They ceased altogether to speak; their very meals were taken in silence. The husband saw continual reproach in his wife's eyes; her sad and heavy look spoke more plainly than any words, 'It is to this that you have brought me.'
One morning Iris was idly turning over the papers in her desk. There were old letters, old photographs, all kinds of trifling treasures that reminded her of the past—a woman keeps everything; the little mementoes of her childhood, her first governess, her first school, her school friendships—everything. As Iris turned over these things her mind wandered back to the old days. She became again a young girl—innocent, fancy free; she grew up—she was a woman innocent still. Then her mind jumped at one leap to the present, and she saw herself as she was— innocent no longer, degraded and guilty, the vile accomplice of a vile conspiracy.
Then, as one who has been wearing coloured glasses puts them off and sees things in their own true colours, she saw how she had been pulled down by a blind infatuation to the level of the man who had held her in his fascination; she saw him as he was—reckless, unstable, careless of name and honour. Then for the first time she realised the depths into which she was plunged and the life which she was henceforth doomed to lead. The blind love fell from her—it was dead at last; but it left her bound to the man by a chain which nothing could break; she was in her right senses; she saw things as they were; but the knowledge came too late.
Her husband made no attempt to bridge over the estrangement which had thus grown up between them: it became wider every day; he lived apart and alone; he sat in his own room, smoking more cigars, drinking more brandy-and-water than was good for him; sometimes he paced the gravel walks in the garden; in the evening, after dinner, he went out and walked about the empty streets of the quiet city. Once or twice he ventured into a cafe, sitting in a corner, his hat drawn over his eyes; but that was dangerous. For the most part he kept in the streets, and he spoke to no one.
Meantime the autumn had given place to winter, which began in wet and dreary fashion. Day and night the rain fell, making the gravel walks too wet and the streets impossible. Then Lord Harry sat in his room and smoked all day long. And still the melancholy of the one increased, and the boredom of the other.
He spoke at last. It was after breakfast.
'Iris,' he said, 'how long is this to continue?'
'This—what?'
'This life—this miserable solitude and silence.'
'Till we die,' she replied. 'What else do you expect? You have sold our freedom, and we must pay the price.'
'No; it shall end. I will end it. I can endure it no longer.'
'You are still young. You will perhaps have forty years more to live—all like this—as dull and empty. It is the price we must pay.'
'No,' he repeated, 'it shall end. I swear that I will go on like this no longer.'
'You had better go to London and walk in Piccadilly to get a little society.'
'What do you care what I do or where I go?'
'We will not reproach each other, Harry.'
'Why—what else do you do all day long but reproach me with your gloomy looks and your silence?'
'Well—end it if you can. Find some change in the life.'
'Be gracious for a little, and listen to my plan. I have made a plan. Listen, Iris. I can no longer endure this life. It drives me mad.'
'And me too. That is one reason why we should not desire to change it. Mad people forget. They think they are somewhere else. For us to believe that we were somewhere else would be in itself happiness.'
'I am resolved to change it—to change it, I say—at any risk. We will leave Louvain.'
'We can, I dare say,' Iris replied coldly, 'find another town, French or Belgian, where we can get another cottage, behind high walls in a garden, and hide there.'
'No. I will hide no longer. I am sick of hiding.'
'Go on. What is your plan? Am I to pretend to be some one else's widow?'
'We will go to America. There are heaps of places in the States where no English people ever go—-neither tourists nor settlers—places where they have certainly never heard of us. We will find some quiet village, buy a small farm, and settle among the people. I know something about farming. We need not trouble to make the thing pay. And we will go back to mankind again. Perhaps, Iris—when we have gone back to the world—you will—' he hesitated—'you will be able to forgive me, and to regard me again with your old thoughts. It was done for your sake.'
'It was not done for my sake. Do not repeat that falsehood. The old thoughts will never come back, Harry. They are dead and gone. I have ceased to respect you or myself. Love cannot survive the loss of self-respect. Who am I that I should give love to anybody? Who are you that you should expect love?'
'Will you go with me to America—love or no love? I cannot stay here—I will not stay here.'
'I will go with you wherever you please. I should like not to run risks. There are still people whom it would pain to see Iris Henley tried and found guilty with two others on a charge of fraudulent conspiracy.'
'I wouldn't accustom myself, if I were you, Iris, to speak of things too plainly. Leave the thing to me and I will arrange it. See now, we will travel by a night train from Brussels to Calais. We will take the cross-country line from Amiens to Havre; there we will take boat for New York—no English people ever travel by the Havre line. Once in America we will push up country—to Kentucky or somewhere—and find that quiet country place: after that I ask no more. I will settle down for the rest of my life, and have no more adventures. Do you agree, Iris?'
'I will do anything that you wish,' she replied coldly.
'Very well. Let us lose no time. I feel choked here. Will you go into Brussels and buy a Continental Bradshaw or a Baedeker, or something that will tell us the times of sailing, the cost of passage, and all the rest of it? We will take with us money to start us with: you will have to write to your bankers. We can easily arrange to have the
