Part 18 (1/2)
She had done her best to resist him, and she had answered in those merciful words.
The effect was visible, perilously visible, as he rose from his knees.
Her one chance of keeping the distance between them, on which she had been too weak to insist, was not to encourage him by silence. Abruptly, desperately, she made a commonplace inquiry about his proposed voyage.
”Tell me,” she resumed, ”where are you going when you leave England?”
”Oh, to find money, dear, if I can--to pick up diamonds, or to hit on a mine of gold, and so forth.”
The fine observation of Iris detected something not quite easy in his manner, as he made that reply. He tried to change the subject: she deliberately returned to it. ”Your account of your travelling plans is rather vague,” she told him. ”Do you know when you are likely to return?”
He took her hand. One of the rings on her fingers happened to be turned the wrong way. He set it in the right position, and discovered an opal.
”Ah! the unlucky stone!” he cried, and turned it back again out of sight. She drew away her hand. ”I asked you,” she persisted, ”when you expect to return?”
He laughed--not so gaily as usual.
”How do I know I shall ever get back?” he answered. ”Sometimes the seas turn traitor, and sometimes the savages. I have had so many narrow escapes of my life, I can't expect my luck to last for ever.” He made a second attempt to change the subject. ”I wonder whether you're likely to pay another visit to Ireland? My cottage is entirely at your disposal, Iris dear. Oh, when I'm out of the way, of course! The place seemed to please your fancy, when you saw it. You will find it well taken care of, I answer for that.”
Iris asked who was taking care of his cottage.
The wild lord's face saddened. He hesitated; rose from his chair restlessly, and walked away to the window; returned, and made up his mind to reply.
”My dear, you know her. She was the old housekeeper at--”
His voice failed him. He was unable, or unwilling, to p.r.o.nounce the name of Arthur's farm.
Knowing, it is needless to say, that he had alluded to Mrs. Lewson, Iris warmly commended him for taking care of her old nurse. At the same time, she remembered the unfriendly terms in which the housekeeper had alluded to Lord Harry, when they had talked of him.
”Did you find no difficulty,” she asked, ”in persuading Mrs. Lewson to enter your service?”
”Oh, yes, plenty of difficulty; I found my bad character in my way, as usual.” It was a relief to him, at that moment, to talk of Mrs. Lewson; the Irish humour and the Irish accent both a.s.serted themselves in his reply. ”The curious old creature told me to my face I was a scamp. I took leave to remind her that it was the duty of a respectable person, like herself, to reform scamps; I also mentioned that I was going away, and she would be master and mistress too on my small property. That softened her heart towards me. You will mostly find old women amenable, if you get at them by way of their dignity. Besides, there was another lucky circ.u.mstance that helped me. The neighbourhood of my cottage has some attraction for Mrs. Lewson. She didn't say particularly what it was--and I never asked her to tell me.”
”Surely you might have guessed it, without being told,” Iris reminded him. ”Mrs. Lewson's faithful heart loves poor Arthur's memory--and Arthur's grave is not far from your cottage.”
”Don't speak of him!”
It was said loudly, peremptorily, pa.s.sionately. He looked at her with angry astonishment in his face. ”You loved him too!” he said. ”Can you speak of him quietly? The n.o.blest, truest, sweetest man that ever the Heavens looked on, foully a.s.sa.s.sinated. And the wretch who murdered him still living, free--oh, what is G.o.d's providence about?--is there no retribution that will follow him? no just hand that will revenge Arthur's death?”
As those fierce words escaped him, he was no longer the easy, gentle, joyous creature whom Iris had known and loved. The furious pa.s.sions of the Celtic race glittered savagely in his eyes, and changed to a grey horrid pallor the healthy colour that was natural to his face. ”Oh, my temper, my temper!” he cried, as Iris shrank from him. ”She hates me now, and no wonder.” He staggered away from her, and burst into a convulsive fit of crying, dreadful to hear. Compa.s.sion, divine compa.s.sion, mastered the earthlier emotion of terror in the great heart of the woman who loved him. She followed him, and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder. ”I don't hate you, my dear,” she said. ”I am sorry for Arthur--and, oh, so sorry for You!” He caught her in his arms. His grat.i.tude, his repentance, his silent farewell were all expressed in a last kiss. It was a moment, never to be forgotten to the end of their lives. Before she could speak, before she could think, he had left her.
She called him back, through the open door. He never returned; he never even replied. She ran to the window, and threw it up--and was just in time to see him signal to the carriage and leap into it. Her horror of the fatal purpose that was but too plainly rooted in him--her conviction that he was on the track of the a.s.sa.s.sin, self devoted to exact the terrible penalty of blood for blood--emboldened her to insist on being heard. ”Come back,” she cried. ”I must, I will, speak with you.”
He waved his hand to her with a gesture of despair. ”Start your horses,” he shouted to the coachman. Alarmed by his voice and his look, the man asked where he should drive to. Lord Harry pointed furiously to the onward road. ”Drive,” he answered, ”to the Devil!”
THE END OF THE FIRST PERIOD
THE SECOND PERIOD
CHAPTER XIII
IRIS AT HOME