Whether he was on his way back to Annan, or whether he intended to call
at the villa that evening instead of next morning, no one can tell. His
wife shed tears, but they were tears of relief. The man was buried as a
stranger. Hugh kept his counsel. Mrs. Vimpany put the letter in the
fire. Neither of them thought it wise to disturb the mind of Iris by
any mention of the man. Some days later, however, Mrs. Vimpany came
downstairs in a widow's cap.
To Iris's look of interrogation she replied calmly, "Yes, I heard the
other day. He is dead. Is it not better--even for him, perhaps--that he
should be dead? He can do no more wickedness; he can bring misery into
no more households. He is dead."
Iris made no reply. Better--better far--that he was dead. But how she
had been delivered from the man, to what new dangers she had been
exposed, she knew not, and will never know.
She has one secret--and only one--which she keeps from her husband. In
her desk she preserves a lock of Lord Harry's hair. Why? I know not.
Blind Love doth never wholly die.