home.'
Those words put an end to her outbreak of gaiety, in an instant.
'News from my father?' she asked.
'Yes.'
'Is he coming here?'
'No; I have heard from him.'
'A letter?'
'A telegram,' Mountjoy explained, 'in answer to a letter from me. I did my best to press your claims on him, and I am glad to say I have not failed.'
'Hugh, dear Hugh! have you succeeded in reconciling us?'
Mountjoy produced the telegram. 'I asked Mr. Henley,' he said, 'to let me know at once whether he would receive you, and to answer plainly Yes or No. The message might have been more kindly expressed—but, at any rate, it is a favourable reply.'
Iris read the telegram. 'Is there another father in the world,' she said sadly, 'who would tell his daughter, when she asks to come home, that he will receive her on trial?'
'Surely, you are not offended with him, Iris?'
She shook her head. 'I am like you,' she said. 'I know him too well to be offended. He shall find me dutiful, he shall find me patient. I am afraid I must not expect you to wait for me in Honeybuzzard. Will you tell my father that I hope to return to him in a week's time?'
'Pardon me, Iris, I see no reason why you should waste a week in this town. On the contrary, the more eager you show yourself to return to your father, the more likely you are to recover your place in his estimation. I had planned to take you home by the next train.'
Iris looked at him in astonishment. 'Is it possible that you mean what you say?' she asked.
'My dear, I do most assuredly mean what I say. Why should you hesitate? What possible reason can there be for staying here any longer?'
'Oh, Hugh, how you disappoint me! What has become of your kind feeling, your sense of justice, your consideration for others? Poor Mrs. Vimpany!'
'What has Mrs. Vimpany to do with it?'
Iris was indignant.
'What has Mrs. Vimpany to do with it?' she repeated. 'After all that I owe to that good creature's kindness; after I have promised to accompany her—she has so few happy days, poor soul!—on excursions to places of interest in the neighbourhood, do you expect me to leave her—no! it's worse than that—do you expect me to throw her aside like an old dress that I have worn out? And this after I have so unjustly, so ungratefully suspected her in my own thoughts? Shameful! shameful!'
With some difficulty, Mountjoy controlled himself. After what she had just said, his lips were sealed on the subject of Mrs. Vimpany's true character. He could only persist in appealing to her duty to her father.
'You are allowing your quick temper to carry you to strange extremities,' he answered. 'If I think it of more importance to hasten a reconciliation with your father than to encourage you to make excursions with a lady whom you have only known for a week or two, what have I done to deserve such an outbreak of anger? Hush! Not a word more now! Here is the lady herself.'
As he spoke, Mrs. Vimpany joined them; returning from her interview with her husband at the inn. She looked first at Iris, and at once perceived signs of disturbance in the young lady's face.
Concealing her anxiety under that wonderful stage smile, which affords a refuge to so many secrets, Mrs. Vimpany said a few words excusing her absence. Miss Henley answered, without the slightest change in her friendly manner to the doctor's wife. The signs of disturbance were evidently attributable to some entirely unimportant cause, from Mrs. Vimpany's point of view. Mr. Mountjoy's discoveries had not been communicated yet.
In Hugh's state of mind, there was some irritating influence in the presence of the mistress of the house, which applied the spur to his wits. He mischievously proposed submitting to her the question in dispute between Iris and himself.
'It is a very simple matter,' he said to Mrs. Vimpany. 'Miss Henley's father is anxious that she should return to him, after an estrangement between them which is happily at an end. Do you think she ought to allow any accidental engagements to prevent her from going home at once? If she requests your indulgence, under the circumstances, has she any reason to anticipate a refusal?'
Mrs. Vimpany's expressive eyes looked up, with saintly resignation, at the dirty ceiling—and asked in dumb show what she had done to deserve the injury implied by a doubt.
'Mr. Mountjoy,' she said sternly, 'you insult me by asking the question.'—'Dear Miss Henley,' she continued, turning to Iris,
She retired up the stage—no, no; she withdrew to the other end of the room—and burst into the most becoming of all human tears, theatrical tears. Impulsive Iris hastened to comfort the personification of self-sacrifice, the model of all that was most unselfish in female submission. 'For shame! for shame!' she whispered, as she passed Mountjoy.
Beaten again by Mrs. Vimpany—with no ties of relationship to justify resistance to Miss Henley; with two women against him, entrenched behind the privileges of their sex—the one last sacrifice of his own feelings, in the interests of Iris, that Hugh could make was to control the impulse which naturally urged him to leave the house. In the helpless position in which he had now placed himself, he could only wait to see what course Mrs. Vimpany might think it desirable to take. Would she request him, in her most politely malicious way, to bring his visit to an end? No: she looked at him—hesitated—directed a furtive glance towards the view of the street from the window —smiled mysteriously—and completed the sacrifice of her own feelings in these words:
