When the
time came for Iris to yield, and he left the house no more, there
seemed to be no change. But still they continued their retired life,
and now I do not think they will ever change it again.
Their villa was situated on the north shore of the Solway Firth, close
to the outfall of the Annan River, but on the west bank, opposite to
the little town of Annan. At the back was a large garden, the front
looked out upon the stretch of sand at low tide and the water at high
tide. The house was provided with a good library. Iris attended to her
garden, walked on the sands, read, or worked. They were a quiet
household. Husband and wife talked little. They walked about in the
garden, his arm about her waist, or hand in hand. The past, if not
forgotten, was ceasing to trouble them; it seemed a dreadful, terrible
dream. It left its mark in a gentle melancholy which had never belonged
to Iris in the old days.
And then happened the last event which the chronicler of this history
has to relate.
It began in the morning with a letter.
Mrs. Vimpany received it. She knew the handwriting, started, and hid it
quickly in her bosom. As soon as she could get away to her own room she
opened and read it.
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