The precious hours and days were passing--and Hugh was absolutely
helpless.
Tortured by anxiety and suspense, he still lingered at the hotel in
London. More than once, he decided on giving up the struggle, and
returning to his pretty cottage in Scotland. More than once, he
deferred taking the journey. At one time, he dreaded to hear that Iris
was married, if she wrote to him. At another time, be felt mortified
and disappointed by the neglect which her silence implied. Was she near
him, or far from him? In England, or out of England? Who could say!
After more weary days of waiting and suffering a letter arrived,
addressed to Mountjoy in a strange handwriting, and bearing the
post-mark of Paris. The signature revealed that his correspondent was
Lord Harry.
His first impulse was to throw the letter into the fire, unread. There
could be little doubt, after the time that had passed, of the
information that it would contain. Could he endure to be told of the
marriage of Iris, by the man who was her husband? Never! There was
something humiliating in the very idea of it. He arrived at that
conclusion--and what did he do in spite of it? He read the letter.
Lord Harry wrote with scrupulous politeness of expression.
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