"I say, Mountjoy," he began, "have you any idea of what my daughter is
about?"
"I don't even understand what you mean," Hugh replied. "For the last
month I have been in Scotland."
"You and she write to each other, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Hasn't she told you--"
"Excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Henley; she has told me nothing."
Mr. Henley stared absently at the superbly-bound books on his
library-shelves (never degraded by the familiar act of reading), and
scratched his head more restlessly than ever.
"Look here, young man. When you were staying with me in the country, I
rather hoped it might end in a marriage engagement. You and Iris
disappointed me--not for the first time. But women do change their
minds. Suppose she had changed her mind, after having twice refused
you? Suppose she had given you an opportunity--"
Hugh interrupted him again. "It's needless to suppose anything of the
sort, sir; she would not have given me an opportunity."
"Don't fence with me, Mountjoy! I'll put it in a milder way, if you
prefer being humbugged. Do you feel any interest in that perverse girl
of mine?"
Hugh answered readily and warmly: "The truest interest!"
Even Mr. Henley was human; his ugly face looked uglier still. It
assumed the self-satisfied expression of a man who had carried his
point.
"Now I can go on, my friend, with what I had to say to you. I have been
abroad on business, and only came back the other day. The moment I saw
Iris I noticed something wrong about her. If I had been a stranger, I
should have said: That young woman is not easy in her mind. Perfectly
useless to speak to her about it. Quite happy and quite well--there was
her own account of herself. I tried her maid next, a white-livered
sulky creature, one of the steadiest liars I have ever met with. 'I
know of nothing amiss with my mistress, sir.' There was the maid's way
of keeping the secret, whatever it may be! I don't know whether you may
have noticed it, in the course of your acquaintance with me--I hate to
be beaten."
"No, Mr. Henley, I have not noticed it."
"Then you are informed of it now. Have you seen my housekeeper?"
"Once or twice, sir."
"Come! you're improving; we shall make something of you in course of
time. Well, the housekeeper was the next person I spoke to about my
daughter. Had she seen anything strange in Miss Iris, while I was away
from home? There's a dash of malice in my housekeeper's composition; I
don't object to a dash of malice. When the old woman is pleased, she
shows her yellow fangs. She had something to tell me: 'The servants
have been talking, sir, about Miss Iris.' 'Out with it, ma'am! what do
they say?' 'They notice, sir, that their young lady has taken to going
out in the forenoon, regularly every day: always by herself, and always
in the same direction. I don't encourage the servants, Mr. Henley:
there was something insolent in the tone of suspicion that they
adopted. I told them that Miss Iris was merely taking her walk. They
reminded me that it must be a cruelly long walk; Miss Iris being away
regularly for four or five hours together, before she came back to the
house. After that' (says the housekeeper) 'I thought it best to drop
the subject.' What do you think of it yourself, Mountjoy? Do you call
my daughter's conduct suspicious?"