Blind Love | Page 5

many a long year
past. If one man may be born with the heart of a lion, another man may
be born with the mind of a mule. Dennis's master was one of the other
men.
"Very well put," Sir Giles answered indulgently. "Time will show, if
such an entirely unimportant person as my nephew Arthur is likely to
be assassinated. That allusion to one of the members of my family is a
mere equivocation, designed to throw me off my guard. Rank, money,
social influence, unswerving principles, mark ME out as a public
character. Go to the police-office, and let the best man who happens to
be off duty come here directly."
Good Dennis Howmore approached the door very unwillingly. It was
opened, from the outer side, before he had reached that end of the room.
One of the bank porters announced a visitor.
"Miss Henley wishes to know, sir, if you can see her."
Sir Giles looked agreeably surprised. He rose with alacrity to receive
the lady.

III
WHEN Iris Henley dies there will, in all probability, be friends left
who remember her and talk of her--and there may be strangers present
at the time (women for the most part), whose curiosity will put
questions relating to her personal appearance. No replies will reward
them with trustworthy information. Miss Henley's chief claim to
admiration lay in a remarkable mobility of expression, which reflected
every change of feeling peculiar to the nature of a sweet and sensitive
woman. For this reason, probably, no descriptions of her will agree
with each other. No existing likenesses will represent her. The one
portrait that was painted of Iris is only recognisable by partial friends of
the artist. In and out of London, photographic likenesses were taken of
her. They have the honour of resembling the portraits of Shakespeare in
this respect--compared with one another, it is not possible to discover
that they present the same person. As for the evidence offered by the
loving memory of her friends, it is sure to be contradictory in the last
degree. She had a charming face, a commonplace face, an intelligent
face--a poor complexion, a delicate complexion, no complexion at
all--eyes that were expressive of a hot temper, of a bright intellect, of a
firm character, of an affectionate disposition, of a truthful nature, of
hysterical sensibility, of inveterate obstinacy--a figure too short; no,
just the right height; no, neither one thing nor the other; elegant, if you
like--dress shabby: oh, surely not; dress quiet and simple; no,
something more than that; ostentatiously quiet, theatrically simple,
worn with the object of looking unlike other people. In one last word,
was this mass of contradictions generally popular, in the time when it
was a living creature? Yes--among the men. No--not invariably. The
man of all others who ought to have been fondest of her was the man
who behaved cruelly to Iris--her own father. And, when the poor
creature married (if she did marry), how many of you attended the
wedding? Not one of us! And when she died, how many of you were
sorry for her? All of us! What? no difference of opinion in that one
particular? On the contrary, perfect concord, thank God.
Let the years roll back, and let Iris speak for herself, at the memorable
time when she was in the prime of her life, and when a stormy career

was before her.
IV
BEING Miss Henley's godfather, Sir Giles was a privileged person. He
laid his hairy hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on either cheek.
After that prefatory act of endearment, he made his inquiries. What
extraordinary combination of events had led Iris to leave London, and
had brought her to visit him in his banking-house at Ardoon?
"I wanted to get away from home," she answered; "and having nobody
to go to but my godfather, I thought I should like to see You."
"Alone!" cried Sir Giles.
"No--with my maid to keep me company."
"Only your maid, Iris? Surely you have acquaintances among young
ladies like yourself?"
"Acquaintances--yes. No friends."
"Does your father approve of what you have done?"
"Will you grant me a favour, godpapa?"
"Yes--if I can."
"Don't insist on my answering your last question."
The faint colour that had risen in her face, when she entered the room,
left it. At the same time, the expression of her mouth altered. The lips
closed firmly; revealing that strongest of all resolutions which is
founded on a keen sense of wrong. She looked older than her age: what
she might be ten years hence, she was now. Sir Giles understood her.
He got up, and took a turn in the room. An old habit, of which he had
cured himself with infinite difficulty when he was made a