CHAPTER III.
THE WIDOW.
‘Miss Hetherley!’ he exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with nervousness and excitement. ‘Miss Hetherley, will you not speak to me?’
Iris was not unprepared for the meeting, although a moment before she had believed herself to be alone. She had talked the matter over with Maggie, and they had agreed that it was impossible she could avoid him for the whole course of the voyage, and that, sooner or later, Vernon Blythe and she must speak to one another again. Yet what to say to him, or how to explain her presence on board the _Pandora_, she knew not, and her first refuge was in an attempt at denial.
‘I am not Miss Hetherley,’ she answered, in a low voice, and with her face turned from him.
‘Forgive me. I know you are married, but I never heard the name of your husband. How am I to address you?’
‘You--you--are mistaken,’ repeated Iris. ‘I am _Miss Douglas_.’
Vernon looked down at her for a few moments in silence, his young, lithe figure drawn up to its full height, as he stood beside her. She--still drooping over the table, hid her burning face as best she could from him.
‘Iris,’ he said presently, ‘why do you want to deceive me?’
At that appeal--so tenderly spoken--she broke down, and began to cry.
‘Oh, don’t do _that_, for Heaven’s sake!’ exclaimed Vernon. ‘If you wish to avoid me--if my presence is obnoxious to you--say so, and I will go away, and never come near you again. But don’t cry. It is more than I can stand. If you are in trouble, let me help you. Am I not your friend?’
‘I have no friends,’ sobbed Iris.
‘_No friends!_’ he echoed reproachfully. ‘Have you then quite forgotten Dunmow, and the Bridge of Allan?’
Forgotten them. How she wished that she could forget them. As Vernon spoke, a vision rose before her of the heather-covered hills, the rippling burns, the blue, misty sky of far-off Scotland, where she had first met him, and, above them all, the earnest, pleading, passionate young face that had implored her to exchange her heart for his. How often she had thought of it since. How often had the memory of his eyes, swimming in a mist of unshed tears, come between her and the disappointment of her married life. How often, when the scales had fallen from her own vision, and the man she had believed to be a god had proved to be the commonest of clay, had Iris Harland not wished she had been a little less hasty, and taken time to weigh the several merits of the men who had asked to link their lot with hers. And as Vernon’s soft voice, sounding so different when he spoke to her from what it did when he spoke to others, fell on her ear, it brought the past so vividly before her, she could not stay her tears.
‘Have you quite forgotten?’ he repeated. ‘When you crushed the best hope of my life, Iris, you left me one consolation--you promised to remain my friend. But that promise is still unredeemed. I heard that you were married, but nothing more. I have never forgotten you, but I had no hope we should meet again. Now that it has happened so unexpectedly, I find you alone--in trouble--and in a position utterly unfitted for you. Won’t you fulfil your old promise now? Won’t you let me be your friend, and help you as far as lies in my power? Where is your husband?’
‘I have no husband,’ she answered, blushing furiously.
‘No husband!’ cried Vernon. ‘Was it a mistake then? Have you never been married?’
Iris nodded her head.
‘And he is dead?’
The girl started. She had never thought of this solution to the difficulty. Of course she would pass herself off as a widow. Nothing could be easier. The anxious expression in a great measure left her face as it occurred to her. She did not foresee the dilemma it might create for them both.
‘Yes,’ she answered, almost eagerly, ‘he is dead. I am alone.’
‘And your father, is he gone too?’
‘Yes, thank God. I mean that it would have broken his heart to see the trouble I have gone through.’
‘Then you have known trouble, poor child, as well as I?’
‘Yes,’ she said, shivering; ‘plenty! Please don’t speak of it.’
‘And why are you going out to New Zealand? Have you friends there? What do you expect to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But, good heavens! you cannot land in a strange country without a protector, or a home to go to--without any plans, or visible means of subsistence. Miss Hetherley, forgive me, but--’
‘Pray--_pray_ don’t call me by that name,’ she interposed fearfully. ‘You don’t know--there might be people on board--you never can tell.’
‘Miss Douglas, then; but how can I address you by a name that is not yours? I shall be constantly forgetting. Let me call you _Iris_. I would not be presumptuous, but I have thought and dreamt of you by that name ever since we parted. May I call you so now?’
‘As you will, Mr Blythe.’
‘Then, Iris, tell me all your troubles.’
‘Oh, I cannot!’ she said, shrinking backward. ‘You do not know.’
‘But I cannot help guessing. I guess, from finding you here, that you are not rich. I guess, from the few words you have uttered, that you are lonely and unhappy. I can see for myself that you are ill. Iris! can I be your friend and stand by in silence and make no effort to help you? Let me speak to you openly once more. It is five years since we parted, but not a feeling of my heart has changed since then. Cannot you trust me to be true and faithful to your interests now? I have had very little consolation during those five years. You denied me the greatest happiness of my life, and I submitted to your decree. But you can in a measure console me now. Confide your troubles to me, and let me help to bear them with you. How long have you been a widow?’
‘Oh, a long time! I never really had a husband. I was widowed from the commencement.’
‘Poor child! I couldn’t have turned out a worse “spec.” myself. And where have you been living since?’
‘In London!’
‘Why did you leave it?’
‘Oh, Mr Blythe, don’t ask me so many questions! It is the fear of your doing so that has made me avoid you hitherto. If we are to be friends, learn to spare me. I _cannot_ speak of the past.’
‘Will you speak of the future, then?’
‘Yes! when the time comes, perhaps. But it is no use discussing it in the present. It may never come to pass. We may not reach land. I wish to God I were not to do so! I would like to throw myself overboard at once, and make an end to all things.’
Vernon Blythe looked very grave. This expression of despair on the part of the woman he would have died to save, cut him to the quick. There sat his ideal,--the creature who had spoiled the best part of his life,--whom he had dreamed of, longed for, and yearned after for five long years out of five-and-twenty. There she sat, side by side with him again--free--friendless--almost, as it were, at his mercy--and yet he felt as far from her as ever. As those last passionate words burst from Iris’s lips, he rose to his feet.
‘I am worrying you,’ he said gently; ‘I won’t stay here any longer. But whatever may be your trouble, Iris, whether it arises from loss, or poverty, or--or--anything else--don’t be afraid to ask my assistance or advice. Remember, I am your friend: and I have the best right of all men to be so, because I--’
But here he stopped short, fearful of offending her, and the conscious blood dyed his fair face crimson.
‘What were you going to say?’ demanded Iris presently.
‘What perhaps I had better leave unsaid. But you are a woman, and do not need words to make you understand. You have but to think of the Bridge of Allan, to know _why_ I have good right to be your friend.’
‘You will not speak of me to--to any one else on board?’ she said anxiously, as she laid her hand upon his arm.
Vernon looked down at the fair white hand lying so lightly on the blue sleeve of his uniform, and trembled with pleasurable excitement. How he longed to raise it to his lips. But he resisted the temptation.
‘Of course not. Do you think I go about making my most sacred feelings public property? Your name has never passed my lips to a soul since the day we parted.
‘Did you care for me like _that_?’ said Iris, opening her lovely hazel eyes.
‘I cared for you--_like my soul_!’ he answered, in a low voice.
There was silence between them for a few minutes after that, and then he resumed, in a lighter tone,--
‘Why do you seclude yourself so much in this dark cabin? No wonder you look pale and drooping,--like a broken flower. You should come more on deck. I have looked for you again and again there in vain. I thought you were determined not to speak to me during the whole voyage.’
‘I am afraid--’ commenced Iris nervously.
‘Afraid of what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Some one on board might recognise me--and I would rather not. I don’t wish any one to know.’
‘Have you seen the list of passengers?’
‘Yes,’ she said, with a shudder.
The young officer noticed the shudder.
‘Well, then, come on the quarter-deck at night, and no one will see you, especially if you put on a veil. But do come! You will be ill if you remain here. And then when it is not my watch I shall be able to sit by you and talk to you and cheer you up. Will you promise to come?’
‘Yes. I will go with Maggie to-night, if I am well enough.’
‘And I will leave you now, because you have had enough of me, and the passengers are coming down to their dinner.’
He took her slender hand within his own.
‘God bless you, Iris! Remember, you are not friendless any longer.’
For the first time, then, she raised her eyes and looked well at him. His were regarding her steadfastly. Over his manly features a great veil of tenderness seemed to have drawn itself, and his sensitive mouth was quivering with emotion. He was looking at her as we gaze at a wounded animal, or a dying infant, with infinite compassion, and a strong desire to relieve and protect. And at that moment, how Iris longed for his protection.
‘Oh, you are _good_!’ she cried suddenly. ‘I am not afraid of you. I will trust you, and some day I will tell you _all_!’
‘You have made me happier than I can say,’ replied Vernon, as he laid a reverent kiss upon her hand, and turned away.
As he found himself on deck again, he could have sung aloud for joy. The desire of his heart was accomplished! He had found her again--she would allow him to befriend her--above all, she was _free_! This secret love of his life, whom he had believed lost to him for ever, was actually by his side, and at liberty to be wooed, and perhaps won!
His pulses galloped as he thought of it. His brain whirled. He was capable of committing any extravagance. His mind ran riot, and sped away to the time when he should again tell Iris that he loved her, and hear her lips confess that he had won her at last. Oh! if the chance ever presented itself, he would never, _never_ let her go until she had promised to reward his patient love by becoming his wife.
And just as he thought this, and sprang up the companion, he came face to face with Alice Leyton!
‘Hullo, Jack!’ she exclaimed, ‘what have you been doing to yourself? Your face is as red as a turkey cock!’
‘I think I might return the compliment,’ he said, as he watched her blushing cheeks. ‘But I can’t stay, Alice, I have some duty to attend to.’
‘You _must_ stay!’ cried the young lady imperiously. ‘I have something to say to you. I’ve been making love to the captain--_awful_ love. Now, don’t get jealous, Jack.’
‘If I did _that_ every time you flirted with another fellow, Alice, I might play Blue Beard all day long,’ remarked her lover.
‘But this was absolutely necessary--I was martyred in a good cause,’ resumed Miss Leyton. ‘I wanted to get his leave for us to have private theatricals on board, and the dear old thing has given it without a demur.’
‘You _have_ worked wonders then. We have always considered the skipper too pious to countenance any such frivolity.’
‘Well, he wasn’t too pious with me, I can tell you; and he has promised to come and see me act into the bargain.’
‘So you are coming out as a leading lady, eh, Alice?’
‘Of course; you didn’t suppose I should take all that trouble for somebody else, did you? Miss Vere says she will help us. I and Captain Lovell, and Miss Vansittart and Mr Harland, will all take a part. And _you_ too. You will play my lover, won’t you, Jack?’
‘No, Alice, I think not, thank you. You have so many lovers, real and imaginary, that one more or less can make no difference; and private theatricals are not in my line.’
‘Oh, you disagreeable old thing! It’s most horrid of you to leave me to be made love to by a lot of strange gentlemen. They’ll have to kiss me, remember, if it’s in the piece.’
‘You won’t let them, unless you like it; I am sure of that,’ replied Jack, swinging himself on to the poop, and proceeding on his way.
‘You’re a wretch!’ called out Alice after him, but he only laughed in return; yet his spirits had suddenly gone down to zero. What had he been thinking of and dreaming of when he encountered her? What a fool he was to forget for a moment that he was bound to Alice Leyton, and could not in honour marry any other woman. Of what folly had he not been guilty? His heart sank under the conviction, but he pulled himself together like a man, and tried hard to stamp down his disappointment. After all, he could be Iris’s friend. She had said so with her own sweet lips, and her faithful friend he was determined to prove, until death came to separate them.
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