"Surely you might have guessed it, without being told," Iris reminded
him. "Mrs. Lewson's faithful heart loves poor Arthur's memory--and
Arthur's grave is not far from your cottage."
"Don't speak of him!"
It was said loudly, peremptorily, passionately. He looked at her with
angry astonishment in his face. "You loved him too!" he said. "Can you
speak of him quietly? The noblest, truest, sweetest man that ever the
Heavens looked on, foully assassinated. And the wretch who murdered him
still living, free--oh, what is God's providence about?--is there no
retribution that will follow him? no just hand that will revenge
Arthur's death?"
As those fierce words escaped him, he was no longer the easy, gentle,
joyous creature whom Iris had known and loved. The furious passions of
the Celtic race glittered savagely in his eyes, and changed to a grey
horrid pallor the healthy colour that was natural to his face. "Oh, my
temper, my temper!" he cried, as Iris shrank from him. "She hates me
now, and no wonder." He staggered away from her, and burst into a
convulsive fit of crying, dreadful to hear. Compassion, divine
compassion, mastered the earthlier emotion of terror in the great heart
of the woman who loved him. She followed him, and laid her hand
caressingly on his shoulder. "I don't hate you, my dear," she said. "I
am sorry for Arthur--and, oh, so sorry for You!" He caught her in his
arms. His gratitude, his repentance, his silent farewell were all
expressed in a last kiss. It was a moment, never to be forgotten to the
end of their lives. Before she could speak, before she could think, he
had left her.
She called him back, through the open door. He never returned; he never
even replied. She ran to the window, and threw it up--and was just in
time to see him signal to the carriage and leap into it. Her horror of
the fatal purpose that was but too plainly rooted in him--her
conviction that he was on the track of the assassin, self devoted to
exact the terrible penalty of blood for blood--emboldened her to insist
on being heard. "Come back," she cried. "I must, I will, speak with
you."
He waved his hand to her with a gesture of despair. "Start your
horses," he shouted to the coachman. Alarmed by his voice and his look,
the man asked where he should drive to. Lord Harry pointed furiously to
the onward road. "Drive," he answered, "to the Devil!"