THERE was the Irish lord at the very time when Iris was most patiently resigned never to see him more, never to think of him as her husband again — reminding her of the first days of their love, and of their mutual confession of it! Fear of herself kept her behind the curtain; while interest in Lord Harry detained her at the window in hiding.
“All well at Rathco?” he asked — mentioning the name of the house in which Arthur was one of the guests.
“Yes, my lord. Mr. Mountjoy leaves us to-morrow.”
“Does he mean to return to the farm?”
“Sorry I am to say it; he does mean that.”
“Has he fixed any time, Miles, for starting on his journey?”
Miles instituted a search through his pockets, and accompanied it by an explanation. Yes, indeed, Master Arthur had fixed a time; he had written a note to say so to Mistress Lewson, the housekeeper; he had said, “Drop the note at the farm, on your way to the village.” And what might Miles want at the village, in the dark? Medicine, in a hurry, for one of his master’s horses that was sick and sinking. And, speaking of that, here, thank God, was the note!
Iris, listening and watching alternately, saw to her surprise the note intended for Mrs. Lewson handed to Lord Harry. “Am I expected,” he asked jocosely, “to read writing without a light?” Miles produced a small lantern which was strapped to his groom’s belt. “There’s parts of the road not over safe in the dark,” he said as he raised the shade which guarded the light. The wild lord coolly opened the letter, and read the few careless words which it contained. “To Mrs. Lewson:— Dear old girl, expect me back to-morrow to dinner at three o’clock. Yours, ARTHUR.”
There was a pause.
“Are there any strangers at Rathco?” Lord Harry asked.
“Two new men,” Miles replied, “at work in the grounds.”
There was another pause. “How can I protect him?” the young lord said, partly to himself, partly to Miles. He suspected the two new men —— spies probably who knew of Arthur’s proposed journey home, and who had already reported to their employers the hour at which he would set out.
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&rsquo............