointment with you. Pray be patient--and on no account apply for

advice or protection to the police."

"Those last words," Sir Giles declared, "are conclusive! The sooner I

am under the care of the law the better. Take my card to the

police-office."

"May I say a word first, sir?"

"Do you mean that you don't agree with me?"

"I mean that."

"You were always an obstinate man Dennis; and it grows on you as you

get older. Never mind! Let's have it out. Who do _you_ say is the

person pointed at in these rascally letters?"

The head clerk took up the first letter of the two and pointed to the

opening sentence: "Sir Giles Mountjoy, I have a disclosure to make in

which one of the members of your family is seriously interested."

Dennis emphatically repeated the words: "one of the members of your

family." His employer regarded him with a broad stare of astonishment.

"One of the members of my family?" Sir Giles repeated, on his side.

"Why, man alive, what are you thinking of? I'm an old bachelor, and I

haven't got a family."

"There is your brother, sir."

"My brother is in France--out of the way of the wretches who are

threatening me. I wish I was with him!"

"There are your brother's two sons, Sir Giles."

"Well? And what is there to be afraid of? My nephew, Hugh, is in

London--and, mind! not on a political errand. I hope, before long, to

hear that he is going to be married--if the strangest and nicest girl

in England will have him. What's wrong now?"

Dennis explained. "I only wished to say, sir, that I was thinking of

your other nephew."

Sir Giles laughed. "Arthur in danger!" he exclaimed. "As harmless a

young man as ever lived. The worst one can say of him is that he is

throwing away his money--farming in Kerry."

"Excuse me, Sir Giles; there's not much chance of his throwing away his

money, where he is now. Nobody will venture to take his money. I met

with one of Mr. Arthur's neighbours at the market yesterday. Your

nephew is boycotted."

"So much the better," the obstinate banker declared. "He will be cured

of his craze for farming; and he will come back to the place I am

keeping for him in the office."

"God grant it!" the clerk said fervently.

For the moment, Sir Giles was staggered. "Have you heard something that

you haven't told me yet?" he asked.

"No, sir. I am only bearing in mind something which--with all

respect--I think you have forgotten. The last tenant on that bit of

land in Kerry refused to pay his rent. Mr. Arthur has taken what they

call an evicted farm. It's my firm belief," said the head clerk, rising

and speaking earnestly, "that the person who has addressed those

letters to you knows Mr. Arthur, and knows he is in danger--and is

trying to save your nephew (by means of your influence), at the risk of

his own life."

Sir Giles shook his head. "I call that a far-fetched interpretation,

Dennis. If what you say is true, why didn't the writer of those

anonymous letters address himself to Arthur, instead of to me?"

"I gave it as my opinion just now, sir, that the writer of the letter

knew Mr. Arthur."

"So you did. And what of that?"

Dennis stood to his guns.

"Anybody who is acquainted with Mr. Arthur," he persisted, "knows that

(with all sorts of good qualities) the young gentleman is headstrong

and rash. If a friend told him he was in danger on the farm, that would

be enough of itself to make him stop where he is, and brave it out.

Whereas you, sir, are known to be cautious and careful, and farseeing

and discreet." He might have added: And cowardly and obstinate, and

narrow-minded and inflated by stupid self-esteem. But respect for his

employer had blindfolded the clerk's observation for many a long year

past. If one man may be born with the heart of a lion, another man may

be born with the mind of a mule. Dennis's master was one of the other

men.

"Very well put," Sir Giles answered indulgently. "Time will show, if

such an entirely unimportant person as my nephew Arthur is likely to be

assassinated. That allusion to one of the members of my family is a

mere equivocation, designed to throw me off my guard. Rank, money,

social influence, unswerving principles, mark ME out as a public

character. Go to the police-office, and let the best man who happens to

be off duty come here directly."

Good Dennis Howmore approached the door very unwillingly. It was

opened, from the outer side, before he had reached that end of the

room. One of the bank porters announced a visitor.

"Miss Henley wishes to know, sir, if you can see her."

Sir Giles looked agreeably surprised. He rose with alacrity to receive

the lady.

III

WHEN Iris Henley dies there will, in all probability, be friends left

who remember her and talk of her--and there may be strangers present at

the time (women for the most part), whose curiosity will put questions

relating to her personal appearance. No replies will reward them with

trustworthy information. Miss Henley's chief claim to admiration lay in

a remarkable mobility of expression, which reflected every change of

feeling peculiar to the nature of a sweet and sensitive woman. For this

reason, probably, no descriptions of her will agree with each other. No

existing likenesses will represent her. The one portrait that was

painted of Iris is only recognisable by partial friends of the artist.

In and out of London, photographic likenesses were taken of her. They

have the honour of resembling the portraits of Shakespeare in this

respect--compared with one another, it is not possible to discover that

they present the same person. As for the evidence offered by the loving

memory of her friends, it is sure to be contradictory in the last

degree. She had a charming face, a commonplace face, an intelligent

face--a poor complexion, a delicate complexion, no complexion at

all--eyes that were expressive of a hot temper, of a bright intellect,

of a firm character, of an affectionate disposition, of a truthful

nature, of hysterical sensibility, of inveterate obstinacy--a figure

too short; no, just the right height; no, neither one thing nor the

other; elegant, if you like--dress shabby: oh, surely not; dress quiet

and simple; no, something more than that; ostentatiously quiet,

theatrically simple, worn with the object of looking unlike other

people. In one last word, was this mass of contradictions generally

popular, in the time when it was a living creature? Yes--among the men.

No--not invariably. The man of all others who ought to have been

fondest of her was the man who behaved cruelly to Iris--her own father.

And, when the poor creature married (if she did marry), how many of you

attended the wedding? Not one of us! And when she died, how many of you

were sorry for her? All of us! What? no difference of opinion in that

one particular? On the contrary, perfect concord, thank God.

Let the years roll back, and let Iris speak for herself, at the

memorable time when she was in the prime of her life, and when a stormy

career was before her.

IV

BEING Miss Henley's godfather, Sir Giles was a privileged person. He

laid his hairy hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on either cheek.

After that prefatory act of endearment, he made his inquiries. What

extraordinary combination of events had led Iris to leave London, and

had brought her to visit him in his banking-house at Ardoon?

"I wanted to get away from home," she answered; "and having nobody to

go to but my godfather, I thought I should like to see You."

"Alone!" cried Sir Giles.

"No--with my maid to keep me company."

"Only your maid, Iris? Surely you have acquaintances among young ladies

like yourself?"

"Acquaintances--yes. No friends."

"Does your father approve of what you have done?"

"Will you grant me a favour, godpapa?"

"Yes--if I can."

"Don't insist on my answering your last question."

The faint colour that had risen in her face, when she entered the room,

left it. At the same time, the expression of her mouth altered. The

lips closed firmly; revealing that strongest of all resolutions which

is founded on a keen sense of wrong. She looked older than her age:

what she might be ten years hence, she was now. Sir Giles understood

her. He got up, and took a turn in the room. An old habit, of which he

had cured himself with infinite difficulty when he was made a Knight,

showed itself again. He put his hands in his pockets.

"You and your father have had another quarrel," he said, stopping

opposite Iris.

"I don't deny it," she replied.

"Who is to blame?"

She smiled bitterly. "The woman is always to blame."

"Did your father tell you that?"

"My father reminded me that I was twenty-one years old, last

birthday--and told me that I could do as I liked. I understood him, and

I left the house."

"You will go back again, I suppose?"

"I don't know."

Sir Giles began pacing the room once more. His rugged face, telling its

story of disaster and struggle in early life, showed signs of

disappointment and distress.

"Hugh promised to write to me," he said, "and he has not written. I

know what that means; I know what you have done to offend your father.

My nephew has asked you to marry him for the second time. And for the

second time you have refused."

Her face softened; its better and younger aspect revived. "Yes," she

said, sadly and submissively; "I have refused him again."

Sir Giles lost his temper. "What the devil is your objection to Hugh?"

he burst out.

"My father said the same thing to me," she replied, "almost in the same

words. I made him angry when I tried to give my reason. I don't want to

make you angry, too."

He took no notice of this. "Isn't Hugh a good fellow?" he went on.

"Isn't he affectionate? and kindhearted? and honourable?--aye, and a

handsome man too, if you come to that."

"Hugh is all that you say. I like him; I admire him; I owe to his

kindness some of the happiest days of my sad life, and I am

grateful--oh, with all my heart, I am grateful to Hugh!"

"If that's true, Iris----"

"Every word of it is true."

"I say, if that's true--there's no excuse for you. I hate perversity in

a young woman! Why don't you marry him?"

"Try to feel for me," she said gently; "I can't love him."

Her tone said more to the banker than her words had expressed. The

secret sorrow of her life, which was known to her father, was known

also to Sir Giles.

"Now we have come to it at last!" he said. "You can't love my nephew

Hugh. And you won't tell me the reason why, because your sweet temper

shrinks from making me angry. Shall I mention the reason for you, my

dear? I can do it in two words--Lord Harry."

She made no reply; she showed no sign of feeling at what he had just

said. Her head sank a little; her hands clasped themselves on her lap;

the obstinate resignation which can submit to anything hardened her

face, stiffened her figure--and that was all.

The banker was determined not to spare her.

"It's easy to see," he resumed, "that you have not got over your

infatuation for that vagabond yet. Go where he may, into the vilest

places and among the lowest people, he carries your heart along with

him. I wonder you are not ashamed of such an attachment as that."

He had stung her at last. She roused herself, and answered him.

"Harry has led a wild life," she said; "he has committed serious

faults, and he may live to do worse than he has done yet. To what

degradation, bad company, and a bad bringing-up may yet lead him, I

leave his enemies to foresee. But I tell you this, he has redeeming

qualities which you, and people like you, are not good Christians

enough to discover. He has friends who can still appreciate him--your

nephew, Arthur Mountjoy, is one of them. Oh, I know it by Arthur's

letters to me! Blame Lord Harry as you may, I tell you he has the

capacity for repentance in him, and one day--when it is too late, I

dare say--he will show it. I can never be his wife. We are parted,

never in all likelihood to meet again. Well, he is the only man whom I

have ever loved; and he is the only man whom I ever shall love. If you

think this state of mind proves that I am as bad as he is, I won't

contradict you. Do we any of us know how bad we are----? Have you heard

of Harry lately?"

The sudden transition, from an earnest and devoted defence of the man,

to an easy and familiar inquiry about him, startled Sir Giles.

For the moment, he had nothing to say; Iris had made him think. She had

shown a capacity for mastering her strongest feelings, at the moment

when they threatened to overcome her, which is very rarely found in a

young woman. How to manage her was a problem for patient resolution to

solve. The banker's obstinacy, rather than his conviction, had

encouraged him to hold to the hope of Hugh's marriage, even after his

nephew had been refused for the second time. His headstrong goddaughter

had come to visit him of her own accord. She had not forgotten the days

of her childhood, when he had some influence over her--when she had

found him kinder to her than her father had ever been. Sir Giles saw

that he had taken the wrong tone with Iris. His anger had not alarmed

her; his opinion had not influenced her. In Hugh's interests, he

determined to try what consideration and indulgence would do towards

cultivating the growth of her regard for him. Finding that she had left

her maid and her luggage at the hotel, he hospitably insisted on their

removal to his own house.

"While you are in Ardoon, Iris, you are my guest," he said.

She pleased him by readily accepting the invitation--and then annoyed

him by asking again if he had heard anything of Lord Harry.

He answered shortly and sharply: "I have heard nothing. What is _your_

last news of him?"

"News," she said, "which I sincerely hope is not true. An Irish paper

has been sent to me, which reports that he has joined the secret

society--nothing better than a society of assassins, I am afraid--which

is known by the name of the Invincibles."

As she mentioned that formidable brotherhood, Dennis Howmore returned

from the police-office. He announced that a Sergeant was then waiting

to receive instructions from Sir Giles.

V

IRIS rose to go. Her godfather courteously stopped her.

"Wait here," he said, "until I have spoken to the Sergeant, and I will

escort you to my house. My clerk will do what is necessary at the

hotel. You don't look quite satisfied. Is the arrangement that I have

proposed not agreeable to you?"

Iris assured him that she gratefully acceded to the arrangement. At the

same time, she confessed to having been a little startled, on

discovering that he was in consultation with the police. "I remember

that we are in Ireland," she explained, "and I am foolish enough to

fear that you may be in some danger. May I hope that it is only a

trifle?"

Only a trifle! Among ether deficient sensibilities in the strange

nature of Iris, Sir Giles had observed an imperfect appreciation of the

dignity of his social position. Here was a new proof of it! The

temptation to inspire sentiments of alarm--not unmingled with

admiration--in the mind of his insensible goddaughter, by exhibiting

himself as a public character threatened by a conspiracy, was more than

the banker's vanity could resist. Before he left the room, he

instructed Dennis to tell Miss Henley what had happened, and to let her

judge for herself whether he had been needlessly alarmed by, what she

was pleased to call, "a mere trifle."

Dennis Howmore must have been more than mortal, if he could have

related his narrative of events without being influenced by his own

point of view. On the first occasion when he mentioned Arthur

Mountjoy's name, Iris showed a sudden interest in his strange story

which took him by surprise.

"You know Mr. Arthur?" he said.

"Knew him!" Iris repeated. "He was my playfellow when we were both

children. He is as dear to me as if he was my brother. Tell me at

once--is he really in danger?"

Dennis honestly repeated what he had already said, on that subject, to

his master. Miss Henley, entirely agreeing with him, was eager to warn

Arthur of his position. There was no telegraphic communication with the

village which was near his farm. She could only write to him, and she

did write to him, by that day's post--having reasons of her own for

anxiety, which forbade her to show her letter to Dennis. Well aware of

the devoted friendship which united Lord Harry and Arthur Mountjoy--and

bearing in mind the newspaper report of the Irish lord's rash

association with the Invincibles--her fears now identified the noble

vagabond as the writer of the anonymous letters, which had so seriously

excited her godfather's doubts of his own safety.

When Sir Giles returned, and took her with him to his house, he spoke

of his consultation with the Sergeant in terms which increased her

dread of what might happen in the future. She was a dull and silent

guest, during the interval that elapsed before it would be possible to

receive Arthur's reply. The day arrived--and the post brought no relief

to her anxieties. The next day passed without a letter. On the morning

of the fourth day, Sir Giles rose later than usual. His correspondence

was sent to him from the office, at breakfast-time. After opening one

of the letters, he dispatched a messenger in hot haste to the police.

"Look at that," he said, handing the letter to Iris. "Does the assassin

take me for a fool?"

She read the lines that follow:

"Unforeseen events force me, Sir Giles, to run a serious risk. I must

speak to you, and it must not be by daylight. My one hope of safety is

in darkness. Meet me at the first milestone, on the road to Garvan,

when the moon sets at ten o'clock to-night. No need to mention your

name. The password is: _Fidelity."_

"Do you mean to go?" Iris asked.

"Do I mean to be murdered!" Sir Giles broke out. "My dear child, do

pray try to think before you speak. The Sergeant will represent me, of

course."

"And take the man prisoner?" Iris added.

"Certainly!"

With that startling reply, the banker hurried away to receive the

police in another room. Iris dropped into the nearest chair. The turn

that the affair had now taken filled her with unutterable dismay.

Sir Giles came back, after no very long absence, composed and smiling.

The course of proceeding had been settled to his complete satisfaction.

Dressed in private clothes, the Sergeant was to go to the milestone at

the appointed time, representing the banker in the darkness, and giving

the password. He was to be followed by two of his men who would wait in

concealment, within hearing of his whistle, if their services were

required. "I want to see the ruffian when he is safely handcuffed," Sir

Giles explained; "and I have arranged to wait for the police, to-night,

at my office."

There was but one desperate way that Iris could now discern of saving

the man who had confided in her godfather's honour, and whose trust had

already been betrayed. Never had she loved the outlawed Irish lord--the

man whom she was forbidden, and rightly forbidden, to marry--as she

loved him at that moment. Let the risk be what it might, this resolute

woman had determined that the Sergeant should not be the only person

who arrived at the milestone, and gave the password. There was one

devoted friend to Lord Harry, whom she could always trust--and that

friend was herself.

Sir Giles withdrew, to look after his business at the bank. She waited

until the clock had struck the servants' dinner hour, and then ascended

the stairs to her godfather's dressing-room. Opening his wardrobe, she

discovered in one part of it a large Spanish cloak, and, in another

part, a high-crowned felt hat which he wore on his country excursions.

In the dark, here was disguise enough for her purpose.

As she left the dressing-room, a measure of precaution occurred to her,

which she put in action at once. Telling her maid that she had some

purchases to make in the town, she went out, and asked her way to

Garvan of the first respectable stranger whom she met in the street.

Her object was to walk as far as the first milestone, in daylight, so

as to be sure of finding it again by night. She had made herself

familiar with the different objects on the road, when she returned to

the banker's house.

As the time for the arrest drew nearer, Sir Giles became too restless

to wait patiently at home. He went away to the police-office, eager to

hear if any new counter-conspiracy had occurred to the authorities.

It was dark soon after eight o'clock, at that time of the year. At nine

the servants assembled at the supper-table. They were all downstairs

together, talking, and waiting for their meal.

Feeling the necessity of arriving at the place of meeting, in time to

keep out of the Sergeant's way, Iris assumed her disguise as the clock

struck nine. She left the house without a living creature to notice

her, indoors or out. Clouds were gathering over the sky. The waning

moon was only to be seen at intervals, as she set forth on her way to

the milestone.

VI

THE wind rose a little, and the rifts in the clouds began to grow

broader as Iris gained the high road.

For a while, the glimmer of the misty moonlight lit the way before her.

As well as she could guess, she had passed over more than half of the

distance between the town and the milestone before the sky darkened

again. Objects by the wayside grew shadowy and dim. A few drops of rain

began to fall. The milestone, as she knew--thanks to the discovery of

it made by daylight--was on the right-hand side of the road. But the

dull-grey colour of the stone was not easy to see in the dark.

A doubt troubled her whether she might not have passed the milestone.

She stopped and looked at the sky.

The threatening of rain had passed away: signs showed themselves which

seemed to promise another break in the clouds. She waited. Low and

faint, the sinking moonlight looked its last at the dull earth. In

front of her, there was nothing to be seen but the road. She looked

back--and discovered the milestone.

A rough stone wall protected the land on either side of the road.

Nearly behind the milestone there was a gap in this fence, partially

closed by a hurdle. A half-ruined culvert, arching a ditch that had run

dry, formed a bridge leading from the road to the field. Had the field

been already chosen as a place of concealment by the police? Nothing

was to be seen but a footpath, and the dusky line of a plantation

beyond it. As she made these discoveries, the rain began to fall again;

the clouds gathered once more; the moonlight vanished.

At the same moment an obstacle presented itself to her mind, which Iris

had thus far failed to foresee.

Lord Harry might approach the milestone by three different ways: that

is to say--by the road from the town, or by the road from the open

country, or by way of the field and the culvert. How could she so place

herself as to be sure of warning him, before he fell into the hands of

the police? To watch the three means of approach in the obscurity of

the night, and at one and the same time, was impossible.

A man in this position, guided by reason, would in all probability have

wasted precious time in trying to arrive at the right decision. A

woman, aided by love, conquered the difficulty that confronted her in a

moment.

Iris decided on returning to the milestone, and on waiting there to be

discovered and taken prisoner by the police. Supposing Lord Harry to be

punctual to his appointment, he would hear voices and movements, as a

necessary consequence of the arrest, in time to make his escape.

Supposing him on the other hand to be late, the police would be on the

way back to the town with their prisoner: he would find no one at the

milestone, and would leave it again in safety.

She was on the point of turning, to get back to the road, when

something on the dark surface of the field, which looked like a darker

shadow, became dimly visible. In another moment it seemed to be a

shadow that moved. She ran towards it. It looked like a man as she drew

nearer. The man stopped.

"The password," he said, in tones cautiously lowered.

"Fidelity," she answered in a whisper.

It was too dark for a recognition of his features; but Iris knew him by

his tall stature--knew him by the accent in which he had asked for the

password. Erroneously judging of her, on his side, as a man, he drew

back again. Sir Giles Mountjoy was above the middle height; the

stranger in a cloak, who had whispered to him, was below it. "You are

not the person I expected to meet," he said. "Who are you?"

Her faithful heart was longing to tell him the truth. The temptation to

reveal herself, and to make the sweet confession of her happiness at

having saved him, would have overpowered her discretion, but for a

sound that was audible on the road behind them. In the deep silence of

the time and place mistake was impossible. It was the sound of

footsteps.

There was just time to whisper to him: "Sir Giles has betrayed you.

Save yourself."

"Thank you, whoever you are!"

With that reply, he suddenly and swiftly disappeared. Iris remembered

the culvert, and turned towards it. There was a hiding-place under the

arch, if she could only get down into the dry ditch in time. She was

feeling her way to the slope of it with her feet, when a heavy hand

seized her by the arm; and a resolute voice said: "You are my

prisoner."

She was led back into the road. The man who had got her blew a whistle.

Two other men joined him.

"Show a light," he said; "and let's see who the fellow is."

The shade was slipped aside from a lantern: the light fell full on the

prisoner's face. Amazement petrified the two attendant policemen. The

pious Catholic Sergeant burst into speech: "Holy Mary! it's a woman!"

Did the secret societies of Ireland enrol women? Was this a modern

Judith, expressing herself by anonymous letters, and bent on

assassinating a financial Holofernes who kept a bank? What account had

she to give of herself? How came she to be alone in a desolate field on

a rainy night? Instead of answering these questions, the inscrutable

stranger preferred a bold and brief request. "Take me to Sir

Giles"--was all she said to the police.

The Sergeant had the handcuffs ready. After looking at the prisoner's

delicate wrists by the lantern-light, he put his fetters back in his

pocket. "A lady--and no doubt about it," he said to one of his

assistants.

The two men waited, with a mischievous interest in seeing what he would

do next. The list of their pious officer's virtues included a

constitutional partiality for women, which exhibited the merciful side

of justice when a criminal wore a petticoat. "We will take you to Sir

Giles, Miss," he said--and offered his arm, instead of offering his

handcuffs. Iris understood him, and took his arm.

She was silent--unaccountably silent as the men thought--on the way to

the town. They heard her sigh: and, once, the sigh sounded more like a

sob; little did they suspect what was in that silent woman's mind at

the time.

The one object which had absorbed the attention of Iris had been the

saving of Lord Harry. This accomplished, the free exercise of her

memory had now reminded her of Arthur Mountjoy.

It was impossible to doubt that the object of the proposed meeting at

the milestone had been to take measures for the preservation of the

young man's life. A coward is always more or less cruel. The

proceedings (equally treacherous and merciless) by which Sir Giles had

provided for his own safety, had delayed--perhaps actually

prevented--the execution of Lord Harry's humane design. It was

possible, horribly possible, that a prompt employment of time might

have been necessary to the rescue of Arthur from impending death by

murder. In the agitation that overpowered her, Iris actually hurried

the police on their return to the town.

Sir Giles had arranged to wait for news in his private room at the

office--and there he was, with Dennis Howmore in attendance to receive

visitors.

The Sergeant went into the banker's room alone, to make his report. He

left the door ajar; Iris could hear what passed.

"Have you got your prisoner?" Sir Giles began.

"Yes, your honour."

"Is the wretch securely handcuffed?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, it isn't a man."

"Nonsense, Sergeant; it can't be a boy."

The Sergeant confessed that it was not a boy. "It's a woman," he said.

"What!!!"

"A woman," the patient officer repeated--"and a young one. She asked

for You."

"Bring her in."

Iris was not the sort of person who waits to be brought in. She walked

in, of her own accord.

VII

"GOOD Heavens!" cried Sir Giles. "Iris! With my cloak on!! With my hat

in her hand!!! Sergeant, there has been some dreadful mistake. This is

my god-daughter--Miss Henley."

"We found her at the milestone, your honour. The young lady and nobody

else."

Sir Giles appealed helplessly to his god-daughter. "What does this

mean?" Instead of answering, she looked at the Sergeant. The Sergeant,

conscious of responsibility, stood his ground and looked at Sir Giles.

His face confessed that the Irish sense of humour was tickled: but he

showed no intention of leaving the room. Sir Giles saw that Iris would

enter into no explanation in the man's presence. "You needn't wait any

longer," he said.

"What am I to do, if you please, with the prisoner?" the Sergeant

inquired.

Sir Giles waived that unnecessary question away with his hand. He was

trebly responsible--as knight, banker, and magistrate into the bargain.

"I will be answerable," he replied, "for producing Miss Henley, if

called upon. Good night."

The Sergeant's sense of duty was satisfied. He made the military

salute. His gallantry added homage to the young lady under the form of

a bow. Then, and then only, he walked with dignity out of the room.

"Now," Sir Giles resumed, "I presume I may expect to receive an

explanation. What does this impropriety mean? What were you doing at

the milestone?"

"I was saving the person who made the appointment with you," Iris said;

"the poor fellow had no ill-will towards you--who had risked everything

to save your nephew's life. Oh, sir, you committed a terrible mistake

when you refused to trust that man!"

Sir Giles had anticipated the appearance of fear, and the reality of

humble apologies. She had answered him indignantly, with a heightened

colour, and with tears in her eyes. His sense of his own social

importance was wounded to the quick. "Who is the man you are speaking

of?" he asked loftily. "And what is your excuse for having gone to the

milestone to save him--hidden under my cloak, disguised in my hat?"

"Don't waste precious time in asking questions!" was the desperate

reply. "Undo the harm that you have done already. Your help--oh, I mean

what I say!--may yet preserve Arthur's life. Go to the farm, and save

him."

Sir Giles's anger assumed a new form, it indulged in an elaborate

mockery of respect. He took his watch from his pocket, and consulted it

satirically. "Must I make an excuse?" he asked with a clumsy assumption

of humility.

"No! you must go."

"Permit me to inform you, Miss Henley, that the last train started more

than two hours since."

"What does that matter? You are rich enough to hire a train."

Sir Giles, the actor, could endure it no longer; he dropped the mask,

and revealed Sir Giles, the man. His clerk was summoned by a peremptory

ring of the bell. "Attend Miss Henley to the house," he said. "You may

come to your senses after a night's rest," he continued, turning

sternly to Iris. "I will receive your excuses in the morning."

In the morning, the breakfast was ready as usual at nine o'clock. Sir

Giles found himself alone at the table.

He sent an order to one of the women-servants to knock at Miss Henley's

door. There was a long delay. The housekeeper presented herself in a

state of alarm; she had gone upstairs to make the necessary

investigation in her own person. Miss Henley was not in her room; the

maid was not in her room; the beds had not been slept in; the heavy

luggage was labelled--"To be called for from the hotel." And there was

an end of the evidence which the absent Iris had left behind her.

Inquiries were made at the hotel. The young lady had called there, with

her maid, early on that morning. They had their travelling-bags with

them; and Miss Henley had left directions that the luggage was to be

placed under care of the landlord until her return. To what destination

she had betaken herself nobody knew.

Sir Giles was too angry to remember what she had said to him on the

previous night, or he might have guessed at the motive which had led to

her departure. "Her father has done with her already," he said; "and I

have done with her now." The servants received orders not to admit Miss

Henley, if her audacity contemplated a return to her godfather's house.

VIII

ON the afternoon of the same day, Iris arrived at the village situated

in the near neighbourhood of Arthur Mountjoy's farm.

The infection of political excitement (otherwise the hatred of England)

had spread even to this remote place. On the steps of his little

chapel, the priest, a peasant himself, was haranguing his brethren of

the soil. An Irishman who paid his landlord was a traitor to his

country; an Irishman who asserted his free birthright in the land that

he walked on was an enlightened patriot. Such was the new law which the

reverend gentleman expounded to his attentive audience. If his brethren

there would like him to tell them how they might apply the law, this

exemplary Christian would point to the faithless Irishman, Arthur

Mountjoy. "Buy not of him, sell not to him; avoid him if he approaches

you; starve him out of the place. I might say more, boys--you know what

I mean."

To hear the latter part of this effort of oratory, without uttering a

word of protest, was a trial of endurance under which Iris trembled.

The secondary effect of the priest's address was to root the conviction

of Arthur's danger with tenfold tenacity in her mind. After what she

had just heard, even the slightest delay in securing his safety might

be productive of deplorable results. She astonished a barefooted boy,

on the outskirts of the crowd, by a gift of sixpence, and asked her way

to the farm. The little Irishman ran on before her, eager to show the

generous lady how useful he could be. In less than half an hour, Iris

and her maid were at the door of the farm-house. No such civilised

inventions appeared as a knocker or a bell. The boy used his knuckles

instead--and ran away when he heard the lock of the door turned on the

inner side. He was afraid to be seen speaking to any living creature

who inhabited the "evicted farm."

A decent old woman appeared, and inquired suspiciously "what the ladies

wanted." The accent in which she spoke was unmistakably English. When

Iris asked for Mr. Arthur Mountjoy the reply was: "Not at home." The

housekeeper inhospitably attempted to close the door. "Wait one

moment," Iris said. "Years have changed you; but there is something in

your face which is not quite strange to me. Are you Mrs. Lewson?"

The woman admitted that this was her name. "But how is it that you are

a stranger to me?" she asked distrustfully.

"If you have been long in Mr. Mountjoy's service," Iris replied, "you

may perhaps have heard him speak of Miss Henley?"

Mrs. Lewson's face brightened in an instant; she threw the door wide

open with a glad cry of recognition.

"Come in, Miss, come in! Who would have thought of seeing you in this

horrible place? Yes; I was the nurse who looked after you all

three--when you and Mr. Arthur and Mr. Hugh were playfellows together."

Her eyes rested longingly on her favourite of bygone days. The

sensitive sympathies of Iris interpreted that look. She prettily

touched her cheek, inviting the nurse to kiss her. At this act of

kindness the poor old woman broke down; she apologised quaintly for her

tears: "Think, Miss, how _I_ must remember that happy time--when _you_

have not forgotten it."

Shown into the parlour, the first object which the visitor noticed was

the letter that she had written to Arthur lying unopened on the table.

"Then he is really out of the house?" she said with a feeling of

relief.

He had been away from the farm for a week or more. Had he received a

warning from some other quarter? and had he wisely sought refuge in

flight? The amazement in the housekeeper's face, when she heard these

questions, pleaded for a word of explanation. Iris acknowledged without

reserve the motives which had suggested her journey, and asked eagerly

if she had been mistaken in assuming that Arthur was in danger of

assassination.

Mrs. Lewson shook her head. Beyond all doubt the young master was in

danger. But Miss Iris ought to have known his nature better than to

suppose that he would beat a retreat, if all the land-leaguers in

Ireland threatened him together. No! It was his bold way to laugh at

danger. He had left his farm to visit a friend in the next county; and

it was shrewdly guessed that a young lady who was staying in the house

was the attraction which had kept him so long away. "Anyhow, he means

to come back to-morrow," Mrs. Lewson said. "I wish he would think

better of it, and make his escape to England while he has the chance.

If the savages in these parts must shoot somebody, I'm here--an old

woman that can't last much longer. Let them shoot me."

Iris asked if Arthur's safety was assured in the next county, and in

the house of his friend.

"I can't say, Miss; I have never been to the house. He is in danger if

he persists in coming back to the farm. There are chances of shooting

him all along his road home. Oh, yes; he knows it, poor dear, as well

as I do. But, there!--men like him are such perverse creatures. He

takes his rides just as usual. No; he won't listen to an old woman like

me; and, as for friends to advise him, the only one of them that has

darkened our doors is a scamp who had better have kept away. You may

have heard tell of him. The old Earl, his wicked father, used to be

called by a bad name. And the wild young lord is his father's true

son."

"Not Lord Harry?" Iris exclaimed.

The outbreak of agitation in her tone and manner was silently noticed

by her maid. The housekeeper did not attempt to conceal the impression

that had been produced upon her. "I hope you don't know such a vagabond

as that?" she said very seriously. "Perhaps you are thinking of his

brother--the eldest son--a respectable man, as I have been told?"

Miss Henley passed over these questions without notice. Urged by the

interest in her lover, which was now more than ever an interest beyond

her control, she said: "Is Lord Harry in danger, on account of his

friend?"

"He has nothing to fear from the wretches who infest our part of the

country," Mrs. Lewson replied. "Report says he's one of themselves. The

police--there's what his young lordship has to be afraid of, if all's

true that is said about him. Anyhow, when he paid his visit to my

master, he came secretly like a thief in the night. And I heard Mr.

Arthur, while they were together here in the parlour, loud in blaming

him for something that he had done. No more, Miss, of Lord Harry! I

have something particular to say to you. Suppose I promise to make you

comfortable--will you please wait here till to-morrow, and see Mr.

Arthur and speak to him? If there's a person living who can persuade

him to take better care of himself, I do believe it will be you."

Iris readily consented to wait for Arthur Mountjoy's return. Left

together, while Mrs. Lewson was attending to her domestic duties, the

mistress noticed an appearance of pre-occupation in the maid's face.

"Are you beginning to wish, Rhoda," she said, "that I had not brought

you to this strange place, among these wild people?"

The maid was a quiet amiable girl, evidently in delicate health. She

smiled faintly. "I was thinking, Miss, of another nobleman besides the

one Mrs. Lewson mentioned just now, who seems to have led a reckless

life. It was printed in a newspaper that I read before we left London."

"Was his name mentioned?" Iris asked.

"No, Miss; I suppose they were afraid of giving offence. He tried so

many strange ways of getting a living--it was almost like reading a

story-book."

The suppression of the name suggested a suspicion from which Iris

recoiled. Was it possible that her maid could be ignorantly alluding to

Lord Harry?

"Do you remember this hero's adventures?" she said.

"I can try, Miss, if you wish to hear about him."

The newspaper narrative appeared to have produced a vivid impression on

Rhoda's mind. Making allowance for natural hesitations and mistakes,

and difficulties in expressing herself correctly, she repeated with a

singularly clear recollection the substance of what she had read.

IX

THE principal characters in the story were an old Irish nobleman, who

was called the Earl, and the youngest of his two sons, mysteriously

distinguished as "the wild lord."

It was said of the Earl that he had not been a good father; he had

cruelly neglected both his sons. The younger one, badly treated at

school, and left to himself in the holidays, began his adventurous

career by running away. He got employment (under an assumed name) as a

ship's boy. At the outset, he did well; learning his work, and being

liked by the Captain and the crew. But the chief mate was a brutal man,

and the young runaway's quick temper resented the disgraceful

infliction of blows. He made up his mind to try his luck on shore, and

attached himself to a company of strolling players. Being a handsome

lad, with a good figure and a fine clear voice, he did very well for a

while on the country stage. Hard times came; salaries were reduced; the

adventurer wearied of the society of actors and actresses. His next

change of life presented him in North Britain as a journalist, employed

on a Scotch newspaper. An unfortunate love affair was the means of

depriving him of this new occupation. He was recognised, soon

afterwards, serving as assistant steward in one of the passenger

steamers voyaging between Liverpool and New York. Arrived in this last

city, he obtained notoriety, of no very respectable kind, as a "medium"

claiming powers of supernatural communication with the world of

spirits. When the imposture was ultimately discovered, he had gained

money by his unworthy appeal to the meanly prosaic superstition of

modern times. A long interval had then elapsed, and nothing had been

heard of him, when a starving man was discovered by a traveller, lost

on a Western prairie. The ill-fated Irish lord had associated himself

with an Indian tribe--had committed some offence against their

laws--and had been deliberately deserted and left to die. On his

recovery, he wrote to his elder brother (who had inherited the title

and estates on the death of the old Earl) to say that he was ashamed of

the life that he had led, and eager to make amendment by accepting any

honest employment that could be offered to him. The traveller who had

saved his life, and whose opinion was to be trusted, declared that the

letter represented a sincerely penitent state of mind. There were good

qualities in the vagabond, which only wanted a little merciful

encouragement to assert themselves. The reply that he received from

England came from the lawyers employed by the new Earl. They had

arranged with their agents in New York to pay to the younger brother a

legacy of a thousand pounds, which represented all that had been left

to him by his father's will. If he wrote again his letters would not be

answered; his brother had done with him. Treated in this inhuman

manner, the wild lord became once more worthy of his name. He tried a

new life as a betting man at races and trotting-matches. Fortune

favoured him at the outset, and he considerably increased his legacy.

With the customary infatuation of men who gain money by risking the

loss of it, he presumed on his good luck. One pecuniary disaster

followed another, and left him literally penniless. He was found again,

in England, exhibiting an open boat in which he and a companion had

made one of those foolhardy voyages across the Atlantic, which have now

happily ceased to interest the public. To a friend who remonstrated

with him, he answered that he reckoned on being lost at sea, and on so

committing a suicide worthy of the desperate life that he had led. The

last accounts of him, after this, were too vague and too contradictory

to be depended on. At one time it was reported that he had returned to

the United States. Not long afterwards unaccountable paragraphs

appeared in newspapers declaring, at one and the same time, that he was

living among bad company in Paris, and that he was hiding disreputably

in an ill famed quarter of the city of Dublin, called "the Liberties."

In any case there was good reason to fear that Irish-American

desperadoes had entangled the wild lord in the network of political

conspiracy.

The maid noticed a change in the mistress which surprised her, when she

had reached the end of the newspaper story. Of Miss Henley's customary

good spirits not a trace remained. "Few people, Rhoda, remember what

they read as well as you do." She said it kindly and sadly--and she

said no more.

There was a reason for this.

Now at one time, and now at another, Iris had heard of Lord Harry's

faults and failings in fragments of family history. The complete record

of his degraded life, presented in an uninterrupted succession of

events, had now forced itself on her attention for the first time. It

naturally shocked her. She felt, as she had never felt before, how

entirely right her father had been in insisting on her resistance to an

attachment which was unworthy of her. So far, but no farther, her

conscience yielded to its own conviction of what was just. But the one

unassailable vital force in this world is the force of love. It may

submit to the hard necessities of life; it may acknowledge the

imperative claims of duty; it may be silent under reproach, and

submissive to privation--but, suffer what it may, it is the

master-passion still; subject to no artificial influences, owning no

supremacy but the law of its own being. Iris was above the reach of

self-reproach, when her memory recalled the daring action which had

saved Lord Harry at the milestone. Her better sense acknowledged Hugh

Mountjoy's superiority over the other man--but her heart, her perverse

heart, remained true to its first choice in spite of her. She made an

impatient excuse and went out alone to recover her composure in the

farm-house garden.

The hours of the evening passed slowly.

There was a pack of cards in the house; the women tried to amuse

themselves, and failed. Anxiety about Arthur preyed on the spirits of

Miss Henley and Mrs. Lewson. Even the maid, who had only seen him

during his last visit to London, said she wished to-morrow had come and

gone. His sweet temper, his handsome face, his lively talk had made

Arthur a favourite everywhere. Mrs. Lewson had left her comfortable

English home to be his housekeeper, when he tried his rash experiment

of farming in Ireland. And, more wonderful still, even wearisome Sir

Giles became an agreeable person in his nephew's company.

Iris set the example of retiring at an early hour to her room.

There was something terrible in the pastoral silence of the place. It

associated itself mysteriously with her fears for Arthur; it suggested

armed treachery on tiptoe, taking its murderous stand in hiding; the

whistling passage of bullets through the air; the piercing cry of a man

mortally wounded, and that man, perhaps----? Iris shrank from her own

horrid thought. A momentary faintness overcame her; she opened the

window. As she put her head out to breathe the cool night-air, a man on

horseback rode up to the house. Was it Arthur? No: the light-coloured

groom's livery that he wore was just visible.

Before he could dismount to knock at the door, a tall man walked up to

him out of the darkness.

"Is that Miles?" the tall man asked.

The groom knew the voice. Iris was even better acquainted with it. She,

too, recognised Lord Harry.

X

THERE was the Irish lord at the very time when Iris was most patiently

resigned never to see him more, never to think of him as her husband

again--reminding her of the first days of their love, and of their

mutual confession of it! Fear of herself kept her behind the curtain;

while interest in Lord Harry detained her at the window in hiding.

"All well at Rathco?" he asked--mentioning the name of the house in

which Arthur was one of the guests.

"Yes, my lord. Mr. Mountjoy leaves us to-morrow."

"Does he mean to return to the farm?"

"Sorry I am to say it; he does mean that."

"Has he fixed any time, Miles, for starting on his journey?"

Miles instituted a search through his pockets, and accompanied it by an

explanation. Yes, indeed, Master Arthur had fixed a time; he had

written a note to say so to Mistress Lewson, the housekeeper; he had

said, "Drop the note at the farm, on your way to the village." And what

might Miles want at the village, in the dark? Medicine, in a hurry, for

one of his master's horses that was sick and sinking. And, speaking of

that, here, thank God, was the note!

Iris, listening and watching alternately, saw to her surprise the note

intended for Mrs. Lewson handed to Lord Harry. "Am I expected," he

asked jocosely, "to read writing without a light?" Miles produced a

small lantern which was strapped to his groom's belt. "There's parts of

the road not over safe in the dark," he said as he raised the shade

which guarded the light. The wild lord coolly opened the letter, and

read the few careless words which it contained. "To Mrs. Lewson:--Dear

old girl, expect me back to-morrow to dinner at three o'clock. Yours,

ARTHUR."

There was a pause.

"Are there any strangers at Rathco?" Lord Harry asked.

"Two new men," Miles replied, "at work in the grounds."

There was another pause. "How can I protect him?" the young lord said,

partly to himself, partly to Miles. He suspected the two new

men---spies probably who knew of Arthur's proposed journey home, and

who had already reported to their employers the hour at which he would

set out.

Miles ventured to say a word: "I hope you won't be angry with me, my

lord"----

"Stuff and nonsense! Was I ever angry with you, when I was rich enough

to keep a servant, and when you were the man?"

The Irish groom answered in a voice that trembled with strong feeling.

"You were the best and kindest master that ever lived on this earth. I

can't see you putting your precious life in peril"----

"My precious life?" Lord Harry repeated lightly. "You're thinking of

Mr. Mountjoy, when you say that. _His_ life is worth saving. As for my

life"---- He ended the sentence by a whistle, as the best way he could

hit on of expressing his contempt for his own existence.

"My lord! my lord!" Miles persisted; "the Invincibles are beginning to

doubt you. If any of them find you hanging about Mr. Mountjoy's farm,

they'll try a shot at you first, and ask afterwards whether it was

right to kill you or not."

To hear this said--and said seriously--after the saving of him at the

milestone, was a trial of her firmness which Iris was unable to resist.

Love got the better of prudence. She drew back the window-curtain. In

another moment, she would have added her persuasion to the servant's

warning, if Lord Harry himself had not accidentally checked her by a

proceeding, on his part, for which she was not prepared.

"Show the light," he said; "I'll write a line to Mr. Mountjoy."

He tore off the blank page from the note to the housekeeper, and wrote

to Arthur, entreating him to change the time of his departure from

Rathco, and to tell no creature in the house, or out of the house, at

what new hour he had arranged to go. "Saddle your horse yourself," the

letter concluded. It was written in a feigned hand, without a

signature.

"Give that to Mr. Mountjoy," Lord Harry said. "If he asks who wrote it,

don't frighten him about me by telling the truth. Lie, Miles! Say you

don't know." He next returned the note for Mrs. Lewson. "If she notices

that it has been opened," he resumed, "and asks who has done it, lie

again. Good-night, Miles--and mind those dangerous places on your road

home."

The groom darkened his lantern; and the wild lord was lost to view,

round the side of the house.

Left by himself, Miles rapped at the door with the handle of his whip.

"A letter from Mr. Arthur," he called out. Mrs. Lewson at once took the

note, and examined it by the light of the candle on the hall-table.

"Somebody has been reading this!" she exclaimed, stepping out to the

groom, and showing him the torn envelope. Miles, promptly obeying his

instructions, declared that he knew nothing about it, and rode away.

Iris descended the stairs, and joined Mrs. Lewson in the hall before

she had closed the door. The housekeeper at once produced Arthur's

letter.

"It's on my mind, Miss," she said, "to write an answer, and say

something to Mr. Arthur which will persuade him to take care of

himself, on his way back to the farm. The difficulty is, how am I to

express it? You would be doing a kind thing if you would give me a word

of advice."

Iris willingly complied. A second note, from the anxious housekeeper,

might help the effect of the few lines which Lord Harry had written.

Arthur's letter informed Iris that he had arranged to return at three

o'clock. Lord Harry's question to the groom, and the man's reply,

instantly recurred to her memory: "Are there any strangers at

Rathco?"--"Two new men at work in the grounds." Arriving at the same

conclusion which had already occurred to Lord Harry, Iris advised the

housekeeper, in writing to Arthur, to entreat him to change the hour,

secretly, at which he left his friend's house on the next day. Warmly

approving of this idea, Mrs. Lewson hurried into the parlour to write

her letter. "Don't go to bed yet, Miss," she said; "I want you to read

it before I send it away the first thing to-morrow morning."

Left alone in the hall, with the door open before her, Iris looked out

on the night, thinking.

The lives of the two men in whom she was interested--in widely

different ways--were now both threatened; and the imminent danger, at

that moment, was the danger of Lord Harry. He was an outlaw whose

character would not bear investigation; but, to give him his due, there

was no risk which he was not ready to confront for Arthur's sake. If he

was still recklessly lingering, on the watch for assassins in the

dangerous neighbourhood of the farm, who but herself possessed the

influence which would prevail on him to leave the place? She had joined

Mrs. Lewson at the door with that conviction in her mind. In another

instant, she was out of the house, and beginning her search in the

dark.

Iris made the round of the building; sometimes feeling her way in

obscure places; sometimes calling to Lord Harry cautiously by his name.

No living creature appeared; no sound of a movement disturbed the

stillness of the night. The discovery of his absence, which she had not

dared to hope for, was the cheering discovery which she had now made.

On her way back to the house, she became conscious of the rashness of

the act into which her own generous impulse had betrayed her.

If she and Lord Harry had met, could she have denied the tender

interest in him which her own conduct would then have revealed? Would

he not have been justified in concluding that she had pardoned the

errors and the vices of his life, and that he might without impropriety

remind her of their engagement, and claim her hand in marriage? She

trembled as she thought of the concessions which he might have wrung

from her. "Never more," she determined, "shall my own folly be

answerable for it, if he and I meet again."

She had returned to Mrs. Lewson, and had read over the letter to

Arthur, when the farm clock, striking the hour, reminded them that it

was time to retire. They slept badly that night.

At six in the morning, one of the two labourers who had remained

faithful to Arthur was sent away on horseback with the housekeeper's

reply, and with orders to wait for an answer. Allowing time for giving

the horse a rest, the man might be expected to return before noon.

IX

IT was a fine sunshiny day; Mrs. Lewson's spirits began to improve. "I

have always held the belief," the worthy old woman confessed, "that

bright weather brings good luck--of course provided the day is not a

Friday. This is Wednesday. Cheer up, Miss."

The messenger returned with good news. Mr. Arthur had been as merry as

usual. He had made fun of another letter of good advice, received

without a signature. "But Mrs. Lewson must have her way," he said. "My

love to the old dear--I'll start two hours later, and be back to dinner

at five."

"Where did Mr. Arthur give you that message?" Iris inquired.

"At the stables, Miss, while I was putting up the horse. The men about

were all on the broad grin when they heard Mr. Arthur's message."

Still in a morbid state of mind, Iris silently regretted that the

message had not been written, instead of being delivered by word of

mouth. Here, again, she (like the wild lord) had been afraid of

listeners.

The hours wore slowly on until it was past four o'clock. Iris could

endure the suspense no longer. "It's a lovely afternoon," she said to

Mrs. Lewson. "Let us take a walk along the road, and meet Arthur." To

this proposal the housekeeper readily agreed.

It was nearly five o'clock when they reached a place at which a by-road

branched off, through a wood, from the highway which they had hitherto

followed. Mrs. Lewson found a seat on a felled tree. "We had better not

go any farther," she said.

Iris asked if there was any reason for this.

There was an excellent reason. A few yards farther on, the high road

had been diverted from the straight line (in the interest of a large

agricultural village), and was then directed again into its former

course. The by-road through the wood served as a short cut, for

horsemen and pedestrians, from one divergent point to the other. It was

next to a certainty that Arthur would return by the short cut. But if

accident or caprice led to his preferring the highway, it was clearly

necessary to wait for him within view of both the roads.

Too restless to submit to a state of passive expectation, Iris proposed

to follow the bridle path through the wood for a little way, and to

return if she failed to see anything of Arthur. "You are tired," she

said kindly to her companion: "pray don't move."

Mrs. Lewson looked needlessly uneasy: "You might lose yourself, Miss.

Mind you keep to the path!"

Iris followed the pleasant windings of the woodland track. In the hope

of meeting Arthur she considerably extended the length of her walk. The

white line of the high road, as it passed the farther end of the wood,

showed itself through the trees. She turned at once to rejoin Mrs.

Lewson.

On her way back she made a discovery. A ruin which she had not

previously noticed showed itself among the trees on her left hand. Her

curiosity was excited; she strayed aside to examine it more closely.

The crumbling walls, as she approached them, looked like the remains of

an ordinary dwelling-house. Age is essential to the picturesque effect

of decay: a modern ruin is an unnatural and depressing object--and here

the horrid thing was.

As she turned to retrace her steps to the road, a man walked out of the

inner space enclosed by all that was left of the dismantled house. A

cry of alarm escaped her. Was she the victim of destiny, or the sport

of chance? There was the wild lord whom she had vowed never to see

again: the master of her heart--perhaps the master of her fate!

Any other man would have been amazed to see her, and would have asked

how it had happened that the English lady presented herself to him in

an Irish wood. This man enjoyed the delight of seeing her, and accepted

it as a blessing that was not to be questioned. "My angel has dropped

from Heaven," he said. "May Heaven be praised!"

He approached her; his arms closed round her. She struggled to free

herself from his embrace. At that moment they both heard the crackle of

breaking underwood among the trees behind them. Lord Harry looked

round. "This is a dangerous place," he whispered; "I'm waiting to see

Arthur pass safely. Submit to be kissed, or I am a dead man." His eyes

told her that he was truly and fearfully in earnest. Her head sank on

his bosom. As he bent down and kissed her, three men approached from

their hiding-place among the trees. They had no doubt been watching

him, under orders from the murderous brotherhood to which they

belonged. Their pistols were ready in their hands--and what discovery

had they made? There was the brother who had been denounced as having

betrayed them, guilty of no worse treason than meeting his sweetheart

in a wood! "We beg your pardon, my lord," they cried, with a thoroughly

Irish enjoyment of their own discomfiture--and burst into a roar of

laughter--and left the lovers together. For the second time, Iris had

saved Lord Harry at a crisis in his life.

"Let me go!" she pleaded faintly, trembling with superstitious fear for

the first time in her experience of herself.

He held her to him as if he would never let her go again. "Oh, my

Sweet, give me a last chance. Help me to be a better man! You have only

to will it, Iris, and to make me worthy of you."

His arms suddenly trembled round her, and dropped. The silence was

broken by a distant sound, like the report of a shot. He looked towards

the farther end of the wood. In a minute more, the thump of a horse's

hoofs at a gallop was audible, where the bridlepath was hidden among

the trees. It came nearer--nearer---the creature burst into view, wild

with fright, and carrying an empty saddle. Lord Harry rushed into the

path and seized the horse as it swerved at the sight of him. There was

a leather pocket attached to the front of the saddle. "Search it!" he

cried to Iris, forcing the terrified animal back on its haunches. She

drew out a silver travelling-flask. One glance at the name engraved on

it told him the terrible truth. His trembling hands lost their hold.

The horse escaped; the words burst from his lips:

"Oh, God, they've killed him!"

THE END OF THE PROLOGUE

THE STORY

FIRST PERIOD

CHAPTER I

THE SOUR FRENCH WINE

WHILE the line to be taken by the new railway between Culm and Everill

was still under discussion, the engineer caused some difference of

opinion among the moneyed men who were the first Directors of the

Company, by asking if they proposed to include among their Stations the

little old town of Honeybuzzard.

For years past, commerce had declined, and population had decreased in

this ancient and curious place. Painters knew it well, and prized its

mediaeval houses as a mine of valuable material for their art. Persons

of cultivated tastes, who were interested in church architecture of the

fourteenth century, sometimes pleased and flattered the Rector by

subscribing to his fund for the restoration of the tower, and the

removal of the accumulated rubbish of hundreds of years from the crypt.

Small speculators, not otherwise in a state of insanity, settled

themselves in the town, and tried the desperate experiment of opening a

shop; spent their little capital, put up the shutters, and disappeared.

The old market-place still showed its list of market-law's, issued by

the Mayor and Corporation in the prosperous bygone times; and every

week there were fewer and fewer people to obey the laws. The great

empty enclosure looked more cheerful, when there was no market held,

and when the boys of the town played in the deserted place. In the last

warehouse left in a state of repair, the crane was generally idle; the

windows were mostly shut up; and a solitary man represented languishing

trade, idling at a half-opened door. The muddy river rose and fell with

the distant tide. At rare intervals a collier discharged its cargo on

the mouldering quay, or an empty barge took in a load of hay. One bold

house advertised, in a dirty window, apartments to let. There was a

lawyer in the town, who had no occasion to keep a clerk; and there was

a doctor who hoped to sell his practice for anything that it would

fetch. The directors of the new railway, after a stormy meeting,

decided on offering (by means of a Station) a last chance of revival to

the dying town. The town had not vitality enough left to be grateful;

the railway stimulant produced no effect. Of all his colleagues in

Great Britain and Ireland, the station-master at Honeybuzzard was the

idlest man--and this, as he said to the unemployed porter, through no

want of energy on his own part.

Late on a rainy autumn afternoon, the slow train left one traveller at

the Station. He got out of a first-class carriage; he carried an

umbrella and a travelling-bag; and he asked his way to the best inn.

The station-master and the porter compared notes. One of them said:

"Evidently a gentleman." The other added: "What can he possibly want

here?"

The stranger twice lost his way in the tortuous old streets of the town

before he reached the inn. On giving his orders, it appeared that he

wanted three things: a private room, something to eat, and, while the

dinner was being cooked, materials for writing a letter.

Answering her daughter's questions downstairs, the landlady described

her guest as a nice-looking man dressed in deep mourning. "Young, my

dear, with beautiful dark brown hair, and a grand beard, and a sweet

sorrowful look. Ah, his eyes would tell anybody that his black clothes

are not a mere sham. Whether married or single, of course I can't say.

But I noticed the name on his travelling-bag. A distinguished name in

my opinion--Hugh Mountjoy. I wonder what he'll order to drink when he

has his dinner? What a mercy it will be if we can get rid of another

bottle of the sour French wine!"

The bell in the private room rang at that moment; and the landlady's

daughter, it is needless to say, took the opportunity of forming her

own opinion of Mr. Hugh Mountjoy.

She returned with a letter in her hand, consumed by a vain longing for

the advantages of gentle birth. "Ah, mother, if I was a young lady of

the higher classes, I know whose wife I should like to be!" Not

particularly interested in sentimental aspirations, the landlady asked

to see Mr. Mountjoy's letter. The messenger who delivered it was to

wait for an answer. It was addressed to: "Miss Henley, care of Clarence

Vimpany, Esquire, Honeybuzzard." Urged by an excited imagination, the

daughter longed to see Miss Henley. The mother was at a loss to

understand why Mr. Mountjoy should have troubled himself to write the

letter at all. "If he knows the young lady who is staying at the

doctor's house," she said, "why doesn't he call on Miss Henley?" She

handed the letter back to her daughter. "There! let the ostler take it;

he's got nothing to do."

"No, mother. The ostler's dirty hands mustn't touch it--I'll take the

letter myself. Perhaps I may see Miss Henley." Such was the impression

which Mr. Hugh Mountjoy had innocently produced on a sensitive young

person, condemned by destiny to the barren sphere of action afforded by

a country inn!

The landlady herself took the dinner upstairs--a first course of mutton

chops and potatoes, cooked to a degree of imperfection only attained in

an English kitchen. The sour French wine was still on the good woman's

mind. "What would you choose to drink, sir?" she asked. Mr. Mountjoy

seemed to feel no interest in what he might have to drink. "We have

some French wine, sir."

"Thank you, ma'am; that will do."

When the bell rang again, and the time came to produce the second

course of cheese and celery, the landlady allowed the waiter to take

her place. Her experience of the farmers who frequented the inn, and

who had in some few cases been induced to taste the wine, warned her to

anticipate an outbreak of just anger from Mr. Mountjoy. He, like the

others, would probably ask what she "meant by poisoning him with such

stuff as that." On the return of the waiter, she put the question: "Did

the gentleman complain of the French wine?"

"He wants to see you about it, ma'am."

The landlady turned pale. The expression of Mr. Mountjoy's indignation

was evidently reserved for the mistress of the house. "Did he swear,"

she asked, "when he tasted it?"

"Lord bless you, ma'am, no! Drank it out of a tumbler, and--if you will

believe me--actually seemed to like it."

The landlady recovered her colour. Gratitude to Providence for having

sent a customer to the inn, who could drink sour wine without

discovering it, was the uppermost feeling in her ample bosom as she

entered the private room. Mr. Mountjoy justified her anticipations. He

was simple enough--with his tumbler before him, and the wine as it were

under his nose--to begin with an apology.

"I am sorry to trouble you, ma'am. May I ask where you got this wine?"

"The wine, sir, was one of my late husband's bad debts. It was all he

could get from a Frenchman who owed him money."

"It's worth money, ma'am."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes, indeed. This is some of the finest and purest claret that I have

tasted for many a long day past."

An alarming suspicion disturbed the serenity of the landlady's mind.

Was his extraordinary opinion of the wine sincere? Or was it Mr.

Mountjoy's wicked design to entrap her into praising her claret and

then to imply that she was a cheat by declaring what he really thought

of it? She took refuge in a cautious reply:

"You are the first gentleman, sir, who has not found fault with it."

"In that case, perhaps you would like to get rid of the wine?" Mr.

Mountjoy suggested.

The landlady was still cautious. "Who will buy it of me, sir?"

"I will. How much do you charge for it by the bottle?"

It was, by this time, clear that he was not mischievous--only a little

crazy. The worldly-wise hostess took advantage of that circumstance to

double the price. Without hesitation, she said: "Five shillings a

bottle, sir."

Often, too often, the irony of circumstances brings together, on this

earthly scene, the opposite types of vice and virtue. A lying landlady

and a guest incapable of deceit were looking at each other across a

narrow table; equally unconscious of the immeasurable moral gulf that

lay between them, Influenced by honourable feeling, innocent Hugh

Mountjoy lashed the landlady's greed for money to the full-gallop of

human cupidity.

"I don't think you are aware of the value of your wine," he said. "I

have claret in my cellar which is not so good as this, and which costs

more than you have asked. It is only fair to offer you seven-and-sixpence

a bottle."

When an eccentric traveller is asked to pay a price, and deliberately

raises that price against himself, where is the sensible

woman--especially if she happens to be a widow conducting an

unprofitable business--who would hesitate to improve the opportunity?

The greedy landlady raised her terms.

"On reflection, sir, I think I ought to have ten shillings a bottle, if

you please."

"The wine may be worth it," Mountjoy answered quietly; "but it is more

than I can afford to pay. No, ma'am; I will leave you to find some

lover of good claret with a longer purse than mine."

It was in this man's character, when he said No, to mean No. Mr.

Mountjoy's hostess perceived that her crazy customer was not to be

trifled with. She lowered her terms again with the headlong hurry of

terror. "You shall have it, Sir, at your own price," said this entirely

shameless and perfectly respectable woman.

The bargain having been closed under these circumstances, the

landlady's daughter knocked at the door. "I took your letter myself,

sir," she said modestly; "and here is the answer." (She had seen Miss

Henley, and did not think much of her.) Mountjoy offered the expression

of his thanks, in words never to be forgotten by a sensitive young

person, and opened his letter. It was short enough to be read in a

moment; but it was evidently a favourable reply. He took his hat in a

hurry, and asked to be shown the way to Mr. Vimpany's house.