THE MAN SHE REFUSED
MOUNTJOY had decided on travelling to Honeybuzzard, as soon as he heard
that Miss Henley was staying with strangers in that town. Having had no
earlier opportunity of preparing her to see him, he had considerately
written to her from the inn, in preference to presenting himself
unexpectedly at the doctor's house. How would she receive the devoted
friend, whose proposal of marriage she had refused for the second time,
when they had last met in London?
The doctor's place of residence, situated in a solitary by-street,
commanded a view, not perhaps encouraging to a gentleman who followed
the medical profession: it was a view of the churchyard. The door was
opened by a woman-servant, who looked suspiciously at the stranger.
Without waiting to be questioned, she said her master was out. Mountjoy
mentioned his name, and asked for Miss Henley.
The servant's manner altered at once for the better; she showed him
into a small drawing-room, scantily and cheaply furnished. Some
poorly-framed prints on the walls (a little out of place perhaps in a
doctor's house) represented portraits of famous actresses, who had been
queens of the stage in the early part of the present century. The few
books, too, collected on a little shelf above the chimney-piece, were
in every case specimens of dramatic literature. "Who reads these
plays?" Mountjoy asked himself. "And how did Iris find her way into
this house?"
While he was thinking of her, Miss Henley entered the room.
Her face was pale and careworn; tears dimmed her eyes when Mountjoy
advanced to meet her. In his presence, the horror of his brother's
death by assassination shook Iris as it had not shaken her yet.
Impulsively, she drew his head down to her, with the fond familiarity
of a sister, and kissed his forehead. "Oh, Hugh, I know how you and
Arthur loved each other! No words of mine can say how I feel for you."
"No words are wanted, my dear," he answered tenderly. "Your sympathy
speaks for itself."
He led her to the sofa and seated himself by her side. "Your father has
shown me what you have written to him," he resumed; "your letter from
Dublin and your second letter from this place. I know what you have so
nobly risked and suffered in poor Arthur's interests. It will be some
consolation to me if I can make a return--a very poor return, Iris--for
all that Arthur's brother owes to the truest friend that ever man had.
No," he continued, gently interrupting the expression of her gratitude.
"Your father has not sent me here--but he knows that I have left London
for the express purpose of seeing you, and he knows why. You have
written to him dutifully and affectionately; you have pleaded for
pardon and reconciliation, when he is to blame. Shall I venture to tell
you how he answered me, when I asked if he had no faith left in his own
child? 'Hugh,' he said, 'you are wasting words on a man whose mind is
made up. I will trust my daughter when that Irish lord is laid in his
grave--not before.' That is a reflection on you, Iris, which I cannot
permit, even when your father casts it. He is hard, he is unforgiving;
but he must, and shall, be conquered yet. I mean to make him do you
justice; I have come here with that purpose, and that purpose only, in
view. May I speak to you of Lord Harry?"
"How can you doubt it!"
"My dear, this is a delicate subject for me to enter on."
"And a shameful subject for me!" Iris broke out bitterly. "Hugh! you
are an angel, by comparison with that man--how debased I must be to
love him--how unworthy of your good opinion! Ask me anything you like;
have no mercy on me. Oh," she cried, with reckless contempt for
herself, "why don't you beat me? I deserve it!"
Mountjoy was well enough acquainted with the natures of women to pass
over that passionate outbreak, instead of fanning the flame in her by
reasoning and remonstrance.
"Your father will not listen to the expression of feeling," he
continued; "but it is possible to rouse his sense of justice by the
expression of facts. Help me to speak to him more plainly of Lord Harry
than you could speak in your letters. I want to know what has happened,
from the time when events at Ardoon brought you and the young lord
together again, to the time when you left him in Ireland after my
brother's death. If I seem to expect too much of you, Iris, pray
remember that I am speaking with a true regard for your interests."
In those words, he made his generous appeal to her. She proved herself
to be worthy of it.
Stated briefly, the retrospect began with the mysterious anonymous
letters which had been addressed to Sir Giles.
Lord Harry's explanation had been offered to Iris gratefully, but with
some reserve, after she had told him who the stranger at the milestone
really was. "I entreat you to pardon me, if I shrink from entering into
particulars," he had said. "Circumstances, at the time, amply justified
me in the attempt to use the banker's political influence as a means of
securing Arthur's safety. I knew enough of Sir Giles's mean nature to
be careful in trusting him; but I did hope to try what my personal
influence might do. If he had possessed a tenth part of your courage,
Arthur might have been alive, and safe in England, at this moment. I
can't say any more; I daren't say any more; it maddens me when I think
of it!" He abruptly changed the subject, and interested Iris by
speaking of other and later events. His association with the
Invincibles--inexcusably rash and wicked as he himself confessed it to
be--had enabled him to penetrate, and for a time to defeat secretly,
the murderous designs of the brotherhood. His appearances, first at the
farmhouse and afterwards at the ruin in the wood were referable to
changes in the plans of the assassins which had come to his knowledge.
When Iris had met with him he was on the watch, believing that his
friend would take the short way back through the wood, and well aware
that his own life might pay the penalty if he succeeded in warning
Arthur. After the terrible discovery of the murder (committed on the
high road), and the escape of the miscreant who had been guilty of the
crime, the parting of Lord Harry and Miss Henley had been the next
event. She had left him, on her return to England, and had refused to
consent to any of the future meetings between them which he besought
her to grant.
At this stage in the narrative, Mountjoy felt compelled to ask
questions more searching than he had put to Iris yet. It was possible
that she might be trusting her own impressions of Lord Harry, with the
ill-placed confidence of a woman innocently self-deceived.
"Did he submit willingly to your leaving him?" Mountjoy said.
"Not at first," she replied.
"Has he released you from that rash engagement, of some years since,
which pledged you to marry him?"
"No."
"Did he allude to the engagement, on this occasion?"
"He said he held to it as the one hope of his life."
"And what did you say?"
"I implored him not to distress me."
"Did you say nothing more positive than that?"
"I couldn't help thinking, Hugh, of all that he had tried to do to save
Arthur. But I insisted on leaving him--and I have left him."
"Do you remember what he said at parting?"
"He said, 'While I live, I love you.'"
As she repeated the words, there was an involuntary change to
tenderness in her voice which was not lost on Mountjoy.
"I must be sure," he said to her gravely, "of what I tell your father
when I go back to him. Can I declare, with a safe conscience, that you
will never see Lord Harry again?"
"My mind is made up never to see him again." She had answered firmly so
far. Her next words were spoken with hesitation, in tones that
faltered. "But I am sometimes afraid," she said, "that the decision may
not rest with me."
"What do you mean?"
"I would rather not tell you."
"That is a strange answer, Iris."
"I value your good opinion, Hugh, and I am afraid of losing it."
"Nothing has ever altered my opinion of you," he replied, "and nothing
ever will."
She looked at him anxiously, with the closest attention. Little by
little, the expression of doubt in her face disappeared; she knew how
he loved her--she resolved to trust him.
"My friend," she began abruptly, "education has done nothing for me.
Since I left Ireland, I have sunk (I don't know how or why) into a
state of superstitious fear. Yes! I believe in a fatality which is
leading me back to Lord Harry, in spite of myself. Twice already, since
I left home, I have met with him; and each time I have been the means
of saving him--once at the milestone, and once at the ruin in the wood.
If my father still accuses me of being in love with an adventurer, you
can say with perfect truth that I am afraid of him. I _am_ afraid of
the third meeting. I have done my best to escape from that man; and,
step by step, as I think I am getting away, Destiny is taking me back
to him. I may be on my way to him here, hidden in this wretched little
town. Oh, don't despise me! Don't be ashamed of me!"
"My dear, I am interested--deeply interested in you. That there may be
some such influence as Destiny in our poor mortal lives, I dare not
deny. But I don't agree with your conclusion. What Destiny has to do
with you and with me, neither you nor I can pretend to know beforehand.
In the presence of that great mystery, humanity must submit to be
ignorant. Wait, Iris--wait!"
She answered him with the simplicity of a docile child: "I will do
anything you tell me."
Mountjoy was too fond of her to say more of Lord Harry, for that day.
He was careful to lead the talk to a topic which might be trusted to
provoke no agitating thoughts. Finding Iris to all appearance
established in the doctor's house, he was naturally anxious to know
something of the person who must have invited her--the doctor's wife.