"There is no doubt of it, Mrs. Vimpany--if people are sincere. Beware
of the sinners who talk of sudden conversion and perfect happiness. May
I ask how you began your new life?"
"I began unhappily, Mr. Mountjoy--I joined a nursing Sisterhood. Before
long, a dispute broke out among them. Think of women who call
themselves Christians, quarrelling about churches and church
services--priest's vestments and attitudes, and candles and incense! I
left them, and went to a hospital, and found the doctors better
Christians than the Sisters. I am not talking about my own poor self
(as you will soon see) without a reason. My experience in the hospital
led to other things. I nursed a lady through a tedious illness, and was
trusted to take her to some friends in the south of France. On my
return, I thought of staying for a few days in Paris--it was an
opportunity of seeing how the nurses did their work in the French
hospitals. And, oh, it was far more than that! In Paris, I found Iris
again."
"By accident?" Hugh asked.
"I am not sure," Mrs. Vimpany answered, "that there are such things as
meetings by accident. She and her husband were among the crowds of
people on the Boulevards, who sit taking their coffee in view of the
other crowds, passing along the street. I went by, without noticing
them. She saw me, and sent Lord Harry to bring me back. I have been
with them every day, at her invitation, from that time to this; and I
have seen their life."
She stopped, noticing that Hugh grew restless. "I am in doubt," she
said, "whether you wish to hear more of their life in Paris."
Mountjoy at once controlled himself.
"Go on," he said quietly.
"Even if I tell you that Iris is perfectly happy?"
"Go on," Hugh repeated.
"May I confess," she resumed, "that her husband is irresistible--not
only to his wife, but even to an old woman like me? After having known
him for years at his worst, as well as at his best, I am still foolish
enough to feel the charm of his high spirits and his delightful
good-humour. Sober English people, if they saw him now, would almost
think him a fit subject to be placed under restraint. One of his wild
Irish ideas of expressing devotion to his wife is, that they shall
forget they are married, and live the life of lovers. When they dine at
a restaurant, he insists on having a private room. He takes her to
public balls, and engages her to dance with him for the whole evening.
When she stays at home and is a little fatigued, he sends me to the
piano, and whirls her round the room in a waltz. 'Nothing revives a
woman,' he says, 'like dancing with the man she loves.' When she is out
of breath, and I shut up the piano, do you know what he does? He
actually kisses Me--and says he is expressing his wife's feeling for me
when she is not able to do it herself! He sometimes dines out with men,
and comes back all on fire with the good wine, and more amiable than
ever. On these occasions his pockets are full of sweetmeats, stolen for
'his angel' from the dessert. 'Am I a little tipsy?' he asks. 'Oh,
don't be angry; it's all for love of you. I have been in the highest
society, my darling; proposing your health over and over and over
again, and drinking to you deeper than all the rest of the company. You
don't blame me? Ah, but I blame myself. I was wrong to leave you, and
dine with men. What do I want with the society of men, when I have your
society? Drinking your health is a lame excuse. I will refuse all
invitations for the future that don't include my wife.' And--mind!--he
really means it, at the time. Two or three days later, he forgets his
good resolutions, and dines with the men again, and comes home with
more charming excuses, and stolen sweetmeats, and good resolutions. I
am afraid I weary you, Mr. Mountjoy?"