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Updated: June 19, 2025
During bouts of illness here, I have indulged in such debauches as the rereading of the whole of Hardy, Meredith, Stevenson, W. E. Henley's poems, and the novels of George Gissing, Joseph Conrad, and H. G. Wells. Some of the better examples of modern fiction have always had a special topographical appeal to me.
Before there had always been a frank spirit of comradeship between us; no reserve, no hesitancy in the exchange of confidences. But with this assurance of Philip Henley's death, everything was changed. I longed to go to her and pour out my sympathy, but some instinct held me back, held me wordless. I knew not what to say, or how any effort on my part would be received.
He was careful to lead the talk to a topic which might be trusted to provoke no agitating thoughts. Finding Iris to all appearance established in the doctor's house, he was naturally anxious to know something of the person who must have invited her the doctor's wife. MOUNTJOY began by alluding to the second of Miss Henley's letters to her father, and to a passage in it which mentioned Mrs.
As he went up the two flights of stairs to Henley's Great College Street rooms, he heard a voice, loud, angry, terrifying; at the top, through an open door, he saw a youth standing in the middle of the room listening in abject terror to a large red man at a desk whom he knew instinctively to be Henley; one glance, and he turned and fled, down the stairs, into the street, the little portfolio under his arm, his pace never slackening until he got well beyond the Houses of Parliament, through the Horse Guards into the Park.
A third explanation, founded probably on a steadier basis, was suggested by Miss Henley's remembrance of their first interview. Fanny's nature had revealed a sensitive side, when she was first encouraged to hope for a refuge from ruin followed perhaps by starvation and death. Judging so far from experience, a sound conclusion seemed to follow.
Midsummer days! And it's oh for my Love and the dark that plights Midsummer nights! O Midsummer nights! There is a burst for you! And we will let the poets of spring, with their lambkins and their catkins and the rest, match this poem of William Henley's if they can. The royal months are ours, and we love the reign of the rose.
I can still recall the triumphant glee, out of all proportion to the cause, of one of Henley's Young Men the Thursday night he came to tell me that all the architects were safe out of the way in the studio, and "I have shut both doors," he added, "and now that we are rid of them we can talk." As if any of Henley's Young Men under any circumstances ever did anything else.
Henley was requested to communicate his intentions by telegraph. Will you receive Iris? was the question submitted. The answer expected was: Yes or No. MR. HENLEY's telegram arrived at the inn the next morning. He was willing to receive his daughter, but not unreservedly. The message was characteristic of the man: "Yes on trial." Mountjoy was not shocked, was not even surprised.
I had permitted him to believe that she was but a chance acquaintance, in whom I felt little interest, and he would consequently anticipate no serious protest from me. Even if I did intervene he possessed the power to render me helpless. And he was Judge Henley's son, or, at least, so these men believed who had been associated with him for years.
These I hastily transferred to my coat pocket, making sure I had the original letter descriptive of Philip Henley's death, as well as the copy of a memorandum which the half-breed had evidently drawn up for the convenience of his lawyers.
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