Two things were obvious: first, that he had no clue of the rest.i.tution; and, next, that he had no idea of the evidence against him for the murder of the Dane. She resolved to communicate the latter fact only.
She was braver now than she had been formerly. She saw more clearly that the way of the wicked man is not always so easy for him. If he knew that his crime could be brought home to him; that he would certainly be charged with murder if he dared to show himself, or if he asked for money, he would desist. Before such a danger the most hardened villain would shrink.
She also understood that it was desirable to hide from him the nature of the evidence and the name of the only witness against him. She would calmly tell him what would happen, and bid him begone, or take the consequences.
Yet even if he were driven off he would return. She would live henceforth in continual apprehension of his return. Her tranquillity was gone.
Heavens! That a man should have such power over the lives of others!
She pa.s.sed the most wretched day of her whole life. She saw in antic.i.p.ation the happiness of that household broken up. She pictured his coming, but she could not picture his departure. For she had never seen him baffled and defeated.
He would come in, big, burly, with his farmer-like manner confident, bullying, masterful. He would ask her what she had done; he would swear at her when he learned that she had done nothing; he would throw himself into the most comfortable chair, stretch out his legs, and order her to go and fetch Mr. Mountjoy. Would she be subdued by him as of old? Would she find the courage to stand up to him? For the sake of Iris--yes. For the sake of the man who had been so kind to her--yes.
In the evening, the two women--Mrs. Vimpany and f.a.n.n.y--were seated in the housekeeper"s room. Both had work in their laps: neither was doing any work. The autumnal day had been boisterous; the wind was getting higher.
"What are you thinking of?" asked f.a.n.n.y.
"I was thinking of my husband. If he were to come back, f.a.n.n.y--if he were to threaten--"
"You would loose my tongue--you would let me speak?"
"Yes; for her sake. I would have shielded him once---if I could. But not now. I know, at last, that there is no single good thing left in him."
"You have heard from him. I saw the letter this morning, in the box. I knew the handwriting. I have been waiting for you to speak."
"Hush! Yes, f.a.n.n.y; I have heard from him. He wants money. He will come here to-morrow morning, and will threaten Mr. Mountjoy. Keep your mistress in her own room. Persuade her to lie in bed--anything."
"He does not know what I have seen. Charge him with the murder of the Dane. Tell him," said f.a.n.n.y, her lips stiffening, "that if he dares to come again--if he does not go away--he shall be arrested for murder. I will keep silence no longer!"
"I will--I am resolved! Oh! who will rid us of this monster?"
Outside, the gale rose higher--higher still. They heard it howling, grinding branches together; they heard the roaring and the rushing of the waters as the rising tide was driven over the shallow sands, like a mountain reservoir at loose among the valleys below.
In the midst of the tempest there came a sudden lull. Wind and water alike seemed hushed. And out of the lull, as if in answer to the woman"s question, there came a loud cry--the shriek of a man in deadly peril.
The two women caught each other by the hand and rushed to the window.
They threw it open; the tempest began again; a fresh gust drove them back; the waters roared: the wind howled; they heard the voice no more.
They closed the window and put up the shutters.
It was long past midnight when they dared to go to bed. One of them lay awake the whole night long. In the roaring tempest she had seen an omen of the wrath of Heaven about to fall once more upon her mistress.
She was wrong. The wrath of Heaven fell upon one far more guilty.
In the morning, with the ebbing tide, a dead body was found lashed to the posts of one of the standing nets in the Solway. It was recognised by Hugh, who went out to look at it, and found it the body of Vimpany.
Whether he was on his way back to Annan, or whether he intended to call at the villa that evening instead of next morning, no one can tell. His wife shed tears, but they were tears of relief. The man was buried as a stranger. Hugh kept his counsel. Mrs. Vimpany put the letter in the fire. Neither of them thought it wise to disturb the mind of Iris by any mention of the man. Some days later, however, Mrs. Vimpany came downstairs in a widow"s cap.
To Iris"s look of interrogation she replied calmly, "Yes, I heard the other day. He is dead. Is it not better--even for him, perhaps--that he should be dead? He can do no more wickedness; he can bring misery into no more households. He is dead."
Iris made no reply. Better--better far--that he was dead. But how she had been delivered from the man, to what new dangers she had been exposed, she knew not, and will never know.
She has one secret--and only one--which she keeps from her husband. In her desk she preserves a lock of Lord Harry"s hair. Why? I know not.
Blind Love doth never wholly die.
THE END