Part 47 (1/2)

The hours advanced--the bustle of domestic life sank into silence--everybody but Iris rested quietly in bed.

Through the wakeful night the sense of her situation oppressed her sinking spirits. Mysteries that vaguely threatened danger made their presence felt, and took their dark way through her thoughts. The cottage, in which the first happy days of her marriage had been pa.s.sed, might ere long be the scene of some evil deed, provoking the lifelong separation of her husband and herself! Were these the exaggerated fears of a woman in a state of hysterical suspicion? It was enough for Iris to remember that Lord Harry and Mr. Vimpany had been alike incapable of telling her the truth. The first had tried to deceive her; the second had done his best to frighten her. Why? If there was really nothing to be afraid of--why? The hours of the early morning came; and still she listened in vain for the sound of my lord's footstep on the stairs; still she failed to hear the cautious opening of his dressing-room door. Leaving her chair, Iris rested on the bed. As time advanced, exhaustion mastered her; she slept.

Awakening at a late hour, she rang for f.a.n.n.y Mere. The master had just returned. He had missed the latest night-train to Pa.s.sy; and, rather than waste money on hiring a carriage at that hour, he had accepted the offer of a bed at the house of his friends. He was then below stairs, hoping to see Lady Harry at breakfast.

His wife joined him.

Not even at the time of the honeymoon had the Irish lord been a more irresistibly agreeable man than he was on that memorable morning. His apologies for having failed to return at the right time were little masterpieces of grace and gaiety. The next best thing to having been present, at the theatrical performance of the previous night, was to hear his satirical summary of the story of the play, contrasting delightfully with his critical approval of the fine art of the actors.

The time had been when Iris would have resented such merciless trifling with serious interests as this. In these earlier and better days, she would have reminded him affectionately of her claim to be received into his confidence--she would have tried all that tact and gentleness and patience could do to win his confession of the ascendency exercised over him by his vile friend--and she would have used the utmost influence of her love and her resolution to disunite the fatal fellows.h.i.+p which was leading him to his ruin.

But Iris Henley was Lady Harry now.

She was sinking--as Mrs. Vimpany had feared, as Mountjoy had foreseen--lower and lower on the descent to her husband's level. With a false appearance of interest in what he was saying she waited for her chance of matching him with his own weapons of audacious deceit. He ignorantly offered her the opportunity--setting the same snare to catch his wife, which she herself had it in contemplation to use for entrapping her husband into a confession of the truth.

”Ah, well--I have said more than enough of my last night's amus.e.m.e.nt,”

he confessed. ”It's your turn now, my dear. Have you had a look at the poor fellow whom the doctor is going to cure?” he asked abruptly; eager to discover whether she had noticed the likeness between Oxbye and himself.

Her eyes rested on him attentively. ”I have not yet seen the person you allude to,” she answered. ”Is Mr. Vimpany hopeful of his recovery?”

He took out his case, and busied himself in choosing a cigar. In the course of his adventurous life, he had gained some knowledge of the effect of his own impetuous temper on others, and of difficulties which he had experienced when circ.u.mstances rendered it necessary to keep his face in a state of discipline.

”Oh, there's no reason for anxiety!” he said, with an over-acted interest in examining his cigar. ”Mr. Oxbye is in good hands.”

”People do sometimes sink under an illness,” she quietly remarked.

Without making any reply he took out his matchbox. His hand trembled a little; he failed at the first attempt to strike a light.

”And doctors sometimes make mistakes,” Iris went on.

He was still silent. At the second attempt, he succeeded with the match, and lit his cigar.

”Suppose Mr. Vimpany made a mistake,” she persisted. ”In the case of this stranger, it might lead to deplorable results.”

Lord Harry lost his temper, and with it his colour.

”What the devil do you mean?” he cried.

”I might ask, in my turn,” she said, ”what have I done to provoke an outbreak of temper? I only made a remark.”

At that critical moment, f.a.n.n.y Mere entered the room with a telegram in her hand.

”For you, my lady.”

Iris opened the telegram. The message was signed by Mrs. Vimpany, and was expressed in these words: ”You may feel it your duty to go to your father. He is dangerously ill.”

Lord Harry saw a sudden change in his wife's face that roused his guilty suspicions. ”Is it anything about me?” he asked.

Iris handed the telegram to him in silence. Having looked at it, he desired to hear what her wishes were.

”The telegram expresses my wishes,” she said. ”Have you any objection to my leaving you?”