Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1408 page)

Miles ventured to say a word: “I hope you won’t be angry with me, my lord” —
 
—

“Stuff and nonsense! Was I ever angry with you, when I was rich enough to keep a servant, and when you were the man?”

The Irish groom answered in a voice that trembled with strong feeling. “You were the best and kindest master that ever lived on this earth. I can’t see you putting your precious life in peril” —
 
—

“My precious life?” Lord Harry repeated lightly. “You’re thinking of Mr. Mountjoy, when you say that.
His
life is worth saving. As for my life” —
 
— He ended the sentence by a whistle, as the best way he could hit on of expressing his contempt for his own existence.

“My lord! my lord!” Miles persisted; “the Invincibles are beginning to doubt you. If any of them find you hanging about Mr. Mountjoy’s farm, they’ll try a shot at you first, and ask afterwards whether it was right to kill you or not.”

To hear this said — and said seriously — after the saving of him at the milestone, was a trial of her firmness which Iris was unable to resist. Love got the better of prudence. She drew back the window-curtain. In another moment, she would have added her persuasion to the servant’s warning, if Lord Harry himself had not accidentally checked her by a proceeding, on his part, for which she was not prepared.

“Show the light,” he said; “I’ll write a line to Mr. Mountjoy.”

He tore off the blank page from the note to the housekeeper, and wrote to Arthur, entreating him to change the time of his departure from Rathco, and to tell no creature in the house, or out of the house, at what new hour he had arranged to go. “Saddle your horse yourself,” the letter concluded. It was written in a feigned hand, without a signature.

“Give that to Mr. Mountjoy,” Lord Harry said. “If he asks who wrote it, don’t frighten him about me by telling the truth. Lie, Miles! Say you don’t know.” He next returned the note for Mrs. Lewson. “If she notices that it has been opened,” he resumed, “and asks who has done it, lie again. Good-night, Miles — and mind those dangerous places on your road home.”

The groom darkened his lantern; and the wild lord was lost to view, round the side of the house.

Left by himself, Miles rapped at the door with the handle of his whip. “A letter from Mr. Arthur,” he called out. Mrs. Lewson at once took the note, and examined it by the light of the candle on the hall-table. “Somebody has been reading this!” she exclaimed, stepping out to the groom, and showing him the torn envelope. Miles, promptly obeying his instructions, declared that he knew nothing about it, and rode away.

Iris descended the stairs, and joined Mrs. Lewson in the hall before she had closed the door. The housekeeper at once produced Arthur’s letter.

“It’s on my mind, Miss,” she said, “to write an answer, and say something to Mr. Arthur which will persuade him to take care of himself, on his way back to the farm. The difficulty is, how am I to express it? You would be doing a kind thing if you would give me a word of advice.”

Iris willingly complied. A second note, from the anxious housekeeper, might help the effect of the few lines which Lord Harry had written.

Arthur’s letter informed Iris that he had arranged to return at three o’clock. Lord Harry’s question to the groom, and the man’s reply, instantly recurred to her memory: “Are there any strangers at Rathco?” — ”Two new men at work in the grounds.” Arriving at the same conclusion which had already occurred to Lord Harry, Iris advised the housekeeper, in writing to Arthur, to entreat him to change the hour, secretly, at which he left his friend’s house on the next day. Warmly approving of this idea, Mrs. Lewson hurried into the parlour to write her letter. “Don’t go to bed yet, Miss,” she said; “I want you to read it before I send it away the first thing to-morrow morning.”

Left alone in the hall, with the door open before her, Iris looked out on the night, thinking.

The lives of the two men in whom she was interested — in widely different ways — were now both threatened; and the imminent danger, at that moment, was the danger of Lord Harry. He was an outlaw whose character would not bear investigation; but, to give him his due, there was no risk which he was not ready to confront for Arthur’s sake. If he was still recklessly lingering, on the watch for assassins in the dangerous neighbourhood of the farm, who but herself possessed the influence which would prevail on him to leave the place? She had joined Mrs. Lewson at the door with that conviction in her mind. In another instant, she was out of the house, and beginning her search in the dark.

Iris made the round of the building; sometimes feeling her way in obscure places; sometimes calling to Lord Harry cautiously by his name. No living creature appeared; no sound of a movement disturbed the stillness of the night. The discovery of his absence, which she had not dared to hope for, was the cheering discovery which she had now made.

On her way back to the house, she became conscious of the rashness of the act into which her own generous impulse had betrayed her.

If she and Lord Harry had met, could she have denied the tender interest in him which her own conduct would then have revealed? Would he not have been justified in concluding that she had pardoned the errors and the vices of his life, and that he might without impropriety remind her of their engagement, and claim her hand in marriage? She trembled as she thought of the concessions which he might have wrung from her. “Never more,” she determined, “shall my own folly be answerable for it, if he and I meet again.”

She had returned to Mrs. Lewson, and had read over the letter to Arthur, when the farm clock, striking the hour, reminded them that it was time to retire. They slept badly that night.

At six in the morning, one of the two labourers who had remained faithful to Arthur was sent away on horseback with the housekeeper’s reply, and with orders to wait for an answer. Allowing time for giving the horse a rest, the man might be expected to return before noon.

I
X

IT was a fine sunshiny day; Mrs. Lewson’s spirits began to improve. “I have always held the belief,” the worthy old woman confessed, “that bright weather brings good luck — of course provided the day is not a Friday. This is Wednesday. Cheer up, Miss.”

The messenger returned with good news. Mr. Arthur had been as merry as usual. He had made fun of another letter of good advice, received without a signature. “But Mrs. Lewson must have her way,” he said. “My love to the old dear — I’ll start two hours later, and be back to dinner at five.”

“Where did Mr. Arthur give you that message?” Iris inquired.

“At the stables, Miss, while I was putting up the horse. The men about were all on the broad grin when they heard Mr. Arthur’s message.”

Still in a morbid state of mind, Iris silently regretted that the message had not been written, instead of being delivered by word of mouth. Here, again, she (like the wild lord) had been afraid of listeners.

The hours wore slowly on until it was past four o’clock. Iris could endure the suspense no longer. “It’s a lovely afternoon,” she said to Mrs. Lewson. “Let us take a walk along the road, and meet Arthur.” To this proposal the housekeeper readily agreed.

It was nearly five o’clock when they reached a place at which a by-road branched off, through a wood, from the highway which they had hitherto followed. Mrs. Lewson found a seat on a felled tree. “We had better not go any farther,” she said.

Iris asked if there was any reason for this.

There was an excellent reason. A few yards farther on, the high road had been diverted from the straight line (in the interest of a large agricultural village), and was then directed again into its former course. The by-road through the wood served as a short cut, for horsemen and pedestrians, from one divergent point to the other. It was next to a certainty that Arthur would return by the short cut. But if accident or caprice led to his preferring the highway, it was clearly necessary to wait for him within view of both the roads.

Too restless to submit to a state of passive expectation, Iris proposed to follow the bridle path through the wood for a little way, and to return if she failed to see anything of Arthur. “You are tired,” she said kindly to her companion: “pray don’t move.”

Mrs. Lewson looked needlessly uneasy: “You might lose yourself, Miss. Mind you keep to the path!”

Iris followed the pleasant windings of the woodland track. In the hope of meeting Arthur she considerably extended the length of her walk. The white line of the high road, as it passed the farther end of the wood, showed itself through the trees. She turned at once to rejoin Mrs. Lewson.

On her way back she made a discovery. A ruin which she had not previously noticed showed itself among the trees on her left hand. Her curiosity was excited; she strayed aside to examine it more closely. The crumbling walls, as she approached them, looked like the remains of an ordinary dwelling-house. Age is essential to the picturesque effect of decay: a modern ruin is an unnatural and depressing object — and here the horrid thing was.

As she turned to retrace her steps to the road, a man walked out of the inner space enclosed by all that was left of the dismantled house. A cry of alarm escaped her. Was she the victim of destiny, or the sport of chance? There was the wild lord whom she had vowed never to see again: the master of her heart — perhaps the master of her fate!

Any other man would have been amazed to see her, and would have asked how it had happened that the English lady presented herself to him in an Irish wood. This man enjoyed the delight of seeing her, and accepted it as a blessing that was not to be questioned. “My angel has dropped from Heaven,” he said. “May Heaven be praised!”

He approached her; his arms closed round her. She struggled to free herself from his embrace. At that moment they both heard the crackle of breaking underwood among the trees behind them. Lord Harry looked round. “This is a dangerous place,” he whispered; “I’m waiting to see Arthur pass safely. Submit to be kissed, or I am a dead man.” His eyes told her that he was truly and fearfully in earnest. Her head sank on his bosom. As he bent down and kissed her, three men approached from their hiding-place among the trees. They had no doubt been watching him, under orders from the murderous brotherhood to which they belonged. Their pistols were ready in their hands — and what discovery had they made? There was the brother who had been denounced as having betrayed them, guilty of no worse treason than meeting his sweetheart in a wood! “We beg your pardon, my lord,” they cried, with a thoroughly Irish enjoyment of their own discomfiture — and burst into a roar of laughter — and left the lovers together. For the second time, Iris had saved Lord Harry at a crisis in his life.

“Let me go!” she pleaded faintly, trembling with superstitious fear for the first time in her experience of herself.

He held her to him as if he would never let her go again. “Oh, my Sweet, give me a last chance. Help me to be a better man! You have only to will it, Iris, and to make me worthy of you.”

His arms suddenly trembled round her, and dropped. The silence was broken by a distant sound, like the report of a shot. He looked towards the farther end of the wood. In a minute more, the thump of a horse’s hoofs at a gallop was audible, where the bridlepath was hidden among the trees. It came nearer — nearer — -the creature burst into view, wild with fright, and carrying an empty saddle. Lord Harry rushed into the path and seized the horse as it swerved at the sight of him. There was a leather pocket attached to the front of the saddle. “Search it!” he cried to Iris, forcing the terrified animal back on its haunches. She drew out a silver travelling-flask. One glance at the name engraved on it told him the terrible truth. His trembling hands lost their hold. The horse escaped; the words burst from his lips:

“Oh, God, they’ve killed him!”

T
HE END OF THE PROLOGUE

T
HE STORY

FIRST PERIOD

CHAPTER I

T
HE SOUR FRENCH WINE