Blind Love - Wilkie Collins (story books to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Wilkie Collins
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“Madam,—I said I would let you know what goes on here, when I thought there was need of it. There seems to be need now. Mr. Vimpany came to us yesterday. He has the spare bedroom. My mistress says nothing, and writes nothing. For that reason, I send you the present writing.—Your humble servant, F.”
Mountjoy was perplexed by this letter, plain as it was.
“It seems strange,” he said, “that Iris herself has not written to you. She has never hitherto concealed her opinion of Mr. Vimpany.”
“She is concealing it now,” Mr. Vimpany’s wife replied gravely.
“Do you know why?”
“I am afraid I do. Iris will not hesitate at any sacrifice of herself to please Lord Harry. She will give him her money when he wants it. If he tells her to alter her opinion of my husband, she will obey him. He can shake her confidence in me, whenever he pleases; and he has very likely done it already.”
“Surely it is time for me to go to her now?” Hugh said.
“Full time,” Mrs. Vimpany admitted—“if you can feel sure of yourself. In the interests of Iris, can you undertake to be cool and careful?”
“In the interests of Iris, I can undertake anything.”
“One word more,” Mrs. Vimpany continued, “before you take your departure. No matter whether appearances are for him, or against him, be always on your guard with my husband. Let me hear from you while you are away; and don’t forget that there is an obstacle between you and Iris, which will put even your patience and devotion to a hard trial.”
“You mean her husband?”
“I do.”
There was no more to be said, Hugh set forth on his journey to Paris.
*
On the morning after his arrival in the French capital, Mountjoy had two alternatives to consider. He might either write to Iris, and ask when it would be convenient to her to receive him—or he might present himself unexpectedly in the cottage at Passy. Reflection convinced him that his best chance of placing an obstacle in the way of deception would be to adopt the second alternative, and to take Lord Harry and the doctor by surprise.
He went to Passy. The lively French taste had brightened the cottage with colour: the fair white window curtains were tied with rose-coloured ribbons, the blinds were gaily painted, the chimneys were ornamental, the small garden was a paradise of flowers. When Mountjoy rang the bell, the gate was opened by Fanny Mere. She looked at him in grave astonishment.
“Do they expect you?” she asked.
“Never mind that,” Hugh answered. “Are they at home?”
“They have just finished breakfast, sir.”
“Do you remember my name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then show me in.”
Fanny opened the door of a room on the ground floor, and announced: “Mr. Mountjoy.”
The two men were smoking; Iris was watering some flowers in the window. Her colour instantly faded when Hugh entered the room. In doubt and alarm, her eyes questioned Lord Harry. He was in his sweetest state of good-humour. Urged by the genial impulse of the moment, he set the example of a cordial reception. “This is an agreeable surprise, indeed,” he said, shaking hands with Mountjoy in his easy amiable way. “It’s kind of you to come and see us.” Relieved of anxiety (evidently when she had not expected it), Iris eagerly followed her husband’s example: her face recovered its colour, and brightened with its prettiest smile. Mr. Vimpany stood in a corner; his cigar went out: his own wife would hardly have known him again—he actually presented an appearance of embarrassment! Lord Harry burst out laughing: “Look at him Iris! The doctor is shy for the first time in his life.” The Irish good-humour was irresistible. The young wife merrily echoed her husband’s laugh. Mr. Vimpany, observing the friendly reception offered to Hugh, felt the necessity of adapting himself to circumstances. He came out of his corner with an apology: “Sorry I misbehaved myself, Mr. Mountjoy, when I called on you in London. Shake hands. No offence—eh?” Iris, in feverish high spirits, mimicked the doctor’s coarse tones when he repeated his favourite form of excuse. Lord Harry clapped his hands, delighted with his wife’s clever raillery: “Ha! Mr. Mountjoy, you don’t find that her married life has affected her spirits! May I hope that you have come here to breakfast? The table is ready as you see”–- “And I have been taking lessons, Hugh, in French ways of cooking eggs,” Iris added; “pray let me show you what I can do.” The doctor chimed in facetiously: “I’m Lady Harry’s medical referee; you’ll find her French delicacies half digested for you, sir, before you can open your mouth: signed, Clarence Vimpany, member of the College of Surgeons.” Remembering Mrs. Vimpany’s caution, Hugh concealed his distrust of this outbreak of hospitable gaiety, and made his excuses. Lord Harry followed, with more excuses, on his part. He deplored it—but he was obliged to go out. Had Mr. Mountjoy met with the new paper which was to beat “Galiguani” out of the field? The “Continental Herald “—there was the title. “Forty thousand copies of the first number have just flown all over Europe; we have our agencies in every town of importance, at every point of the compass; and, one of the great proprietors, my dear sir, is the humble individual who now addresses you.” His bright eyes sparkled with boyish pleasure, as he made that announcement of his own importance. If Mr. Mountjoy would kindly excuse him, he had an appointment at the office that morning. “Get your hat, Vimpany. The fact is our friend here carries a case of consumption in his pocket; consumption of the purse, you understand. I am going to enrol him among the contributors to the newspaper. A series of articles (between ourselves) exposing the humbug of physicians, and asserting with fine satirical emphasis the overstocked state of the medical profession. Ah, well! you’ll be glad (won’t you?) to talk over old times with Iris. My angel, show our good friend the ‘Continental Herald,’ and mind you keep him here till we get back. Doctor, look alive! Mr. Mountjoy, au revoir.” They shook hands again heartily. As Mrs. Vimpany had confessed, there was no resisting the Irish lord.
But Hugh’s strange experience of that morning was not at an end, yet.
LEFT alone with the woman whose charm still held him to her, cruelly as she had tried his devotion by her marriage, Mountjoy found the fluent amiability of the husband imitated by the wife. She, too, when the door had hardly closed on Lord Harry, was bent on persuading Hugh that her marriage had been the happiest event of her life.
“Will you think the worse of me,” she began, “if I own that I had little expectation of seeing you again?”
“Certainly not, Iris.”
“Consider my situation,” she went on. “When I remember how you tried (oh, conscientiously tried!) to prevent my marriage—how you predicted the miserable results that would follow, if Harry’s life and my life became one—could I venture to hope that you would come here, and judge for yourself? Dear and good friend, I have nothing to fear from the result; your presence was never more welcome to me than it is now!”
Whether it was attributable to prejudice on Mountjoy’s part, or to keen and just observation, he detected something artificial in the ring of her enthusiasm; there was not the steady light of truth in her eyes, which he remembered in the past and better days of their companionship. He was a little—just a little—irritated. The temptation to remind her that his distrust of Lord Harry had once been her distrust too, proved to be more than his frailty could resist.
“Your memory is generally exact,” he said; “but it hardly serves you now as well as usual.”
“What have I forgotten?”
“You have forgotten the time, my dear, when your opinion was almost as strongly against a marriage with Lord Harry as mine.”
Her answer was ready on the instant: “Ah, I didn’t know him then as well as I know him now!”
Some men, in Mountjoy’s position, might have been provoked into hinting that there were sides to her husband’s character which she had probably not discovered yet. But Hugh’s gentle temper—ruffled for a moment only—had recovered its serenity. Her friend was her true friend still; he said no more on the subject of her marriage.
“Old habits are not easily set aside,” he reminded her. “I have been so long accustomed to advise you and help you, that I find myself hoping there may be some need for my services still. Is there no way in which I might relieve you of the hateful presence of Mr. Vimpany?”
“My dear Hugh, I wish you had not mentioned Mr. Vimpany.”
Mountjoy concluded that the subject was disagreeable to her. “After the opinion of him which you expressed in your letter to me,” he said, “I ought not to have spoken of the doctor. Pray forgive me.”
Iris looked distressed. “Oh, you are quite mistaken! The poor doctor has been sadly misjudged; and I”—she shook her head, and sighed penitently—“and, I,” she resumed, “am one among other people who have ignorantly wronged him. Pray consult my husband. Hear what he can tell you—and you will pity Mr. Vimpany. The newspaper makes such large demands on our means that we can do little to help him. With your recommendation he might find some employment.”
“He has already asked me to assist him, Iris; and I have refused. I can’t agree with your change of opinion about Mr. Vimpany.”
“Why not? Is it because he has separated from his wife?”
“That is one reason, among many others,” Mountjoy replied.
“Indeed, indeed you are wrong! Lord Harry has known Mrs. Vimpany for years, and he says—I am truly sorry to hear it—that the separation is her fault.”
Hugh changed the subject again. The purpose which had mainly induced him to leave England had not been mentioned yet.
Alluding to the newspaper, and to the heavy pecuniary demands made by the preliminary expenses of the new journal, he reminded Iris that their long and intimate friendship permitted him to feel some interest in her affairs. “I won’t venture to express an opinion,” he added; “let me only ask if Lord Harry’s investments in this speculation have compelled him to make some use of your little fortune?”
“My husband refused to touch my fortune,” Iris answered. “But”—She paused, there. “Do you know how honourably, how nobly, he has behaved?” she abruptly resumed. “He has insured his life: he has burdened himself with the payment of a large sum of money every year. And all for me, if I am so unfortunate (which God forbid!) as to survive him. When a large share in the newspaper was for sale, do you think I could be ungrateful enough to let him lose the chance of making our fortune, when the profits begin to come in? I insisted on advancing the money—we almost quarrelled about it—but, you know how sweet he is. I said: ‘Don’t distress me’; and the dearest of men let me have my own way.”
Mountjoy listened in silence. To have expressed what he felt would have been only to mortify and offend Iris. Old habit (as he had said) had made the idea of devoting himself to her interests the uppermost idea in his mind. He asked if the money had all been spent. Hearing that some of it was still left, he resolved on making the attempt to secure the remains of her fortune to herself.
“Tell me,” he said, “have
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