MOUNTJOY began by alluding to the second of Miss Henley’s letters to her father, and to a passage in it which mentioned Mrs. Vimpany with expressions of the sincerest gratitude.
“I should like to know more,” he said, “of a lady whose hospitality at home seems to equal her kindness as a fellow-traveller. Did you first meet with her on the railway?”
“She travelled by the same train to Dublin, with me and my maid, but not in the same carriage,” Iris answered; “I was so fortunate as to meet with her on the voyage from Dublin to Holyhead. We had a rough crossing; and Rhoda suffered so dreadfully from sea-sickness that she frightened me. The stewardess was attending to ladies who were calling for her in all directions; I really don’t know what misfortune might not have happened, if Mrs. Vimpany had not come forward in the kindest manner, and offered help. She knew so wonderfully well what was to be done, that she astonished me. ‘I am the wife of a doctor,’ she said; ‘and I am only imitating what I have seen my husband do, when his assistance has been required, at sea, in weather like this.’ In her poor state of health, Rhoda was too much exhausted to go on by the train, when we got to Holyhead. She is the best of good girls, and I am fond of her, as you know. If I had been by myself, I daresay I should have sent for medical help. What do you think dear Mrs. Vimpany offered to do? ‘Your maid is only faint,’ she said. ‘Give her rest and some iced wine, and she will be well enough to go on by the slow train. Don’t be frightened about her; I will wait with you.’ And she did wait. Are there many strangers, Hugh, who are as unselfishly good to others as my chance-acquaintance in the steamboat?”
“Very few, I am afraid.”
Mountjoy made that reply with some little embarrassment; conscious of a doubt of Mrs. Vimpany’s disinterested kindness, which seemed to be unworthy of a just man.
Iris went on.
“Rhoda was sufficiently recovered,” she said, “to travel by the next train, and there seemed to be no reason for feeling any more anxiety. But, after a time, the fatigue of the journey proved to be too much for her. The poor girl turned pale — and fainted. Mrs. Vimpany revived her, but as it turned out, only for a while. She fell into another fainting fit; and my travelling-companion began to look anxious. There was some difficulty in restoring Rhoda to her senses. In dread of another attack, I determined to stop at the next station. It looked such a poor place, when we got to it, that I hesitated. Mrs. Vimpany persuaded me to go on. The next station, she said, was her station. ‘Stop there,’ she suggested, ‘and let my husband look at the girl. I ought not perhaps to say it, but you will find no better medical man out of London.’ I took the good creature’s advice gratefully. What else could I do?”
“What would you have done,” Mountjoy inquired, “if Rhoda had been strong enough to get to the end of the journey?”
“I should have gone on to London, and taken refuge in a lodging — you were in town, as I believed, and my father might relent in time. As it was, I felt my lonely position keenly. To meet with kind people, like Mr. Vimpany and his wife, was a real blessing to such a friendless creature as I am — to say nothing of the advantage to Rhoda, who is getting better every day. I should like you to see Mrs. Vimpany, if she is at home. She is a little formal and old fashioned in her manner — but I am sure you will be pleased with her. Ah! you look round the room! They are poor, miserably poor for persons in their position, these worthy friends of mine. I have had the greatest difficulty in persuading them to let me contribute my share towards the household expenses. They only yielded when I threatened to go to the inn. You are looking very serious, Hugh. Is it possible that you see some objection to my staying in this house?”
The drawing-room door was softly opened, at the moment when Iris put that question. A lady appeared on the threshold. Seeing the stranger, she turned to Iris.
“I didn’t know, dear Miss Henley, that you had a visitor. Pray pardon my intrusion.”
The voice was deep; the articulation was clear; the smile presented a certain modest dignity which gave it a value of its own. This was a woman who could make such a commonplace thing as an apology worth listening to. Iris stopped her as she was about to leave the room. “I was just wishing for you,” she said. “Let me introduce my old friend, Mr. Mountjoy. Hugh, this is the lady who has been so kind to me — Mrs. Vimpany.”
Hugh’s impulse, under the circumstances, was to dispense with the formality of a bow, and to shake hands. Mrs. Vimpany met this friendly advance with a suavity of action, not often seen in these days of movement without ceremony. She was a tall slim woman, of a certain age. Art had so cleverly improved her complexion that it almost looked like nature. Her cheeks had lost the plumpness of youth, but her hair (thanks again perhaps t............