Blind Love, Wilkie Collins [ebook reader 8 inch TXT] 📗
- Author: Wilkie Collins
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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 farmhouse 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
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