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Why not tonight?" Unseen in the darkness Iris's hand sought and clasped the gold locket suspended from her neck. She already knew some portion of the story he would tell. The remainder was of minor importance. "It is odd," he continued, "that you should have alluded to six years a moment ago. It is exactly six years, almost to a day, since the trouble began." "With Lord Ventnor?"
Iris's great-grandmother might have "swooned" under such circumstances not so Iris, who fainted simply because of the strain imposed by failure to eat the queer fare provided by De Sylva and his associates.
Wot do you say to an early start to-morrow? We'd be off to-night, on'y I'm feared my rheumaticky bones wouldn't stand the racket." The color ebbed from Iris's face, but she said at once: "I shall be ready, uncle dear. I promised Dom Corria to look after the hospital appliances that are so much needed by the poor soldiers, but the Senhora De Sylva will attend to that much more effectually than I."
In the quaint oilskin hat and her tattered muslin dress she looked bewitchingly pretty. She reminded him of a well-bred and beautiful society lady whom he once saw figuring as Grace Darling at a fashionable bazaar. But Miss Iris's thoughts were serious.
To his horror he found the ladder swaying gently against the rock. Some one was using it. He sprang forward, careless of consequence, and seized the swinging end which had fallen free again. He had his foot on the bottom rung when Iris's voice, close at hand and shrill with terror, shrieked "Robert, where are you?" "Here!" he shouted; the next instant she dropped into his arms.
But she did not quite fall; Hozier's weight was almost more than she could manage, but she clung to him desperately, saved him from a headlong plunge to the deck, and literally carried him into the forecastle, where she found some of the crew who had scurried there like rabbits to their burrow when the first shell crashed into the engine-room. Iris's fine eyes darted lightning at them.
When he had written this letter, which he would have done better to keep in his own hands for awhile, he directed it in a feigned hand to Lady Harry Norland, care of Hugh Mountjoy, at the latter's London hotel. Mountjoy would not know Iris's correspondent, and would certainly forward the letter.
That ridicule I am now enabled to repay, with interest calculated up to the present date. 'So you are Iris's poet! I burst out, for, somehow, I had not completely identified him till that moment. 'You scoundrel! do you think I shall allow you to circulate those atrocious caricatures with impunity? No, by heavens! my solicitor shall
The author has tried to throw a retrospective footway across it in Iris's confession to Trenwith in the fifth act; but I do not find that it quite meets the case.
Do you understand? Do you realise what they have done? Your husband and Iris's husband may be tried actually tried for murder and put to a shameful death. Think of it! "'I do think of it, Heaven knows! I think of it every day I think of it all day long. But, remember, I will say nothing that will bring this fate upon them. And Fanny will say nothing.
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