“This is a fortunate meeting, my dear Browne,” said the latter, after they had greeted each other; “for I was on my way to call upon you. If you are walking towards Piccadilly perhaps you will permit me to save time by accompanying you.”
Browne was not feeling particularly happy that morning, and this may have been the reason that he was glad of Maas’s company. He stood in need of cheerful society. But though he wanted it, he was not destined1 to have it. It was a bleak2, dreary3 morning, and once or twice during the walk the other coughed asthmatically. Browne noticed this, and he noticed also that Maas’s face was even paler than usual.
“I am afraid you are not very well, old man,” he said.
“What makes you say that?” asked Maas.
Browne gave him his reasons, and when he heard them the other laughed a little uneasily. “I am afraid you’ve hit it, my friend,” he said. “I am not well. I’ve been to see my doctor this morning, and he has given me some rather unpleasant news.”
“I am sorry indeed to hear that,” said Browne. “What does he say is the matter with you?”
“Why, he says that it is impossible for me to stay in England any longer. He declares that I must go away for a long sea voyage, and at once. To tell the truth, I do not come of a very strong family; and, by way of making me feel better satisfied with myself, he tells me that, unless I take care of myself, I may follow in their footsteps. Of course it’s all very well to say, ‘Take care of yourself’; but the difficulty is to do so. In a life like ours, what chance have we of guarding against catching4 cold? We dance in heated rooms, and sit in cold balconies between whiles: we travel in draughty railway carriages and damp cabs, and invariably eat and drink more than is good for us. The wonder to me is that we last as long as we do.”
“I’ve no doubt we are awfully5 foolish,” said Browne. “But our fathers were so before us.”
“A small satisfaction, look at it how you will,” returned Maas.
“And so you’re going to clear out of England, are you?” said Browne very slowly, after the pause that had followed his companion’s speech. “Where are you thinking of going?”
“Now, that was just what I was coming to see you about,” replied his friend. “You may remember that in Paris the other day, you spoke6 of undertaking7 a trip to the Farther East. I laughed at it at the time, for I thought I should never move out of Europe; since then, however, or rather since the doctor gave me his unwholesome news this morning, I have been thinking over it. I dined last night with the Rocktowers, who, as you know, are just back from Japan, and found that they could talk of nothing else. Japan was this, Japan was that, possessed8 the most beautiful scenery in the world, the most charming people, and the most perfect climate. So fascinated was I by their description that I went home and dreamt about it; and I’ve got a sort of notion now that, if I could only get as far as Japan, all would be well with me.”
Now, from the very first moment that Maas had spoken of leaving England, Browne had had an uneasy suspicion that something of the kind was coming. In his inmost heart he knew very well what his companion wanted; but, unfortunately for him, he did not see his way to get out of it. When he had told Maas in Paris that he intended taking a yachting cruise to the Farther East, and had laughingly suggested that the latter should accompany him, he had felt quite certain in his own mind that his invitation would be refused. To find him now asking to be allowed to accept after all was almost too much for his equanimity9. Pleasant companion as Maas undoubtedly10 was, he was far from being the sort of man Browne would have taken with him on such an excursion, had he had the choice. Besides, he had already arranged that Jimmy should go with him. Therefore, like the ingenuous11 youth he was, he took the first way of getting out of his difficulty, and in consequence found himself floundering in a still greater quagmire12 immediately.
“You have not booked your passage yet?” he inquired, as if the matter of the other’s going with him had never for a moment crossed his mind.
Maas threw a searching glance at him. He had a bold stroke to play, and he did not quite know how to play it. Though he had known Browne for some considerable time, and was well aware that he was far from being an exceptionally clever young man, yet, for a reason which I cannot explain, he stood somewhat in awe14 of him.
“Well, to tell the truth,” he said, “that was just what I was coming to see you about. I wanted to find out, whether you would permit me to withdraw my refusal of your kind invitation, in favour of an acceptance. I know it is not quite the thing to do; but still our friendship is old enough to permit of such a strain being placed upon it. If, however, you have filled your cabins, do not for a moment consider me. It is just possible I may be able to secure a berth15 on one of the outgoing mail-boats. Get away, however, I must, and immediately.”
Browne scarcely knew what to say in reply. He knew that every person he added to the party meant an additional danger to all concerned; and he felt that, in common justice to Maas, he could not take him without giving him some hint of what he was about to do. Maas noticed his hesitation16; and, thinking it betokened17 acquiescence18 to his plan, was quick to take advantage of it.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “if I am causing you the least inconvenience, I beg of you not to give it a second thought. I should not have spoken to you at all on the subject had you not said what you did to me in Paris.”
After this speech Browne felt that he had no opening left, save to declare that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to have the other’s society upon the voyage.
“And you are quite sure that I shall not be in the way?” Maas inquired.
“In the way?” Browne replied. “Not at all; I have only Jimmy Foote going with me. We shall be a snug19 little party.”
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Maas; “and I’m sure I don’t know how to thank you. When do you propose to sail?”
“On Monday next from Southampton,” answered Browne. “I will see that you have a proper notice, and I will also let you know by what train we shall go down. Your heavier baggage had better go on ahead.”
“You are kindness itself,” said Maas. “By the way, since we have come to this arrangement, why should we not have a little dinner to-night at my rooms as a send off? I’ll find Foote and get him to come, and we’ll drink a toast to the Land of the Rising Sun.”
“Many thanks,” said Browne, “but I’m very much afraid it’s quite out of the question. I leave for Paris this afternoon, and shall not be back until Saturday at earliest.”
“What a pity!” said Maas. “Never mind; if we can’t celebrate the occasion on this side of the world, we will do so on the other. You are turning off here? Well, good-bye, and many, many thanks to you. You cannot imagine how grateful I feel to you, and what a weight you have taken off my mind.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Browne; and then, shaking him by the hand, he crossed the road and made his way down St. James’s Street. “Confound it all!” he said to himself, as he walked along, “this is just the sort of scrape my absurd mania20 for issuing invitations gets me into. I like Maas well enough as an acquaintance, but I don’t know that he is altogether the sort of fellow I should have chosen to accompany me on an expedition like this. However, what’s done cannot be undone21; and it is just possible, as his health is giving way, that he will decide to leave us in Japan; then we shall be all right. If he doesn’t, and elects to go on with us — well, I suppose we must make the best of it.”
As he came to this philosophical22 conclusion, he turned the corner from St. James’s Street into Pall23 Mall, and ran into the arms of the very man for whom he was in search. Foote was evidently in as great a hurry as himself, and, such was the violence of the shock, that it was a wonderful thing that they did not both fall to the ground.
“Hang it, man, why don’t you look where you’re going?” Foote cried angrily, as he put his hand to his head to hold on his hat. As he did so he recognised Browne.
“Hullo, old chap, it’s you, is it?” he cried. “By Jove! do you know you nearly knocked me down?”
“It’s your own fault,” Browne answered snappishly. “What do you mean by charging round the corner like that? You might have known what would happen.”
They stood and looked at one another for a moment, and then Foote burst out laughing. “My dear old fellow,” he said, “what on earth’s wrong with you? You don’t seem to be yourself this morning.”
“I’m not,” said Browne. “Nothing seems to go right with me, do what I will. I tell you, Jimmy, I’m the biggest ass13 that walks the earth.”
Jimmy whistled softly to himself. “This is plainly a case which demands the most careful treatment,” he said aloud. “From what I can see of it, it will be necessary for me to prescribe for him. My treatment will be a good luncheon24 and a pint25 of the Widow to wash it down. Come along.” So saying, he slipped his arm through that of his companion, and led him back in the direction of the Monolith Club. “Now, Master Browne,” he said, as they walked along, “you will just tell me everything — hiding nothing, remember, and setting down naught26 in malice27. For the time being you must look upon me as your father-confessor.”
“In point of fact, Jimmy,” Browne began, “I have just seen our friend Maas.”
“Well, what of that?” replied the other. “How has that upset you? From what I know of him, Maas is usually amusing, except when he gets on the topic of his ailments28.”
“That’s exactly it,” said Browne. “He got on the subject of his ailments with me. The upshot of it all was that he reminded me of an invitation I had given him in Paris, half in jest, mind you, to visit the East with me.”
“The deuce!” said Jimmy. “Do you mean to say that he has decided29 to accompany us, now?”
“That’s just it,” said Browne. “That’s why I’m so annoyed; and yet I don’t know exactly why I should be, for, all things considered, he is not a bad sort of a fellow.”
“Nevertheless, I wish he were not coming with us,” said Jimmy, with unwonted emphasis. “Did you tell him anything of what you are going to do?”
“Of course not,” said Browne. “I did not even hint at it. As far as he knows, I am simply visiting Japan in the ordinary way, for pleasure.”
“Well, if I were you,” said Jimmy, “I should let him remain in that belief. I should not say anything about the real reason at all, and even then not until we are on the high seas. Of course I don’t mean to imply, for an instant, that he would be likely to say anything, or to give you away in any possible sort of fashion; but still it would be safer, I should think, to keep silence on the subject. You know what we are going to do, I know it, Miss Petrovitch knows it, and Madame Bernstein also. Who else is there you have told?”
“No one,” said Browne. “But I dropped a hint to Mason that the errand, that was taking us out, was a peculiar30 one. I thought he ought to know as much as that for more reasons than one.”
“Quite right,” said Jimmy; “and what’s more, you can trust Mason. Nevertheless, say nothing to Maas.”
“You may depend upon it I will not do so,” said Browne.
“Now here’s the club,” said Jimmy, as they reached the building in question. “Let us go in and have some luncheon. After that what are you going to do?”
“I am off to Paris this afternoon,” the other replied. “Madame Bernstein and Miss Petrovitch leave for Japan in one of the French boats the day after tomorrow, and I want to see them before they go.”
After luncheon with Foote, Browne returned to his house, wrote a letter containing the most minute instructions to Captain Mason, and later on caught the afternoon express for Paris. The clocks of the French capital were striking eleven as he reached his hotel that night. He was worn out, and retired31 almost immediately to bed, though it would have required but little persuasion32 to have taken him off to the Rue33 Jacquarie. As it was, however, he had to content himself with the reflection, that he was to see her the very first thing in the morning.
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1
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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6
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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14
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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15
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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19
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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24
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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32
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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