Blind Love.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VI, Issue 36, 6 September 1890, Page 4

Blind Love.

By

WILKIE COLLINS.

[The Right of Translation is Reserved.]

THE STORY. T ZE3Z IZR ID PERIOD. CHAPTER XXXIV. MY LORD’S MIND.

Here, my old vagaVi n .:!: pany, is an interest i n g case for you—the cry of a patient X, _ -.'—io, W * O* a "i? fr'i- s ’ c k n >ind. Look over **■’ an, l P ,e_ w' : „ y scribe for I ■f' -l your wild /gWMb ZX iris h 3 VrifflL \ frlentl, if MuKr l| r/ 1 i you can. \. 1 J You will I perhaps re''XI I 111 e 111 '* e 1 ' lc'% 5, y'y t/llaJ that I have / ‘wfflK ' / ° neve r J thoroughly trusted G'A'ZS 1 rL N/ — you * n J C Xg3gi / /'/ yMw the >' ears ' ' sSS? Vi x\\ since we JSsR. 'Al' v have / knowneach Jw/wX \ {I /r other. At WlNrffiX 111 t *'* s l ate r H /I date in our ly il// x If lives, when II W I' '/ I ought to I 'I see more I m U'C'w/' clear 1 y I !I l ‘ ‘ In than ever what an unfathomable 1 I Illi man you are, am I rash enough l J to be capable of taking you into my confidence '! I don’t know what I am going to do ; I feel like a man who has been stunned. To be told that the murderer of Arthur Mountjoy had been seen in London to be prepared to trace him by his paltry assumed name of < ’arrigeen—to wait vainly for the next discovery which might bring him within reach of retribution at my hands and then to be overwhelmed by the news of his illness, his recovery, ami his disappearance ; these are the blows which have stupefied me. Only think of it! He has escaped me for the second time. Fever that kills thousands of harmless creatures has spared the assassin. He may yet (tie in his bed, and be buried, with the guiltless dead aiound him, in a quiet churchyard. 1 can’t get over it ; I shall never get over it. Add to this, anxieties about my wife, and maddening letters from creditors- and don’t expect me to write reasonably.

What I want to know is whether your art (or whatever you rail it) can get at my diseased mind, through my healthy body? You have more than once told me that medicine can do this. The time has come for doing it. lam in a had way, and a bad end may follow. My only medical friend, deliver me from myself. In any case, let me beg you to keep your temper while you read what follows. 1 have to confess that the devil whose name is Jealousy has entered into me, ami is threatening the tranquillity of my married life. You dislike Iris, I know—and she returns your hostile feeling towards her. Try to do my wife justice, nevertheless, as I do. 1 don’t believe my distrust of her lias any excuse and yet, lam jealous. More unreasonable still, I am as fond of her as 1 was in the first days of the honeymoon. Is she as fond as ever of me ? You were a married man when 1 was a boy. Let me give you the means of forming an opinion by a narrative of her conduct, under (what I admit to have been) very trying circumstances. When the first information reached Iris of Hugh Mountjoy’s dangerous illness, we were at breakfast. It struck her dumb. She handed the letter to me, and left the table. I hate a man who doesn't know what it is to want money ; I hate a man who keeps his temper ; I hate a man who pretends to be my wife's triend, ami who is secretly in love with her all the time. What difference did it make to me whether Hugh Mount joy ended in living or dying Y If I had any interest in the matter, it ought by rights (seeing that I am jealous of him) to be an interest in his death. Well I 1 declare positively that t he alarming news from London spoilt my breakfast * There is something about that friend oi my wife that smug prosperous well behaved Englishman - which seems to plead lor him (God knows how !) when my mind is least inclined in his favour. While I was reading about his illness, 1 found myself hoping that he would recover ami, I give you my sacred word of honour, I hated him all the time! My Irish friend is mad you will say. Your Irish friend, my dear fellow, does not dispute it.

Let us get back to my wife. She showed herself again after a long absence, having something (at last) to say to her husband.

‘ I am innocently to blame,’ she began, * for the dreadful misfortune that has fallen on Mr Mountjoy. If I had not given him a message to Mrs Vinipany, he would never have insisted on seeing her, and would never have caught the fever. It may help me to bear my misery of self-reproach and suspense, if lam kept informed of his illness. There is no fear of infection by my receiving letters. I am to write to a friend of Mrs Vinipany, who lives in another house, and who will answer my inquiries. Do you object, dear Harry, to my getting news of Hugh Mountjoy every day, while he is in danger?’ 1 was perfectly willing that she should get that news, and she ought to have known it.

It seemed to me to be also a bad sign that she made her request with dry eyes. She must have cried, when she first heard that he was likely to sink under an attack of fever. Why were her tears kept hidden in her own room ? When she came back to me, her face was pale and hard and tearless. Don’tyou think she might have forgotten myjealousy, when I was so careful myself not to show it. My own belief is that she was longing to go to London, and help your wife to nurse the poor man, ami to catch the fever, and die with him if he died.

Is this bitter ? Perhaps it is. Tear it off and light your pipe with it. Well, the correspondence relating to the sick man continued every day; and every day—oh, Vinipany, another concession to my jealousy ! —she handed the letters to me to read. I made excuses (we Irish are good at that, if we are good at nothing else) ami declined to read the medical reports. One morning, when she opened the letter of that day, there passed over her a change which is likely to remain in my memory as long as I live. Never have I seen such an ecstasy of happiness in any woman’s face, as I saw’ when she read the lines which informed her that the fever was mastered. Iris is sweet and delicate and bright—essentially- fascinating, in a word. But she was never a beautiful woman, until she knew that Mountjoy’s life was safe ; and she w ill never be a beautiful woman again, unless the time comes when my death leaves her free to marry him. On her wedding-day, he will see the transformation that I saw—and he will be dazzled as I was. She looked at me, as if she expected me to speak. ‘ I am glad indeed',’ I said, ‘ that he is out of danger.’ She ran to me—she kissed me ; I wouldn’t have believed it was in her to give such kisses. ‘ Now I have your sympathy,’ she said, ‘my happiness is complete !’ Do you think I was indebted for those kisses to myself, or to that other man ? No, no—here is an unworthy doubt. I discard it. Vile suspicion shall not wrong Iris this time. And yet — Shall 1 go on, and write the rest of it ? There is a growing estrangement between Iris and myself—and my jealousy- doesn’t altogether account for it. Sometimes, it occurs to me that we are thinking of what our future relations with Mountjoy are likely to be, and are ashamed to confess it to each other. Sometimes —and perhaps this second, and easiest, guess may be the right one —I am apt to conclude that we are only anxious about money matteis. lam waiting for her to touch on the subject, and she is waiting for me ; and there we are at a deadlock.

I wish I had some reason for going to some other place. I wish I was lost among strangers. I should like to find myself in a state of danger, meeting the risks that I used to run in my vagabond days. Now 1 think of it, I might enjoy this last excitement by going back to England, and giving the Invincibles a chance of shooting me as a traitor to the cause. But my wife would object to that. Suppose we change the subject. You will be glad to hear that you know something of law, as well as of medicine. I sent instruction to my solicitor in London to raise a loan on my life-insurance. What you said to me turns out to be right. I can’t raise a farthing, for three years to come, out of all the thousands of pounds which I shall leave behind me when I die. Are my prospects from the newspaper likely to cheer me after such disappointment as this? The new journal, I have the pleasure of informing you, is much admired. When I inquire of my profits, I hear that the expenses are heavy, and I am told that I must wait for a rise in our circulation. How long? Nobody knows. I shall keep these pages open for a few days more, on the chance of something happening which may alter my present position for the better. My position has altered for the worse. I have been obliged to fill my empty purse, for a little while, by means of a bit of stamped paper. And how shall I meet my liabilities when the Note falls due ? Let time answer the question ; for the present the evil day is put off. In the meanwhile, it that literary speculation of yours is answering no better than my newspaper, I can lend you a few pounds to go on with. What do you say (on second thoughts) to coming back to your old quarters at Bassy, and giving me your valuable advice by word of mouth instead of by letter ? Come, and feci my pulse, and look at my tongue—and tell me how these various anxieties of mine are going to end, befoie we are any of us a year older. Shall 1, like you, be separated from my wife—at her request; oh, not at mine ! Or shall I be locked up in prison ? And what will become of You ? Do you take the hint, doctor ? CHAPTER XXXV. MY LADY’S MIN’D. ‘ EntheaT Lady Harry not to write to me. She will be tempted to do so, when she hears that there is good hope of Mr Mountjoy's recovery. But even, from that loving and generous heart, I must not accept expressions of gratitude which would only embarrass me. All that I have done, as a nurse, and all that I may yet hope to do, is no more than an effort to make amends for my past life. Iris has my heart s truest wishes for her happiness. I'ntil I can myself write to her without danger, let this be enough.’ In those terms, dearest of women, your friend has sent your message to me. My love respects as well as admires you ; your wishes are commands to me. At the same time, I may find some relief from the fears of the future that oppress me, if 1 van confide them to friendly ears. May I not harmlessly write to you, if I only write of my own poor self ?

Try, (tear, to remember those pleasant days when you were staying with us, in our honeymoon time, at Paris. You warned me, one evening when we were alone, to be on my guard against any circumstances which might excite my husband’s jealousy. Since then, the trouble that you foresaw had fallen on me ; mainly, I am afraid, through my own want of self-control. It is so hard for a woman, when she really loves a man, to understand a state of mind which can make him doubt her. I have discovered that jealousy varies. Let me tell you what I mean. Lord Harry was silent and sullen (ah, how well I knew what that meant!) while the life of our poor Hugh was in jeopardy. When I read the good news which told me that he was no longer in danger, I don’t know whether there was any change worth remarking in myself—but there was a change in my husband, delightful to see. His face showed such sweet sympathy when he looked at me, he spoke so kindly ami nicely of Hugh, that I could only express my pleasure by kissing him. You will hardly believe me, when 1 tell you that his hateful jealousy appeared again at that moment. He looked surprised, he looked suspicious—he looked, I declare, as if he doubted whether I meant it with my heart when I kissed him ! What incomprehensible creatures men are ! We read in novels of women who are able to manage their masters. I wish I knew how to manage mine. We have been getting into debt. For some weeks past, this sad state of things has been a burden on my mind. Day after day, I have been expecting him to speak of our situation, ami have found him obstinately silent. Is his mind entirely occupied with other things? Or is he unwilling to speak of our anxieties because the subject humiliates him ? Yesterday, I could bear it no longer. ‘ Our debts are increasing,’ 1 said. ‘ Have you thought of any way of paying them ?’ •The payment of debts,’ he replied, ‘is a problem that I am too poor to solve. Perhaps 1 got near to it the other day.’ 1 asked how. ‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ I found myself wishing I had some rich friends. By-the-by, how is your rich friend? What have you heard lately of Mr Mountjoy.’ ‘ I have heard that he is steadily advancing towards recovery. ’ ‘ Likely, I dare say, to return to France when he feels equal to it,’ my husband remarked. ‘Heis a good-natured creature. If lie finds himself in Paris again, I wonder whether he will pay us another visit ?’ He said this quite seriously. On my side, I was too much astonished to utter a word. My bewilderment seemed to amuse him. In his own pleasant way he explained himself :— ‘ I ought to have told you, my dear, that I was in Mr Mountjoy 's company the night before he returned to England. We had said some disagreeable things to each other, here in the cottage, while you were away in yonr room. My tongue got the better of my judgment, in short, I spoke rudely to our guest. Thinking over it afterwards, 1 felt that 1 ought to make an apology. He received my sincere excuse with an amiability of manner, and a grace of language, which raised him greatly in my estimation. ’ There you have Lord Harry’s own words ! Who would suppose that he had ever been jealous of the man whom he spoke of in this way ? 1 explain it to myself, partly by the charm in Hugh’s look and manner, which everybody feels; partly by the readiness with which my husband’s variable nature receives new impressions. 1 hope you agree with me. In any case, pray let Hugh see what I have written to you in this place, and ask him what he thinks of it.*

Encouraged, as you will easily understand, by the delightful prospect of a reconciliation between them, 1 was eager to take my first opportunity of speaking freely of Hugh. Up to that time, it had been a hard trial to keep to myself so much that was deeply interesting in my thoughts anil hopes. But my hours of disappoimnent were not at an end yet. We were interrupted. A letter was brought to us—one of many, already received ! —insisting on immediate payment of a debt that had been too long unsettled. The detestable subject of our poverty insisted on claiming attention when there was a messenger outside, waiting for my poor Harry’s last French ban k note. - ‘ What is to be done?’ I said, when we were left by ourselves again. ‘We have got to the crisis,’ he said. ‘ The question of money has driven us into a corner at last. My darling, have you ever heard of such a thing as a promissory note ?’ I was not quite so ignorant as he supposed me to be ; I said 1 had heard my father speak of promissory notes. This seemed to tail in convincing him. ‘ Four father,’ he remarked, " used to pay his notes when they fell due.’ 1 betrayed my ignorance, after all. ‘ Doesn’t everybody do the same?’ 1 asked. He burst out laughing. ‘We will send the maid to get a bit of stamped paper,’ he said ; * I’ll write the message for her, this time. ’ Those last words alluded to Fanny’s ignorance of the French language, which made it necessaiy to provide her with written instructions, when she was sent on an errand. In our domestic affairs, 1 was able to do this ; but, in the present ease, I only handed the message to her. When she returned with a slip of stamped paper, Harry called to me to come to the writing-table. * Now, my sw eet,’ he said, * see how easily money is to be got with a scratch of the pen.’ 1 looked over his shoulder. In less than a minute it was done ; and he had produced ten thousand francs on paperin English money (as he told me), four hundred pounds. I his seemed to be a large loan ; I asked how he proposed to pay it back. He kindly reminded me that be was a newspaper proprietor, and, as such, possessed of the means of inspiring confidence in persons with money to spare. They could afford, it seems, to give him three months in which to arrange for repayment. In that time, as he thought, the profits of the new journal might come pouring in. He knew best, of course. We took the next train to Paris, and turned our bit of paper into notes and gold. Never was there such a delightful companion as my husband, when he has got money in h’s pocket. After so much sorrow and anxiety, for weeks

;past, that memorable afternoon was like a glimpse of Paradise. On the next morning, there was an encl to my short-lived •enjoyment of no more than the latter half of a day. Watching her opportunity, Fanny Mere came to me while I was alone, carrying a thick letter in her hand. She held it before me with the address uppermost. ‘ Please to look at that,’ she said. The letter was directed (in Harry’s handwriting) to Mr Vimpany, at a publishing office in London. Fanny next turned the envelope the other way. ‘ Look at this side,’ she resumed. The envelope was specially protected by a seal ; bearing a • device of my husband’s own invention ; that is to say, the initials of his name (Harry Norland) suimounted by a star —his lucky star, as he paid me the compliment of calling it, ■on the day when he married me. I was thinking of that day now. Fanny saw me looking, with a sad heart, at the impression on the wax. She completely misinterpreted the • direction taken by my thoughts. ‘Tell me to do it, my lady,’ she proceeded; ‘and I'll open the leter. ’ I looked at her. She showed no confusion. ‘ I can seal ■it up again,’ she coolly explained, ‘ with a bit of fresh wax and my thimble. Perhaps Mr Vimpany won’t be sober enough to notice it.’ ‘ Do you know, Fanny, that you are making a dishonourable proposal to me ?’ I said. ‘ I know there’s nothing I can do to help you that I won't do,’ she answered ; ‘and you know why. I have made a dishonourable proposal—have I'! That comes quite naturally to a lost woman like me. Shall I tell you what Honour means? It means sticking at nothing in your service. • Please tell me to open the letter.’

‘ How did you come by the letter, Fanny?’ ‘ My master gave it to me to put in the post.’ ‘ Then, post it.’ The strange creature, so full of contraries—so sensitive at one time, so impenetrable at another—pointed again to the address. ‘ When the master writes to that man,’ she went on—‘ a long letter (if you will notice), and a sealed letter—your ladyship ought to see what is inside it. I haven’t a doubt myself that there’s writing under this seal which bodes trouble to you. The spare bedroom is empty. Do you want to have the doctor for your visitor again? Don’t tell me to post the letter, till I’ve opened it first.’ ‘ I do tell you to post the letter.’ Fanny submitted, so far. But she had a new form of persuasion to tiy, before her reserves of resistance were exhausted. ‘lt the doctor comes back,’ she continued, ‘will your ladyship give me leave to go out, whenever I ask for it?’ This was surely presuming on my indulgence. ‘ Art* you not expecting a little too much?’ I suggested not unkindly. ‘lf you say that, my lady,’ she answered, ‘I shall be obliged to ask you to suit yourself with another maid.’ There was a tone of dictation in this, which I found beyond endurance. In my anger, I said ; ‘ Leave me whenever you like.’ * I shall leave you when I’m dead—not before,’ was the reply that I received. * But if you won’t let me have my liberty without going away from you, fora time I must go—for your sake.’ (For my sake ! Pray observe that.) She went on : —

‘ Try to see it, my lady, as Ido ’. If we have the doctor with us again, I must he able to watch him.’ ‘ Why ?’ ‘ Because lie is your enemy, as I believe.’ ‘ How can he hurt me, Fanny ?’ ‘ 'Through your husband, my lady, if he can do it in no other way. Sir Vimpany shall have a spy at his heels. Dishonourable ! oh, dishonourable again ! Never mind. I don’t pretend to know what that villain means to do, if he and my lord get together again. But this I can tell you, if it’s in woman's wit to circumvent him. here I am with my mind made up. With my mind made up !' she repeated fiercely —ami recovered on a sudden her customary character as a quiet well trained servant, devoted to her duties. ‘I II take my master’s letter to the post now,' she said. ‘ls there anything your ladyship wants in the town?’ What do you think of Fanny Mere? (flight I to have treated this last oiler of her services, as I treated her proposal to open the letter? I was not able to do it. I believe there may Im- a good reason for the dist rust of the doctor which possesses her so strongly : and I feel tin* importance of having this faithful and determined woman for an ally. Let me hope that Mr Vimpany s return (if it is to take place) may Im- delayed until you can safely write, with your own hand, such a letter of wise advice as I sadly need. In the meantime, give my love to Hugh, ami say to this dear friend all that I might have said for myself, if I had been near him. But take care that his recovery is not re tarded by anxiety for me. Pray keep him in ignorance of the doubts and fears with which I am now looking at the future. If I was not so fond of my husband, I should be easier in my mind. This sounds contradictory, but I believe you will understand it. For awhile, my dear, good-bye. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

• Note by Mrs Vimpany.—l shall certainly not be foolish enough to show what she has written to Mr Mountjoy. Poor deluded Iris! Miserable, fatal marriage!