Why were her tears kept hidden in her
own room? When she came back to me, her face was pale and hard and
tearless. Don't you think she might have forgotten my jealousy, when I
was so careful myself not to show it? My own belief is that she was
longing to go to London, and help your wife to nurse the poor man, and
catch the fever, and die with him if _he_ died.
Is this bitter? Perhaps it is. Tear it off, and light your pipe with
it.
Well, the correspondence relating to the sick man continued every day;
and every day--oh, Vimpany, another concession to my jealousy!--she
handed the letters to me to read. I made excuses (we Irish are good at
that, if we are good at nothing else), and declined to read the medical
reports. One morning, when she opened the letter of that day, there
passed over her a change which is likely to remain in my memory as long
as I live. Never have I seen such an ecstasy of happiness in any
woman's face, as I saw when she read the lines which informed her that
the fever was mastered. Iris is sweet and delicate and bright--
essentially fascinating, in a word. But she was never a beautiful
woman, until she knew that Mountjoy's life was safe; and she will never
be a beautiful woman again, unless the time comes when my death leaves
her free to marry him.
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