It is two years after the murder of Lord Harry Norland, the last event
connected with this history.
Iris, when she accepted Hugh Mountjoy's offer of his Scotch villa, went
there resolved to hide herself from the world. Too many people, she
thought, knew her history, and what she had done. It was not likely
that the Directors of the Insurance Company would all hold their
tongues about a scandal so very unusual. Even if they did not charge
her with complicity, as they could, they would certainly tell the
story--all the more readily since Lord Harry's murder--of the
conspiracy and its success. She could never again, she told herself, be
seen in the world.
She was accompanied by her friend and maid--the woman whose fidelity to
her had been so abundantly proved--and by Mrs. Vimpany, who acted as
housekeeper.
After a decent interval, Hugh Mountjoy joined her. She was now a widow.
She understood very well what he wished to say, and she anticipated
him. She informed him that nothing would ever induce her to become the
wife of any other man after her degradation. Hugh received this
intimation without a remark. He remained in the neighbourhood, however,
calling upon her frequently and offering no word of love. But he became
necessary to her. The frequent visits became daily; the afternoon
visits were paid in the morning: the visitor stayed all day. When the
time came for Iris to yield, and he left the house no more, there
seemed to be no change. But still they continued their retired life,
and now I do not think they will ever change it again.
Their villa was situated on the north shore of the Solway Firth, close
to the outfall of the Annan River, but on the west bank, opposite to
the little town of Annan. At the back was a large garden, the front
looked out upon the stretch of sand at low tide and the water at high
tide. The house was provided with a good library. Iris attended to her
garden, walked on the sands, read, or worked. They were a quiet
household. Husband and wife talked little. They walked about in the
garden, his arm about her waist, or hand in hand. The past, if not
forgotten, was ceasing to trouble them; it seemed a dreadful, terrible
dream. It left its mark in a gentle melancholy which had never belonged
to Iris in the old days.
And then happened the last event which the chronicler of this history
has to relate.
It began in the morning with a letter.
Mrs. Vimpany received it. She knew the handwriting, started, and hid it
quickly in her bosom. As soon as she could get away to her own room she
opened and read it.