Blind Love by Wilkie Collins (beginner reading books for adults txt) đ
- Author: Wilkie Collins
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âNot so good as you think it, sir. But nice light claret; clean and wholesome. I hope you havenât given too much for it?â
Thus far, Hugh had played a losing game patiently. His reward had come at last. After what the doctor had just said to him, he saw the winning card safe in his own hand.
The bad dinner was soon over. No soup, of course; fish, in the state of preservation usually presented by a decayed country town; steak that rivalled the toughness of india-rubber; potatoes whose aspect said, âstranger, donât eat usâ; pudding that would have produced a sense of discouragement, even in the mind of a child; and the famous English cheese which comes to us, oddly enough, from the United States, and stings us vindictively when we put it into our mouths. But the wine, the glorious wine, would have made amends to anybody but Mr. Vimpany for the woeful deficiencies of the food. Tumbler-full after tumbler-full of that noble vintage poured down his thirsty and ignorant throat; and still he persisted in declaring that it was nice light stuff, and still he unforgivingly bore in mind the badness of the dinner.
âThe feeding here,â said this candid man, âis worse if possible than the feeding at sea, when I served as doctor on board a passenger-steamer. Shall I tell you how I lost my place? Oh, say so plainly, if you donât think my little anecdote worth listening to!â
âMy dear sir, I am waiting to hear it.â
âVery good. No offence, I hope? Thatâs right! Well, sir, the captain of the ship complained of me to the owners; I wouldnât go round, every morning, and knock at the ladiesâ cabin-doors, and ask how they felt after a sea-sick night. Who doesnât know what they feel, without knocking at their doors? Let them send for the doctor when they want him. That was how I understood my duty; and there was the line of conduct that lost me my place. Pass the wine. Talking of ladies, what do you think of my wife? Did you ever see such distinguished manners before? My dear fellow, I have taken a fancy to you. Shake hands. Iâll tell you another little anecdote. Where do you think my wife picked up her fashionable airs and graces? Ho! ho! On the stage! The highest branch of the profession, sirâa tragic actress. If you had seen her in Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Vimpany would have made your flesh creep. Look at me, and feast your eyes on a man who is above hypocritical objections to the theatre. Havenât I proved it by marrying an actress? But we donât mention it here. The savages in this beastly place wouldnât employ me, if they knew I had married a stage-player. Hullo! The bottleâs empty again. Ha! hereâs another bottle, full. I love a man who has always got a full bottle to offer his friend. Shake hands. I say, Mountjoy, tell me on your sacred word of honour, can you keep a secret? My wifeâs secret, sir! Stop! let me look at you again. I thought I saw you smile. If a man smiles at me, when I am opening my whole heart to him, by the living jingo, I would knock that man down at his own table! What? you didnât smile? I apologise. Your hand again; I drink your health in your own good wine. Where was I? What was I talking about?â
Mountjoy carefully humoured his interesting guest.
âYou were about to honour me,â he said, âby taking me into your confidence.â Mr. Vimpany stared in tipsy bewilderment. Mountjoy tried again in plainer language: âYou were going to tell me a secret.â
This time, the doctor grasped the idea. He looked round cunningly to the door. âAny eavesdroppers?â he asked. âHush! Whisperâthis is seriousâwhisper! What was it I was going to tell you? What was the secret, old boy?â
Mountjoy answered a little too readily: âI think it related to Mrs. Vimpany.â
Mrs. Vimpanyâs husband threw himself back in his chair, snatched a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, and began to cry.
âHereâs a false friend!â the creature whimpered. âAsks me to dinner, and takes advantage of my dependent situation to insult my wife. The loveliest of women, the sweetest of women, the innocentest of women. Oh, my wife! my wife!â He suddenly threw his handkerchief to the other end of the room, and burst out laughing. âHo! ho! Mountjoy, what an infernal fool you must be to take me seriously. I can act, too. Do you think I care about my wife? She was a fine woman once: sheâs a bundle of old rags now. But she has her merits. Hush! I want to know something. Have you got a lord among your circle of acquaintance?â
Experience made Mountjoy more careful; perhaps a little too careful. He only said âYes.â
The doctorâs dignity asserted itself. âThatâs a short answer, sir, to a man in my position. If you want me to believe you, mention your friendâs name.â
Here was a chance at last! âHis name;â Mountjoy began, âis Lord Harryââ
Mr. Vimpany lost his dignity in an instant. He struck his heavy fist on the table, with a blow that made the tumblers jump.
âCoincidence!â he cried. âHow wonderfulâno; thatâs not the wordâprovidential is the wordâhow providential are coincidences! I mean, of course, to a rightly constituted mind. Let nobody contradict me! When I say a rightly constituted mind I speak seriously; and a young man like you will be all the better for it. Mountjoy! dear Mountjoy! jolly Mountjoy! my wifeâs lord is your lordâLord Harry. No; none of your nonsenseâI wonât have any more wine. Yes, I will; it might hurt your feelings if I didnât drink with you. Pass the bottle. Ha! Thatâs a nice ring youâve got on your finger. Perhaps you think it valuable? Itâs nothing, sir; itâs dross, itâs dirt, compared to my wifeâs diamond pin! Thereâs a jewel, if you like! It will be worth a fortune to us when we sell it. A gift, dear sir! Iâm afraid Iâve been too familiar with you. Speaking as a born gentleman, I beg to present my respects, and I call you âdear sir.â Did I tell you the diamond pin was a gift? Itâs nothing of the sort; we are under no obligation; my wife, my admirable wife, has earned that diamond pin. By registered post; and what I call a manly letter from Lord Harry. He is deeply obliged (I give you the sense of it) by what my wife has done for him; ready money is scarce with my lord; he sends a family jewel, with his love. Oh, Iâm not jealous. Heâs welcome to love Mrs. Vimpany, in her old age, if he likes. Did you say that, sir? Did you say that Lord Harry, or any man, was welcome to love Mrs. Vimpany? I have a great mind to throw this bottle at your head. No, I wonât; itâs wasting good wine! How kind of you to give me good wine. Who are you? I donât like dining with a stranger. Do you know any friend of mine? Do you know a man named Mountjoy? Do you know two men named Mountjoy? No: you donât. One of them is dead: killed by those murdering scoundrels what do you call them? Eh, what?â The doctorâs voice began to falter, his head dropped; he slumbered suddenly and woke suddenly, and began talking again suddenly. âWould you like to be made acquainted with Lord Harry? Iâll give you a sketch of his character before I introduce him. Between ourselves, heâs a desperate wretch. Do you know why he employed my wife, my admirable wife? You will agree with me; he ought to have looked after his young woman himself. Weâve got his young woman safe in our house. A nice girl. Not my style; my medical knowledge certifies sheâs cold-blooded. Lord Harry has only to come over here and find her. Why the devil doesnât he come? What is it keeps him in Ireland? Do you know? I seem to have forgotten. My own belief is Iâve got softening of the brain. Whatâs good for softening of the brain? There isnât a doctor living who wonât tell you the right remedyâwine. Pass the wine. If this claret is worth a farthing, itâs worth a guinea a bottle. I ask you in confidence; did you ever hear of such a fool as my wifeâs lord? His name escapes me. No matter; he stops in Irelandâhunting. Hunting what? The fox? Nothing so noble; hunting assassins. Heâs got some grudge against one of them. Means to kill one of them. A word in your ear; theyâll kill him. Do you ever bet? Five to one, heâs a dead man before the end of the week. When is the end of the week? Tuesday, Wednesdayâno, Saturdayâthatâs the beginning of the weekâno, it isnâtâthe beginning of the week isnât the SabbathâSunday, of courseâwe are not Christians, we are JewsâI mean we are Jews, we are not ChristiansâI meanââ
The claret got the better of his tongue, at last. He mumbled and muttered; he sank back in his chair; he chuckled; he hiccupped; he fell asleep.
All and more than all that Mountjoy feared, he had now discovered. In a state of sobriety, the doctor was probably one of those men who are always ready to lie. In a state of intoxication the utterances of his drunken delirium might unconsciously betray the truth. The reason which he had given for Lord Harryâs continued absence in Ireland, could not be wisely rejected as unworthy of belief. It was in the reckless nature of the wild lord to put his own life in peril, in the hope of revenging Arthur Mountjoy on the wretch who had killed him. Taking this bad news for granted, was there any need to distress Iris by communicating the motive which detained Lord Harry in his own country? Surely not!
And, again, was there any immediate advantage to be gained by revealing the true character of Mrs. Vimpany, as a spy, and, worse still, a spy who was paid? In her present state of feeling, Iris would, in all probability, refuse to believe it.
Arriving at these conclusions, Hugh looked at the doctor snoring and choking in an easy-chair. He had not wasted the time and patience devoted to the stratagem which had now successfully reached its end. After what he had just heardâthanks to the claretâhe could not hesitate to accomplish the speedy removal of Iris from Mr. Vimpanyâs house; using her fatherâs telegram as the only means of persuasion on which it was possible to rely. Mountjoy left the inn without ceremony, and hurried away to Iris in the hope of inducing her to return to London with him that night.
ASKING for Miss Henley at the doctorâs door, Hugh was informed that she had gone out, with her invalid maid, for a walk. She had left word, if Mr. Mountjoy called in her absence, to beg that he would kindly wait for her return.
On his way up to the drawing-room, Mountjoy heard Mrs. Vimpanyâs sonorous voice occupied, as he supposed, in reading aloud. The door being opened for him, he surprised her, striding up and down the room with a book in her hand; grandly declaiming without anybody to applaud her. After what Hugh had already heard, he could only conclude that reminiscences of her theatrical career had tempted the solitary actress to make a private appearance, for her own pleasure, in one of those tragic characters to which her husband had alluded. She
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