Mountjoy denied indignantly that she was alone in the world.
"Is there any protection that a man can offer to a woman," he asked,
"which I am not ready and eager to offer to You? Oh, Iris, what have I
done to deserve that you should speak of yourself as friendless in my
hearing!"
He had touched her at last. Their tender charm showed itself once more
in her eyes and in her smile. She rose and approached him.
"What exquisite kindness it must be," she said, "that blinds a clever
man like you to obstacles which anyone else can see! Remember, dear
Hugh, what the world would say to that protection which your true heart
offers to me. Are you my near relation? are you my guardian? are you
even an old man? Ah me! you are only an angel of goodness whom I must
submit to lose. I shall still count on your kindness when we see each
other no more. You will pity me, when you hear that I have fallen lower
and lower; you will be sorry for me, when I end in disgracing myself."
"Even then, Iris, we shall not be separated. The loving friend who is
near you now, will be your loving friend still."
For the first time in her life, she threw her arms round him. In the
agony of that farewell, she held him to her bosom. "Goodbye, dear," she
said faintly--and kissed him.
The next moment, a deadly pallor overspread her face. She staggered as
she drew back, and dropped into the chair that she had just left. In
the fear that she might faint, Mountjoy hurried out in search of a
restorative. His bed-chamber was close by, at the end of the corridor;
and there were smelling-salts in his dressing-case. As he raised the
lid, he heard the door behind him, the one door in the room, locked
from the outer side.
He rushed to the door, and called to her. From the farther end of the
corridor, her voice reached him for the last time, repeating the last
melancholy word: "Good-bye." No renewal of the miserable parting scene:
no more of the heartache--Iris had ended it!