CHAPTER III.

IRIS HARLAND.

On the same evening that the newly-appointed officer of the _Pandora_ was congratulating himself on his good luck, and trying to deceive himself into believing he was in love with the girl he was engaged to marry, a very different scene was being enacted in a furnished lodging in one of the smaller streets of Pimlico. The chief actor there was also a man--young, good-looking, and a gentleman--but with distinct traces on his countenance of the tempest of passions and vices he had passed through. He called himself Godfrey Harland. He was a fine, well-built man, with dark hair, an olive complexion, and a black moustache. His eyes, which were also dark and piercing, were set too near his nose for honesty, and had a cunning, distrustful look in them. His mouth was small, with thin compressed lips that covered a set of strong white teeth, and his jaw was heavy and determined. As he sat, pondering over his past and his future, with a cigar between his lips, and a glass of brandy and water in his hand, he looked evil, and almost dangerous. Godfrey Harland had had a chequered life. His father had possessed a large fortune, and given his son, whilst young, the advantages not only of a liberal education and college training, but unlimited money to supply himself with all the luxuries, and indulge in all the dissipations of life. But one day the crash came. Godfrey’s father lost all his money in that great lottery which has ruined so many thousands, the Stock Exchange, and his son suffered with him. He was at once withdrawn from college, his ample allowance was stopped, and he was told he must go out into the world and support himself. With some great souls a reverse of fortune proves a stimulus to exertion, and is the test that brings out their virtues. But weaker natures fail under it, and Godfrey Harland’s nature was essentially weak. By reason of his father’s former influence in the city, he was soon installed as clerk in one of the best-known London firms. Before he had been there three months, however, a mysterious forgery was committed by some one in the house, and before the offender could be discovered Godfrey had fled to America, thereby leaving a dark suspicion on his own name.

In the United States he had tried his hand at everything. He tilled the ground and lived with the farm hands in the warry on pork and beans. He joined an old trapper in the Rocky Mountains, where he had many a rough struggle with the ‘grizzlies,’ and left him for a cattle-herder on a ranche in Texas, where he earned the _soubriquet_ of ‘Satan’ amongst the drovers, for his dare-devil propensities. He was engaged in many a night raid on the Indians, and sat in his saddle for three days before a cattle stampede, and ‘knifed’ or ‘winged’ more than one man in that wild territory, where shooting a fellow-creature is thought no more of than felling a buffalo.

In fact, Godfrey Harland had been everything by turns. A guard on the Grand Trunk--a baggage man to a theatrical company--an able seaman on a coaster--and last, though not least, a barman at a ‘hell-upon-earth’ in New York, where he had imbibed his gambling propensities, and whence he had ventured to return to England under an assumed name--not the first he had taken--and make a new circle of acquaintances for himself.

‘Curse that “Peppermint!”’ he was saying, when we first see him; ‘if he had pulled it off at Aintree, I should have been safe. I can’t stand much more of this. They must come down upon me before long. I wouldn’t have minded my shaking at the Lincoln, though it was stiff enough. But I believe they dosed “Peppermint,” and I owe all my debts to a painted quid. By Jove! I should like to know how much old Roper’s worth. If he would stand to lend me a “thou.,” I might make my running with Vansittart’s daughter. I wonder if the old stock-driver meant what he said the other night? Gad! what a stroke of luck it would be. A home at the Antipodes--a settled position with all the old worries left behind me in England, and the chance of an heiress. I mustn’t lose it, if I stake my very soul upon the die. I shall never get such an opportunity of retrenching again. Not if I live to the age of Methusaleh. Never!’

And he drained the glass of brandy and water with a feverish impatience, as though the good fortune he was anticipating lay at the bottom of it.

At this juncture the door of the room opened, and a woman entered. What a woman she was. What a graceful, refined, _spirituelle_ creature. Her slight, lissom figure was the impersonation of elegance. Her hazel eyes looked out from her pale features like those of a deer, heavy with unshed tears. Her tender mouth was even now curved in a sad smile, and her sunny hair, with its rich chesnut shades of light and shadow, rippled about her shoulders, and curled caressingly around her youthful face. She was dressed shabbily, and somewhat untidily, for it is hard to keep always tidy when one is poor, but she looked a gentlewoman from head to foot--more, she might have been a princess, masquerading in a beggar’s clothes. And this was Iris Harland, Godfrey Harland’s wife. What could a man like this want with a wife? He had never been constant to one thing in this world. Was it likely he would be constant to a woman? Iris knew to her cost that he was not. But she had already outlived the pain the knowledge gave her. The numerous shocks she had sustained since her marriage had rendered her indifferent. Many an insult she had borne patiently from her husband, and without resentment, until all her love had died away, and left nothing behind it but a feeling of contempt and fear.

Why had he married her? Godfrey Harland had often asked himself this question and been unable to answer it. He was the last man in the world who should have encumbered himself with a wife. But after his return from America, he had met this girl living quietly with her widowed father, and had fallen desperately in love with her purity and innocence, so different from what he had been accustomed to. And Iris had believed him to be all that he was not. His varied experiences, and able mode of relating the wonders of his travels, had fascinated her girlish heart, and made her accept him as her life-long companion and friend. But six months of married life had undeceived her. By that time, reverses had come upon them, and the man’s brutal and selfish nature had revealed itself. His passion for her had been simply an infatuation. He had been delighted with his pretty toy at first, but, like a spoiled child, he spurned it, when it had become familiar to him. He had wounded her deeply by his indifference; he had frightened her with his violence and threats, but it was his insults that had stabbed her to the heart, and killed her respect for him. Had he taken a horse-whip and struck her (as he was quite capable of doing), she might still have forgiven him, but an insult to a woman’s honour is never forgotten, and seldom pardoned. Many women will slave for their husbands night and day--they will starve themselves to keep the wolf from the door, and give up home, relations, luxury, everything, for the man they love. But as soon as a man returns his wife’s affection by falsely impugning her honour--when he accuses her of the infidelity of which he alone has been guilty--he has severed the last link that bound them together, and has only himself to thank, if in the future her outraged feelings find relief in the very consolation he has unwarrantably accused her of seeking. Such was the state of things between Godfrey Harland and his wife. A sullen sense of being in the wrong on his side, and a great contempt for all he did and said on hers--and only one wish shared between them in common, that they had never met!

‘Here is a letter for you,’ said Mrs Harland, as she placed it in his hand. He opened and read it through in silence, although he could not conceal the satisfaction it gave him.

‘A man wants to see me on business. I must go out to-night, and at once. Is there any more brandy in the cupboard, Iris?’ said Godfrey, as he thrust the letter into his coat pocket.

‘Is it advisable you should drink any more if you are going to transact business?’ she inquired calmly. She had observed her husband’s expression on reading the letter, and his ready concealment of it, and she did not believe it treated of business. But she did not say so. If her marriage had done nothing else for her, it had taught her to conceal her thoughts.

‘Confound you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you suppose I should ask for it, if I didn’t require it? Give it me at once, or else send the girl out for some more. Pour me out a soda, and put a couple of lemons into it, and a spoonful of bitters. That will pull me round a bit. I feel quite confused with trying to see my way out of the mess we are in.’

‘Shall you be back to-night, Godfrey?’

‘Don’t know. It all depends. Perhaps I may be detained late. I’ve got to see some fellows at the club; but don’t sit up for me any way. And just put out my dress clothes, will you? I can’t go out this figure,’ and lifting the tankard to his lips, he drained off his ‘pick-me-up’ at a draught.

His wife left him without another word. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes darted scorn, but she did not let him see them. She knew he had lied to her, as he had done for some time past, but if she put him on his guard, she should never gain an opportunity to learn the truth. So she laid out his evening suit upon the bed, and placed his white tie upon the toilet-table, and lighted the candles just as though she believed he would take all that trouble to meet some man on business at a city club. And Godfrey Harland fell into the trap. Heated and confused by the amount of liquor he had imbibed, he forgot all about the letter he had received, and issued from the bedroom half-an-hour afterwards in full evening dress, leaving it behind him in the pocket of his tweed coat. He did not deign to say good-night to his wife, nor to give her any further information of his proceedings, but turning on his heel, slammed the front door, and left the house. When Iris was convinced that he was really gone, she rose from her seat and walked into the bedroom.

‘I _must_ know what takes him away from home so often,’ she thought. ‘I am sure it is not business, and if there is any other woman in the case, it is time I asserted myself, and took some action in the matter. Under any circumstances, he makes my life a hell, but there is no need for me to bear more insult than I am obliged to.’ She put her hand into the pocket of the coat which he had thrown upon a chair, and drew forth the letter. It was addressed in a writing which looked half mercantile, and half illiterate, and had a great many flourishes about it. As Iris’s eyes fell on its contents, her pale face grew still paler with horror. Godfrey had been brutal, unfaithful, and cruel to her, but she had never thought so badly of him as this--that he could contemplate kicking her off like an old shoe, and leaving her to starve in England, whilst he sought his fortunes in a new country.

And yet, what else could that letter mean?

‘DEAR MR HARLAND,--I have been thinking over the conversation we had a few days since; and I have a proposition to make to you. You are young, unencumbered, and willing to work. Why not take the appointment we were speaking of--that of land-agent to my New Zealand property, and sail with us in the _Pandora_. Under these circumstances I shall be happy and willing to defray your expenses to Tabbakooloo, which I should not have offered under ordinary circumstances. Mrs But Vansittart likes you, and so does Grace--indeed, we all do, and should be pleased to have such a friend in our Bush life. Will you come in this evening and speak to me on the subject, as there is no time to lose. The _Pandora_ (Messrs Stern & Stales) sails on the 24th. Trusting my proposal will please you,--I am, yours sincerely,

JOHN VANSITTART.’

‘He means to accept this offer,’ said Iris, with clenched teeth, and trying hard not to cry. ‘He will go with these fine friends of his to New Zealand, and I am powerless to stop him. If I tell him I know it, he will soothe me with promises of remittances that will never come--and I--Oh, God! what _can_ I do, left here all by myself--without money or friends, or a home? Oh, if my poor father had only lived I would have gone back to him to-night and never, _never_ left him more.’

The picture drawn by her imagination of her utter impotence to avert her fate, here overcame poor Iris’s fortitude, and the tears welled up to her pathetic hazel eyes, and coursed slowly down her cheeks. But she did not know that she was sobbing, until a knock at the door made her cognisant she had been overheard.

‘It’s me, mistress,’ whispered a rough voice; ‘mayn’t I come in?’

‘Oh yes, Maggie. What do you want?’ said Iris, drying her eyes.

‘_Want!_’ echoed the servant, as she made her appearance; ‘why, to know what’s been vexing you. That’s what I want.’

She was a dirty, slipshod girl, after the fashion of maids-of-all-work in smoky London, but she had youth and a certain coarse comeliness about her which might prove attractive to men who looked for nothing below the surface.

‘Has _he_ been bulleying you agen?’ she asked, with rough sympathy, as she stood in the doorway and regarded her mistress. ‘It’s a shame--that’s what I say--and I’d like to pay him out for it. That I would.’

‘Hush! Maggie; you mustn’t say that!’ remonstrated Iris. ‘Of course, you know I am not happy, but you have been in your master’s pay for several years, and you mustn’t bite the hand that feeds you.’

‘I’d never have stayed if it hadn’t been for _you_, mistress--nor if he had treated you properly neither. And perhaps, after all, I’ve been wrong to stay,’ said Maggie, with a sob in her throat.

‘_Wrong to stay!_’ repeated Iris in surprise. ‘Why, Maggie! what should I have done without you?’

‘Ah! but you don’t know,’ cried the servant.

‘I know that you’ve been the best girl to me that ever lived,’ said Iris, gently. ‘That you have stood my friend through everything--often my protector--and that I have found my best comfort in you.’

The only answer Maggie made to this speech was conveyed by throwing herself on her knees at her mistress’s feet, and burying her disorganised head in her lap.

‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she gasped through her tears. ‘I ain’t deserving of it; and if you knew what a bad girl I am, you’d turn me out of your house to-morrow.’

‘I don’t think I should, Maggie. If I believed you to be bad (which I don’t) I should try to return your kindness to me by pointing out a better mode of life to you. But don’t talk nonsense. I have no fault to find with you--so you need find none with yourself.’

‘You’re an angel, that’s what you are,’ said Maggie, standing up and drying her eyes, ‘and I’m a brute, and so is he. But what vexes you now, my pretty?’

This question brought poor Iris back to a remembrance of her own troubles.

‘Oh! I can’t tell you, Maggie--at least not yet--for I am not even sure if I have any right to feel vexed. But my future looks very dark to me--very dark indeed, and I cannot help fretting to think what may be in store.’

‘And _he’s_ at the bottom of it, of course,’ observed Maggie, with an irreverent motion of her thumb towards the sitting-room.

Iris sighed. Was _he_ not at the bottom of all her troubles?

‘Has that letter got anything to do with the matter, mistress?’ asked Maggie, looking at the paper in her hand.

‘Yes; but don’t ask me any more questions about it, Maggie. If Mr Harland forces me to act, I promise you shall know all.’

‘You _promise_ that, mistress, on your word of honour?’

‘I do promise, dear Maggie,’ replied Iris, bending forward to kiss the earnest face raised to hers. But Maggie started as if she had been shot.

‘No! no! you sha’n’t kiss me! I ain’t fit for you to touch. But let me kiss your hand, dear. There! that can’t hurt you--and I wouldn’t hurt you (God knows), not to save my own life.’ And with a smothered sob, and an application of her grimy apron to her eyes, Maggie Greet took her way down to the lower regions again.

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