'Dear Miss Henley, let me help you to pack up.'
Iris positively refused.
'No,' she said, 'I don't agree with Mr. Mountjoy. My father leaves it to me to name the day when we meet. I hold you, my dear, to our engagement—I don't leave an affectionate friend as I might leave a stranger.'
Even if Mr. Mountjoy communicated his discoveries to Miss Henley, on the way home, there would be no danger now of her believing him. Mrs. Vimpany put her powerful arm round the generous Iris, and, with infinite grace, thanked her by a kiss.
'Your kindness will make my lonely lot in life harder than ever to bear,' she murmured, 'when you are gone.'
'But we may hope to meet in London,' Iris reminded her; 'unless Mr. Vimpany alters his mind about leaving this place.'
'My husband will not do that, dear. He is determined to try his luck, as he says, in London. In the meantime you will give me your address, won't you? Perhaps you will even promise to write to me?'
Iris instantly gave her promise, and wrote down her address in London.
Mountjoy made no attempt to interfere: it was needless.
If the maid had not fallen ill on the journey, and if Mrs. Vimpany had followed Miss Henley to London, there would have been little to fear in the discovery of her address—and there was little to fear now. The danger to Iris was not in what might happen while she was living under her father's roof, but in what might happen if she was detained (by plans for excursions) in Mr. Vimpany's house, until Lord Harry might join her there.
Rather than permit this to happen, Hugh (in sheer desperation) meditated charging Mrs. Vimpany, to her face, with being the Irish lord's spy, and proving the accusation by challenging her to produce the registered letter and the diamond pin.
While he was still struggling with his own reluctance to inflict this degrading exposure on a woman, the talk between the two ladies came to an end. Mrs. Vimpany returned again to the window. On this occasion, she looked out into the street—with her handkerchief (was it used as a signal?) exhibited in her hand. Iris, on her side, advanced to Mountjoy. Easily moved to anger, her nature was incapable of sullen perseverance in a state of enmity. To see Hugh still patiently waiting—still risking the chances of insult—devoted to her, and forgiving her—was at once a reproach that punished Iris, and a mute appeal that no true woman's heart could resist.
With tears in her eyes she said to him: 'There must be no coolness between you and me. I lost my temper, and spoke shamefully to you. My dear, I am indeed sorry for it. You are never hard on me—you won't be hard on me now?'
She offered her hand to him. He had just raised it to his lips—when the drawing-room door was roughly opened. They both looked round.
The man of all others whom Hugh least desired to see was the man who now entered the room. The victim of 'light claret'—privately directed to lurk in the street, until he saw a handkerchief fluttering at the window—had returned to the house; primed with his clever wife's instructions; ready and eager to be even with Mountjoy for the dinner at the inn.
CHAPTER IX
MR. VIMPANY ON INTOXICATION
THERE was no unsteadiness in the doctor's walk, and no flush on his face. He certainly did strut when he entered the room; and he held up his head with dignity, when he discovered Mountjoy. But he seemed to preserve his self-control. Was the man sober again already?
His wife approached him with her set smile; the appearance of her lord and master filled Mrs. Vimpany with perfectly-assumed emotions of agreeable surprise.
'This is an unexpected pleasure,' she said. 'You seldom favour us with your company, my dear, so early in the evening! Are there fewer patients in want of your advice than usual?'
'You are mistaken, Arabella. I am here in the performance of a painful duty.'
The doctor's language, and the doctor's manner, presented him to Iris in a character that was new to her. What effect had he produced on Mrs. Vimpany? That excellent friend to travellers in distress lowered her eyes to the floor, and modestly preserved silence. Mr. Vimpany proceeded to the performance of his duty; his painful responsibility seemed to strike him at first from a medical point of view.
'If there is a poison which undermines the sources of life,' he remarked, 'it is alcohol. If there is a vice that degrades humanity, it is intoxication. Mr. Mountjoy, are you aware that I am looking at you?'
'Impossible not to be aware of that,' Hugh answered. 'May I ask why you are looking at me?' It was not easy to listen gravely to Mr. Vimpany's denunciation of intemperance, after what had taken place at the dinner of that day. Hugh smiled. The moral majesty of the doctor entered its protest.
'This is really shameful,' he said. 'The least you can do is to take it seriously.'
'What is it?' Mountjoy asked. 'And why am I to take it seriously?'
Mr. Vimpany's reply was, to say the least of it, indirect. If such an expression may be permitted, it smelt of the stage. Viewed in connection with Mrs. Vimpany's persistent assumption of silent humility, it suggested to Mountjoy a secret understanding, of some kind, between husband and wife.
'What has become of your conscience, sir?' Mr. Vimpany demanded. 'Is that silent monitor dead within you? After giving me a bad dinner, do you demand an explanation? Ha! you shall have it.'
Having delivered himself to this effect, he added action to words. Walking grandly to the door, he threw it open, and saluted Mountjoy with an ironical bow. Iris observed that act of insolence; her colour rose, her eyes glittered. 'Do you see what he has just done?' she said to Mrs. Vimpany.
The doctor's wife answered softly: 'I don't understand it.' After a glance at her husband, she took Iris by the hand: 'Dear Miss Henley, shall we retire to my room?'
Iris drew her hand away. 'Not unless Mr. Mountjoy wishes it,' she said.
