Blind Love by Wilkie Collins (most read books in the world of all time txt) đź“•
"God grant it!" the clerk said fervently.
For the moment, Sir Giles was staggered. "Have you heard something that you haven't told me yet?" he asked.
"No, sir. I am only bearing in mind something which--with all respect--I think you have forgotten. The last tenant on that bit of land in Kerry refused to pay his rent. Mr. Arthur has taken what they call an evicted farm. It's my firm belief," said the head clerk, rising and speaking earnestly, "that the person who has addressed those letters to you knows Mr. Arthur, and knows he is in danger--and is trying to save your nephew (by means of your influence), at the risk of his own life."
Sir Giles shook his head. "I call that a far-fetched interpretation, Dennis. If what you say is true, why didn't the writer of those anonymous letters address himself to Arthur, instead of to me?"
"I gave it as my opinion just now, sir, that the writer of the letter knew Mr. Arthur."
"So you did. And what of that?"
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The drawing-room door was softly opened, at the moment when Iris put that question. A lady appeared on the threshold. Seeing the stranger, she turned to Iris.
“I didn’t know, dear Miss Henley, that you had a visitor. Pray pardon my intrusion.”
The voice was deep; the articulation was clear; the smile presented a certain modest dignity which gave it a value of its own. This was a woman who could make such a commonplace thing as an apology worth listening to. Iris stopped her as she was about to leave the room. “I was just wishing for you,” she said. “Let me introduce my old friend, Mr. Mountjoy. Hugh, this is the lady who has been so kind to me—Mrs. Vimpany.”
Hugh’s impulse, under the circumstances, was to dispense with the formality of a bow, and to shake hands. Mrs. Vimpany met this friendly advance with a suavity of action, not often seen in these days of movement without ceremony. She was a tall slim woman, of a certain age. Art had so cleverly improved her complexion that it almost looked like nature. Her cheeks had lost the plumpness of youth, but her hair (thanks again perhaps to Art) showed no signs of turning grey. The expression of her large dark eyes—placed perhaps a little too near her high aquiline nose—claimed admiration from any person who was so fortunate as to come within their range of view. Her hands, long, yellow, and pitiably thin, were used with a grace which checked to some extent their cruel betrayal of her age. Her dress had seen better days, but it was worn with an air which forbade it to look actually shabby. The faded lace that encircled her neck fell in scanty folds over her bosom. She sank into a chair by Hugh’s side. “It was a great pleasure to me, Mr. Mountjoy, to offer my poor services to Miss Henley; I can’t tell you how happy her presence makes me in our little house.” The compliment was addressed to Iris with every advantage that smiles and tones could offer. Oddly artificial as it undoubtedly was, Mrs. Vimpany’s manner produced nevertheless an agreeable impression. Disposed to doubt her at first, Mountjoy found that she was winning her way to a favourable change in his opinion. She so far interested him, that he began to wonder what her early life might have been, when she was young and handsome. He looked again at the portraits of actresses on the walls, and the plays on the bookshelf—and then (when she was speaking to Iris) he stole a sly glance at the doctor’s wife. Was it possible that this remarkable woman had once been an actress? He attempted to put the value of that guess to the test by means of a complimentary allusion to the prints.
“My memory as a playgoer doesn’t extend over many years,” he began; “but I can appreciate the historical interest of your beautiful prints.” Mrs. Vimpany bowed gracefully—and dumbly. Mountjoy tried again. “One doesn’t often see the famous actresses of past days,” he proceeded, “so well represented on the walls of an English house.”
This time, he had spoken to better purpose. Mrs. Vimpany answered him in words.
“I have many pleasant associations with the theatre,” she said, “first formed in the time of my girlhood.”
Mountjoy waited to hear something more. Nothing more was said. Perhaps this reticent lady disliked looking back through a long interval of years, or perhaps she had her reasons for leaving Mountjoy’s guess at the truth still lost in doubt. In either case, she deliberately dropped the subject. Iris took it up. Sitting by the only table in the room, she was in a position which placed her exactly opposite to one of the prints—the magnificent portrait of Mrs. Siddons as The Tragic Muse.
“I wonder if Mrs. Siddons was really as beautiful as that?” she said, pointing to the print. “Sir Joshua Reynolds is reported to have sometimes flattered his sitters.”
Mrs. Vimpany’s solemn self-possessed eyes suddenly brightened; the name of the great actress seemed to interest her. On the point, apparently, of speaking, she dropped the subject of Mrs. Siddons as she had dropped the subject of the theatre. Mountjoy was left to answer Iris.
“We are none of us old enough,” he reminded her, “to decide whether Sir Joshua’s brush has been guilty of flattery or not.” He turned to Mrs. Vimpany, and attempted to look into her life from a new point of view. “When Miss Henley was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance,” he said, “you were travelling in Ireland. Was it your first visit to that unhappy country?”
“I have been more than once in Ireland.”
Having again deliberately disappointed Mountjoy, she was assisted in keeping clear of the subject of Ireland by a fortunate interruption. It was the hour of delivery by the afternoon-post. The servant came in with a small sealed packet, and a slip of printed paper in her hand.
“It’s registered, ma’am,” the woman announced. “The postman says you are to please sign this. And he seems to be in a hurry.”
She placed the packet and the slip of paper on the table, near the inkstand. Having signed the receipt, Mrs. Vimpany took up the packet, and examined the address. She instantly looked at Iris, and looked away again. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” saying this she left the room, without opening the packet.
The moment the door closed on her, Iris started up, and hurried to Mountjoy.
“Oh, Hugh,” she said, “I saw the address on that packet when the servant put it on the table!”
“My dear, what is there to excite you in the address?”
“Don’t speak so loud! She may be listening outside the door.”
Not only the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, amazed Mountjoy. “Your friend, Mrs. Vimpany!” he exclaimed.
“Mrs. Vimpany was afraid to open the packet in our presence,” Iris went on: “you must have seen that. The handwriting is familiar to me; I am certain of the person who wrote the address.”
“Well? And who is the person?”
She whispered in his ear:
“Lord Harry.”
SURPRISE silenced Hugh for the moment. Iris understood the look that he fixed on her, and answered it. “I am quite sure,” she told him, “of what I say.”
Mountjoy’s well-balanced mind hesitated at rushing to a conclusion.
“I am sure you are convinced of what you tell me,” he said. “But mistakes do sometimes happen in forming a judgment of handwriting.”
In the state of excitement that now possessed her, Iris was easily irritated; she was angry with Hugh for only supposing that she might have made a mistake. He had himself, as she reminded him, seen Lord Harry’s handwriting in past days. Was it possible to be mistaken in those bold thickly-written characters, with some of the letters so quaintly formed? “Oh, Hugh, I am miserable enough as it is,” she broke out; “don’t distract me by disputing what I know! Think of a woman so kind, so disinterested, so charming—the very opposite of a false creature—think of Mrs. Vimpany having deceived me!”
There was not the slightest reason, thus far, for placing that interpretation on what had happened. Mountjoy gently, very gently, remonstrated.
“My dear, we really don’t know yet that Mrs. Vimpany has been acting under Lord Harry’s instructions. Wait a little before you suspect your fellow-traveller of offering her services for the purpose of deceiving you.”
Iris was angry with him again: “Why did Mrs. Vimpany never tell me she knew Lord Harry? Isn’t that suspicious?”
Mountjoy smiled. “Let me put a question on my side,” he said. “Did you tell Mrs. Vimpany you knew Lord Harry?” Iris made no reply; her face spoke for her. “Well, then,” he urged, “is your silence suspicious? I am far, mind, from saying that this may not be a very unpleasant discovery. Only let us be sure first that we are right.”
With most of a woman’s merits, Miss Henley had many of a woman’s faults. Still holding to her own conclusion, she asked how they could expect to be sure of anything if they addressed their inquiries to a person who had already deceived them.
Mountjoy’s inexhaustible indulgence still made allowances for her. “When Mrs. Vimpany comes back,” he said, “I will find an opportunity of mentioning Lord Harry’s name. If she tells us that she knows him, there will be good reason in that one circumstance, as it seems to me, for continuing to trust her.”
“Suppose she shams ignorance,” Iris persisted, “and looks as if she had never heard of his name before?”
“In that case, I shall own that I was wrong, and shall ask you to forgive me.”
The finer and better nature of Iris recovered its influence at these words. “It is I who ought to beg pardon,” she said. “Oh, I wish I could think before I speak: how insolent and ill-tempered I have been! But suppose I turn out to be right, Hugh, what will you do then?”
“Then, my dear, it will be my duty to take you and your maid away from this house, and to tell your father what serious reasons there are”–- He abruptly checked himself. Mrs. Vimpany had returned; she was in perfect possession of her lofty courtesy, sweetened by the modest dignity of her smile.
“I have left you, Miss Henley, in such good company,” she said, with a gracious inclination of her head in the direction of Mountjoy, “that I need hardly repeat my apologies—unless, indeed, I am interrupting a confidential conversation.”
It was possible that Iris might have betrayed herself, when the doctor’s wife had looked at her after examining the address on the packet. In this case Mrs. Vimpany’s allusion to “a confidential conversation” would have operated as a warning to a person of experience in the by-ways of deceit. Mountjoy’s utmost exertion of cunning was not capable of protecting him on such conditions as these. The opportunity of trying his proposed experiment with Lord Harry’s name seemed to have presented itself already. He rashly seized on it.
“You have interrupted nothing that was confidential,” he hastened to assure Mrs. Vimpany. “We have been speaking of a reckless young gentleman, who is an acquaintance of ours. If what I hear is true, he has already become public property; his adventures have found their way into some of the newspapers.”
Here, if Mrs. Vimpany had answered Hugh’s expectations, she ought to have asked who the young gentleman was. She merely listened in polite silence.
With a woman’s quickness of perception, Iris saw that Mountjoy had not only pounced on his opportunity prematurely, but had spoken with a downright directness of allusion which must at once have put such a ready-witted person as Mrs. Vimpany on her guard. In trying to prevent him from pursuing his unfortunate experiment in social diplomacy, Iris innocently repeated Mountjoy’s own mistake. She, too, seized her opportunity prematurely. That is to say, she was rash enough to change the subject.
“You were talking just now, Hugh, of our friend’s adventures,” she said; “I am afraid you will find yourself involved in an adventure of no very agreeable kind, if you engage a bed at the inn. I never saw a more wretched-looking place.”
It was one of Mrs. Vimpany’s many merits that she seldom neglected an opportunity of setting her friends at their ease.
“No, no, dear Miss Henley,” she hastened to say; “the inn is really a more clean and comfortable place than you suppose. A hard
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